Blue Labyrinth

Slade returned Angler’s look. “Yes.”

“Me, too. What does it all mean?”

“The whole thing stinks… sir.”

“Precisely. You know it, and I know it. And we’ve known it for some time. Hence, all this.” And Angler patted the pile of index cards. “Let’s break it down. The last time Pendergast saw his son alive — by his own admission — was eighteen months ago, in Brazil. A year ago, Alban returned briefly to the U.S. under an alias, traveled to upstate New York, then returned to Brazil. Around three weeks ago, he returned to New York — and this time, was killed for his pains. In his body was found a piece of turquoise. Agent Pendergast claims that piece of turquoise led him to the Salton Fontainebleau, where he was supposedly assaulted by the same man who pretended to be a scientist and who probably killed a technician at the Museum. All of a sudden, after being uncooperative and evasive, Pendergast becomes forthcoming… that is, once he learned we’d found ‘Tapanes Landberg.’ But then, after unloading a bunch of questionable information on us, he clams up again, stops cooperating. For example, neither he nor Lieutenant D’Agosta bothered to tell us that the phony professor killed himself in the Indio jail. We had to find that out for ourselves. And when we sent Sergeant Dawkins out to examine the Fontainebleau, he came back reporting that the inside of the place looked as if it had been unvisited for years and could not have been the scene of some extended fight. You’re exactly right, Loomis — it stinks. It stinks to high heaven. No matter which way I turn, I find myself being confronted by the same conclusion: Pendergast is sending us on one wild goose chase after another. And I can think of only one reason for that — he himself is complicit in his son’s death. And then, there’s this.” Leaning forward, Angler plucked an article in Portuguese from atop one of the piles on his desk. “A report from a Brazilian newspaper, vague and unsourced, that describes a massacre that took place in the jungle, with the involvement of an u

“De rosto pálido? What’s that mean?”

“Of pale visage.”

“Holy shit.”

“And all this took place eighteen months ago — just when Pendergast himself was in Brazil.”

Angler put the article down. “This article came to my attention just this morning. It’s the key, Loomis — I feel it. The key to the whole mystery.” He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the ceiling. “There’s one missing piece, I believe. Just one. And when I find that piece… then I’ll have him.”

46

Constance Greene walked down a gleaming corridor on the fifth and top floor of Geneva’s Clinique Privée La Colline, a gowned doctor at her side.

“How would you characterize his condition?” she asked in perfect French.

“It has been very difficult to make a diagnosis, mademoiselle,” the doctor replied. “It is something foreign to our experience. This is a multidisciplinary clinic. Half a dozen specialists have been called in to examine the patient. The results of the consultations and tests are… baffling. And contradictory. Certain members of the staff believe he is suffering from an unknown genetic disorder. Others think that he has been poisoned, or is suffering withdrawal symptoms from some compound or drug — there are unusual trace elements in the blood work, but nothing that corresponds to any known substance in our databases. Still others consider the problem to be at least partly psychological — yet nobody can deny the acute physical manifestations.”

“What medications are you using to treat the condition?”

“We can’t treat the actual condition until we have a diagnosis. We’re controlling the pain with transdermal fentanyl patches. Soma as a muscle relaxer. And a benzodiazepine for its sedative effect.”

“Which benzo?”

“Klonopin.”

“That’s a rather formidable cocktail, Doctor.”

“It is. But until we know what the source is, we can only treat the symptoms — if we didn’t, restraints would have been necessary.”

The doctor opened a door and ushered Constance in. Beyond lay a modern, spotless, and functional room containing a single bed. Numerous monitors and medical devices surrounded the bed, some flashing complicated readouts on LCD screens, others beeping in steady rhythms. At the far end of the room was an unbroken series of windows, tinted blue, that looked out onto the Avenue de Beau-Séjour.

Lying in the bed was Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast. Leads were attached to his temples; an IV was inserted into the curve of one wrist; a blood pressure cuff was fixed to one arm and a blood-oxygen meter clipped to a fingertip. A privacy screen was bunched together on overhead rings at the foot of the bed.

“He has said very little,” the doctor said. “And of that, even less has made sense. If you can get us any information that could be of assistance, we would be grateful.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Constance said with a nod. “I’ll do my best.”

“Mademoiselle.” And with that, the doctor gave the briefest of bows, turned, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Constance stood for a moment, glancing at the closed door. Then, smoothing down her dress with a sweep of her hand, she took a seat at the lone chair placed beside the bed. Although nobody had a cooler head than Constance Greene, what she saw nevertheless deeply disturbed her. The FBI agent’s face was a dreadful gray color, and his white-blond hair was disarrayed and darkened with sweat. The chiseled lines of the face were blurred by several days’ growth of beard. Fever seemed to radiate from him. His eyes were shut, but she could see the eyeballs moving beneath the bruised-looking lids. As she watched, his body stiffened, as if in pain; spasmed; then relaxed.

She leaned forward, laid a hand over one clenched fist. “Aloysius,” she said in a low voice. “It’s Constance.”

For a moment, no response. Then the fist relaxed. Pendergast’s head turned on the pillow. He muttered something incomprehensible.

Constance gave the hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry?”

Pendergast opened his mouth to speak, took a deep, shuddering breath. “Lasciala, indegno,” he murmured. “Battiti meco. L’assassino m’ha ferito.”

Constance released her pressure on the hand.

Another spasm shuddered through Pendergast’s frame. “No,” he said in a low, strangled voice. “No, you mustn’t. The Doorway to Hell… stay back… stay away, please… don’t look… the three-lobed burning eye…! ”

His body relaxed and he fell silent for several minutes. Then he stirred again. “It’s wrong, Tristram,” he said, his voice now clearer and more distinct. “He would never change. I fear you were deceived.”

This time, the silence was far longer. A nurse came in, checked Pendergast’s vitals, replaced the transdermal patch for a fresh one, and left. Constance remained in the chair, still as a statue, her hand on Pendergast’s. Finally — at long last — his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they remained vague, unfocused. Then, blinking, they made a survey of the hospital room. At last, they landed on her.

“Constance,” he said in a whisper.

Her response was to squeeze his hand again.

“I’ve… been having a nightmare. It seems never to end.”

His voice was dry and light, like a faint breeze over dead leaves, and she had to lean in closer to catch the words.

“You were quoting the libretto of Don Giova