The Book of the Dead (63 page)

Wordlessly, Wren stood up and left the room. Pendergast glanced back at D’Agosta. “Go on.”

“The old woman vanished, although no one saw her get off the train, which was sealed almost immediately following the shooting. If she was wearing a disguise and discarded it, it was never found.”

“Did the man leave anything behind?”

“You bet: a valise and a garment bag full of clothes. No papers or documents, or even a clue to his true identity. All labels had been carefully razored off the clothing. But the valise…”

“Yes?”

“They brought it into the evidence room, and when the warrant came down, they opened it up. Apparently, the evidence officer took one look and, well, whatever happened next he had to be sedated. A hazmat team was called in, and the stuff is now under lock and key—nobody seems to know where.”

“I see.”

“I guess we’re talking about Diogenes here,” said D’Agosta, slightly annoyed that he’d been sent out on the assignment with less-than-complete information.

“That is correct.”

“So who’s this old lady who shot at him?”

The agent gestured toward the table at the center of the room. “When Proctor returned here last night, he found Constance missing, along with a few articles of clothing. In her room, he found her pet mouse, its neck broken. Along with that note and the rosewood box.”

D’Agosta walked over, picked up the indicated note, read it quickly. “Jesus. Oh, Jesus, what a sick fuck…”

“Open the box.”

He opened the small antique box a little gingerly. It was empty, a long dimple left in the purple velvet interior by some object, now gone. A faded label on the inside cover read
Sweitzer Surgical Instrument Company
.

“A scalpel?” he asked.

“Yes. For Constance to cut her wrists with. She seems to have taken it for another purpose.”

D’Agosta nodded. “I think I’m getting the picture. The old woman was Constance.”

“Yes.”

“I hope she succeeds.”

“The thought of their meeting again is too terrible to contemplate,” Pendergast replied, his face grim. “I must catch up with her—and stop her. Diogenes has been preparing for this escape for years, and we have no hope of tracing him… unless, of course, he
wishes
to be traced. Constance, on the other hand, will not be trying to conceal her tracks. I must follow her… and there is always a chance that, in finding her, I will find him as well.”

He turned to an iBook sitting open on the table, began typing. A few minutes later, he looked over. “Constance boarded a flight to Florence, Italy, at five o’clock this afternoon, out of Logan Airport in Boston.” He turned. “Proctor? Pack my things and book a ticket to Florence, if you please.”

“I’m coming with you,” said D’Agosta.

Pendergast looked back at him, his face gray. “You may accompany me to the airport. But as for going with me—no, Vincent, you will not. You have a disciplinary hearing to prepare for. Besides, this is a…
family
matter.”

“I can help you,” said D’Agosta. “You need me.”

“Everything you say is true. And yet I must, and I
will
, do this alone.”

His tone was so cold and final that D’Agosta realized any reply was useless.

D
iogenes Pendergast, a.k.a. Mr. Gerald Boscomb, passed the Palazzo Antinori and turned into the Via Tornabuoni, breathing in the damp winter air of Florence with a certain bitter nostalgia. So much had happened since he was last here, mere months ago, when he had been filled with plans. Now he had nothing—not even his clothes, which he had abandoned on the train.

Not even his treasured valise.

He strolled pass Max Mara, remembering with regret when it was once the fine old Libreria Seeber. He stopped in at Pineider, bought some stationery, purchased luggage at Beltrami, and picked up a raincoat and umbrella at Allegri—all of which he had sent over to his hotel, keeping only the raincoat and umbrella, for which he had paid cash. He stopped at Procacci, settled himself at a tiny table in the crowded shop, and ordered a truffle sandwich with a glass of vernaccia. He sipped his drink thoughtfully, watching passersby through the window.

Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves

Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant

The sky was threatening rain, the city dark and narrow. Perhaps that was why he had always liked Florence in winter—it was monochromatic, the buildings pale, the surrounding hills gray humps spiked with cypress trees, the river a sluggish ripple of dull iron, its bridges almost black.

He dropped a bill on the table and left the café, continuing his stroll down the street. He paused to examine the display window at Valentino, using the reflection of the glass to observe the other side of the street. He went inside and purchased two suits, one in silk and the other a black double-breasted
completo
with a broad pinstripe, which he favored because of its faint thirties gangsterish flavor—and had them, as well, sent to his hotel.

Back on the street, he turned his footsteps toward the grim medieval facade of the Palazzo Ferroni, an imposing castle of dressed stone with towers and crenellated battlements, now the world headquarters of Ferragamo. He crossed the small piazza in front of the castle, past the Roman column of gray marble. Just before he entered the castle proper, a swift, sidelong glance identified the dowdy woman with brown hair—
her
—just at that moment entering the church of Santa Trinità.

Satisfied, he entered Ferragamo and spent a good deal of time looking over shoes, buying two pairs, and then completing his wardrobe with purchases of underwear, socks, nightshirt, undershirts, and bathing suit. As before, he sent his purchases over to his hotel and exited the store, encumbered with nothing more than the furled umbrella and the raincoat.

He walked toward the river and paused along the
lungarno
, contemplating the perfect curve of the arches of the Ponte Santa Trinità, designed by Ammanati: curves that had confounded the mathematicians. His yellowed eye examined the statues of the four seasons that crowned both ends.

None of it gave him pleasure anymore. It was all useless, futile.

The Arno below, swollen by winter rains, shuddered along like the back of a snake, and he could hear the roar of water going over the pescaia a few hundred yards downriver. He felt a faint raindrop on his cheek, then another. Black umbrellas immediately began appearing among the bustling crowds, and they bobbed over the bridge like so many black lanterns…

e dietro le venìa'sì lunga tratta
        di gente, ch’i’ non averei creduto
        che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta.

He put on his own raincoat, belted it tightly, unfurled the umbrella, and experienced a certain nihilistic frisson as he joined the crowds crossing the bridge. On the far side, he paused at the embankment, looking back over the river. He could hear the
tick-tick
of raindrops on the fabric of the umbrella. He could not see her, but he knew she was there, somewhere under that moving sea of umbrellas, following him.

He turned and strolled across the small piazza at the far end of the bridge, then took a right on Via Santo Spirito and an immediate left onto Borgo Tegolaio. There he paused to look in the rear display window of one of the fine antique shops that fronted on Via Maggio, stuffed with gilt candlesticks, old silver saltcellars, and dark still lifes.

He waited until he was sure that she had observed him—he caught just a glimpse of her through a double reflection in the shop window. She was carrying a Max Mara bag, and for all the world looked like one of the swinish American tourists who visited Florence in mindless shopping herds.

Constance Greene, just where he wanted her.

The rain slackened. He furled his umbrella but remained at the shop window, examining the objects with apparent interest. He watched her distant, almost unreadable reflection, waiting for her to move forward into the sea of umbrellas and thus lose sight of him for a moment.

As soon as she did so, he burst into a run, sprinting silently up Borgo Tegolaio, his raincoat flying behind him. He ducked across the street and darted into a narrow alley, Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti; tore along its length; then took another left, racing down Via Toscanella. Then he ran across a small piazza and continued down Via dello Sprone until he had made a complete circuit and come back around to Via Santo Spirito, some fifty yards below the antique shop where he had dallied moments earlier.

He paused just short of the intersection with Via Santo Spirito, catching his breath.

Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
        In a field

He forced his mind back to business, angry at the whispered voice that never gave him peace. When she saw he was no longer on the street, she would assume—she would have to
assume
—that he had taken a right turn down the tiny alley just beyond the antique shop: Via dei Coverelli. She would think him
ahead
of her, walking in the opposite direction toward her. But, like the Cape buffalo, he was now behind her, their positions reversed.

Diogenes knew Via dei Coverelli well. It was one of the darkest, narrowest streets in Florence. The medieval buildings on both sides had been built out over the street on arches of stone, which blocked the sky and made the alley, even on a sunny day, as dim as a cave. The alley made a peculiar dogleg as it wormed past the back of the Santo Spirito church, two ninety-degree turns, before joining Via Santo Spirito.

Diogenes trusted in Constance’s intelligence and her uncanny research abilities. He knew she would have studied a map of Florence and considered deeply the
momento giusto
in which to launch her attack on him. He felt sure that she would see the Coverelli alleyway as an ideal point of ambush. If he had turned down Coverelli, as she must believe, then this would be her chance. All she had to do was backtrack, enter Coverelli from the other end, and then wait in the crook of the dogleg for Diogenes to arrive. A person lurking in that dark angle could not be seen from either opening of the alleyway.

All this Diogenes had already thought out, the day before, on the plane ride to Italy.

She did not know that he had already anticipated her every action. She did not know that his flanking dash in the other direction would turn the tables. He would now be approaching her from behind, instead of from the front.

The hunter is now the hunted.