it, his hand trembling, his legs almost unable to hold him up. It took him three tries before he could grasp the handle with sufficient strength to turn it.
The door opened into darkness, the indirect candlelight revealing only faint shapes: apple barrels; boxes half full of rotting turnips and carrots; wooden shelving holding swing-top bale jars, many exploded, their dark and putrid contents sprayed across the undersides of the shelves above and dribbling down in congealed ropes.
The root cellar.
Felder heard his sobbing grow louder. It almost seemed like someone else was crying. Again, Dukchuk prodded him forward. But this time, Felder couldn’t—or wouldn’t—move. Instead, his hand slipped into his pocket, closed instinctively over the small envelope.
“Constance,” he murmured. In this moment of supreme crisis, he realized all of a sudden—although he probably should have known it long before—that he was hopelessly in love with her. Maybe he had known it before—maybe he just hadn’t consciously admitted it to himself. That’s what this was all about. And now it was over. She would never know he’d found her lock of hair—nor would she ever know the price he’d had to pay for it.
Dukchuk prodded him again. And again, Felder remained where he stood, unable to move, on the threshold of the root cellar.
A vicious blow landed on his right shoulder, and Felder cried out, staggering forward. Another blow from the club caught him on the inside of the knee, and he crumpled to the ground, his head colliding with the earthen floor.
This was it.
Suddenly—it had something to do, he was sure, with the revelation of his feelings for Constance—he felt the fear recede. The feeling that replaced it was something like surprise—and anger. Surprise that this was the way he’d go out; that the last earthly sight he would ever see was the uneven, dusty floor; the huge plank-like feet of Dukchuk, turned partly away from him, their toenails black and ragged. And anger at the enormous unfairness of it. He had spent his life doing good, helping sick people, trying to be the best person he could be, earnest and kindhearted… and now was he to die the helpless victim of a crazy murderer?
The hand gripping the envelope felt something else press against it: something cold and straight. The scalpel. His hand released the envelope, closed over the blade. And—quite abruptly—Felder knew what he had to do.
In a single motion he pulled his hand from the pocket and—pinching the scalpel between his thumb and the knuckle of his middle finger, the index finger resting along its upper edge, as he’d been taught in dissection lectures at med school—slashed it with all the force he could muster through the massive Achilles tendon behind Dukchuk’s nearest ankle.
There was a wet, sucking sound as the tendon—cleanly severed, its tension released—shot up like a fat rubber band and disappeared into the calf muscles of Dukchuk’s leg. Instantly the man fell to his knees. His eyes widened, his mouth formed a perfect O, and for the first time the manservant uttered a sound: a deafening, calf-like bawl of pure agony.
Felder staggered to his feet, still grasping the bloody scalpel. Dukchuk howled a second time and clawed at Felder, but the psychiatrist jumped clear, at the same time slashing viciously at Dukchuk’s hand, opening the palm like a ripe melon.
“You want some more, you son of a bitch?” Felder cried, astonished at his own rage. But Dukchuk was overwhelmed by pain, huddling on the floor now, clutching at his ankle, blood gushing from his hand, honking and bawling like a baby. He seemed to have forgotten all about Felder.
With a superhuman surge of strength, Felder swung around, reeled up the staircase, and staggered into the dining room, knocking over a chair in his progress. From somewhere upstairs he heard the old lady call down fretfully: “For heaven’s sake, Dukchuk! Have your fun, but keep the noise down!”
Felder limped as fast as he could through the darkened kitchen. From below he could hear Dukchuk howling mindlessly, but the sounds were muffled now. Making for the rear door, he fumbled open the locks, threw the door wide. Ignoring the pain of his broken ribs and injured leg, he crashed through the overgrowth behind the mansion, reached the carriage house, entered just long enough to retrieve his case and keys, staggered over to his Volvo, got in, fired up the engine, peeled out onto Center Street, and drove away from the nightmare mansion with all the speed he could manage.
IN THE BRAZILIAN FOREST, NIGHT STILL REIGNED. MISTS drifted through the dense trees and night- blooming orchids. Pendergast made a silent beeline back to where he had left Egon and soon found signs of the man’s blundering passage: broken branches, torn leaves, boot prints in the mossy floor. Following these signs, he moved swiftly until he could hear the man, still calling and wandering about. Pendergast made a long loop around him and came up from the opposite direction.
“Here I am!” he cried, waving his light about. “Over here!”
“Where were you?” Egon said, advancing on him with menace and suspicion, pointing the light in his face.
“Blast it, where were
As Pendergast expected, Egon—steeped in a culture of authority and subordination—was instantly cowed. “I’m sorry,” he stammered out, “but you moved so fast, and then vanished—”
“Enough excuses!” Pendergast cried. “A night has been wasted. I’ll let it go this time—but don’t ever lose track of me again. I could have been killed by a jaguar or eaten by an anaconda!” He paused, fuming. “Let’s go back to the town. You can show me to my quarters. I need some sleep.”
They emerged into the town, wet and bedraggled, as dawn rose over the crater rim, casting a light that touched the bottoms of the clouds, blushing them coral. The crescent-shaped town came to clockwork life as the rays of sun invaded the cobbled streets: doors opening, chimneys smoking, streets filling with purposeful foot traffic. The island in the middle of the lake remained the same: black, grim, foreboding, issuing the faint sound of clanking machinery.
As they walked along the thronging streets, Pendergast once again noted, this time with a shiver of horror, that some of the faces he had seen in the underground ghetto had their mirror image among these handsome, busy people.
Egon led Pendergast to a small, half-timbered house adjacent to the town hall. Egon knocked and a woman answered in an apron, wiping her hands, the smell of baking bread issuing from the interior.
“
They entered to find two towheaded boys at a kitchen table eating bread with jam and soft-boiled eggs. They stopped and gaped at Pendergast with the same astonishment and curiosity the other townsfolk had displayed.
“Nobody speaks English,” said Egon in his usual terse manner, ignoring the woman and her friendly greetings as he walked past her to a narrow staircase. He led the way up two stories to a cheerful garret with lace curtains, steeply pitched ceilings, and dormer windows looking back over town.
“Your room,” he said. “You stay here until sunset. Then the woman give you dinner. I wait downstairs. Do not leave room.”
“I’m to stay penned up here until sunset?” Pendergast cried. “Why, I only need four or five hours’ sleep. I’d like to stroll through the town, see the sights.”
“You stay here until sunset,” Egon repeated truculently, shutting the door. Pendergast heard the key turning in the lock.
As Egon’s footsteps retreated down the stairs, Pendergast perused the old-fashioned lock with a faint smile. Then he turned to his pack and collecting jars, unpacking the many specimens he’d collected on the river trip and in the forest that night, laying the butterflies out on spreading boards with flat-tipped tweezers, holding them in place
