Blue Labyrinth (38 page)

I
CU Bay Three of the emergency room at New York Methodist Hospital resembled a scene of controlled chaos. One intern wheeled in a red crash cart, while a nurse nearby readied an ear, nose, and throat tray. Another nurse was attaching various leads to the motionless figure of Pendergast: a blood pressure cuff, EKG, pulse oximeter, fresh IV line. The paramedic workers from the ambulance had passed off their information on Pendergast’s condition to the hospital staff, then left; there was nothing more they could do.

Two doctors in scrubs swept in and quickly began to examine Pendergast, speaking in low tones to the nurses and interns.

D’Agosta took a look around. Constance was seated in a far corner of the bay, her small form now dressed in a hospital gown. It had been five minutes since he’d delivered the requested materials to Margo, back in the ambulance. She was still in there, working like a demon, using his lighter to heat a liquid in the test tube, filling the air with a sweet stench.

“Vitals?” one of the doctors asked.

“BP’s at sixty-five over thirty and falling,” a nurse replied. “Pulse ox is seventy.”

“Prep for endotracheal intubation,” the doctor said.

D’Agosta watched as more equipment was wheeled into place. He felt a terrible mixture of rage, despair, and distant hope gnawing at
him. Unable to keep still, he began to pace back and forth. One of the doctors, who earlier had tried to throw him and Constance out, shot him a glare, but he ignored it. What was the point of all this? This whole antidote thing seemed far-fetched, if not completely nuts. Pendergast had been dying for days—weeks—and now the final moments had come. All this fuss, this pointless bustle, just made him feel more agitated. There was nothing they could do—nothing anyone could do. Margo, for all her skill, was trying to concoct an elixir whose dosage she could only guess at—and that hadn’t worked before. Besides, it was moot now; it was taking her too long. Even these doctors, with all their equipment, couldn’t do jack to save Pendergast.

“Getting a lethal rhythm here,” an intern said, monitoring one of the screens at the head of Pendergast’s bed.

“Stop the lidocaine,” the second doctor said, pushing his way between the nurses. “Get a central vein catheter ready. Two milligrams epi, stat.”

D’Agosta sat down in the empty chair beside Constance.

“Vitals failing,” one of the interns said. “He’s coding.”

“Get that epi,” the doctor barked. “Stat!”

D’Agosta leapt to his feet.
No!
There had to be something he could do, there
had
to…

At that moment Margo Green appeared at the entrance of the ICU bay. Flinging the privacy screen wide, she stepped inside. She held a small beaker in one hand, partly full of a watery, greenish-brown liquid. The top of the beaker was covered with alternating layers of coffee filters and the cotton he’d appropriated from an ER gown locker. The entire beaker had then been wrapped in thin clear plastic and sealed with a rubber band.

One of the doctors looked over at her. “Who are you?”

Margo said nothing. Her gaze turned toward the still body on the bed. Then she approached a set of nurses.

“Damn it,” a doctor cried. “You can’t all be in here! This is a sterile environment.”

Margo turned to one of the nurses. “Get me a hypodermic,” she said.

The nurse blinked her surprise. “Excuse me?”

“A hypodermic. With a big-bore syringe.
Now
.”

“Do what she says,” D’Agosta said, holding out his badge. The nurse looked from Margo, to the doctors, to D’Agosta. Then, silently, she pulled open a drawer, exposing a number of long objects wrapped in sterile paper. Margo grabbed one and tore away the wrapper, exposing a large plastic syringe. Reaching into the same drawer, she selected a needle, fitted its adaptor to the end of the syringe. Then she walked toward D’Agosta and Constance. She was breathing heavily, and beads of sweat stood out on her temples.

“What’s going on?” one of the doctors asked, looking up from his work.

Margo looked from Constance to D’Agosta, then back again. The syringe was in one hand; the beaker in the other. Her mute question hung in the air.

Slowly, Constance nodded.

Margo eyed the antidote under the strong light of the ER bay, tore the seal off the beaker, stuck the needle into the liquid, drew up an amount, then pulled it out, holding it up and flicking the end of the syringe to remove extraneous bubbles. Then, taking a deep breath, she approached the bed.

“That’s it,” the doctor said. “Get the hell away from my patient.”

“I’m ordering you to give her access,” D’Agosta said. “On my authority as a lieutenant in the NYPD.”

“You have no authority here. I’ve had enough of this meddling. I’m calling security.”

D’Agosta planted his hands at his waist. His right hand curled over his holster and, to his great shock, found his service piece missing.

He spun around to see Constance standing there, pointing his .38 at the doctors and nurses. Although she had washed most of the mud from her person, and had exchanged the ragged silk chemise for a long hospital smock, she was still covered in scratches and cuts. Her face bore an expression that was chilling in its singular intensity. A sudden silence fell over the bay, and all work ceased.

“We’re going to save your patient’s life,” she said in a low voice. “Back away from the security alarm.”

Her expression, as much as D’Agosta’s weapon, caused the hospital staff to shrink back.

Quickly, while the doctors were stunned, Margo inserted the needle into the IV line, just above the drip chamber, and squeezed off about three ccs of liquid.

“You’ll kill him!” one of the doctors cried.

“He’s dead already,” Margo said.

There was a moment of shocked stasis. Pendergast’s body lay motionless on the bed. The various bleeps and blips of the monitoring machines formed a kind of funereal fugue. Now, amid the chorus, a low, urgent tone sounded.

“He’s coding again!” the first doctor said, leaning in from the far end of the bed.

For a moment, Margo remained still. Then she raised the syringe to the IV line again. “Fuck it,” she said, squeezing off a dose doubly large as the last one.

As if with a single movement, the nurses and interns surged around the body, ignoring the gun. Margo was dragged roughly away in the process, the syringe taken from her unresisting hand. There was a flurry of shrill, shouted orders and a security alarm went off. Constance lowered the gun, staring, her face white.

“Pulseless ventricular tachycardia!” one voice rose above the rest.

“We’re losing him!” the second doctor cried. “Cardiac compression,
now
!”

D’Agosta, frozen in shock, stared as the gowned figures worked feverishly around the bed. The EKG on the monitor above had flatlined. He stepped over to Constance, gently took the gun from her hand, and replaced it in the holster. “I’m sorry.”

He stared at the useless activity, trying to think of the last time Pendergast had spoken to him. Not the half-raving outburst in the gun room, but really
talked
to him, personally, face-to-face. It seemed very important for D’Agosta to remember those last words. As far as he could remember, it had been outside the jail at Indio, just after they’d finished trying to interrogate Rudd. And what had Pendergast
said to him, precisely, as they’d stood on the asphalt of that parking lot, under the hot sun?

Because, my dear Vincent, our prisoner is not the only one who has begun smelling flowers of late
.

Pendergast had understood what was happening to him almost from the beginning. God, to think those were to be the agent’s last words to him…

Suddenly the sounds around him, the shouted voices, changed in tone and urgency.

“I’ve got a pulse!” one doctor said. The EKG flatline began flickering, jumping, coming back to life.

“Blood pressure climbing,” said a nurse. “Seventy-five over forty.”

“Cease cardiac compression,” said the other doctor.

A minute passed as the doctors continued their labors, the patient’s vitals slowly coming back to life. And then, on the bed, the figure of Pendergast opened one eye, just slightly—a gleaming slit. D’Agosta, shocked, saw the pinpoint pupil rotate about, taking in the room. Constance leaned forward and clasped his hand.

“You’re alive!” D’Agosta heard himself say.

Pendergast’s lips worked; a short phrase escaped. “
Alban… Good-bye, my son
.”

Two Months Later

B
eau Bartlett guided the silver Lexus off the county road onto white gravel, drove slowly down a long lane framed by black oaks hung with Spanish moss, and emerged onto a circular drive. A large and stately Greek Revival plantation house came into view, and, as usual, it just about took Bartlett’s breath away. It was a hot afternoon in St. Charles Parish, and Bartlett had the windows of the sedan closed, the A/C blasting. He killed the engine, opened the door, and bounded out with an excess of good humor. He was dressed in a lime-colored polo shirt, pink pants, and golf shoes.

On the front porch, two figures rose. One he recognized immediately as Pendergast, dressed in his standard black suit, looking his usual pale self. The other was a young woman of singular beauty, slender, with short mahogany hair, wearing a pleated white dress.

Beau Bartlett paused and approached the grand mansion. He felt like an angler hooking the fish of a lifetime. It was all he could do not to rub his hands together. That would be tacky.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Penumbra Plantation!”

“Indeed,” murmured Pendergast as he approached, the woman trailing at his side.

“I’ve always believed it the handsomest estate in all Louisiana,”
Bartlett said, waiting to be introduced to the lovely young lady. But he was not introduced. Pendergast merely inclined his head.

Bartlett swiped his brow. “I’m curious. My firm’s been trying to get you to sell the place for years. And we’re not the only ones. What made you change your mind?” A sudden feeling of anxiety came across the developer’s chubby face—even though the initial papers had been signed—as if the very question might cast a shadow of doubt over the transaction. “Of course, we’re happy you did, very happy indeed. I’m just… well, curious, that’s all.”

Pendergast looked slowly around, as if committing the sights to memory: the Grecian columns; the covered porch; the cypress groves and extensive gardens. Then he turned back to Bartlett. “Let us just say that the estate had become a… nuisance.”

“No doubt! These old plantation houses are a black hole of maintenance! Well, all of us at Southern Realty Ventures thank you for putting your trust in us.” Bartlett fairly burbled. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his damp face with it. “We’ve got wonderful plans for the estate—wonderful plans! In twenty-four months or so, all this will have been transformed into Cypress Wynd Estates. Sixty-five large, elegant, custom-built houses—mansionettes we call them—each situated on its own acre of land. Just think!”

“I am thinking of it,” Pendergast said. “I am imagining it rather vividly.”

“I hope you might even consider picking up a Cypress Wynd mansionette of your own—far more carefree and convenient than this old house here. It comes with a golf membership, too. We’ll give you a hell of a deal!” Beau Bartlett gave Pendergast a friendly nudge with his shoulder.

“How generous of you,” said Pendergast.

“Of course, of course,” Bartlett said. “We’ll be good stewards of the land, I promise you. The old house itself can’t be touched—being on the National Register of Historic Places and all that. It will make a hell of a fine clubhouse, restaurant, bar, and offices. Cypress Wynd Estates will be developed in an environmentally sound manner—LEED
green certified construction throughout! And according to your wishes, of course, the cypress swamp will be preserved as a wildlife refuge. By law, a certain percentage of the development—ah, estate—must be zoned for environmental purposes anyway and as protection against runoff. The swamp will fit that zoning requirement very nicely. And of course, no less than thirty-six holes of golf will only add to the attractiveness of Cypress Wynd.”

“No doubt.”

“You shall be my honored guest on the links at any time. So… next week, you’ll begin moving the family plot?” asked Bartlett.

“Yes. I will handle all the details. And expenses.”

“Very good of you. Respectful of the dead. Commendable. Christian.”

“And then, there’s Maurice,” said Pendergast.

At the mention of Maurice—the elderly manservant who had maintained Penumbra for countless years—Bartlett’s perpetually sunny expression fell slightly. This Maurice was as ancient as the hills, utterly decrepit, not to mention dour and silent. But Pendergast had proven quite a stickler on this point.

“Yes. Maurice.”

“You will keep him on here, in the position of wine steward, for as long as he desires to stay.”

“So we’ve agreed.” The developer looked up again at the massive façade. “Our attorneys will be in touch with yours about setting the final date for the closing.”

Pendergast nodded.

“Very good. Now, I’ll leave you and… the lady… to pay your final respects, and please take your time!” Bartlett took a courteous step away from the house. “Or do you need a ride into town? You must have come by taxi—I don’t see a car.”

“A ride won’t be necessary, thank you,” Pendergast told him.

“Ah. I see. In that case, good afternoon.” And Bartlett shook the hands of Pendergast and the young woman in turn. “Thank you again.” And then, with a final dab of his handkerchief, he returned to his car, started up the motor, and drove away.

Pendergast and Constance Greene climbed the ancient boards of the covered porch and stepped inside. Producing a small key ring from his pocket, Pendergast opened the main door of the mansion and ushered Constance in before him. The interior smelled of furniture polish, aged wood, and dust. Silently, they walked through the various first-floor spaces—drawing room, saloon, dining room—gazing here and there at the various accoutrements. Everything in view had been tagged with the names of antiques dealers, estate agents, and auction houses, ready to be picked up.

They paused in the library. Here Constance stopped at a glass-fronted bookcase. It contained a king’s ransom: a Shakespeare First Folio; an early copy of the Duc de Berry’s illuminated
Très Riches Heures
; a first edition of
Don Quixote
. But what Constance was most interested in were the four enormous volumes at the far end of the bookcase. Reverently, she drew one out, opened it, and began slowly turning the pages, admiring the incredibly vivid and life-like depictions of birds they contained.

“Audubon’s double elephant folio edition of
The Birds of America
,” she murmured. “All four volumes. Which your own great-great-great-grandfather subscribed to from Audubon himself.”

“Hezekiah’s father,” said Pendergast, his voice flat. “As such, that is one edition of books I can keep, along with the Gutenberg Bible, which has been in the family since Henri Prendregast de Mousqueton. Both predate Hezekiah’s taint. Everything else here must go.”

They retraced their steps to the reception area and mounted the wide stairs to an upper landing. The upstairs parlor lay directly ahead, and they entered it, passing the pair of elephant tusks that framed the doorway. Inside, along with the zebra rug and the half dozen mounted animal heads, was a gun case full of rare and extremely expensive hunting rifles. As with the downstairs possessions, a sales tag had been fixed to each rifle.

Constance stepped up to the case. “Which one was Helen’s?” she asked.

Pendergast reached into his pocket, withdrawing the keyring again. He unlocked the case and pulled out a double-barreled rifle, its side plates intricately engraved and inlaid with precious metals. “A Krieghoff,” he said. He gazed at it for some time, his eyes growing distant. Then he took a deep breath. “It was my wedding present to her.” He offered it to Constance.

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” she said.

Pendergast returned the gun and relocked the case. “It is past time I let go of this rifle and all associated with it,” he said quietly, as if to himself.

They took seats at the parlor’s central table. “So you’re really selling it all,” Constance said.

“Everything that was, either directly or indirectly, acquired with money from Hezekiah’s elixir.”

“You’re not saying you believe Barbeaux was right?”

Pendergast hesitated before answering. “Until my, ah, illness, I never faced the question of Hezekiah’s fortune. But Barbeaux or no, it seems that divesting myself of all my Louisiana holdings, purging myself of the fruit of Hezekiah’s work, is the right thing to do. All these possessions are now like poison to me. As you know, I’m putting the funds into a new charitable foundation.”

“Vita Brevis, Inc. An apt name, I assume?”

“It’s quite apt—the foundation has a most unusual, if appropriate, purpose.”

“Which is?”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Pendergast’s lips. “The world shall see.”

Rising, they made a brief tour of the mansion’s second story, Pendergast indicating various points of interest. They lingered a little in the room that had been his as a child. Then they descended again to the first floor.

“There’s still the wine cellar,” Constance said. “You told me it was magnificent—the consolidation of all the cellars from the various family branches, as they died out. Shall we tour it?”

A shadow crossed Pendergast’s face. “I don’t think I’m quite up to that, if you don’t mind.”

A knock came at the front door. Pendergast stepped forward, opened it. In the doorway stood a curious figure: a short, soft man wearing a black cutaway set off by a white carnation. An expensive-looking briefcase was in one hand, and in the other—despite the clear day—a fastidiously rolled umbrella. A bowler hat sat on his head, at an angle just shy of being rakish. He looked like a cross between Hercule Poirot and Charlie Chaplin.

“Ah, Mr. Pendergast!” the man said, beaming. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you. Please come in.” Pendergast turned to make the introductions. “Constance, this is Horace Ogilby. His firm looks after the Pendergast legal interests here in the New Orleans area. Mr. Ogilby, this is Constance Greene. My ward.”

“Charmed!” Mr. Ogilby said. He took Constance’s hand and kissed it with a grand gesture.

“I take it all the paperwork is in order?” Pendergast asked.

“Yes.” The lawyer moved to a nearby side table, opened his briefcase, and produced a few documents. “Here’s the paperwork for resituating the family plot.”

“Very good,” said Pendergast.

“Sign here, please.” The lawyer watched as Pendergast signed. “You do realize that—even though the plot is being relocated—the, ah, requirements of your grandfather’s bequest will remain in force.”

“I understand.”

“That means I can anticipate your presence again at the graveside in—” the lawyer paused a moment to calculate—“another three years.”

“I look forward to it.” Pendergast turned toward Constance. “My grandfather stipulated in his will that all his surviving beneficiaries—now sadly reduced in number—must make a pilgrimage to his grave site every five years, upon pain of having their trusts revoked.”

“He was quite an original gentleman,” said Ogilby, shuffling the documents. “Ah, yes. Only one other item of importance for today. It concerns that private parking lot on Dauphine Street you’re selling.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“In particular, those restrictions you added to the listing contract.”

“Yes?”

“Well…” The lawyer briefly hemmed and hawed. “The language you requested is rather, shall we say, unorthodox. Those clauses forbidding any excavation below ground level, for example. That would preclude any development and greatly reduce the price you’ll get for the property. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I am sure.”

“Very well, then. On the other hand—” he patted his plump hands together—“we got a spectacular price for the Rolls—I’m almost afraid to tell you how much.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Pendergast read over the sheet the lawyer handed him. “Everything seems to be in order, thank you.”

“In that case, I’ll be on my way—you’d be surprised how much paperwork is generated by the liquidation of assets on such a grand scale.”

“We’ll see you out,” Pendergast said.

They walked down the front steps and stopped beside the lawyer’s car. Ogilby put the briefcase and umbrella in the rear seat, then paused to look around. “What’s the name of the development again?” he asked.

“Cypress Wynd Estates. Sixty-five mansionettes and thirty-six holes of golf.”

“Ghastly. I wonder what the old family ghost is going to say about
that
.”

“Indeed,” said Pendergast.

Ogilby chuckled. Then, as he opened the driver’s door, he looked around. “I’m sorry. Can I give you a lift into town?”

“I’ve made my own arrangements, thank you.”

Pendergast and Constance watched as the lawyer got in, waved, and drove down the lane. And then Pendergast led the way around the side of the house. At the rear was an old stable, painted white, that had been converted into a garage with several bays. To one side, a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, polished to a gem-like brilliance, sat on a flatbed trailer, ready to be taken to its new owner.

Constance looked from Pendergast to the Rolls and back again.

“I really don’t need two, you know,” he said.

“It isn’t that,” Constance replied. “You made a point of telling both Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Ogilby that you’d made arrangements for our transportation back to New Orleans. We’re not going to ride in the tow truck, are we?”

In response, Pendergast stepped toward the garage, unlocked and opened one of the bays, and approached a vehicle covered by a tarp—the only vehicle now remaining in the building. He grasped the tarp, pulled it away.

Beneath lay a red roadster, low to the ground, its top removed. It gleamed faintly in the dim interior.

“Helen bought this before our marriage,” Pendergast explained. “A 1954 Porsche 550 Spyder.”

He opened the passenger door for Constance, then slid into the driver’s seat. He put the key in the ignition, turned it. The vehicle roared to life.

They pulled out of the garage, and Pendergast got out long enough to close and lock the bay behind them.

“Interesting,” Constance said.