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Pendergast seemed to pick up on Felder's hesitation. "What else did she say about me?"
"That your becoming her guardian was due to guilt."
There was a silence.
"Tell me, Dr. Felder," Pendergast asked at length. "Did Constance tell you of her existence between this earlier period and her very recent crossing on the ship?"
"No."
"No details at all?"
"None."
"Then I submit to you that, under a diagnosis of 295.30, schizotypal personality disorder ca
Felder sat forward. Pendergast had quoted the precise DSM-IV diagnostic code for paranoid schizophrenia. "Have you studied psychiatry, Special Agent Pendergast?"
Pendergast shrugged. "One has one's interests."
Despite everything, Felder found his irritation getting the better of himself. Why was Pendergast showing such interest now, when before he'd seemed almost indifferent? "I must tell you," he said, "I would categorize your conclusions as amateurish and superficial."
Pendergast's eyes glinted. "May I ask you, then, what possible reason you could have for vexing me with these questions about Constance, since you've already diagnosed--and committed--her?"
"Well, I--" He found those silvery eyes boring into him.
"Would it be out of idle curiosity? Or..." He smiled. "... in the hope of professional publication?"
Felder stiffened. "Naturally, if there is something novel in the case, I'd want to share my experiences with my colleagues via publication."
"And thus enhance your reputation... and perhaps"--Pendergast's eyes seemed to twinkle wickedly--"garner a plum appointment at a research institute. I note that you have been angling for an adjunct professorship at Rockefeller University for some time."
Felder was astounded. How could the man possibly have known about that?
As if answering the unvoiced question, Pendergast waved his hand casually and said, "I took the liberty of looking into your background."
Coloring at having his own phrase thrown back at him, Felder tried to collect himself. "My professional goals are irrelevant. The truth is, I've never seen a delusional presentation that has such authenticity. She seems nineteenth-century: in the way she talks, dresses, walks, holds herself, even thinks. That's why I've asked you to come here today. I want to know more about her. What trauma might have occurred to trigger this? What was she like before? What are her major life experiences? Who is she really?"
Pendergast continued gazing at him, saying nothing.
"And it's not only that: in the archives I found this." He opened a manila folder on his desk and removed a photocopy of Guttersnipes at Play, the engraving from the New-York Daily Inquirer, passing it to Pendergast.
The FBI agent studied it carefully, then returned it. "The resemblance is quite remarkable. The product of artistic imagination, perhaps?"
"Look at the faces," Felder said. "They're so real, they were certainly drawn from life."
Pendergast smiled enigmatically, but Felder fancied he could see a new respect in those pale eyes. "This is all very interesting, Doctor." He paused. "Perhaps I am in a position to help you--if you can help me."
Although he didn't know precisely why, Felder found himself gripping the arms of his chair. "How so?"
"Constance is a very fragile person, emotionally and psychically. Under the right conditions, she can flourish. Under the wrong ones..." Pendergast looked at him. "Where is she being held at present?"
"In a private room in the Bellevue psych ward. Papers are being processed for her transfer to the Mental Health Division of the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility."
Pendergast shook his head. "That's a maximum-security institution. Someone like Constance will wither away, grow increasingly worse, in a place like that."
"You needn't worry about her coming to harm at the hands of other inmates, because the staff--"
"It's not that. Constance has a propensity for sudden, occasionally violent, psychotic breaks. A place like Bedford Hills would only encourage this."
"Then what would you suggest?"
"She requires a place with an atmosphere similar to that she has grown used to--comfortable, old-fashioned, nonstressful. And yet secure. She needs to be surrounded with familiar things--within reason, of course. Books, in particular, are critical."
Felder shook his head. "There's only one place like that, Mount Mercy, and it's fully occupied. With a long waiting list."
Pendergast smiled. "I happen to know that a vacancy opened up not three weeks ago."
Felder looked at him. "It did?"
Pendergast nodded. "As the committing psychiatrist, you could jump the queue, so to speak, and get her in. If you insisted it was the only place for her."
"I'll... I'll look into it."
"You will do more than look into it. In return, I will share with you what I know about Constance--which is a great deal indeed, and which will exceed even your most fervent dreams in psychiatric interest. Whether the information is actually publishable or not will be up to you--and your capacity for discretion."
Felder found his heart accelerating. "Thank you."
"I thank you. And I bid you good morning, Dr. Felder. We shall meet again--once Constance is safely ensconced in Mount Mercy."
Felder watched as the agent stepped out of the office and silently closed the door. Strange--he, too, seemed to have stepped out of the nineteenth century. And then Felder asked himself, for the first time, who exactly had orchestrated the meeting he'd so carefully arranged--and whose agenda had been satisfied.
EPILOGUE
Sava
JUDSON ESTERHAZY RECLINED IN THE LIBRARY of his house on Whitfield Square. It was a surprisingly chilly May evening, and a small fire lay dying in the hearth, scenting the room with the aroma of burning birch.
Taking a sip of a fine Highland malt he had pulled out of his cellar, he rolled the peaty beverage around in his mouth before swallowing. But the drink was bitter, as bitter as his feelings at that moment.
Pendergast had killed Slade. They said it was suicide, but he knew that was a lie. Somehow, some way, Pendergast had managed it. Bad as the last ten years had been, the old man's final moments must have been awful, an unimaginable mental agony. He had seen Pendergast's manipulations of other people and he had no doubt the man had taken advantage of Slade in his dementia. It was murder--worse than murder.
The glass, trembling in his hand, shook out some drops on the table, and he placed it down hard. At least he knew with complete confidence that Slade hadn't betrayed him. The old man loved him like a son and--even in his madness and pain--would have kept his secret to the last. Some things transcend even lunacy.
He had once loved Slade, too, but that feeling had died twelve years ago. He had seen a flash of another side of Slade that was just a little too close for comfort; a little too reminiscent of his own brutal father and the rather diabolical research of his that Judson was only too aware of. Maybe that was the fate of all fathers and father figures--to disappoint, to betray, to shrink in stature as one grew older and wiser.