Blue Labyrinth

“Tell me the name of the plant,” Barbeaux demanded.

“Phragmipedium. Andean Fire. The active compound is in the underwater rhizome.”

“Show me.”

Using the railing to support herself, Constance circled the large, central pool, stumbling.

“Hurry up.”

At the far end of the main pool were a series of descending, smaller pools. A sign at one of them identified it as containing the aquatic plant called Andean Fire.

She gestured, swaying. “There.”

Barbeaux peered into the dark water. “There’s nothing in the pool,” he said.

Constance sank to her knees. “The plant is dormant this time of year.” Her voice was slow, thick. “The root’s in the mud underwater.”

He waved his gun. “Get up.”

She tried to rise. “I can’t move.”

With a curse, Barbeaux pulled off his jacket, knelt at the pool, and stuck his shirtsleeved arm into the water.

“Don’t forget your promise,” Constance murmured.

Ignoring this, Barbeaux began rummaging around in the muck at the bottom. In a few seconds he withdrew the arm with a grunt of surprise. Something was odd. No — something was wrong. The cotton material of his shirt was starting to come apart, dissolving and ru

The sound of police sirens, shrill and anxious, began rising in the distance.

Barbeaux rose, staggered back with a roar of fury, pulled his gun out with his left hand, raised it — but Constance Greene had disappeared into the riot of growth.

Now pain took hold, excruciating pain, rippling up his arm and into his head, and then Barbeaux felt a jolt in his brain like electricity, followed by another, even worse. He staggered back and forth, swinging his smoking arm around, seeing the skin blacken and curl away to expose the flesh beneath. He began firing the gun crazily into the jungle, his vision fogging, his lungs choking, the shocks in his head and the muscle spasms in his body coming faster and faster until a spasm knocked him to his knees and then threw him down to the ground.

“There’s no point in struggling,” Constance said. She had reappeared from somewhere, and — out of the corner of his eye — Barbeaux saw her pick up his gun and toss it into the bushes. “Triflic acid, which I have introduced into this secondary pool, is not only highly corrosive, but it’s extremely poisonous as well. Once it eats its way through your skin, it starts to affect you systemically. A neurotoxin — you will die convulsing with pain.”

She turned and darted away again.

In a paroxysm of rage, Barbeaux managed to rise and stagger in pursuit, but could only make it to the far wing of the Palm House before collapsing again. He tried to rise once more, but found he had lost all control of his muscles.

The sounds of sirens had grown much louder, and in the distance, through his fog of pain, Barbeaux could hear the sounds of shouting, ru

Now there was a commotion nearby, and he made out individual words. “… Paddles!” “… Charged!” “… I’ve got a pulse!” “… Hang some D5W!” “… Get him to the ambulance!”

Hours, or maybe it was just moments, later a police officer and an EMS worker were leaning over him, shocked expressions on their faces. Barbeaux felt himself being lifted onto a stretcher. And then Constance Greene was among them, staring down at him. Through the fog of pain and the racking convulsions, Barbeaux tried to tell her she had lied; that she had welshed on their deal. Not even a gasp escaped his lips.

But she understood anyway. She bent forward and spoke softly, so that only he could hear. “It’s true,” she said. “I reneged. Just as you would have.”

The workers prepared to lift the stretcher, and she spoke more quickly. “One last thing. Your fatal mistake was believing you had — and please forgive the crudeness of today’s vernacular — a bigger pair of balls.”

And as the unendurable pain overwhelmed him and his vision failed, Barbeaux saw Constance rise, turn, and then race away as Pendergast’s stretcher headed toward the ambulance.

76

Within about five minutes, the scene at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden had gone from merely crazy to totally insane. Paramedics, cops, firemen, and EMS workers were everywhere, securing the site, yelling into radios, shouting in surprise and disgust at each fresh and horrifying discovery.

As he jogged toward the central pavilion, a bizarre figure came rushing toward D’Agosta — a woman dressed only in a torn chemise, filthy, her hair full of twig ends and bits of flowers.

“Over here!” the figure cried. With a start, D’Agosta recognized Constance Greene. Automatically, he began to remove his jacket to cover her, but she ran past him to a group of paramedics. “This way!” she cried to them, leading them off in the direction of a huge Victorian structure of metal and glass.

Margo and D’Agosta followed, through a side door and into a long hall, apparently set up for a wedding reception but looking as if it had been raided by a biker gang: tables overturned, glassware shattered, chairs knocked over. At the far end, on the parquet dance floor, lay two bodies. Constance led the paramedics to one of them. When he saw it was Pendergast, D’Agosta staggered, grabbed the back of a chair. He turned on the paramedics and screamed, “Work this one first!”

“Oh no,” Margo sobbed, her hand over her mouth. “No.”

The paramedics surrounded Pendergast and began a quick ABC assessment: airway, breathing, circulation.

“Paddles!” one of them barked over his shoulder. An EMS worker with defib equipment came up as Pendergast’s shirt was ripped away.

“Charged!” the EMS worker cried. The paddles were applied; the body jerked; the paddles reapplied.

“Again!” ordered the paramedic.

Another jolt; another galvanic jerk.

“I’ve got a pulse!” the paramedic said.

Only now, as Pendergast was placed on a stretcher, did D’Agosta turn his attention to the second supine figure. The body was twitching violently, eyes staring, mouth working soundlessly. It was a man in shirtsleeves, well into middle age, with a solid build. D’Agosta recognized him from pictures on Red Mountain’s website as John Barbeaux. One of his arms was blistering and smoking, with bone exposed, as if burned in a fire, the shirt eaten away almost to the shoulder. Several newly arriving paramedics bent over him and began working.

As D’Agosta watched, Constance approached the twitching form of Barbeaux, nudged one of the paramedics aside, and bent in close. He could see her lips move in some whispered message to him. Then she straightened up and turned to the paramedics. “He’s all yours.”

“You need an assessment, too,” said another paramedic, approaching her.

“Don’t touch me.” She backed up and turned away, disappearing into the dark bowels of the greenhouse complex. The paramedics watched her go, then returned their attention to Barbeaux.

“What the hell happened to her?” D’Agosta asked Margo.

“I have no idea. There are… a lot of dead people here.”

D’Agosta shook his head. It would all be sorted out later. He turned his attention to Pendergast. The paramedics were now raising his stretcher, one holding an IV bottle up, and they headed toward the ambulances. D’Agosta and Margo followed.

As they were jogging along, Constance reappeared. She had a large pink lily in her hand, dripping wet.

“I’ll take your jacket now,” she said to D’Agosta.

D’Agosta draped his jacket over her shoulders. “Are you all right?”