Cold Vengeance (20 page)

C
HAPTER 41

New York City

A
S
J
UDSON
E
STERHAZY STEPPED OUT OF THE TAXI
, he glanced up at the oppressive stone canyons of Lower Manhattan before retrieving his leather briefcase and paying the cabbie. He walked across the narrow sidewalk, smoothing his tie, his step measured and confident, and disappeared into the low-ceilinged lobby of the New York City Department of Health.

It felt good to be wearing a suit again, even if he was still deep undercover. And it felt even better to be on the offensive, to be doing something other than just running. The fear and uncertainty that had been eating away at him were almost gone, replaced—after an initial period of knee-jerk panic—with a clear and decisive plan. One that would solve his Pendergast problem once and for all. But just as important, his plan satisfied
them. They
were going to help him. Finally.

You get to a man through his bitch.

Excellent advice, if rather crudely expressed. And finding the “bitch” had been easier than Esterhazy had hoped. The next challenge was to find a way to access said bitch.

Walking over to the building’s directory, he noted that the Division of Mental Hygiene was located on the seventh floor. He stepped up to a bank of elevators, entered a waiting car, and pressed the button marked “7.” The doors slid shut and he began to ascend.

His knowledge of medical databases had proven invaluable. In the end, it had taken only a few hits to get the information he needed, and from that to form the plan of attack. The first hit had been an involuntary commitment proceeding in which Pendergast had been called as an interested person but—perversely—elected not to appear. The second had been a paper by one Dr. Felder, not yet published but submitted to the medical community for peer review, about a most interesting case, temporarily incarcerated in the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women but due for transfer to Mount Mercy Hospital. While the identity of the patient had of course been withheld, given the commitment proceedings it was a trivial matter to determine her identity.

Exiting the elevator, Esterhazy asked directions to the office of Dr. John Felder. The psychiatrist was at work in his neat and diminutive office, and he rose as Esterhazy entered. He was as small as his office, neatly dressed, with short mouse-colored hair and a trim Van Dyke beard.

“Dr. Poole?” he said, extending his hand.

“Dr. Felder,” Esterhazy said, shaking the proffered hand. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said Felder, waving his guest to an empty chair. “To meet someone with prior experience treating Constance is an unexpected boon to my work.”

To my work
. It was exactly as Esterhazy had figured. He glanced around the impersonal office, at the textbooks and studiously neutral paintings. From his own observations, it was clear that being a court-appointed psychiatrist must be a pretty thankless job. Half the patients one saw were run-of-the-mill sociopaths; the other half were faking symptoms in order to beat a rap. Esterhazy had gotten a strong whiff of Felder’s aspirations just by reading the peer-review version of his paper: here was a case one could sink one’s teeth into, perhaps even make one’s career on. He was clearly a trusting fellow, eager, open, and, like many intelligent people, a bit naive. A perfect mark.

Even so, he had to plot his course with care. Any hint of his own true ignorance of the patient and the case would immediately arouse suspicion. The trick would be to twist that ignorance to his own advantage.

He waved a hand. “Hers is a unique presentation, at least in my experience. I was delighted to see your paper, because not only is this an interesting case, but I think it could be an important one. Perhaps even a benchmark. Although I myself have no interest in publication—my interests lie elsewhere.”

Felder simply nodded his understanding, yet Esterhazy saw a brief glimmer of relief in the psychiatrist’s eyes. It was important Felder realize his guest was no threat to his ambitions.

“How many times have you spoken with Constance?” Esterhazy asked.

“I’ve had four consultations so far.”

“And has she manifested amnesia yet?”

Felder frowned. “No. Not at all.”

“It was the part of her treatment that I found most challenging. I would complete a session with her, feeling that I had made progress in addressing some of her more dangerous delusions. But when I returned for the next session, I found that she retained absolutely no memory of the previous visit. Indeed, she claimed not to remember me at all.”

Felder tented his fingers. “How odd. In my experience, her memory has been excellent.”

“Interesting. The amnesia is both dissociative and lacunar.”

Felder began taking notes.

“What I find most interesting is that there are strong indications that this may be a rare case of dissociative fugue.”

“Which might explain, for example, the ocean voyage?” Felder was still writing.

“Exactly—as well as the inexplicable outburst of violence. Which is why, Dr. Felder, I termed this case unique. I think we have a chance—
you
have a chance—to substantially advance medical knowledge here.”

Felder scribbled faster.

Esterhazy shifted in his chair. “I often wondered if her, ah, unusual personal relationships might have been a factor in her disorder.”

“You mean, her guardian? This fellow Pendergast?”

“Well…” Esterhazy seemed to hesitate. “It is true that
guardian
is the term Pendergast uses. However—speaking as one doctor to another, you understand—the relationship has been a great deal more intimate than that term would suggest. Which may explain why Pendergast—or so I understand—declined to show up at her competency hearing.”

Dr. Felder stopped scribbling and looked up. Esterhazy nodded, slowly and significantly.

“That is very interesting,” Felder said. “She denies it quite specifically.”

“Naturally,” Esterhazy replied in a low voice.

“You know—” Felder stopped a moment, as if considering something. “If there was some severe emotional trauma, sexual coercion or even abuse, it might not only explain that fugue state, but her strange ideas about her past.”

“Strange ideas about the past?” Esterhazy said. “That must be a new development.”

“Constance has been insisting to me that—well, not to put too fine a point to it, Dr. Poole—that she is roughly one hundred and forty years old.”

It was all Esterhazy could do to keep a straight face. “Indeed?” he managed.

Felder nodded. “She maintains she was born in the 1870s. That she grew up on Water Street, just blocks from where we are now. That both her parents died when she was young and she lived for years and years in a mansion owned by a man named Leng.”

Esterhazy quickly followed up this line. “That could be the other side of the coin of her dissociative amnesia and fugue state.”

“The thing of it is, her knowledge of the past—at least the period in which she maintains she grew up—is remarkably vivid. And accurate.”

What utter rubbish
. “Constance is an unusually intelligent—if troubled—person.”

Felder looked thoughtfully at his notes for a moment. Then he glanced at Esterhazy. “Doctor, could I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Would you consider consulting with me on the case?”

“I would be delighted.”

“I would welcome a second opinion. Your past experience with the patient and your observations would no doubt prove invaluable.”

Esterhazy felt a shiver of joy. “I’m only in New York a week or two, up at Columbia—but I would be happy to lend what assistance I can.”

For the first time, Dr. Felder smiled.

“Given the lacunar amnesia I mentioned,” Esterhazy said, “it would be better to introduce me to her as if we have not met before. Then we can observe her response. It will be interesting to see if the amnesia has persisted through her fugue state.”

“Interesting indeed.”

“I understand she’s currently in residence at Mount Mercy?”

“That is correct.”

“And I assume you can arrange to get me the necessary consulting status there?”

“I believe so. Of course, I’ll need your CV, institutional affiliation, the usual paperwork…” And here Felder’s voice trailed off in embarrassment.

“Certainly! As it happens, I believe I have all the necessary paperwork here. I brought it along for the staff at Columbia.” Opening his briefcase, he extracted a folder containing a beautifully forged set of accreditations and documents, compliments of the Covenant. There was indeed a real Dr. Poole in case Felder did a brief check, but given his trusting nature he didn’t seem the type to make calls. “And here’s a short breakdown—a brief summary—of my own work with Constance.” He extracted a second folder, whose contents were designed more to whet Felder’s curiosity than to provide any real information.

“Thank you.” Felder opened the first folder, scanned through it quickly, then closed it and handed it back. As Esterhazy had hoped, this step had been merely a formality. “I should be able to give you an update by tomorrow.”

“Here’s my cell number.” And Esterhazy passed a card across the table.

Felder slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am, Dr. Poole, to have gained your assistance in this matter.”

“Believe me, Doctor, the pleasure is all mine.” And—rising—Esterhazy shook hands warmly with Felder, smiled into the earnest face, and showed himself out.

C
HAPTER 42

Penumbra Plantation, St. Charles Parish

W
ELCOME HOME
, M
R
. P
ENDERGAST,” SAID
M
AURICE
, as if Pendergast had only been away a few minutes instead of two months, when he opened the front door. “Will you be wanting supper, sir?”

Pendergast entered the house, Maurice shutting the door against the chill fog of the winter air. “No, thank you. But a glass of amontillado in the second-floor parlor would be lovely, if you don’t mind.”

“The fire is laid.”

“Marvelous.” Pendergast climbed the stairs to the parlor, where a small fire blazed on the hearth, banishing the habitual dampness of the house. He took a seat in a wing chair beside it, and a moment later Maurice came in carrying a silver tray, with a small glass of sherry balanced on it.

“Thank you, Maurice.”

As the white-haired servant turned to leave, Pendergast said, “I know you’ve been worried about me.”

Maurice paused but did not respond.

“When I first discovered the circumstances of my wife’s death,” Pendergast continued, “I was not myself. I imagine you must have been alarmed.”

“I was concerned,” said Maurice.

“Thank you. I know you were. But I’m my own man once again, and there’s no need to monitor my comings or goings or mention them to my brother-in-law…” He paused. “You were in contact with Judson about my situation, I assume?”

Maurice colored. “He is a doctor, sir, and he asked me to help, specifically with regard to your movements. He was fearful that you might do something rash. I thought, given the family history…” His voice trailed off.

“Quite so, quite so. However, it turns out that Judson may not have had my best interests in mind. We’ve had a bit of a falling-out, I’m afraid. And as I mentioned, I’m quite recovered. So you see there is no reason to share anything further with him.”

“Of course. I hope my confidences to Dr. Esterhazy did not cause you any inconvenience?”

“None at all.”

“Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you. Good night, Maurice.”

“Good night, sir.”

One hour later, Pendergast sat motionless in a small space that had once been his mother’s dressing room. The door was closed and locked. The heavy, old-fashioned furniture had been removed and replaced with a single wing chair, a mahogany table set before it. The elegant William Morris wallpaper had been stripped away and dark blue soundproofing installed in its place. There was nothing in the room to distract or to arouse interest. The only illumination in the windowless space came from a single beeswax taper placed on the small table, which cast a flickering light over the patternless walls. It was the most private and insular room in the mansion.

In the perfect silence, Pendergast turned his gaze to the candle flame, slowing both his respiration and pulse with great deliberation. Through the esoteric meditative discipline of Chongg Ran, which he had studied in the Himalayas many years before, he was preparing to enter the heightened mental state of
stong pa nyid
. Pendergast had combined this ancient Buddhist practice with the idea of the memory palace contained in Giordano Bruno’s
Ars Memoria
to create his own unique form of mental concentration.

He stared at the flame and—slowly, very slowly—let his gaze pierce its flickering heart. As he sat, motionless, he allowed his consciousness to enter into the flame, to be consumed by it, to join with it first as an organic whole, and then—as the minutes passed—at an even more fundamental level, until it was as if the very molecules of his sentient being mingled with those of the flame.

The flickering heat grew to fill his mind’s eye with endless, unquenchable fire. And then—quite suddenly—it winked out. Unrelieved blackness took its place.

Pendergast waited, in perfect equanimity, for his memory palace—the storehouse of knowledge and recollection to which he could retreat when in need of guidance—to appear. But the familiar marble walls did not rise up from the blackness. Instead, Pendergast found himself in a dim, closet-like area with a ceiling that sloped low over his head. Before him stood a latticed doorway looking out onto a service hallway; behind him was a wall covered with Rube Goldberg–like diagrams and treasure maps, scrawled by youthful hands.

This was the hideout known as Plato’s Cave, under the back stairs of the old house on Dauphine Street, where he and his brother, Diogenes, had gone to hatch childish schemes and plots… before the Event that sundered their comradeship forever.

This was the second time a memory crossing of Pendergast’s had taken an unexpected turn to this place. With a sudden apprehension, he peered into the dark space at the rear of Plato’s Cave. Sure enough: there was his brother, aged about nine or ten, wearing the navy blazer and shorts that were the uniform of Lusher, the school they attended. He was browsing through a book of Caravaggio’s paintings. He glanced up at Pendergast, gave a sardonic smile, and returned to the book.

“It’s you again,” Diogenes said, the boy strangely speaking in the adult’s voice. “Just in time. Maurice just saw a rabid dog running down the street near the Le Prêtres’ house. Let’s see if we can’t goad it into entering the Convent of St. Maria, shall we? It’s just noon, they’re probably all assembled at mass.”

When Pendergast did not reply, Diogenes turned over a page. “This is one of my favorites,” he said. “
The Beheading of St. John the Baptist
. Notice how the woman on the left is lowering the basket to receive the head. How accommodating! And the nobleman standing over John, directing the proceedings—such an air of calm command! That’s just how I want to look when I…” He abruptly fell silent and turned another page.

Still Pendergast did not speak.

“Let me guess,” said Diogenes. “This has to do with your dear departed wife.”

Pendergast nodded.

“I saw her once, you know,” Diogenes continued, not looking up from the book. “You two were in the gazebo in the back garden, playing backgammon. I was watching from behind the wisteria bushes. Priapus in the shrubbery, and all that sort of thing. It was an idyllic scene. She had such poise, such elegance of movement. She reminded me of the Madonna in Murillo’s
Immaculate Conception
.” He paused. “So you think she’s still alive,
frater
?”

Pendergast spoke for the first time. “Judson told me so, and he had no motive to lie.”

Diogenes did not look up from the book. “Motive? That’s easy. He wanted to inflict the maximum amount of pain at the moment of your death. You have that effect on people.” He turned another page. “I suppose you dug her up?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“The DNA matched.”

“And yet you still think she’s alive?” Another snicker.

“The dental records also matched.”

“Was the corpse also missing a hand?”

A long pause. “Yes. But the fingerprint evidence was inconclusive.”

“The body must’ve been in quite a state. How terrible for you to have that image lodged in your mind—your
last
image of her. Have you found the birth certificate yet?”

Pendergast paused, struck by the question. Now that the subject came up, he did not recall ever having seen her birth certificate. It hadn’t seemed important. He had always assumed she had been born in Maine, but that was now clearly a lie.

Diogenes tapped an image on the page:
Crucifixion of Saint Peter
. “I wonder how being hung upside down on a cross affects the continuity of one’s thought processes.” He looked up. “
Frater
. You’re the one who was—not to put too fine a point on it—in possession of her loins. You were her soul mate, were you not?”

“I thought so.”

“Well, sift your feelings. What do they tell you?”

“That she’s alive.”

Diogenes broke into a peal of laughter, his pink boyish mouth thrown back and open, the laugh grotesquely adult. Pendergast waited for it to subside. Finally Diogenes stopped, smoothed his hair, and laid the book aside. “This is so rich. Like the coming in of a foul tide, those bad old Pendergastian genes are finally rising to the fore in you. You now have a crazy obsession of your very own. Congratulations and welcome to the family!”

“It isn’t an obsession if it’s the truth.”

“Oh, ho!”

“You’re dead. What do you know?”

“Am I really dead?
Et in Arcadia ego!
The day will come when we shall, all of us Pendergasts, join hands in a great family reunion in the lowest circle of hell. What a party that will be! Ha ha ha—!”

With a sudden, violent burst of will, Pendergast sundered the memory crossing. Once again he was back in the old dressing room, sitting in the leather wing chair, with only the flickering candle for company.