The Cabinet of Curiosities (54 page)

“Hush. I don’t know. But it is making me very, very afraid.”

There was a silence. Nora could hear Pendergast’s quiet breathing. Then he spoke again. “Whatever that project is, it is here, hidden
in this house.
”

There was another, briefer silence.

“Listen very carefully. I am going to open the door of this cell. I will then go to Leng’s operating room and confront the man who has taken his place. You will remain hidden here for ten minutes—no more, and no less—and then you will go to the operating room yourself. As I say, I believe Smithback to be dead, but we need to make sure. By that time the impostor and I will be gone. Do
not
pursue us. No matter what you hear, do not try to help. Do not come to my aid. My confrontation with this man will be decisive. One of us will not survive it. The other one will return. Let us hope that person is me. Do you understand so far?”

Another squeeze.

“If Smithback is still alive, do what you can. If he’s beyond help, you are to get out of the basement and the house as quickly as possible. Find your way upstairs and escape from a second-story window—I think you will find all the exits on the first floor to be impenetrable.”

Nora waited, listening.

“There is a chance that my plan will fail, and that you will find me dead on the floor of the operating room. In that case, all I can say is you must run for your life, fight for your life—and, if necessary,
take
your life. The alternative is too terrible. Can you do that?”

Nora choked back a sob. Then she squeezed his hand once again.

T
HE MAN EXAMINED THE INCISION THAT RAN ALONG THE RESOURCE’S
lower spine from L2 to the sacrum. It was a very fine piece of work, the kind he had been so well appreciated for in medical school—back before the unpleasantness began.

The newspapers had nicknamed him the Surgeon. He liked the name. And as he gazed down, he found it particularly appropriate. He’d defined the anatomy perfectly. First, a long vertical incision from the reference point along the spinal process, a single steady stroke through the skin. Next, he had extended the incision down into the subcutaneous tissue, carrying it as far as the fascia, clamping, dividing, and ligating the larger vessels with 3-0 vicryl. He’d opened the fascia, then used a periosteal elevator to strip the muscle from the spinous processes and laminae. He’d been enjoying the work so much that he had taken more time at it than intended. The paralyzing effects of the succinyl choline had faded, and there had been rather a lot of struggling and noise at this point, yet his tie work remained as fastidious as a seamstress’s. As he cleared the soft tissue with a curette, the spinal column gradually revealed itself, grayish white against the bright red of the surrounding flesh.

The Surgeon plucked another self-retaining retractor from the instrument bin, then stood back to examine the incision. He was pleased: it was a textbook job, tight at the corners and spreading out slightly toward the middle. He could see everything: the nerves, the vessels, all the marvelous inner architecture. Beyond the lamina and ligamentum flavum, he could make out the transparent dura of the spinal cord. Within, bluish spinal fluid pulsed in time to the respiration of the resource. His pulse quickened as he watched the fluid bathe the cauda equina. It was undoubtedly his finest incision to date.

Surgery, he reflected, was more an art form than a science, requiring patience, creativity, intuition, and a steady hand. There was very little ratiocination involved; very little intellect came into play. It was an activity at once physical and creative, like painting or sculpture. He would have been a good artist—had he chosen that route. But of course, there would be time; there would be time…

He thought back once again to medical school. Now that the anatomy had been defined, the next step would normally be to define the pathology, then correct that pathology. But, of course, this was the point at which his work departed from the course of a normal operation and became something closer to an autopsy.

He looked back toward the nearby stand, making sure that everything he needed for the excision—the chisels, diamond burr drill, bone wax—was ready. Then he looked at the surrounding monitors. Although, most regrettably, the resource had slipped into unconsciousness, the vitals were still strong. New strides could not be taken, but the extraction and preparation should be successful nonetheless.

Turning toward the Versed drip inserted into the saline bag hung from the gurney, he turned the plastic stopcock to stop the flow: tranquilization, like the intubation, was no longer necessary. The trick now would be to keep the resource alive as far into the surgery as possible. There was still much to do, starting with the bony dissection: the removal of the lamina with a Kerrison rongeur. The goal at this point was to have the vitals still detectable when the operation was complete, with the
cauda equina
removed and lying intact in the special chilled cradle he had designed to receive it. He had reached that goal only twice before—with the slender young woman and the policeman—but this time he felt a swell of confidence in himself and his skills. He knew that he would achieve it again.

So far, everything had gone according to plan. The great detective, Pendergast, whom he had so feared, had proven less than formidable. Using one of the many traps in this strange old house against the agent had proven ridiculously easy. The others were minor irritants only. He had removed them all, swept them aside with so little effort it was almost risible. In fact it
was
risible, how pathetic they all were. The colossal stupidity of the police, the moronic Museum officials: how delightful it had all been, how very diverting. There was a certain justice in the situation, a justice that only he could appreciate.

And now he had almost achieved his goal. Almost. After these three had been processed, he felt sure he would be there. And how ironic it was that it would be these three, of all people, who helped him reach it…

He smiled slightly as he bent down to set another self-retaining retractor into place. And that was when he saw a small movement at the extreme edge of his peripheral vision.

He turned. It was the FBI agent, Pendergast, casually leaning against a wall just inside the archway leading into the operating room.

The man straightened, controlling the highly unpleasant surprise that rose within him. But Pendergast’s hands were empty; he was, of course, unarmed. With one swift, economical movement, the Surgeon took up Pendergast’s own gun—the two-tone Colt 1911, lying on the instrument table—pushed down on the safety with his thumb, and pointed the weapon at the agent.

Pendergast continued to lean against the wall. For the briefest of moments, as the two exchanged glances, something like astonishment registered in the pale cat’s eyes. Then Pendergast spoke.

“So it’s
you
who tortured and killed Enoch Leng. I wondered who the impostor was. I am surprised. I do not like surprises, but there it is.”

The man aimed the gun carefully.

“You’re already holding my weapon,” said Pendergast, showing his hands. “I’m unarmed.” He continued leaning casually against the wall.

The man tightened his finger on the trigger. He felt a second unpleasant sensation: internal conflict. Pendergast was a very dangerous man. It would no doubt be best to pull the trigger now and have done with it. But by shooting now, he would ruin a specimen. Besides, he needed to know how Pendergast had escaped. And then, there was the girl to consider…

“But it begins to make sense,” Pendergast resumed. “Yes, I see it now. You’re building that skyscraper on Catherine Street. You didn’t just discover those bodies by accident. No—you were
looking
for those bodies, weren’t you? You already knew that Leng had buried them there, 130 years ago. And how did you learn about them? Ah, it all falls into place: your interest in the Museum, your visits to the Archives.
You
were the one who examined the Shottum material before Dr. Kelly. No wonder it was all in such disarray—you’d already removed anything you felt useful. But you didn’t know about Tinbury McFadden, or the elephant’s-foot box. Instead, you first learned about Leng and his work, about his lab notebooks and journals, from Shottum’s personal papers. But when you ultimately tracked down Leng, and found him alive, he wasn’t as talkative as you would have liked. He didn’t give you the formula. Even under torture, did he? So you had to fall back on what Leng had left behind: his victims, his lab, perhaps his journals, buried beneath Shottum’s Cabinet. And the only way to get to those was to buy the land, tear down the brownstones above, and dig a foundation for a new building.” Pendergast nodded, almost to himself. “Dr. Kelly mentioned missing pages in the Archives logbook; pages removed with a razor. Those pages were the ones with your name on them, correct? And the only one who knew you had been a frequent visitor to the Archives was Puck. So he had to die. Along with those who were already on your own trail: Dr. Kelly, Sergeant O’Shaughnessy, myself. Because the closer we came to finding Leng, the closer we came to finding
you.
”

A pained expression came over the agent’s face. “How could I have been so obtuse not to see it? It should have become clear when I first saw Leng’s corpse. When I realized Leng had been tortured to death
before
the Catherine Street bodies were found.”

Fairhaven did not smile. The chain of deduction was astonishingly accurate.
Just kill him,
a voice in his head said.

“What is it the Arab sages call death?” Pendergast went on. “
The destroyer of all earthly pleasures.
And how true it is: old age, sickness, and at last death comes to us all. Some console themselves with religion, others through denial, others through philosophy or mere stoicism. But to you, who had always been able to buy everything, death must have seemed a dreadful injustice.”

The image of his older brother, Arthur, came unbidden to the Surgeon’s mind: dying of progeria, his young face withered with senile keratoses, his limbs twisted, his skin cracked with hideously premature age. The fact that the disease was so rare, its causes so unknown, had been no comfort. Pendergast didn’t know everything. Nor would he.

He forced the image from his mind.
Just kill the man.
But somehow his hand would not act—not yet, not until he had heard more.

Pendergast nodded toward the still form on the table. “You’re never going to get there that way, Mr. Fairhaven. Leng’s skills were infinitely more refined than yours. You will never succeed.”

Not true,
Fairhaven thought to himself.
I have already succeeded. I am Leng as he should have been. Only through me can Leng’s work attain its truest perfection…

“I know,”Pendergast said. “You’re thinking I’m wrong. You believe you have succeeded. But you
have not
succeeded, and you never will. Ask yourself: Do you feel any different? Do you feel any revivification of the limbs, any quickening of the life essence? If you’re honest with yourself, you can still feel the terrible weight of time pressing on you; that awful, relentless, bodily corruption that is happening constantly to us all.” He smiled thinly, wearily, as if he knew the feeling all too well. “You see, you’ve made one fatal mistake.”

The Surgeon said nothing.

“The truth is,” Pendergast said, “you don’t know the first thing about Leng, or his
real
work. Work for which life extension was just a means to an end.”

Years of self-discipline, of high-level corporate brinksmanship, had taught Fairhaven never to reveal anything: not in the facial expression, not in the questions asked. Yet the sudden stab of surprise he felt, followed immediately by disbelief, was hard to conceal. What real work? What was Pendergast talking about?

He would not ask. Silence was always the best mode of questioning. If you remained silent, they always talked out the answer in the end. It was human nature.

But this time it was Pendergast who remained silent. He simply stood there, leaning almost insolently against the doorframe, glancing around at the walls of the chamber. The silence stretched on, and the man began to think of his resource, lying there on the gurney. Gun on Pendergast, he glanced briefly at the vitals. Good, but starting to flag. If he didn’t get back to work soon, the specimen would be spoiled.

Kill him,
the voice said again.

“What real work?” Fairhaven asked.

Still, Pendergast remained silent.

The merest spasm of doubt passed through Fairhaven, quickly suppressed. What was the man’s game? He was wasting his time, and there was no doubt a reason why he was wasting his time, which meant it was best just to kill him now. At least he knew the girl could not escape from the basement. He would deal with her in good time. Fairhaven’s finger tightened on the trigger.

At last, Pendergast spoke. “Leng didn’t tell you anything in the end, did he? You tortured him to no avail, because you’re still thrashing about, wasting all these people. But I
do
know about Leng. I know him very well indeed. Perhaps you noticed the resemblance?”

“What?” Again Fairhaven was taken off guard.

“Leng was my great-grand-uncle.”

It hit Fairhaven then. His grip on the weapon loosened. He remembered Leng’s delicate white face, his white hair, and his very pale blue eyes—eyes that regarded him without begging, without pleading, without beseeching, no matter how hideous it had become for him. Pendergast’s eyes were the same. But Leng had died anyway, and so would he.

So would he,
the voice echoed, more insistently.
His information is not as important as his death. This resource is not worth the risk. Kill him.

The man reapplied pressure to the trigger. At this distance, he could not miss.

“It’s hidden here in the house, you know. Leng’s ultimate project. But you’ve never found it. All along you’ve been looking for the wrong thing. And as a result, you will die a long, slow, wasting death of old age. Just like the rest of us. You cannot succeed.”