Two Graves

“So there’s no longer a need to maintain this fiction that you murdered your child.”

“Exactly. And as a result, there’s no need for me to remain any longer in Mount Mercy.”

“But to be allowed to leave, you’d have to be certified as compos mentis.”

Constance inclined her head.

“Which meant convincing me of your sanity.”

“That’s correct. But there’s also the second answer that I mentioned. By convincing you of my sanity, it would resolve the agonizing doubts in your own mind. If you knew I was speaking the truth, it would help you resolve the difficulties in my story—difficulties that I know have been wearing on you.”

So she did care for him—in some ma

He still had so many questions to ask that he found himself somehow unable to frame even one of them in his head. Instead, he realized he needed time to process all that he had heard. It was time to leave.

He picked up the two envelopes, held the old, yellowed one out to Constance. “This is rightfully yours,” he said.

“I’d be happier knowing it was in your possession.”

Felder nodded. He slipped both envelopes into his jacket pocket. He stood up, but did not leave, hesitating a moment. One important question still remained to be resolved.

“Constance,” he said.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“The, ah, arcanum. When did you stop taking it?”

“When my first guardian, Dr. Leng, was killed.”

He hesitated. “Does it ever bother you?”

“What?”

“The—sorry, I can’t think of a delicate way to put this—the knowledge that your own life has been artificially extended by the murder of i

Constance regarded him with her deep, inscrutable eyes. The chapel seemed to go very still.

“Are you familiar,” she asked at last, “with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s quotation: The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function?”

“I’ve heard it, yes.”

“Consider this. I was not merely the beneficiary of Dr. Leng’s experiments. I became the ward of the man who murdered and mutilated my own sister. I spent over a hundred years beneath his roof, reading his books, drinking his wines, consuming his food, conversing pleasantly with him in the evenings—all the while knowing who he was and what he did to my own sister. A rare case of opposing ideas, wouldn’t you say?”

She paused. Felder was struck by the unusual look in her eyes—of what? He could not say.

“So I ask you, Doctor: does that mean I have a first-rate intelligence—or that I am insane?” She paused, her deep eyes glittering. “Or… both?”

And with that, she nodded her dismissal, picked up her book, and began to read.

87

D’AGOSTA WAS FEARFUL THE OLD BAR MIGHT HAVE closed up. He hadn’t been there in years. Few of his fellow officers even knew of the place—the ferns in their macramé hangers guaranteed that no self-respecting cop would be caught dead in there. But as he turned the corner from Vesey onto Church Street, feet crunching against the light dusting of snow, he saw—with relief—that the place was still there. The ferns in the window appeared, if anything, deader than ever. He descended the steps and went inside.

Laura Hayward was already there. She was sitting in the back, at the very same table—how was that for a coincidence?—a fresh, foamy Gui

“I didn’t even know this place had a name,” she said as he sat down.

D’Agosta nodded. “Vino Veritas.”

“Maybe the owner’s a wine co

D’Agosta didn’t quite understand this, so instead of replying he nodded to the waiter and pointed at Hayward’s drink.

“It seemed like a good place to meet,” he said as his own Gui

He took a sip from the pint glass, then sat back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. In fact he was nervous as hell. The idea had come to him that morning, on his way to work. No big plan this time, no elaborate preparations. Instinct told him that he’d better just go for it.

“Big doings in Captain Singleton’s office,” Laura said, teasingly.

“So the word’s already out?”

She nodded. “Midge Rawley. She’s the last person you’d think. I mean, she’s been Glen’s confidential secretary, known every last bit of his business, for—what?—at least ten years.”

“And I think she was loyal for all of them. Until just recently. At least, that’s when the payments took place—according to the bank records.”

“I’d heard she’d been having some personal problems. Separated from her husband, mother in a nursing home. I suppose that’s why they chose her.”

“Maybe they blackmailed her. Almost makes you feel sorry for her.”

“Almost. Until you remember it was her tip-off that betrayed the location of the Central Park boathouse meet. Which led to the shootout, the deaths of five people, and the kidnapping and murder of Helen Pendergast.” Laura paused. “Did the search warrant uncover anything?”

D’Agosta shook his head. “We’re hoping to learn more from the audio and video surveillance logs. Or maybe from Rawley herself. The Internal Affairs boys have her down in the Tombs right now. Who knows? She might get talkative.” He took another sip of his Gui

“Anyway, you did good, Vi

“Thanks.”

“And it may take Singleton down a notch or two, as well.”

D’Agosta had thought of this. Having a mole discovered in his own private office would make Captain Singleton defensive, to say the least—and that, indirectly, would only help get D’Agosta off the hot seat. Although it was a damn shame—Singleton was a decent man.

“It’s really Pendergast who should get the credit,” he said.

“He just called you, out of the blue, and told you who to finger?”

“Not exactly. Let’s say he pointed me in the right direction.”

“So it was your own good police work that did it. Don’t sell yourself short, Vi

“He called me ‘my dear Vincent,’ if that’s any indication.”

“I see. So Pendergast is back in New York, the Hotel Killer murders have stopped, and the FBI profilers think the killer’s moved on. It’s Christmas Eve. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.” She raised her glass.

D’Agosta took another sip of his Gui

Suddenly he became aware that Laura had put down her glass and was gazing at him intently. For a moment they looked at each other in silence. And then, she spoke.

“Yes,” she said in a low voice.

D’Agosta was confused. “I’m sorry?”