Blue Labyrinth (33 page)

The visitors’ path lay bathed in moonlight, but the moon was low and deep shadows stretched across the shrubbery. There was no other way to approach the central pond—she would have to cross this path. As she paused, considering the situation, she was able to identify three additional men, standing in the darkness. They were utterly silent. The only things moving were their heads, which turned first one way and then the other, watching, listening.

These gentlemen were not going to be easily evaded. But evade them she must, or Pendergast would die.

The ground beneath her was wet and muddy. While her chemise was black, the exposed parts of her body were pale and could be easily detected. She scooped up the mud and methodically smeared it over her face, arms, and legs. When she was satisfied that she was fully covered, Constance crept forward again, inch by inch, parting the orchids with infinite caution. The smell of wet soil, flowers, and vegetation was pervasive. She paused after each move. As a little girl, down on the docks by Water Street, she had often stolen fish this way, moving so incrementally that no one noticed her. But back then she had been a waif. Now she was a full-grown woman.

In a few minutes, she had managed to move ten feet ahead and was now lying among a border of tropical ferns. Next, she had to cross a low railing and then the walkway. From her vantage point she could see several of the watchers, but there were no doubt others she could not see. She did have one advantage: they did not know she was already inside and among them. Their attention seemed to be focused on the entrance and an emergency exit in the rear.

More stealthy movement brought her up behind a large plaque, still in deep shadow. Getting across the walkway was going to be the crux. She could not crawl over it in slow motion. She would have to flit across at the moment when no one was looking.

She watched and waited. And then she heard the faint hiss of a radio, a murmured voice. And then another, coming from a different place; and then a third. It was exactly nine forty-five. They were checking in with each other.

In a minute they had revealed their locations—at least, those at the near end of the greenhouse. Constance counted a total of five. But she estimated that only three of them were in a position to notice her scurry across the open walkway.

She rotated her eyes upward. The moon was rising higher, casting a troublesome light into the greenhouse, and it would be most of the night before it finally set behind the trees. But a few clouds were scudding across the sky. As she watched, she could see that one of them would obscure the moon in, perhaps, three minutes.

She closed her eyes—even the whites could give her away—and
waited, counting. Three minutes passed. She opened her eyes again slightly and saw the cloud flaring white as its edge began to move across the face of the moon. A shadow fell over the greenhouse. Darkness descended.

This was her moment. Slowly, she raised her head. The watchers had melted into the darkness, so she had no way of discerning which way they were looking. It was very dark in the greenhouse now, and it would never be darker. She would have to risk it.

In one smooth, easy movement she rose to a crouch, stepped over the railing, darted across the pathway, and lay down beneath a large tropical tree draped in orchids. She remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe. All was silent. A moment later, the moonlight flared back up. Nobody had moved; nobody had seen her.

Now for the pool, and the plant…

She felt something cold touch the nape of her neck, ever so lightly. A quiet voice said: “Don’t move.”

M
argo threw herself sideways as the buckthorn darted toward her, slicing her jacket and nicking her shoulder. She landed on the floor, jammed up against a stack of shelving, trapped, her headlamp spinning off into darkness. Slade took a step forward. She was now lying on the ground, with the policeman calmly standing over her.

“You’re just making things more difficult,” Slade said.

Her arm was wedged behind her back and it was making contact with something cold. She realized it was a specimen jar, part of a row of them along the bottom level of shelving.

“Look, all I want is the plant you’ve got.” The man tried to make his voice sound reasonable. “We don’t need things to end this way. Give it to me and I’ll let you go.”

Margo said nothing. The man was a liar. Although her mind was going a mile a minute, she could see no way out.

“There’s no chance of your getting away from me, so you might as well cooperate.”

She glanced past him, in the direction of the distant door of the botanical collection through which she’d come.

“Don’t even think about making a run for it,” Slade said. “When I came into Building Six storage, I locked the entryway and jammed the lock with a broken penknife so no one else could enter. We’re alone in here—just you and me.” An odd smile formed on his thin face.

Margo choked down her fear and thought hard. She vaguely remembered that there was another exit at the far end of the Building Six basement. She racked her brains, trying to recall the corridors that would lead her to it. If she could only get past him, she could head for that back exit and lose him. After all, she knew the byways of the Museum and he did not—

“And don’t think about trying for the back exit, either. The truth is, I know these underground corridors almost as well as you do.”

She was shocked that he seemed to have divined what was in her mind. But this had to be another lie, his claiming to know the Museum’s basements.

“Oh, I know this Museum like the back of my hand,” the man said. “I wish to God I didn’t—the Museum ruined my life. I wasn’t always with the NYPD, you see. I was once an FBI agent. Graduated second in my class from the Academy. My very first assignment as a field agent was to take charge of a forward command post, right here at this Museum, to help make sure the opening of a certain blockbuster exhibition went off without a hitch. Do you know what exhibition that was, Margo? You should—you were there.”

Margo stared. Slade… Slade… she vaguely remembered hearing that name during the mopping up of that dreadful night twelve years ago, when the Museum had become a slaughterhouse. She’d never seen his face. Could this really be the same man?

“You’re…
that
Slade?”

Slade looked gratified. “That’s right. The Superstition exhibition. It was my bad luck that one SAC Spencer Coffey was in charge of the FBI contingent. That exhibition didn’t go off too well, did it? How many died—twenty-six? It was one of the biggest screwups in the Bureau’s history. So big that they made an example of not just Coffey, but all of us. Coffey was transferred to Waco, and I was cashiered from the FBI with the rest of his team. I was a branded man after that, lucky to get a job with the NYPD as a beat cop. And the brand stayed with me. Why do you think a man with my seniority and experience is still a sergeant?”

This bitter little speech had given Margo time to gather her wits.
She tried to keep him talking. “So the answer for you was to go on the take?” she asked. “Is that how it worked?”

“I had nothing to do with that disaster—I didn’t even arrive on the scene until the dust was settling—and yet they threw me to the wolves without a second thought. Things like that can make a man receptive to—shall we say—
better offers
. In time, I got a better offer—and here I am.”

Slade leaned forward, gripping the buckthorn, and she realized he was bracing himself to try once again to stab her in the neck with it. Her fingers closed around the specimen jar behind her. As he prepared to stick her, she kicked out hard, striking the inside of his ankle and knocking him off balance. Slade veered sideways momentarily to regain his balance and she swung the bottle up and around, smashing it against the side of his head. It shattered, spraying ethyl alcohol everywhere and knocking Slade to his knees. She scrambled up and leapt over him, running down the aisle, her bag held tight under her arm. Behind her, Slade rose with a howl of anger.

Panic gave Margo strength and clarity of mind. She raced down the aisles, burst out the door of the botanical collection, and took a left down the corridor, heading toward the back exit of Building Six. Because of the ancient layout of the Museum’s basement, it wasn’t a straight shot. She would have to go through a string of storage rooms in order to reach it. She could hear Slade running behind her now, his breath rasping, his shoes pounding on the cement floor—and growing closer, ever closer.

C
onstance lay in the dirt, unmoving. A dim light played over her, and she could hear faint murmurings as the men communicated with one another. She felt a strange, gathering combination of remorse, chagrin, and particularly anger: not because she was about to be killed—she cared nothing for her own life—but because her discovery meant that Pendergast would die.

She heard faint footfalls, and then a different voice said: “Stand her up.”

Her neck was prodded again. “Get up. Slow.”

Constance rose to her feet. A tall man with a military bearing stood in front of her, dressed in a dark business suit. His face, dimly illuminated by the moonlight, was large and granitic, with prominent cheekbones and a heavy, over-thrusting jaw.

Barbeaux.

For a moment her concentration narrowed to a fierce pinpoint, so overpowering was her hatred and loathing for this man. She remained motionless while Barbeaux played a light over her.

“What a sight you are,” he sneered in a gravelly tone.

Several other men had silently appeared and now took up positions around her. All were heavily armed. Every avenue of escape had been cut off. She considered snatching a firearm, but knew that would be useless; besides, these automatic weapons were foreign to her.
Barbeaux did not look like the kind of man who could be surprised or overcome easily, if at all. He had a calm, intelligent, and alert air of cruelty about him that she had encountered, notably, only twice before: her first guardian, Enoch Leng, and Diogenes Pendergast.

His inspection complete, Barbeaux spoke again. “So this is the operative Pendergast sends as his avenging angel. I didn’t believe it when Slade told me about you.”

Constance did not react.

“I’d like to know the name of the plant you’re looking for.”

She continued to stare at him.

“You’ve come in some last-ditch, desperate attempt to save your precious Pendergast. We were one step ahead of you, as you can see. Nevertheless, I am impressed at how far you managed to get in this fool’s errand before we caught you.”

Constance let him talk.

“Pendergast is on his deathbed now. You can’t imagine the delight I take in his suffering. His malady is unique: unendurable physical pain, mingling with the knowledge that you are losing your mind. I know all about it. I’ve
seen
it.”

Barbeaux paused, his eyes lingering on her mud-smeared form. “I understand that Agent Pendergast is your ‘guardian.’ What exactly does that mean?”

Silence.

“You don’t speak, but your eyes give you away. I can see your hatred of me. The hatred of a woman for her lover’s killer. How touching. What is the age gap—twenty, twenty-five years? Disgusting. You could be his daughter.”

Constance did not drop her eyes. She continued to stare into his.

“A bold girl.” Barbeaux sighed. “I need the name of the plant you seek. But I can see you will require persuading.” He reached out, touched her face. She did not flinch or draw away. His hand moved down, smearing the mud on her neck, then descended to her chemise, lightly grazing her breast through the silk.

Fast as a striking snake, Constance slapped him sharply across the face.

Barbeaux stepped back, breathing hard. “Hold her.”

Men on either side seized her by the arms. One had a shaved head; the other, hair to his shoulders. She did not struggle. Barbeaux took a step forward and reached out again, his hand closing over her breast. “Too bad Pendergast won’t be here to see his little plaything abused. Now tell me the name of the plant.” He squeezed her breast, hard.

Constance bit her lip against the pain.

“The
name
of the
plant
.”

He hurt her again. She gave a short cry, checking herself immediately.

“Don’t annoy us with hysterical outbursts. They won’t do you any good. We’ve neutralized what little security there was here. We have the place to ourselves.”

Now Barbeaux’s hand descended farther, gathering the material of the chemise. He pulled it up. “Such a young, supple body. I can just imagine Pendergast bending it like a pretzel for his own recreation.”

He let go of the chemise and stared at her a moment, appraisingly. Then he stepped back once again, nodded to Shaved Head. The man turned toward Constance, slapped her hard across the face: once, twice.

Constance endured this in silence.

“Bring the prod,” Barbeaux ordered.

From a small pack slung over his shoulder, Long Hair removed a villainous-looking device about two feet long with a rubber handle, a spring-like curl of metal encircling its central shaft, and two silvery prongs protruding from the business end. A cattle prod. He waved it under her nose.

“Gag her,” said Barbeaux. “You know how I can’t stand screaming.”

Out of the pack came a wad of cotton and some duct tape. Shaved Head gave her a sudden punch in the stomach and, when she doubled forward, jammed the cotton into her mouth, then wrapped duct tape over it, circling her head. He stepped back while Long Hair readied the prod. The other men had formed a dark, silent ring around the proceedings, watching intently.

While Shaved Head held her by both arms, Long Hair jammed the prod into her stomach. He hesitated a moment, smiling crookedly,
and then pressed the button, activating the electric current. Constance jerked in agony, all her muscles constricting, while Shaved Head pinned her in place with his hands. A muffled sound of anguish rushed from her nose, defeating all her efforts to remain silent.

Long Hair pulled the prod away.

“Again,” said Barbeaux. “When she’s ready to talk, she’ll let us know.”

Constance tried to straighten herself up. Long Hair waved the prod around teasingly, getting ready for another jolt. Suddenly he darted forward, jabbing it between her breasts and pulling the trigger again. She writhed, driven almost mad by the pain, but this time made no sound. Long Hair withdrew the prod again.

Constance struggled to straighten up again.

“This filly needs breaking hard,” said Barbeaux.

“Maybe,” said Shaved Head, “she needs stimulation in a more sensitive area.”

Barbeaux nodded, reached out, and lifted her chemise. Smiling, Long Hair closed in with the cattle prod.

Just then a shot rang out. At the same moment, the top of Long Hair’s head came off in a single piece, spinning, hair flying, blood and brain matter rising in a cloud of pink and gray.

The men reacted instantly, throwing themselves to the ground, Shaved Head yanking Constance to the ground with him. But even as the men took cover, two more shots rang out in close succession. One man doubled up, grabbing his belly with a roar, while another already on the ground was struck in the back. He jerked, letting out a scream of agony.

Constance tried to twist out from under Shaved Head’s grip, but her muscles were still convulsing from the electric shocks and he held her fast. She saw that Barbeaux was the only other one to remain standing—he had coolly stepped behind the cover of a massive tree trunk.

“Single shooter,” said Barbeaux. “Upper level. Flanking maneuver, both sides.” He signaled to three men, who immediately jumped up and disappeared, leaving her with Barbeaux, Shaved Head, a third
man, and the three bodies crumpled and bleeding out within the orchids. She heard several more shots and looked up. Plucking a radio from his waistband, Barbeaux issued more orders, apparently to men in place outside the greenhouse. As she listened to the fugue of voices over the radio, Constance estimated Barbeaux must have close to ten men still in place in and around the Aquatic House. She watched him with narrowed eyes. What was happening? Had Lieutenant D’Agosta somehow deduced her location and arrived with the NYPD?

Shaved Head pushed her back down. “Don’t fucking move,” he said.

From his position behind the tree, Barbeaux continued to issue a calm stream of commands into his radio. For a while, all was silent. And then another series of shots rang out, deeper within the complex of greenhouses, followed by the sound of falling glass. There was excited chatter over Barbeaux’s radio.

Constance lay pinned in the muck, gradually recovering her breath. Barbeaux had mentioned a single shooter. But if that shooter was D’Agosta, he would have brought backup. Whatever it meant, Pendergast might not be lost, after all…

Another burst of chatter over the radio, and then Barbeaux turned to Shaved Head. “Get her on her feet. You can remove the gag now—they’ve got the shooter. It’s Pendergast.”