Blue Labyrinth

One at a time, Constance slid the oversize syringes into the leather pockets of the bandolier. It had been manufactured to hold fifty-millimeter artillery shells, and the syringes fit well. Each had a glass stopper snugged over its tip, but nevertheless she handled them very gingerly: triflic acid was not just a powerful superacid; it was also a deadly neurotoxin. Ensuring the bandolier was firmly in place, she rose cautiously to her feet, abandoning the now-empty duffel, and glanced around.

Three men.

Leaving the stand of juniper, she moved to the pavilion itself, a wooden structure built out over the pond, with open sides and a low-slung roof of cedar shakes. Climbing onto a nearby railing, she grasped the edge of the roof, pulled herself onto it, and knelt there, peering over the edge. The men were now tightening their noose, creeping into the Japanese Garden, guns drawn. They were moving laterally, flashlight beams probing the vegetation. One of them was approaching the pavilion itself. She crouched lower as the man’s light went past.

In utter silence, Constance slid one of the syringes out of the bandolier, slipped off the protective glass tip, aimed at the man as he passed just beneath — and then directed a long, smoking jet of acid over him.

Under the rain of acid, the man’s clothes burst into flames and dissolved. His sharp screams were almost immediately cut off by a gargled choking. Windmilling his arms, he staggered first one way, then another — the flesh literally melting from his bones as the stream cut into him — before blindly throwing himself into the pond. As he hit the water, a cloud of vapor rose up and spread slowly over the waters as the man convulsed. Within seconds he had disappeared beneath the surface, leaving behind a surge of bubbles.

The other two men had dived into the brush. Now they knew she was on the pavilion roof.

Without giving them time to recover, Constance tossed the now-empty syringe aside and scuttled across the roofline in the direction of the pond. Keeping the bulk of the pavilion between herself and the remaining two men, she slipped carefully into the water and — keeping below the surface — swam to the far shore, where she emerged. The men fired at her from cover but, crouching in the darkness more than a hundred feet away, their bullets went wide. She crawled into a dense, expansive stand of azaleas that had been planted next to the pond, pushing deep into the shrubbery on hands and knees while additional rounds snipped away the branches over her head. The men were shooting to kill despite Barbeaux’s orders. They were angry and panicked. But they were still formidable. She must be ready for what was about to happen.

In her mind, Constance visualized a lioness in the bush: a lioness swollen with hatred and savage thoughts of revenge.

Reaching the center of the azalea cluster, she crouched in the blackness. Silently, she eased another syringe of acid from the bandolier and readied it for use. She tensed, waiting, listening.

She could not see the men, but she could hear their whispered voices. They had come around the pond and seemed to be positioned at the edge of the azaleas, perhaps thirty feet away. Additional whispers betrayed the fact that they were circling around. There was the hiss of a radio; a short conversation. They were not as panicked as she had expected. They were relying on their superior firepower.

Now they picked up her track and started into the patch. The noise they made allowed Constance to better track their approach. She waited, motionless, crouched low in the densest heart of the bushes. Closer and closer they came, pushing through the azalea, moving with extreme caution. Twenty feet, ten…

The lioness would not wait. She would charge.

Constance leapt up and ran straight at them without uttering a sound. The two, taken by surprise, did not have time to react before she was upon them. At a run, turning sideways in order to avoid any backsplash, she emptied the contents of the syringe over one man — a colorless torrent of death — still ru

A vast swath of the azalea garden, roughly following the course she had just taken, was now aflame: entire bushes exploding like popcorn, gouts of fire flaring up, leaves disintegrating, branches bursting into red-and-orange glow. The men themselves were screaming, one wildly firing his pistol at nothing, the other whirling like a top and clutching his face. Now they sank to their knees, great gushers of gray-and-pink mist roiling violently up from their dissolving flesh. As Constance looked on, what was left of the figures sank to the ground, convulsing as the shrubbery blackened and dissolved.

She watched the ghastly tableau for just a moment longer. Then, turning away, she headed quickly across a dew-heavy lawn and onto the path leading to the Palm House, its panels of glass glittering in the moonlight.

75

I’m back,” came the strangely old-fashioned voice from behind Barbeaux.

He whipped around, gazing with astonishment. The petite form of Constance Greene stood there. Somehow, she had managed to approach without making any sound.

Barbeaux gazed at her with astonishment. Her black chemise was torn, her body and face filthy, smeared with mud and bleeding from a dozen cuts. Her hair was caked with dirt, twigs, and leaves. She seemed more feral than human. And yet the voice, the eyes, were cold, unreadable. She was unarmed, empty-handed.

She swayed slightly on her feet, looked at Pendergast — lying motionless at Barbeaux’s feet — then returned her gaze to him.

“He’s dead,” Barbeaux told her.

She did not react. If there was any normal emotion going on in this crazy woman, Barbeaux could not see it, and this u

“I want the name of the plant,” he said, leveling his gun at her.

Nothing. No recognition that he’d spoken.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t give it to me. I’ll kill you in the most horrific way imaginable. Tell me the name of the plant.”

Now she spoke. “You’ve begun to smell lilies, haven’t you?”

She’s guessed. “How—?”

“It’s obvious. Why else did you want me alive? And why else would you want the plant, now, when he is dead?” She gestured at Pendergast’s body.

With self-discipline born of long practice, Barbeaux pulled himself together. “And my men?”

“I killed them all.”

Even though, from the radio chatter, he’d surmised that things had gone very badly, Barbeaux could scarcely believe his ears. His eyes roamed over the insane creature that stood before him. “How in the world—?” he began again.

She did not answer the question. “We need to come to an arrangement. You want—need—the plant. And I want to collect my guardian’s body for a decent burial.”

Barbeaux gazed at her for a moment. The young woman waited, head slightly cocked. She swayed on her feet again. She looked like she might collapse at any minute.

“All right,” he said, gesturing with the gun. “We’ll go to the Aquatic House together. When I’m satisfied you’ve told me the truth, I’ll let you go.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I can make it on my own. Hold my arm, please.”

“No tricks. You lead the way.” He prodded her with the gun. She was smart, but not smart enough. As soon as he’d secured the plant, she would die.

She stumbled over Pendergast’s body, then walked along the wing into the Bonsai Museum. There she fell to the ground and was unable to get up without Barbeaux’s assistance. They entered the Aquatic House.