Текст книги "Blue Labyrinth"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

64

Dr. Horace Stone found himself suddenly awake in the room with his patient. He did not care for nursing duties, but his patient was paying him extremely well and the case was most unusual, if not fascinating. There would be an excellent JAMA article in this – of course, not until after the patient’s demise and postmortem, when they might have at least a better chance of diagnosing this most unusual affliction.

An excellent article indeed.

Now he saw what had awakened him. Pendergast’s eyes had opened and were drilling into him with intensity.

“My phone?”

“Yes, sir.” Stone fetched the phone from the bureau and handed it to him.

He examined it, his face pale. “Nine twenty. Constance – where is she?”

“I believe she just left.”

“You believe?”

“Well,” said Stone, flustered. “I heard her say good-bye to Mrs. Trask, I heard the door shut, and there was a livery cab outside that took her away.”

Stone was shocked when Pendergast rose in his bed. He was clearly coming into the remissive phase of the disease.

“I strongly advise—”

“Be silent,” said Pendergast, pushing back the covers and, with difficulty, rising to his feet. He pulled the IV from his arm. “Step aside.”

“Mr. Pendergast, I simply cannot allow you to leave your bed.”

Pendergast turned his pale, glittering eyes upon Dr. Stone. “If you try to stop me, I will hurt you.”

This naked threat stopped Stone’s retort. The patient was clearly febrile, delusional, perhaps hallucinating. Stone had asked for a nurse and been denied one. He could not handle this on his own. He retreated from the room as Pendergast began changing out of his bedclothes.

“Mrs. Trask?” he called. The house was so blasted large. “Mrs. Trask!”

He heard the housekeeper bustling around downstairs, calling from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes, Doctor?”

Pendergast appeared in the bedroom doorway, slipping into his black suit, stuffing a sheet of paper into one pocket, and sliding his gun into an inside holster. Dr. Stone stepped aside to let him pass.

“Mr. Pendergast, I repeat, you are in no condition to leave the house!”

Pendergast ignored him and headed down the stairs, moving slowly, like an old man. Dr. Stone followed in pursuit. A frightened Mrs. Trask hovered at the bottom.

“Please get me a car,” Pendergast told the housekeeper.

“Yes, sir.”

“You can’t get him a car!” Stone expostulated. “Look at his condition!”

Mrs. Trask turned to him. “When Mr. Pendergast asks for something, we do not say no.”

Dr. Stone looked from her to Pendergast himself who, despite being obviously debilitated, returned the stare with such an icy look that he was finally silenced. It all happened so quickly. Now Mrs. Trask was hanging up the phone and Pendergast, staggering slightly, made his way to the porte cochere entrance. In a moment he was out the door, and the red taillights of the hired car were turning up the drive.

Stone sat down, breathing hard. He had never quite seen a patient with such steely resolve in the grip of such a fatal illness.

* * *

As he reclined in the rear of the car, Pendergast took the piece of paper from his pocket and read it over. It was a note, in Constance’s copperplate hand: the list of chemical compounds and other ingredients. Beside some of these ingredients, locales had been listed.

Pendergast read the list over carefully, first once, then twice. And then he folded the page over on itself, tore it into small pieces, lowered the window of the car, and allowed the pieces to float out into the Manhattan night, one by one.

The cab turned onto the entrance ramp for the West Side Highway, heading for the Manhattan Bridge and, ultimately, Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn.

65

Shaking his head, the man bent down and plucked something from the back of Frisby’s neck.

“Interesting collection you’ve got down here,” he said, holding up the object, dripping with Frisby’s blood. Margo recognized it as a giant Sumatran buckthorn: six inches long, recurved, razor-sharp – notorious as a weapon in certain parts of Indonesia.

“I’d better introduce myself,” the man said. “I’m Sergeant Slade of the NYPD.” He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and produced an ID, illuminating it with his flashlight.

Margo peered at it. The shield and identification looked real enough. But who was this man, and what was he doing down here? And hadn’t he just… stabbed Frisby? She felt a growing sense of confusion and terror.

“I guess I arrived in the nick of time,” said Slade. “This old curator – you called him Frisby, right? – seemed to be getting off on calling the cops on you. Little did he know the cop was already here. And he was all wrong about the rap they’d have hung on you. Take it from me: you’d have pled down to Class E and received nothing more than community service. In New York City, no jury cares about a few moldy plant specimens stolen from a museum.”

He bent to examine the body of Frisby, gingerly stepping around the spreading pool of blood under the neck as he did so, and then rose again.

“Well, we’d better get on with it,” he said. “Now that I’m here, you don’t have much to worry about. Please give me the bag.” And he held out his hand.

But Margo just stood there, frozen. Frisby was dead. This man had stabbed him – with a buckthorn, no less. This was nothing less than murder. She remembered D’Agosta’s warning and she suddenly understood: cop or no, this man was working for Barbeaux.

Sergeant Slade took a step forward, buckthorn in hand.

“Give me the bag, Dr. Green,” he said.

Margo stepped back.

“Don’t make things more difficult for yourself than they have to be. Give me the bag and you’ll get no more than a slap on the wrist.”

Tightening her hand on the bag, Margo took another step back.

Slade sighed. “You’re forcing my hand,” he said. “If that’s the way you want to play it, I’m afraid what’s in store for you will be far more extreme than community service.” He shifted the thorn into his right hand and gripped it hard, advancing on her. Margo turned and realized she was backed into a cul-de-sac of the botanical collections, with shelving on either side and the vault behind her.

She stared at Sergeant Slade. He may have been short, but he moved with the grace of a lean and powerful man. In addition to the giant thorn in his hand, Margo could see a service belt beneath his suit jacket that held a gun, pepper spray, and cuffs.

She took another step backward and felt her spine contact the metal door of the vault.

“It’ll be quick,” Slade said, with a note in his voice that sounded almost like regret. “I don’t enjoy this – I really don’t.” The hand with the buckthorn rose into striking position and he loomed forward, bracing himself to swipe the weapon across her throat.

66

You may pull over here, if you please.”

The cabbie nosed his vehicle to the curb. Constance Greene pushed some money through the sliding window, collected the bag, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She stood for a moment, considering. Across Washington Avenue stood a wrought-iron fence, and beyond that the dark trees of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Even though it was nine thirty, the traffic on Washington Avenue was steady and there were pedestrians on the move.

Slinging the bag onto one shoulder by its strap, Constance smoothed down the pleats of her dress and brushed the hair from her face. She walked to the corner, waited at the crosswalk for the light to change, and crossed to the other side.

Here the wrought-iron fence surrounding the garden stood about waist-high and was topped with dull spikes. Casually strolling along the fence, Constance walked to a spot midway between streetlights: a dark zone where overhanging tree limbs cast additional shadows. Setting down her bag, she took out her cell phone on the pretense of checking it and waited until there was no one in view. Then, in one smooth movement, she grasped two of the spikes and swung herself over, dropping down on the far side. Reaching over the fence, she retrieved her bag. A quick jog carried her into the protective darkness of the trees, where she paused to look back to see if her movements had attracted attention.

All seemed normal.

Opening the duffel, she removed a small satchel from it and hid it beneath some ground cover. Then she began moving through the darkness. She had not brought a flashlight: the waxing moon was just rising over the trees, and in any case her eyes were unusually well adapted to darkness from the many years of living in the basement corridors and crawl spaces underneath 891 Riverside Drive.

She had downloaded a map of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden from the institution’s website and carefully memorized it. Ahead of her lay a border of dense shrubbery that formed a natural wall. She eased into the shrubbery and pushed her way through, emerging in an isolated corner of the Shakespeare Garden. Trampling through a dense patch of irises, their crushed scent rising around her, she gained a brick path that wound through the plantings. Here she paused again to listen. All was dark and quiet. She had no idea what kind of security might be present in the garden, and she moved with exquisite care, instinctively employing skills sharpened from roaming the New York docks as a child, stealing food and money.

Staying off the main paths, Constance continued past a bed of primroses and another course of shrubbery, followed by a low stone wall. Scaling this, she arrived at the edge of the main pathway leading up to the Palm House, a stately Tuscan Revival building of iron and glass. Beyond it were the greenhouse complexes, including the Aquatic House, home to Hodgson’s Sorrow. But the main path was broad and too well lit to make for a good approach. She waited in the shrubbery, watching for security and puzzled to see none. It occurred to her that this might be evidence of Pendergast’s claim that Barbeaux would get there before her; if so, he would have neutralized the security.

This was good to know.

Then again, this was a botanical garden, not an art museum. Perhaps there wasn’t any night security at all.

Keeping to the shadows of the plantings, she passed between the Fragrance Garden and the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden. A night breeze carried the scent of the honeysuckle and peonies toward her. Making her way past a dense planting of azaleas, she could see the Magnolia Plaza ahead, the trees already off their spring bloom. Beyond lay the waters of the Lily Pool, glimmering in the moonlight.

While examining the map of the Botanic Garden, Constance had mentally sketched out a route of approach. The best point of entry would be the elegant Palm House, much of which had been converted from greenhouse into an event space for hosting social functions. The building had large, single-paned glass windows. The newer greenhouses, on the other hand, had smaller windows, some of them with double-paned glass.

She darted across the Magnolia Plaza and regained the shadows along one long wing of the Palm House. The grand old Victorian structure was composed of a central dome and two glass wings. She paused to peer through one of the panes. This wing of the Palm House had been set up for an elegant wedding that was apparently to take place the next day, with long tables covered in white linen, opulent place settings, candelabras, glassware, and unlit candles. There was no obvious sign of a security system. Kneeling, she slid the backpack off her shoulder and onto the ground. She slid a small leather wallet out of one external pocket of the backpack, and from it she extracted a glass cutter and a suction cup. Fixing the cup to the center of the large glass pane, she carefully cut an incision around the pane’s periphery. A few sharp taps knocked out the glass, and she carefully laid it aside, pushed the backpack through the opening, then crawled in after it, tucking her dress around her so it would not snag.

Collecting the bag again, she made her way among the silent tables, through the great central glass dome, across a parquet dance floor, toward the far wing. There was a door leading into the next wing that she tested and found to be unlocked. Throughout her passage, she had been prepared to retreat quickly at the first sound of a tripped alarm, but the Palm House remained silent and shadowy.

She pushed the door ajar, listened, looked, then ducked through. This was the Bonsai Museum, supposedly the greatest outside of Japan. Beyond it lay her destination: the Aquatic House and orchid collection.

The Bonsai Museum offered few hiding places, the dwarf trees arranged on pedestals in rows along the front and rear walls, leaving an open central aisle. Crouching behind a pedestal, Constance paused. There remained no evidence of security – or of Barbeaux. It was cooler here in the Bonsai Museum, and there was a soft hum from fans set near the roof.

She moved swiftly past the twisted little trees and paused at the next door. Cracking it open slightly – once again, it wasn’t locked – she hesitated. All was silent. She slipped through and found herself in an entrance lobby. To her right rose the Steinhardt greenhouse complex, with its huge Tropical Pavilion, and straight ahead lay the entrance to the Aquatic House.

Creeping across the dark lobby, she advanced to the entrance to the Aquatic House: a pair of glass doors that were shut. She approached the closest one, crouched in the shadows, and peered within.

All was silent. And then, after the most careful scrutiny of the space beyond the doors, her eye began to make out the faintest outline of a man standing perfectly still. She could not see him directly; rather, she saw his reflection off a watery surface glimmering in the moonlight. The outline of a gun was in his hand.

So Pendergast was right after all. That Barbeaux knew about her coming here was startling. As best she knew, she had discussed the location only with Margo. But clearly, their plan had been leaked and there was a traitor in their midst. Barbeaux knew she was coming for the plant in this greenhouse. He was waiting for her.

She thought about Margo, and her own mission within the Museum basement. Was it possible Barbeaux knew about that, as well? Of course it was. She could only hope Margo’s vast knowledge of the Museum’s secret places would help keep her safe.

Ever so slowly, she shifted her position, and in so doing spied a second dim figure in the Aquatic House. This one had an assault rifle slung over his shoulders.

These men were clearly professional soldiers, and they were heavily armed – alarming, but not surprising, given Red Mountain’s stock-in-trade. Barbeaux was leaving nothing to chance.

Constance knew that the greenhouse beyond was large, and even in the dark she could tell it was crowded with vegetation. If she could see two men from her lone vantage point, there would surely be others, perhaps several more, that remained hidden from view. Why were they all concentrated in this location?

Clearly, Barbeaux was set on preventing anyone from getting the plant. He wanted to ensure that Pendergast suffered the longest, most lingering, most painful, most apt death possible. But this just raised another question. Why were there men here at all? It would have been far easier to simply remove or destroy the specimen of Hodgson’s Sorrow, and then leave. Why the ambush?

There could be only one answer: because they knew what building the plant was in, but they didn’t know the name of the plant. Their information, however it had been gained, was incomplete.

Mentally reviewing the map of the garden, she recalled there was a second, higher level to the Aquatic House, gained via a staircase in the lobby, which allowed visitors to gaze out over the swampy jungle. She considered going upstairs to reconnoiter, but realized that surely at least one watcher would be placed on the mezzanine level, as well.

There were too many men. She could never confront them all at once. She would have to sneak in, remove the plant from under their very eyes, and sneak back out. She would deal with Barbeaux later. It was a disagreeable option… but it was the only one.

Stealth was now paramount. That meant her backpack had become an impediment. Slipping the glass cutter and suction cup into a pocket of her dress, she secreted the nylon bag underneath a visitor’s bench. Then she crept back to the double doors of glass and tried to construct a picture of where Barbeaux’s men were hiding. If the men weren’t there, she could have found the plant in minutes.

Now it wouldn’t be so simple.

She retreated along the inner walls to the lobby. The door to its main entrance was locked. Moving more swiftly, she retraced her steps back through the Bonsai Museum, the main body of the Palm House, the far wing, and then out the missing panel of glass. She circled the Lily Pool, keeping to the darkness of the massive trees in the arboretum beyond. Bypassing the Tropical Pavilion, she approached the rear wall of the Aquatic House, again constructed almost entirely of glass. The panes were smaller here than in the Palm House, but still big enough to crawl through. There was no door in this wall. They would not expect entry here.

She crouched and listened. Nothing. Attaching the suction cup to a nearby pane, she started to cut it free. As she did so, the blade made a sharp noise against the glass. Immediately she paused. There was plenty of Brooklyn background noise: distant cars honking, jets passing overhead, the beating heart of the city. But still, the scritch of the cutter had been too prominent – and no doubt sounded even louder inside.

As if in answer, she saw a shadowy figure moving stealthily within, coming to check out the sound. He peered about this way and that, weapon at the ready. She knew he couldn’t see her waiting in the darkness outside. After a moment, he melted back into the foliage, satisfied it was nothing.

Constance waited, rethinking how she was going to get in. If she could find a way to do so without breaking or cutting any glass, it would greatly lessen her chances of being discovered.

She crawled along the edge of the long glass wall, her fingers probing against the panes as she moved. Some were a little loose. The bronze frames were corroded, especially where they met the low concrete foundation.

Still crawling, she tried one pane after another until she found a piece of glass that was looser than the rest. Inspecting its frame, she found the bronze almost completely corroded along the bottom edge.

She worked her glass cutter under the thin frame and began to pry outward. The bronze bent readily, its crust of oxidation flaking and falling off. Slowly, careful not to put so much pressure on the glass as to break it, she worked the cutter around the inside of the frame, bending it out. After several minutes the frame had been so thoroughly loosened that she risked applying the suction cup to the pane and pulling gently. It held fast, but now only one area of the frame remained to be bent. A few more seconds with the cutter, and she was able to remove the pane of glass. A stream of humid, flower-scented air flowed over her.

She crawled inside.

A dense wall of hanging orchids separated her from the men. This, she recalled from the map, was the Orchid Collection, which occupied the far end of the Aquatic House. Beyond it lay a curving walkway with a double railing, and beyond that was the large indoor pool in which Hodgson’s Sorrow would be found.

Constance paused, thinking. The foliage around and ahead of her was extremely dense. Her choice of a long black dress with white accents had been appropriate for camouflage. However, for the kind of crawling in close quarters that lay ahead, it would prove an obstacle. Worse yet, it might tear on a protruding branch and create unwanted noise. With a frown of displeasure, she worked the dress off her shoulders and slid it from her body. Beneath, she was wearing a black chemise. Then she took off her shoes and stockings, reducing herself to bare feet. Balling the dress up, she stowed it, the stockings, and the shoes behind a bush and crawled forward, slipping a hand into the thick curtain of orchids with infinite slowness and drawing it half an inch aside.

The visitors’ path lay bathed in moonlight, but the moon was low and deep shadows stretched across the shrubbery. There was no other way to approach the central pond – she would have to cross this path. As she paused, considering the situation, she was able to identify three additional men, standing in the darkness. They were utterly silent. The only things moving were their heads, which turned first one way and then the other, watching, listening.

These gentlemen were not going to be easily evaded. But evade them she must, or Pendergast would die.

The ground beneath her was wet and muddy. While her chemise was black, the exposed parts of her body were pale and could be easily detected. She scooped up the mud and methodically smeared it over her face, arms, and legs. When she was satisfied that she was fully covered, Constance crept forward again, inch by inch, parting the orchids with infinite caution. The smell of wet soil, flowers, and vegetation was pervasive. She paused after each move. As a little girl, down on the docks by Water Street, she had often stolen fish this way, moving so incrementally that no one noticed her. But back then she had been a waif. Now she was a full-grown woman.

In a few minutes, she had managed to move ten feet ahead and was now lying among a border of tropical ferns. Next, she had to cross a low railing and then the walkway. From her vantage point she could see several of the watchers, but there were no doubt others she could not see. She did have one advantage: they did not know she was already inside and among them. Their attention seemed to be focused on the entrance and an emergency exit in the rear.

More stealthy movement brought her up behind a large plaque, still in deep shadow. Getting across the walkway was going to be the crux. She could not crawl over it in slow motion. She would have to flit across at the moment when no one was looking.

She watched and waited. And then she heard the faint hiss of a radio, a murmured voice. And then another, coming from a different place; and then a third. It was exactly nine forty-five. They were checking in with each other.

In a minute they had revealed their locations – at least, those at the near end of the greenhouse. Constance counted a total of five. But she estimated that only three of them were in a position to notice her scurry across the open walkway.

She rotated her eyes upward. The moon was rising higher, casting a troublesome light into the greenhouse, and it would be most of the night before it finally set behind the trees. But a few clouds were scudding across the sky. As she watched, she could see that one of them would obscure the moon in, perhaps, three minutes.

She closed her eyes – even the whites could give her away – and waited, counting. Three minutes passed. She opened her eyes again slightly and saw the cloud flaring white as its edge began to move across the face of the moon. A shadow fell over the greenhouse. Darkness descended.

This was her moment. Slowly, she raised her head. The watchers had melted into the darkness, so she had no way of discerning which way they were looking. It was very dark in the greenhouse now, and it would never be darker. She would have to risk it.

In one smooth, easy movement she rose to a crouch, stepped over the railing, darted across the pathway, and lay down beneath a large tropical tree draped in orchids. She remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe. All was silent. A moment later, the moonlight flared back up. Nobody had moved; nobody had seen her.

Now for the pool, and the plant…

She felt something cold touch the nape of her neck, ever so lightly. A quiet voice said: “Don’t move.”