Two Graves (48 page)

With infinite care Pendergast crept forward in the darkness, keeping close to the nearest wall. The reddish glow came from two barred windows set in a pair of locked double doors at the far end of the tunnel. Keeping low, Pendergast slipped up to the doors, examined the lock, and listened. There was someone on the far side, someone passing back and forth: a guard. He listened, timing the guard’s slow coming and going. At a safe moment, he rose and looked through the barred window.

A vast room greeted his eyes, illuminated in dull red light from strings of bare hanging bulbs. The room consisted of row upon row of crude wooden bunk beds extending into the gloom, stacked three bunks high, each with a single blanket wrapping up the form of a human being, faces sorrowful in restive sleep, while others moved about like ghosts, some going to or from a latrine along one wall of
the room. Still others simply paced back and forth aimlessly, unable to sleep, their hopeless eyes reflecting the red light of the bulbs.

Everything Pendergast had not seen in Nova Godói was here: the deformed, the crippled, the ugly and squat, the weak, the aged—and, particularly, the infirm of mind. But what horrified him most of all was that he
recognized
some of these faces. Only hours before, he had seen some of the same faces in town, belonging to radiant, smiling counterparts—twins. Only these underground doppelgängers carried the strange and disturbing expressions of the mentally ill, the vacant of mind, the despairing and hopeless, their sinewy muscles, brown skin, and rough hands attesting to a lifetime of field labor.

At the far edge of his vision, Pendergast saw the guard turning. He was not of these people, he was one of the others: tall, handsome. His presence seemed unnecessary—these poor souls were in no condition to revolt, escape, or otherwise cause trouble. The look of resignation on their faces was universal and absolute.

Pendergast lowered his gaze from the window and made his way back down the tunnel and up the staircase. A few minutes later, he was breathing deeply—gasping even—the cool, fresh, aboveground air, the grotesque image of human suffering he’d just witnessed burned into his consciousness for all time.

T
HIS TIME, FELDER HAD STOOD IN THE DARKNESS OUTSIDE
the library windows for over an hour, in the freezing night, tense and fearful. The house looked dead: no lights, no movement. And above all, no Dukchuk. Finally, reassured, trying to keep his courage up, he opened the window and climbed in.

Leaving the window open in case he needed a quick escape, he stood motionless in the chill room for a long moment, listening. Nothing. Just as he’d hoped.

He had taken every precaution. For the last few nights, he’d kept watch on the library, surveilling it from the safety of the arborvitae. All had been still. The midnight near-encounter with Dukchuk must have been a freakish coincidence, since the man didn’t seem to be in the habit of roaming the house at night. The previous afternoon, Miss Wintour had asked him in again for tea, and neither she nor her terrifying manservant had given the slightest indication that anything was amiss. Nothing was suspected, it seemed.

But Felder knew he couldn’t wait forever. He had to act tonight—any more time and he’d lose his nerve completely. As it was, Constance and Mount Mercy were beginning to seem far, far away.

He moved along the series of bookcases, feeling his way in the dark by touching the rippled surfaces of the doors’ leaded glass. The W’s would be near the end of the collection, putting Alexander Wintour’s portfolio close to the pocket doors that led out into the main hallway. To his relief, those doors were firmly shut.

Felder paused at the second-to-last bookcase, listening, but the
house was as silent as before. He pulled the Maglite from his pocket and, shielding it with care, flashed it over the books ahead of him. Trapp. Traven. Tremaine.

Snapping the light off, he moved on to the next and last bookcase. Once again, he hesitated, listening for even the slightest sound. Then he raised the flashlight, aiming it toward the upper shelves. Voltaire, in seven beautifully bound leather volumes—and beside them, a half dozen bundles of what looked like folded parchment, wrapped in crumbling crimson ribbon.

Keeping the flashlight beam on, he let it drift to the next shelf, then the next, and then trailed it laterally across the titles. Oscar Wilde’s
Picture of Dorian Gray
. P. G. Wodehouse’s
My Man Jeeves
. Both, apparently, first editions. And between them, three fat portfolios of black leather, plain and scuffed, with no title or markings.

Felder’s heart began beating rather quickly.

Holding the Maglite between his teeth, he opened the glass case and eased the first portfolio from its shelf. It was covered in dust, and looked as if it hadn’t been touched in a hundred years. He opened it carefully, almost afraid to breathe. Inside were dozens of what appeared to be rough sketches and preliminary studies for intended paintings. They were foxed, and faded, and quite similar in style to the ones he had seen in the historical society.

Felder’s heart beat quicker.

He began leafing through the studies, fingers trembling. The first few were unsigned, but the third bore a signature in the lower right corner: W
INTOUR
, 1881.

He flipped to the back of the portfolio. There—attached to the inside rear edge with a narrow line of paste—was an envelope, brittle and yellowed. Taking the scalpel from his pocket, he cut the envelope free. His fingers felt numb and stupid, and it took him two attempts to open it.

There, nestled inside, was a small lock of dark hair.

For a moment, he just stared, with a strange mixture of emotion: triumph, relief, a little disbelief. So it was true, then—it was all true.

But wait—was it the
right
hair? There were two other portfolios. Might Wintour have collected hair from other girls? It seemed unlikely—but he had to check.

Sliding the envelope in his pocket, he put the portfolio back on the shelf and pulled down the next one, going through it rapidly. More sketches and watercolors. He felt his breath coming faster in his anxiety to get this done. There was no lock of hair in there. He pushed that back on the shelf and took down the third, flipping through it, in his haste tearing several pages. Again, nothing. He shut the portfolio and shoved it back on the shelf, but in his hurry he wasn’t as careful as before and it made a dull
thump
as he over-pushed it into the back of the shelf.

He froze, his heart pounding. In the great cold silence of the house that small sound was like the crash of thunder.

Felder waited.

But there wasn’t even the breath of sound in that frozen house. Slowly, he felt his muscles relax, his breathing slow. Nobody had heard a thing. He was just being paranoid.

He felt the envelope in his pocket; it gave out a dry crackling sound. Only then, as his fright subsided, did the full implications of his discovery sink in. All doubt was gone: Constance
really was
a hundred and forty years old. She wasn’t crazy. She’d been telling the truth all along.

Strangely enough, this realization didn’t shock him as much as he thought it would. Somehow, he already knew it was true: from the calm, matter-of-fact manner in which she’d always maintained her story; from the way she had been able to describe, in great detail, the contemporary appearance of 1880s Water Street; and from the essential honesty of her character. The fact was, this was what he
wanted
to believe, because—

With a crash of sound, the pocket doors of the library sprang open, revealing Dukchuk—dressed in his shapeless batik robe, holding the same cruel weapon Felder had seen before, staring at him with beady black eyes.

With a cry of fright Felder dashed for the window but Dukchuk
was faster, leaping across the room and slamming the window shut, moving with a silence that was almost more terrible than a yell, displaying his teeth in a feral grin—and, for the first time, Felder noted they had been sharpened into points. With a scream Felder tried to defend himself but Dukchuk was on him, a tattooed arm whipping around his neck and contracting like a garrote, choking off Felder’s cry.

Struggling madly, he felt a sudden, white-hot explosion of pain as the club violently impacted the side of his head. His knees gave way and Dukchuk flung him down, striking his chest, the terrible blow knocking him to the ground, where he struggled, unable to breathe.

A red mist rose before his eyes and he fought to remain conscious, clutching his chest, until at last he was able to suck in air with a huge gasp. As the mist slowly dissipated and his vision cleared, Felder saw Dukchuk standing over him in the faint light of the hallway, massive tattooed forearms folded, his unnaturally small eyes like coals. Behind him stood the diminutive form of Miss Wintour.

“So!” Miss Wintour said. “You were right, Dukchuk. This man is nothing more than a common thief, here under the pretense of being a lodger!” She glared at Felder. “And to think of your nerve, drinking my tea under my own roof, enjoying my kind hospitality, while plotting to rob a weak, helpless old lady like myself of my meager possessions.
Hateful
man!”

“Please,” Felder began. He tried to rise to his knees. His head throbbed, his ribs were undoubtedly broken, and he tasted the metallic combination of blood and fear in his mouth. “Please. I haven’t taken anything. I was just curious, I wanted to have a look around, I’d heard so much…”

He fell silent as Dukchuk raised the club again menacingly. She would call the police; he’d be arrested; he’d go to jail. It was the end of his career. What on earth had he been thinking?

The manservant looked over his shoulder at Miss Wintour, with a querying glance that carried the unmistakable question:
What should I do with him?

Felder swallowed painfully. This was it: the call would go to the
police, and all the ugliness would begin. He might as well accept it. And start coming up with a good story.

Miss Wintour glared at him a moment longer. Then she turned to Dukchuk.

“Kill him,” she said. “And then you may bury his remains under the floor of the root cellar. With the others.” She turned away and left the library without a backward glance.

D
R. JOHN FELDER WALKED ACROSS THE MUSTY, FADED
carpeting of the old mansion, his movements slow, almost robotic. His head pounded; blood oozed from a cut on his temple, trickling down his neck; and his broken ribs grated on each other with each step. Dukchuk followed behind, occasionally prodding Felder in the small of his back with the club. The only sounds the manservant made were the swish of his tunic and the padding of his big bare feet on the carpet. The old lady had disappeared into the upper regions of the house.

Felder continued down the hallway without really seeing anything. This wasn’t real, this couldn’t be happening. Any minute now and he’d wake up on his uncomfortable little pallet in the carriage house. Or maybe—just maybe—he’d wake up in his own apartment back in New York, and this whole crazy trip to Southport would prove to have been nothing but a wild nightmare…

And then Dukchuk prodded him again with the rounded end of his club, and Felder knew—all too clearly—that although this was a nightmare, it was no dream.

Still he could hardly believe it. Had old lady Wintour really given Dukchuk instructions to kill him? Was she serious or was it just an effort to scare him? This business of burying him in the root cellar with the others—what on earth could
that
mean?

He stopped. Ahead—in the faint, sickly electric light—he could make out a dining room, and beyond it what looked like a kitchen, with a door in its far wall leading out into the night—to freedom. But Dukchuk prodded him again, indicating with his club that Felder was to turn down another hallway to his left.

Now, as he resumed walking, Felder began to look around a little. Ancient, flyspecked lithographs lined the walls. Little china statuary sat on side tables here and there. But there was nothing, nothing that could conceivably be used as a weapon. He let his hands brush against his pockets as he walked. He could feel their contents: the screwdriver, the scalpel, the envelope with the lock of hair. The Maglite lay on the floor of the library, where he’d sprawled initially. The huge, nimble, muscular Dukchuk would just laugh at the scalpel and its one-inch blade. The screwdriver was a better bet: could he perhaps jam it into the man’s chest? But the freak was so strong, so muscular—so
quick
—that he would never succeed. It would just make him mad.