Two Graves

“I’d like to find some way I could make it up to you.” Felder was unused to talking about his feelings, especially to a patient, and he felt himself flush with both embarrassment and shame. “I don’t expect to treat you in the future—I respect your wishes in that regard. It’s just that I wish… well, that I could somehow compensate for what happened… for what I did. Make it right. So you could trust me again.”

These last words tumbled out in a rush. Constance looked at him, her violet eyes cool and appraising. “Why is this important to you, Doctor?”

“I…” He realized he didn’t really know why. Or hadn’t examined his feelings closely enough to see.

For a long moment, the table was silent. Then Constance spoke. “Some time ago, you told me you believed I was, in fact, born on Water Street in the 1870s.”

“I did say that once, yes.”

“Do you still believe it?”

“It… it seems so bizarre, so difficult to comprehend. And yet I have found nothing to contradict you. In fact, I’ve found independent evidence to support what you say. Also, I know you’re not a liar. And when I examine the clinical issues—really look at them—I wonder if you suffer from any psychotic condition at all. You may be emotionally troubled, true, and I’m sure there’s some past trauma that continues to haunt you. But I just don’t believe you’re delusional. And I increasingly doubt if you even threw your child off that ship. Your note to Pendergast seemed to indicate the baby was still alive. I feel like there’s something going on here, some ruse or perhaps larger plan, which has yet to be uncovered.”

Constance went still.

When she said nothing, he continued. “All circumstantial evidence, of course—but highly persuasive. And then, there’s this.” He extracted his wallet, opened it, and pulled out a small piece of paper. He unfolded it and passed it to Constance. It was a photocopy of an old newspaper engraving, depicting an urban scene of dirty-faced children playing stickball on a tenement street. Standing to one side was another child, thin and frightened, broom in her hand. She was an almost photographic likeness of a young Constance Greene.

“It’s from the New-York Inquirer, 1879,” Felder said. “It’s titled Guttersnipes at Play.”

Constance stared at the engraving for a long time. Then she brushed it gently, almost lovingly, with her fingertips before folding it again and handing it back to Felder. “You keep this in your wallet, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I, ah, consult it from time to time. Trying to unravel the mystery, I suppose.”

Constance continued to regard him. It might have been Felder’s imagination, but he thought that the look in her eyes softened. After another moment, she began to speak.

“Back when that engraving was made,” she said, “newspaper illustrations were done by artists in the field. They would make pen-and-ink drawings, pencil sketches, charcoal—whatever—of things they felt colorful or newsworthy. They would submit their artwork to the newspaper, where professional engravers would reproduce it in a form that could be printed.”

She nodded again at the folded paper, still clasped in Felder’s hand. “I recall when that drawing was made. The artist was illustrating a series of articles on the tenement districts of New York. He did that sketch and then, I suppose taken by my appearance, he asked to paint my portrait. My parents were already dead, so he asked my older sister. She agreed. When the work was finished, he gave her his preliminary pencil sketches for the portrait by way of payment.”

“Where are those studies?” Felder asked eagerly.

“Long gone. But in gratitude, my sister gave him a lock of my hair in return. Gifts of such locks were very common then. I recall the artist putting the snippet of hair into a small envelope and pasting it to the inside of his portfolio cover.”

She paused. “The name of the artist was Alexander Wintour. If you could find his portfolio, perhaps the lock might still be inside. It’s a long shot, I admit. But if you did, and the portfolio hadn’t been disturbed, a simple DNA test would prove what I say: that I am almost a century and a half old.”

“Yes,” Felder murmured, shaking his head. “Yes, it would.” He wrote down the artist’s name on the back of the picture, folded it up, and slipped it back into his wallet. “Thank you again for seeing me, Constance.” He stood up.

“Certainly, Doctor.”

He shook her hand and exited the library. For the first time in days, he felt a spring in his step, a feeling of renewed vigor in his limbs.

And then, on the front steps of Mount Mercy, he paused again.

Why was Constance doing this? She had always seemed supremely indifferent as to whether people believed her or not. Something had changed.

But what? And why?

13

D’AGOSTA CHECKED HIS CELL PHONE, SAW THAT IT WAS sixty seconds before one o’clock. If what he’d heard about Special Agent Conrad Gibbs was true, the man would be arriving on the dot.

D’Agosta felt uneasy. Most of his previous experience with the FBI had been through Pendergast, and he realized this was probably worse than no preparation at all. Pendergast’s methods, operation, and mentality were alien if not hostile to standard FBI culture.

He gave a once-over to the coffee from Starbucks and the dozen doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, laid out on the little sitting area in his office, and then a final glance at his watch.

“Lieutenant D’Agosta?”

And there he was, standing in the door. D’Agosta rose with a smile. His first impression was good. True, Special Agent Gibbs was a product of the mold: buttoned down and by the book, handsome, chiseled, an off-the-rack suit covering his trim physique, his brown hair cut close, his thin lips and narrow face ta

They shook hands and D’Agosta found Gibbs’s grasp firm, not crushing, brief and to the point. He walked around his desk and led the agent to the sitting area, where they both sat down.

They opened with some pleasant chitchat about the weather and the differences between New York and Florida. D’Agosta asked about the agent’s last case, which he had concluded with great success—a run-of-the-mill serial killer who scattered the pieces of his victims in the dunes. Gibbs was soft-spoken and clearly intelligent. D’Agosta appreciated the former quality a great deal. Aside from making him easier to work with, it would go a long way with his squad—although, to be sure, most of his squad members were loudmouthed in the typical New York sort of way.

The only problem was, as Gibbs went on about his case, he was starting to sound suspiciously long-winded. And he wasn’t eating anything… while D’Agosta was just about dying for a Caramel Kreme Crunch.

“As you probably know, Lieutenant,” Gibbs was saying, “down in Quantico we maintain a comprehensive database of serial killers as part of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. We define a serial killer as follows: a perpetrator who targets strangers, who has killed three or more people, for motives of psychological gratification, usually with a consistent or evolving signature in each killing.”

D’Agosta nodded sagely.

“In this case we only have two killings, so it doesn’t meet the definition—yet. But I think we all agree there’s a high probability of more to come.”

“Absolutely.”

Gibbs removed a slender folder from his briefcase. “When we first heard from Captain Singleton yesterday morning, we did a quick-and-dirty run-through on our database.”