Once again she struggled to push back the wave of unbearable pain. Her hand reached for the call button and another dose of morphine, but she stopped herself. That was not the answer. She forced her eyes closed again, hoping for the grateful embrace of sleep but knowing it would not come. Perhaps it would never come.
She heard a noise, and a fleeting sense of déjà vu told her this same noise was what had woken her up. Her eyes flew open. It was the sound of a grunt, and it had come from the next bed in the double room. The sudden stab of panic subsided; someone must have been put into the bed while she was sleeping.
She turned her head toward it, trying to make out the person on the other side of the curtains. There was a faint sound of breathing now, ragged, stertorous. The curtains swayed and she realized it wasn't from the movement of air in the room after all, but rather from the shifting of the person in the bed. A sigh, a rustle of starched sheets. The semi — translucent curtains were backlit by the window, and she could just make out a dark silhouette. As she stared, it slowly rose up with another sigh and a wheezing grunt of effort.
A hand reached out and touched the curtains lightly from within.
Nora could see the faint shadow of a hand stroking and sliding along the gauzy folds, setting the curtains swaying. The hand found an opening, slipped through, and grasped the edge of the curtain.
Nora stared. The hand was dirty. It was mottled with dark, wet streaks — almost like blood. The longer she stared in the faint light, the more certain she became that itwas blood. Perhaps this was someone just back from the OR, or whose stitches had opened. Someone very ill.
"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice loud and hoarse in the silence.
Another grunt. The hand began drawing back the curtain very slowly. There was something horrible about the deliberation with which the steel loops of the curtain slid back along the runner. They rattled with a cold, palsied cadence. Once again, Nora fumbled along the rail of her bed for the call button.
As the curtain drew back, it revealed a dark figure, draped in ragged clothing and covered with dark splotches. Sticky, matted hair stood up from its head. Nora held her breath. As she stared, the figure slowly turned its head to look at her. The mouth opened and a guttural sound came out, like water being sucked down a drain.
Nora found the button and began pressing it, frantically.
The figure slid its feet to the floor, waited a moment as if to recover, and then stood unsteadily. For a minute, it swayed back and forth in the dim light. Then it took a small, almost experimental step toward her. As it did so, the face came into a shaft of pale light from the door transom, and Nora had the briefest glimpse of muddied, lumpen features, puffy and moist. Something about the features, about the shambling movements, brought a dreadful feeling of familiarity to her. Another unsteady step forward, the shaking arm now reaching up for her…
Nora screamed, flailing desperately at the figure, scrambling back to get away from it, her feet tangling in the bedsheets. Crying out, stabbing at the call button, she struggled to free herself from the linens. What was taking the nurses so long? She freed herself with a brutal tug, swung out of bed, knocking over the IV stand with a crash, and tumbled to the floor in a daze of horror and panic…
After a long moment of fog and confusion, she heard running feet, voices. The lights came on and a nurse was bending over her, gently raising her from the floor, speaking soothingly into her ear.
"Relax," came the voice. "You've just had a nightmare—"
"It was there!" she cried, struggling. "
Right there!
" She tried to lift her arm to point but the nurse had her arms around her, gently but firmly restraining her.
"Let's get you back into bed," the nurse said. "Nightmares are very common after a concussion."
"No! It was real, I swear!"
"Of course it seemed real. But you're all right now." The nurse eased her back into the bed and drew up the covers.
"Look! Behind the curtain!" Her head was pounding, and she could hardly think.
Another nurse came running in, hypodermic at the ready.
"I know, I know. But you're safe now…" The nurse gently dabbed at her forehead with a cool cloth. Nora felt a brief needle sting in her upper arm. A third nurse arrived, righting the IV stand.
"…Behind the curtain… in the bed…" Despite her best efforts, Nora could feel her whole body relaxing.
"In here?" the nurse asked, rising. She drew back the curtain with one hand, revealing a neatly made bed, as tight as a drum. "You see? Just a dream."
Nora lay back, her limbs growing heavy. It hadn't been real, after all.
The nurse leaned over her and smoothed down the covers, tucking her in more firmly. Vaguely, Nora could see the second nurse hanging a new bottle of saline and reattaching the line. Everything seemed to be going very far away. Nora felt tired, so tired. Of course it was a dream. She found herself not caring anymore and thinking how wonderful it was not to care…
Chapter 6
Vincent D'Agosta paused at the open door of the hospital room, giving a timid knock. The morning sun streamed down the hall, gilding the shiny hospital equipment arrayed against the tiled walls.
He didn't expect the strength of voice that answered. "Come in."
He entered, feeling awkward, put his hat down on the only seat, then had to pick it up again to sit down. He was never good at this. He glanced at her a little hesitantly and was surprised by what he saw. Instead of the injured, distraught, grieving widow he expected, he found a woman who looked remarkably composed. Her eyes were red but bright and determined. A bandage covering part of her head and a faint shadow of blackening under the right eye were the only marks of the attack two nights before.
"Nora, I'm so sorry, so damn sorry…" His voice faltered.
"Bill considered you a good friend," she replied. She chose her words slowly, carefully, as if somehow knowing what needed to be said without really understanding any of it.
A pause. "How are you doing?" he asked, knowing even as he said it how lame it must sound.
Nora's response was simply to shake her head and return the question. "How are you doing?"
D'Agosta answered honestly. "Shitty."
"He would be glad you were handling… this."
D'Agosta nodded.
"The doctor will see me at noon, and if all is well I'll be out of here soon thereafter."
"Nora, there's something I want you to know right up front. We're going to find the bastard. We're going to find him and lock him up and throw away the key."
Nora gave no response.
D'Agosta rubbed his hand over his bald spot. "To do that, I'm going to have to ask you some more questions."
"Go ahead. Talking… talking actually helps."
"Okay." He hesitated. "Are you sure it was Colin Fearing?"
She gazed at him levelly. "As sure as I'm here, right now, in this bed. It was Fearing, all right."
"How well did you know him?"
"He used to leer at me in the lobby. Once asked me for a date — even though he knew I was married." She shuddered. "A real pig."
"Did he give any sign of mental instability?"
"No."
"Tell me about the time he, ah, asked you on a date."
"We happened to get on the elevator together. He turned to me, hands in his pockets, and he asked — with that smarmy British accent of his — if I wanted to come to his digs and see his etchings."
"He really said that? Etchings?" "I guess he thought he was being ironic."
D'Agosta shook his head. "Had you seen him around in, say, the last two weeks?"
Nora did not reply right away. She seemed to be making an effort to remember, and D'Agosta's heart went out to her. "No. Why do you ask?"
D'Agosta wasn't ready to go there yet. "Did he have a girlfriend?"
"Not that I know of."
"Ever meet his sister?"
"Didn't even know he had a siste
r."
"Did Fearing have any close friends? Other relatives?"
"I don't know him well enough to say. He seemed a bit of a loner. He kept strange hours — an actor type, you know, worked in theater."
D'Agosta referred to his notepad, where he'd scribbled some routine questions. "Just a few more formalities, for the record. How long have you and Bill been married?" He couldn't bring himself to put the question in the past tense.
"That was our first anniversary."
D'Agosta tried to keep his voice calm, neutral. There seemed to be an obstruction in his throat, and he swallowed. "How long has he been employed at the Times?"
"Four years. Before that he was with the Post. And before that he was a freelancer, writing books about the museum and the Boston Aquarium. I'll send you a copy of his résumé—" Here her voice went very low. "If you want."
"Thank you, that would be helpful." D'Agosta made a notation. Then he glanced up at her again. "Nora, I'm sorry, but I have to ask. Do you have any idea why Fearing did this?"
Nora shook her head.
"No run — ins? Bad blood?"
"Not that I know of. Fearing was just someone who lived in the building."
"I know these questions are difficult, and I appreciate—"
"What's difficult, Lieutenant, is knowing that Fearing is still free. You ask what you need to know."
"Okay. Do you think his intention was to molest you?"
"It's possible. Although his timing was bad. He came into the apartment right after I left." She hesitated. "Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?"
"Of course."
"At that time of night, he would have expected us both to be home, right? But all he had was a knife."
"That's right, just a knife."
"You don't break into someone's apartment with a knife if you expect to confront two people. Anyone can get a gun these days."
"Quite right."
"So what do you think?"
D'Agosta had been thinking about that quite a lot. "It's a good question. And you're sure it was him?"
"That's the second time you've asked me that question."
D'Agosta shook his head. "Just making sure, that's all."
"You are looking for him, aren't you?"
"Damn right we are."
Yeah, like in his grave.
They had already started the paperwork for an exhumation. "Just a few more questions. Did Bill have any enemies?"
For the first and only time, Nora laughed. But there was no humor in it; just a low, mirthless snort. "A New York Times reporter? Of course he did."
"Anyone in particular?"
She thought a moment. "Lucas Kline."
"Who?"
"He runs a software development company here in the city. Likes to shag his secretaries, then intimidate them into keeping their mouths shut. Bill wrote an exposé on him."
"So what makes him stand out?"
"He sent Bill a letter. A threatening letter."
"I'd like to see it, please."
"No problem. Kline isn't the only one, though. There were these animal rights pieces he was working on, for example. I've been making a list in my head. And there were those strange packages…"
"What strange packages?"
"He'd gotten two in the last month. Little boxes with strange things in them. Tiny dolls sewed out of flannel. Animal bones, moss, sequins. When I go home…" Her voice broke, but she cleared her throat and resumed doggedly. "When I get home, I'll go through his clips and collect all the recent stories that might have angered someone. You should talk to his assignment editor at theTimes to find out what he was working on."
"That's already on my list."
She went quiet for a minute, looking at him with those red, determined eyes. "Lieutenant, doesn't it strike you that this was a particularly inept crime? Fearing walked in and out without any regard for witnesses, with no attempt to disguise himself or avoid the security camera."
This was another point that D'Agosta had been mulling over: was Fearing really that stupid? Assuming it was him to begin with. "There's still a lot to clear up."
She held his gaze a moment longer. Then her eyes dropped to the bedcovers. "Is the apartment still sealed?"
"No. Not as of ten o'clock this morning."
She hesitated. "I'm being released this afternoon and I… I want to get back in as soon as possible."
D'Agosta understood. "I'm already having the — having it prepared for your return. There's a company that does this sort of thing at short notice."
Nora nodded, turning her head away.
This was his cue to leave, and D'Agosta rose. "Thank you, Nora. I'll keep you informed of our progress. If you think of anything more, will you let me know? You'll keep me in the loop?"
She nodded again without looking at him. "And remember what I said. We're going to find Fearing — you have my word."
Chapter 7
Special Agent Pendergast glided silently down the long, dimly lit central hallway of his West 72nd Street apartment. As he walked, he passed an elegant library; a room devoted to Renaissance and Baroque oil paintings; a climate — controlled vault stacked floor — to — ceiling with vintage wines in teakwood racks; a salon with leather armchairs, expensive silk carpets, and terminals hardwired to half a dozen law enforcement databases.
These were the public rooms of Pendergast's apartment, although perhaps fewer than a dozen people had ever seen them. He was headed now toward the private rooms, known only to himself and Kyoko Ishimura, the deaf and mute housekeeper who lived in and looked after the apartment.
Over several years, Pendergast had discreetly purchased two additional adjoining apartments as they came on the market and integrated them with his own. Now his residence stretched along much of the Dakota's 72nd Street frontage and even part of the Central Park West frontage as well: an immense, rambling, yet exceedingly private eyrie.
Reaching the end of the corridor, he opened the door of what appeared to be a closet. Instead, the small room beyond was empty save for another door in the far wall. Disengaging its security apparatus, Pendergast opened the door and stepped into the private quarters. He walked quickly through these as well, nodding to Miss Ishimura as she stood in the spacious kitchen, preparing fish intestine soup over a restaurant — grade stove. Like all spaces in the Dakota, the kitchen had an unusually high ceiling. At length he reached the end of another corridor, another innocuous — looking door. Beyond lay his destination: the third apartment, the sanctum sanctorum into which even Miss Ishimura entered only infrequently.
He opened the door into a second closet — size room. This time, there was not another door at the far end, but rather ashoji, a sliding partition of wood and rice — paper panels. Pendergast closed the door behind him, then stepped forward and gently drew theshoji aside.
Beyond lay a tranquil garden. Sounds of gently trickling water and birdsong freighted air already heavy with the scents of pine and eucalyptus. The light was dim and indirect, suggesting late afternoon or early evening. Somewhere in the green fastness, a dove cooed.
A narrow path of flat stones lay ahead, flanked by stone lanterns and winding sinuously between evergreen plantings. Pulling theshoji shut, Pendergast stepped over the pebbled verge and made his way down the path. This was anuchi — roji, the inner garden of a teahouse. The intensely private, almost secret spot exuded tranquility, encouraged a contemplative spirit. Pendergast had lived with it so long now that he had almost lost his appreciation for just how unusual it was: a complete and self — sufficient garden, deep within a massive Manhattan apartment building.
Ahead, through the bushes and dwarf trees, a low wooden building came into view, simple and unadorned. Pendergast made his way past the formal washbasin to the teahouse entrance and slowly pulled itsshoji aside.
Beyond lay the tearoom itself, decorated with elegant spareness. Pendergast stood in the entrance a moment, letting his eyes move over the hanging scroll in its alcove, the
formalchabana flower arrangements, the shelves holding scrupulously clean whisks, tea scoops, and other equipment. Then, closing the sliding door and seating himselfseiza — style on the tatami mat, he began performing the exacting rituals of the ceremony itself.
The tea ceremony is at heart a ritual of grace and perfection, the serving of tea to a small group of guests. Though Pendergast was alone, he was nevertheless performing the ceremony for a guest: one who was unable to attend.
Carefully, he filled the caddy, measured in the powdered tea, whisked it to a precise consistency, then poured it into two exquisite seventeenth — century tea bowls. One he placed before himself; the other he set on the opposite side of the mat. He sat a moment, staring at the steam as it rose in gossamer curls from his bowl. Then — slowly, meditatively — he raised the bowl to his lips.
As he sipped, he allowed certain memories to form pictures in his mind, one at a time, lingering over each before moving to the next. The subject of each memory was the same. William Smithback, Jr., assisting him in a race against time to blast open the doors of the Tomb of Senef and rescue the people trapped within. Smithback, lying horrified in the backseat of a purloined taxi as Pendergast careened through traffic, trying to elude his brother, Diogenes. Now, further back in time, Smithback looking on in outrage and dismay as Pendergast burned the recipe for the Arcanum at Mary Greene's grave site. And still further back, Smithback once again, standing at his side during the terrible struggle with the strange denizens of the Devil's Attic, far below the streets of New York City.
By the time the tea bowl was empty, there were no more memories to reflect on. Pendergast placed the bowl back on the mat and closed his eyes a moment. Then, opening them again, he gazed at the other bowl, still full, that sat across from him. He sighed quietly, then spoke.
"Waga tomo yasurakani," he said.
Farewell, my friend.
Chapter 8
Noon. D'Agosta punched the elevator button again with a muttered curse. He checked his watch. "Nine minutes. No shit — nine frigging minutes we been here."
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