Blue Labyrinth

D’Agosta rose to his feet and began pacing restlessly, his mind racing. “Okay. Let’s put this together. You’re saying Barbeaux poisoned Pendergast with the elixir as a way of getting revenge, not only for his ancestors, but for his son. How did Barbeaux get the idea? I mean, it’s unlikely he’d even have known about what happened to his great-grandparents, who died more than a century ago. And this entire revenge plot — killing Alban, sticking a piece of turquoise into him, luring Pendergast all the way across the country — it’s baroque in complexity. Why? Who could have dreamed it up?”

“A man named Tapanes Landberg,” said Constance.

“Who?” asked Margo.

“Of course!” D’Agosta smacked his palm against the other and turned. “Alban! As I told you, he made a trip to New York — to the Albany area, according to Lieutenant Angler’s case file — over a year before he was killed!”

“Red Mountain Industries is located in Adirondack, New York,” Constance said. “An hour and a half’s drive from Albany.”

D’Agosta turned again. “Alban. The crazy fuck. From what Pendergast has told me, this is exactly the kind of game he’d love to play. Of course, brilliant as he was, he’d have known all about Hezekiah’s elixir. So he went out, found a descendant of a victim — somebody with both the motive for revenge and the means to carry it out. He hit pay dirt with Barbeaux, whose son died. Alban must have learned something of Barbeaux’s personality; he’s no doubt the eye-for-an-eye kind of fellow. It would be beautiful in a different context: both Barbeaux and Alban being revenged on Pendergast.”

“Yes. The scheme reeks of Alban,” said Constance. “He may even have researched the Salton Fontainebleau and the turquoise mine. He could have told Barbeaux: Here’s the setup. All you have to do is synthesize the elixir and lure Pendergast to the spot.”

“Except that, in the end, Alban got double-crossed,” said Margo.

“The big question,” D’Agosta went on, “is how the hell will all this help us develop an antidote?”

“We’ve got to decipher the formula for the elixir before we can reverse its effects. If Barbeaux was able to reconstruct it, then so can we.” Constance looked around. “I’ll search the basement collections here, the files, the family archives, and the old chemistry laboratory, looking for evidence of Hezekiah’s formula. Margo, will you do more work on the bones of Mrs. Padgett? Those bones contain a vital clue — given the great lengths Barbeaux went in getting one.”

“Yes,” said Margo. “And the coroner’s report on Rudd might also help unravel the formula.”

“As for me,” said D’Agosta, “I’m going to check up on this Barbeaux character. If I find he’s responsible, I’ll squeeze him so hard the formula will pop out of—”

“No.”

This was said by a new and different voice — little more than a cracked whisper, coming from the doorway to the gun room. D’Agosta turned toward it and saw Pendergast. He stood unsteadily, leaning on the door frame, wearing a disordered silk dressing gown. He seemed almost corpse-like, save for the eyes — and these glittered like coins above puffy, blue-black bags of skin.

“Aloysius!” Constance cried, standing up. “What are you doing out of bed?” She hurried around the table toward him. “Where’s Dr. Stone?”

“The doctor is useless.”

She tried to usher him out of the room, but he pushed her away. “I must speak.” He staggered, righted himself. “If you are correct, then the man who did this was able to kill my son. He is clearly an extremely powerful and competent adversary.” He shook his head as if to clear his mind. “You go after him, you’ll place yourselves in mortal danger. This is my fight. I, and I alone… will follow through… must follow through…”

A man abruptly appeared in the doorway — tall and thin, wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a chalk-striped suit, a stethoscope around his neck.

“Come, my friend,” the doctor said gently. “You must not exert yourself. Let’s return upstairs. Here, we can take the elevator.”

“No!” Pendergast protested again, more feebly this time — clearly, the effort of leaving his bed had exhausted him. Dr. Stone bore him off, gently but firmly. As they vanished down the hall, D’Agosta heard Pendergast saying: “The light. How glaring it is! Turn it off, I beg you…”

The three remained standing, looking at each other. D’Agosta noticed that Constance, normally remote and unreadable, was now flushed and agitated.

“He’s right,” D’Agosta said. “This Barbeaux is no ordinary guy. We better think this through. We need to stay in close touch and share information. A single mistake might get us all killed.”

“That’s why we won’t make one,” said Margo quietly.

50

The office was spartan, functional, and — as befitted the personality of its occupant — contained more than a hint of military efficiency. The large desk, gleaming with polish, held nothing beyond an old-fashioned blotter, a pen-and-pencil desk set, a phone, and a single photo in a silver frame, arranged in orderly ranks. There was no computer or keyboard. An American flag stood on a wooden stand in a corner. The wall behind contained bookshelves racked with volumes of military history and Jane’s yearbooks and a

A man sat behind the desk, wearing a business suit, crisp white shirt, and dark-red tie. He sat erect, and he wore the suit as one might wear a uniform. He was writing with a fountain pen, and the scratch of the nib filled the otherwise silent office. Outside the single picture window lay a small campus of similar buildings, clad in black glass, surrounded by a double set of chain-link fences topped with razor wire. Past the outer fence was a line of trees, rich and green, and, in the farther distance, a splash of blue lake.

The phone rang and the man picked it up. “Yes?” he said curtly. His voice was full of gravel, and it seemed to come from deep within his barrel chest.

“Mr. Barbeaux,” came the secretary’s voice from the outer office. “There are two police officers here to see you.”

“Give me sixty seconds,” he said. “Then show them in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man hung up the phone. He sat at his desk, motionless, for another few seconds. Then, with a single glance at the photograph, he rose from his chair. He was just over sixty years of age, but the motion was made as effortlessly as by a youth of twenty. He turned to examine himself in a small mirror that hung on the wall behind his desk. A large, heavy-boned face stared back: blue eyes, lantern jaw, Roman nose. Although the tie was perfectly knotted, he adjusted it anyway. Then he turned toward the door to his office.

As he did so, it opened and his secretary ushered in two figures.

Barbeaux looked at them in turn. One was tall, with dark-blond hair that was slightly windblown. He moved with authority, and with the grace of a natural athlete. The other was shorter and darker. He returned Barbeaux’s look with an expression that betrayed absolutely nothing.

“John Barbeaux?” said the taller man.

Barbeaux nodded.

“I’m Lieutenant Peter Angler of the NYPD, and this is my associate, Sergeant Slade.”

Barbeaux shook the proffered hands in turn and returned to his seat. “Please, sit down. Coffee, tea?”

“Nothing, thanks.” Angler sat down in one of the chairs ranged before the desk, and Slade followed suit. “This is quite the fortress you have here, Mr. Barbeaux.”

Barbeaux smiled at this. “It’s mostly show. We’re a private military contractor. I’ve found that it pays to look the part.”

“I’m curious, though. Why build such an extensive operation way out here, in the middle of nowhere?”