Текст книги "Two Graves"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

28

JUMPING TO HIS FEET, PENDERGAST EXITED THE READING room and sprinted down the hall toward the reception area, following the sound of the scream. As he approached, he could hear a growing commotion, several loud voices mingling with Miss Ishimura’s unintelligible, high-pitched expostulations—and the sound of someone groaning and babbling.

He swept through the flush door into the reception room and was greeted by an extraordinary sight. A doorman and the head of Dakota security—a man named Franklin—were holding up between them a skinny young man, hardly more than a boy, dressed in jeans and a torn work shirt. His hair was matted, his entire body was covered with soot, and he smelled. One ear was wrapped in a bloody bandage, and there were grimy bandages on a hand and a foot. The boy was clearly half out of his mind, hardly able to stand, his eyes rolling in his head, murmuring incoherently.

Pendergast turned to the head security officer. “What the devil?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pendergast, but the boy, he’s been hurt, he’s in trouble.”

“I can see that. But why have you brought him here?”

The security officer looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Mr. Franklin, why have you brought this boy here, to my apartment, of all places? He needs to go to a hospital.”

“I know that, sir, but since he’s your son—”

“My son?” Pendergast stared at the bedraggled boy in total amazement.

The head of security stopped, then restarted, all in a panic. “I just assumed, given what he said…” He again hesitated: “I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, bringing him up here.”

Pendergast continued to stare. All mental functions had ceased and he was overwhelmed by a feeling of unreality, as if the world had suddenly become flat, cartoonish. As he took in the boy’s features—the hair, light blond beneath its mantle of soot; the silvery blue eyes; the narrow, patrician face—his sense of paralyzing astonishment only deepened. He could not move, speak, or think. And yet everyone in the room was waiting for him to say something, to act, to confirm or reject.

A groan from the boy filled the empty silence.

This seemed to jolt Franklin. “Forgive me, Mr. Pendergast, but we’ll take care of it if you’d prefer, call the police or an ambulance. If he is your son, I thought you might wish to handle it yourself… not involve the authorities….” His voice trailed off in confusion.

Pendergast’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Mr. Pendergast?” The head of security stood there with the doorman, each still holding the boy by one arm.

Another long silence seemed to solidify in the room as everyone waited, the whispering sound of the waterfall sliding down the marble becoming unnaturally loud.

Finally, it was the diminutive Miss Ishimura who reacted. She stepped up to Franklin and gestured vigorously at him. Her gestures were very clear: the security personnel were to lay the boy down on the leather sofa in the middle of the room. They did so, easing him into a supine position, while Miss Ishimura fetched a pillow and put it under his head. The movement seem to rouse the boy from his stupor. As he lay there, his eyes focused, roamed the room—and then fixed on Pendergast.

He raised his head, the pale eyes glittering, staring. “Father…” he gasped in strongly accented English. “Hide me…” Even this small exertion seemed to exhaust the boy and his head fell back, the eyes unfocusing, the lips moving in an unintelligible murmur.

Pendergast blinked. His vision cleared somewhat and his eyes, now very dark, traveled once again over the boy, his observant mind coming alive to many small details: the location of the bandages; the youth’s height, frame, carriage, and facial features. As the mental lock slowly released itself, the full dimension of what he was seeing seeped into his consciousness: the resemblance to Diogenes; the even stronger one to himself and Helen. And, unbidden, the security videotapes that he had watched endlessly began to loop through his mind.

A sentence formed in his head. This is my son—the Hotel Killer.

“Mr. Pendergast,” said Franklin, “what should we do? Should we call the police? This boy needs medical attention.”

My son—the Hotel Killer.

Reality returned in a blinding flash. Pendergast was suddenly all action, springing to the side of the boy, kneeling. He grasped the boy’s hand—it was burning hot—and felt for a pulse. Rapid and thready. He had a high fever and was delirious. The self-amputations were probably becoming infected.

Pendergast rose, turned. “Thank you, Mr. Franklin,” he said quickly. “There is no need to call the police. You have done well. I’ll get him a doctor right away.”

“Yes, sir.” Franklin and the doorman exited the apartment.

Pendergast turned to his housekeeper, who watched his lips attentively. “Miss Ishimura, please get me bandages, a basin of hot water, antibiotic cream, washcloths, and scissors, and bring them into the Red Room.”

Miss Ishimura went off. Pendergast slipped his arms under the boy and lifted him up—he was shockingly thin—carried him into the inner apartment, and laid him on a bed in a cool, disused bedroom that faced the inner courtyard of the Dakota. The boy began babbling, shivering violently. Pendergast pulled off and, where necessary, cut away his filthy clothes, then inspected his wounds, starting with the ear. The earlobe was gone, in a way that all too clearly matched the piece left with the first corpse. It was an ugly-looking wound, with an incipient infection. The missing finger was in still-worse shape, the bone end exposed, and the amputated toe had opened up and was bleeding badly. The boy appeared to have walked a long way on the injured foot.

Miss Ishimura arrived with the basin and washcloth, and Pendergast wiped the boy’s face. The gesture brought the boy once more back into reality. “Father…” the boy said, “help…”

“I’m here,” said Pendergast. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.” His voice came out as a croak. He rinsed the washcloth and patted the face dry. Now Miss Ishimura returned with a tray of bandages, antibiotics, and other medical supplies.

“Not my fault… bitte, mein Gott, bitte, do not give me up…”

Pendergast gently washed the injured finger, cleaning the wound and applying antibiotic ointment and a fresh bandage. He next worked on the toe, which was in the worst shape, continuing to ooze blood despite all he did, but he washed and bandaged it all the same, wrapping it in a gauze cloth. As he worked, the boy moaned and turned restlessly, murmuring over and over, “Not my fault…”

When Pendergast was finished, he stood up. For a moment the room spun around, and Miss Ishimura grasped his arm and steadied him. She led him, almost like a child, out of the room into the hallway, signaling to him that she would take over, that he was not to concern himself with the boy any longer, that he was to go into his study and rest.

Nodding wordlessly, he walked down the hall to his study. He shut the door and leaned against it momentarily to steady himself, to try to bring order to his thoughts. He made his way to his habitual chair, eased himself down, closed his eyes, and fought—with a supreme effort of will—to bring his stampeding emotions under control.

Gradually, he was able to return his heart rate and respiration to their normal rates.

This was a problem, like any other. It must be thought of in that way: a problem.

My son—the Hotel Killer.

He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. “Dr. Rossiter? Aloysius Pendergast here. I require a house call from you in my apartments at the Dakota. A sick boy, with several open wounds from amputated digits. There is a need for surgery, and, as always, I’ll ask that you perform your services with complete discretion…”

29

CAPTAIN LAURA HAYWARD STRODE BRISKLY DOWN THE central corridor of PS Thirty-Two, heading for the school’s auditorium. There had been a rash of hate crimes against homeless people that fall—beatings, robberies, even a case in which a destitute man had been set afire by rowdy teenagers in Riverside Park—and Hayward had been tasked by the commissioner with raising schoolchildren’s awareness of the plight of the homeless and the reality of life on the streets. Homeless people are people, too, was her message. Over the past few weeks she had spoken at half a dozen schools, and the reception had been gratifying. She felt she was making a real difference. It was something she enjoyed doing—and she knew a great deal about it. The subject of her master’s thesis had been the social structure of an underground homeless community in New York City, and she had spent months observing them, experiencing their lives, listening to their problems, trying to understand their histories, motivations, and challenges. In recent years she’d been too busy with standard police work to put her M.A. in sociology to much use, but now it seemed perfect preparation for what she was doing.

Rounding the corner, she was surprised to run into D’Agosta, walking her way.

“Vinnie!” she said, refraining from kissing him as they were both on duty. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, actually,” he said. “I was in the neighborhood. There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Why couldn’t we have talked at breakfast?” she asked. He looked troubled—and a little guilty. There was something on his mind; she’d been aware of it for the last few days. But with things like that, you could never hurry him—you just had to wait until he was ready to open up. And then you had to seize the opportunity before he changed his mind.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m due to give that presentation in ten minutes. Come on, we can talk in the auditorium.”

D’Agosta followed her down the hall and through a set of double doors. Beyond was a 1950s-era space, with a balcony and a wide stage, and it reminded Laura of her own high-school auditorium, with its pep rallies and fallout drills and all-school movie events. Already it was half full with students. They took seats in the rear.

“Okay,” she said, turning to him. “What’s up?”

For a moment he didn’t speak. “It’s Pendergast,” he finally said.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m worried sick about him. He’s gone through about as rough a patch as a person can hit and now he’s acting strange—even for him.”

“Tell me about it,” Hayward said.

“After his wife died, he retreated to his apartment and I’m pretty sure was getting into self-medication, if you know what I mean—hitting the hard stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“I don’t know which drugs, exactly, but I had the terrible feeling it was a calculated form of self-destruction—a run-up to suicide. I followed your advice and gave him the Hotel Killer case portfolio to chew over. It—seems to have unhinged him. He went from being totally apathetic to complete obsession with the case. He showed up at the third murder scene, got himself credentialed up, and now he’s become the bane of Agent Gibbs’s existence. I’m telling you, he and Gibbs are headed for a wreck. I’ve got to believe it’s because Pendergast is feeling so devastated that he’s antagonizing Gibbs. I mean, I’ve seen him needle people, get into their faces—but there was always a reason for it before.”

“Oh, Jesus. Maybe my idea wasn’t so hot after all.”

“I haven’t gotten to the worst part.”

“Which is?”

“His theory of the crime. It’s bizarre, to say the least.”

Hayward sighed. “Let me hear it.”

Another hesitation. “He believes the Hotel Killer is his brother, Diogenes.”

Hayward frowned. “I thought Diogenes was dead.”

“That’s what everyone thought. The thing is, Pendergast won’t tell me whyhe thinks his brother is the murderer. It seems so preposterous. I really worry that his wife’s death has scattered his marbles.”

“What’s his evidence?”

“None that I know. At least none that he’s shared with me. But I honestly don’t see it in any case. The M.O. is totally different; there’s nothing that links this case to his brother. And a quick-and-dirty search of the databases indicates his brother really did vanish and is presumed dead. This is crazy.”

“So what does Singleton think of this theory?”

“That’s the other thing.” Even though they were alone in the back of the auditorium, D’Agosta lowered his voice. “Pendergast doesn’t want me to tell anyone about this theory. I can’t mention it to Gibbs, to Singleton—to anybody.”

Hayward looked at him, opened her mouth to say, Why haven’t you told me this before?But then she reconsidered. D’Agosta looked so troubled. And the fact was, he hadtold her—and was now obviously searching for her advice. And, ironically, it had been her idea to bring the case to Pendergast to begin with.

“The thing of it is, I know that if there isinformation this might be Diogenes—even if it seems like crazy information—he and I both have an obligation to pass it on. There’s always a chance it might help the case. But… I promised him.” He shook his head. “Christ, I’m really in the weeds about this.”

Gently, she took his hand. “Vinnie, it’s your duty to turn over all evidence, all information, even the crazy stuff. You’re the squad commander.”

D’Agosta didn’t reply.

“I know Pendergast is your friend. I know he’s been through a terrible ordeal. But this isn’t about friendship. It’s not even about what’s best for your career. This is about catching a dangerous killer who’s likely to kill again. Vinnie, you haveto do the right thing on this. If Pendergast really has hard information, you’ve got to get it out of him. And when you do, you have to turn it over. It’s as simple as that.”

D’Agosta looked down.

“And as far as he and Gibbs are concerned, that’s FBI business. You let them sort it out. Okay?” She gave his hand a harder squeeze. “I’ve got to give that talk now. We can speak more tonight.”

“Okay.”

She stopped herself from kissing him, then stood up. As she gave him one final look before heading to the podium, she was dismayed to find he appeared just as conflicted as before.

30

IT WAS NOON. THE DOCTOR HAD COME AND GONE, THE room was silent and dark, the curtains drawn, the boy—bathed and cleaned of soot—was asleep. A shadowy figure sat in a corner of the small, spare room, unmoving, his pale face like a ghostly apparition floating in the dimness.

The boy stirred, turned, sighed. He had been asleep for eighteen hours. One hand lay on the covers, shackled, with a chain attached to the metal bed frame.

Another sigh, and then a gleam appeared in the darkness—the gleam of an open eye. The boy turned again, restlessly, and finally raised his head. He looked around and his attention fixed on the figure in the corner.

For a long time they looked at each other in the darkness, and then the boy spoke in a whisper. “Water?”

The figure rose silently, left the room, and returned with a glass of water and a straw. The boy reached for it, the movement of his arm stopped by the chain. He looked at it, surprised, but said nothing. Pendergast held the glass for the boy, who drank.

When he was done, his head sank back to the pillow. “Thank… you.”

His voice was weak, but no longer raving. His mind had returned to rationality. The fever was down, the antibiotics taking effect. The long sleep appeared to have done him good.

Another long silence ensued. And then the boy held up his wrist, the one with the chain on it. “Why?” he asked.

“You know why. What I want to know is—why you have come here.”

“Because… you are Father.”

“Father,” Pendergast repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. “And how do you know this?”

“I heard… talk. Of you. Pendergast. My father.”

Pendergast did not reply. Finally, the boy stirred again in the bed. “Do they… know I am here?” He spoke hesitantly, with a strange accent, part German but softened by the mellifluous roundness of what sounded like Portuguese. His face, now clean, was so pale and delicate that blue veins could be seen within it. Dark circles lay like bruises under his eyes, and his thin hair was plastered to his skull by sweat.

“If you are speaking of the police,” said Pendergast, voice cold as dry ice, “I have not informed them. Not yet.”

“Not the police…” said the boy. “ Them.”

“Them?”

“The others. My… my brother.”

This was met with another profound silence, and then Pendergast said, in a strange voice: “Your brother?”

The boy coughed, tried to sit up. “More water, please?”

Removing his .45 and laying it out of reach, Pendergast went over to the boy, helped prop him up against the headboard with some pillows, and gave him another sip of water. This time the boy drank greedily, finishing the glass.

“I am hungry,” he said.

“You will be fed in good time,” said Pendergast, resuming his seat and sliding the .45 back into his suit. “Now: you were speaking of your—brother?”

“My brother.”

Pendergast stared at the boy impatiently. “Yes. Tell me about this brother.”

“He is Alban. We are… twins. Sort of twins. He is the one doing the killing. He has been cutting me. He thinks it lustig. Funny. But I escaped. Did he follow?” Fear had crept into his voice.

Pendergast rose, his slender figure like a wraith in the dim room. He paced to the curtained window, turned. “Let me understand,” he said, voice low. “You have a twin brother who is killing people in New York City hotels. He’s kept you a prisoner and has been cutting off your body parts—an earlobe, a finger, and a toe—and leaving them at the crime scenes.”

“Yes.”

“And why did you come to me?”

“You are… Father. Are you not? Alban… spoke of it. He talk of you a lot with others. They do not think I listen. Or that I understand.”

Standing very still, Pendergast did not say anything for a long time. And then he stepped back to the chair and eased himself into it, almost as if he was in pain. “Perhaps,” he said, passing a pale hand across his brow, “you should start at the beginning. Tell me everything you know. Where you were born, under what circumstances, who your brother Alban is, and what he and you are doing here in New York.”

“I will try. I not know much.”

“Do your best.”

“I was born in… Brazil. They call the place Nova Godói.”

At this, Pendergast froze. “Your mother was—?”

“I never met Mother. Alban was the good twin. I… bad twin.”

“And your name?”

“I have no name. Only good twins get names. I… Forty-Seven.”

“What are these good twins and bad twins? What does it mean?”

“Not know how it works. Not exactly. Good twins get all the good stuff, bad stuff go into bad twins. Good twins go to school, have sports, have training. They eat good food. We… work the fields.”

Pendergast slowly rose from his seat, a shadow growing in silent amazement. “So the town, Nova Godói, is full of twins?”

The youth nodded.

“And your twin, this Alban: he’s the one doing the killing?”

“He… loves it.”

“Why is he killing?”

The boy shrugged.

“And you escaped? How?”

“They think I am more stupid than I am. I fooled them, got away.” This was followed by a brief hiccuping sob. “I hope they do not follow me.”

“Where were you held?”

“It was… under the ground. There was a long tunnel, old, very cool. They kept me in… giant oven, cold, big as a room. Bricks dirty, floor dirty. Big metal door. Last time… they forget to lock it.”

“And?”

“I ran, just kept running.”

“How did you find me?”

“I heard them say you live in fancy place. Dakota place. So I asked. A stranger told me, helped me, put me in yellow car. Gave me those.” And he pointed to a few wadded bills Miss Ishimura had removed from the pocket of his jeans.

He fell silent. Pendergast slid his hand into his pocket, removed a key, and unlocked the shackle from the boy’s wrist. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I misunderstood.”

The boy smiled. “I care not. I… used to it.”

Pendergast pressed a button beside the door, and a moment later Miss Ishimura came in. Pendergast turned to her and spoke briskly. “Could you kindly prepare a full American breakfast for our guest? Eggs, sausage, toast, orange juice. Thank you.”

He turned back to the boy. “So someone put you in a taxicab? How long was the ride?”

“Very long. Pass many, many autos.”

“What do you remember of it? Did you cross any bridges, go through tunnels?”

“We crossed a big bridge over a river.” He shook his head at the memory. “So many buildings, so tall.”

Pendergast immediately picked up a house phone. “Charles? The cab that brought the boy. I need its hack number. Go through the building’s security videos and get it to me right away. Thank you.” He hung up, turned back to the boy lying on the bed, looking so lost, so confused, so vulnerable.

“Let me see if I understand what you’ve told me,” he said. “You and your brother are twins, born and raised in Brazil. You are apparently part of some program. As part of this, he got all the desirable qualities, the good genetic material, somehow leaving the unwanted material to you, in a manner of speaking. Is that it?”

“They say we are dumping ground. Garbage.”

“And you each get a number. You’re Forty-Seven.”

“Forty-Seven.”

“So there must be a lot of you.”

The youth nodded. “Could you open curtains? Please? I want to see light.”

Pendergast went to the window and slid open the curtains, letting in the long yellow light of early winter, coming in low over the slate roofs, dormers, gables, and turrets of the famous apartment building. The boy turned gratefully toward the light, which fell on his pallid face.

In a gentle voice, Pendergast spoke. “The first thing is that you should have a name. A real name.”

“I do not know what to call myself.”

“Then I will name you. How do you like… Tristram?”

“I like it fine. And shall call you… Father?”

“Yes,” said Pendergast. “Yes. Please do call me…” He struggled to get the word out. “Father.”