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Chapter 17
When Margo Green awoke, a bright afternoon sun was slanting in through the windows of the Feversham Clinic. Outside, puffy cumulus clouds drifted across a lazy blue sky. The distant call of waterbirds came from the direction of the Hudson River.
She yawned, stretched, then sat up in bed. Glancing at the clock, she noticed it was quarter to four. The nurse should be in soon with her afternoon cup of peppermint tea.
The hospital table beside her bed was crowded: back issues of Natural History, a Tolstoy novel, a portable music player, a laptop, and a copy of the New York Times. She reached for the newspaper, flipped through the C section. Maybe she could finish the crossword before Phyllis brought her tea.
Now that her condition was no longer critical, recovery at the clinic had settled into a kind of routine. She found that she looked forward to the afternoon chats with Phyllis. She hardly had any visitors-no visitors at all, actually, save her mother and Captain Laura Hayward-and the thing she missed most, other than her career, was companionship.
Picking up a pencil, she applied herself to the crossword. But it was one of those late-in-the-week puzzles, full of coy clues and obscure references, and mental exercise still tired her. After a few minutes, she put it aside. She found her thoughts straying back to Hayward ’s recent visit and the unpleasant memories it had reawakened.
It disturbed her that her memory of the attack remained shadowy. There were bits and pieces, disco
She folded up the newspaper, put it back on the table. The most disturbing thing was that, even though she knew her attacker had spoken to her, she couldn’t remember anything he had said. His words were gone, fallen into the darkness. Curiously, she did remember, seared into her mind, the man’s strange eyes and his hideous, dry chuckle.
She turned restlessly in her bed, wondering where Phyllis was, still thinking of Hayward ’s visit. The captain had asked a lot of questions about Agent Pendergast and his brother, a man with the peculiar name of Diogenes. It all seemed strange: Margo hadn’t seen Pendergast in years, and she had never even known the FBI agent had a brother.
Now at last the door to her room opened and Phyllis walked in. But she wasn’t carrying a tray of tea things, and her friendly face bore an official expression.
“Margo, you have a visitor,” she said.
Margo barely had time to react to this a
“Margo!” he cried, coming forward, patrician features breaking into a smile. “How wonderful to see you.”
“Same here, Dr. Menzies,” she replied. Her surprise at having a visitor was quickly replaced by embarrassment: she wasn’t exactly dressed to receive her boss.
But Menzies, as if sensing her discomfort, was quick to put her at ease. He thanked Phyllis, waited until the nurse had left the room, then took a seat beside the bed.
“What a beautiful room!” he exclaimed. “And with an exquisite view of the Hudson River Valley. The quality of the light here is second only to Venice, I think; perhaps that’s why it has drawn so many painters.”
“They’ve been very good to me here.”
“As well they should. You know, my dear, I’ve been terribly worried about you. The entire Anthropology Department has. We can’t wait for your return.”
“Neither can I.”
“Your location has been almost a state secret. Until yesterday, I never even knew this place existed. As it was, I had to charm my way past half the staff.” He smiled.
Margo smiled back. If anyone could charm his way in, Menzies could. She’d been lucky to get him as her supervisor: many museum curators lorded it over their minions, behaving like conceited philosopher-kings. Menzies was the exception: affable, receptive to the ideas of others, supportive of his staff. It was true-she couldn’t wait to get out of here and back to work. Museology, the periodical she edited, was rudderless in her absence. If only she didn’t grow tired so easily…
She realized her mind was drifting. She roused herself, glanced at Menzies. He was looking back at her, concern on his face.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m still a little out of it.”
“Of course you are,” he said. “Perhaps that’s why this is still necessary?” And he nodded at the saline drip hanging beside the bed.
“The doctor said that’s just a precautionary measure. I’m getting plenty of fluids now.”
“Good, very good. The loss of blood must have been a severe shock. So much blood, Margo. There’s a reason they call it the living liquid, don’t you agree?”
A strange current, almost like a physical shock, passed through Margo. The weakness, the feeling of torpor, receded. She suddenly felt wide awake. “What did you say?”
“I said, have they given you any indication of when you can leave?”
Margo relaxed. “The doctors are very pleased with my progress. Another two weeks or so.”
“And then bed rest at home, I assume?”
“Yes. Dr. Winokur-that’s my primary physician here-said I would need another month’s recuperation before returning to work.”
“He would know best.”
Menzies’s voice was low and soothing, and Margo felt torpidity returning. Almost without realizing it, she yawned.
“Oh!” she said, embarrassed anew. “I’m sorry.”
“Think nothing of it. I don’t want to overstay my welcome, I’ll leave shortly. Are you tired, Margo?”
She smiled faintly. “A little bit.”
“Sleeping all right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I was worried you might have been having nightmares.” Menzies glanced over his shoulder, toward the open door and the corridor beyond.
“No, not really.”
“That’s my girl! What spunk!”
There: that strange electric tingle again. Menzies’s voice had changed-something about it was both foreign and disquietingly familiar. “Dr. Menzies,” she began, sitting up once more.
“Now, now, you just sit back and rest.” And with a gentle but firm pressure on her shoulder, he guided her back down onto the pillow. “I’m so glad to hear you’re sleeping well. Not everybody could put such a traumatic event behind them.”
“It’s not exactly behind me,” she said. “I just don’t seem to remember what happened very well, that’s all.”
Menzies laid a comforting hand on hers. “That’s just as well,” he said, slipping his other hand inside his jacket.
Margo felt an inexplicable sense of alarm. She was tired-that’s all it was. Much as she liked Menzies, much as she appreciated this break in the monotony, she needed to rest.
“After all, nobody would want such memories. The noises in the empty exhibition hall. Being followed. The invisible footfalls, the falling of boards. The sudden darkness.”
Margo felt an unfocused panic well up within her. She stared at Menzies, unable to wrap her mind around what he was saying. The anthropologist kept on talking in his low, soothing voice.