11

11

W HEN C ONSTANCE RETURNED TO the parlor of her Fifth Avenue mansion, the clocks were just striking ten. A fire was blazing on the hearth, its flickering light lending a cruel coziness to the room. Diogenes sat in a wing chair, beside a table holding snifters and a bottle of brandy, idly leafing through a book. Pendergast, meanwhile, was pacing the room, his face a mask of agitation.

Diogenes looked over at the sound of her approach. Then he glanced at his brother.

"You're back," Pendergast said, relief evident in his voice.

Constance stepped into the parlor and stood there, without removing her coat. Her fury at Leng had not subsided during the ride back—but it had settled into a cold, calculating rage.

"You gave him the Arcanum?" Pendergast asked, coming forward. "The true formula, with no alteration?"

"Yes."

"And what of Binky?"

"He would not release her. Not until he's tested it—or so he says. However, he showed her to me. Briefly."

"So she's at the mansion," Pendergast went on.

Constance nodded. "At least temporarily—those were his words."

"He wouldn't put her back in his subterranean works," Diogenes said. "The Five Points would be too obvious a move. But I've no doubt he has other places of concealment."

"Nevertheless," Pendergast said, "the Riverside Drive mansion seems a logical place to keep her for the time being. It is well fortified against invasion."

"Against invasion from those ignorant of its secrets, you mean," responded Constance.

Pendergast turned to her. "You didn't reveal anything to him? Perhaps in a moment of anger or frustration?"

Constance did not answer.

"Our knowledge of that mansion's future, and what you know of Leng's future, is our hole card."

"I'm quite aware of that," Constance said. "I betrayed nothing—because that mansion is where I plan to spend the coming days. I'll penetrate it, establish a bunker from which I can come and go unobserved… and then search for Binky—as well as probe for a soft underbelly—alone."

"What else did he say?"

"He spoke only for his own amusement. There's no point repeating any more of it."

"So you learned nothing that could be of use to us."

Constance shook her head. "One of Leng's gang members… opened himself up to me."

"And?"

"He had little to offer." She glanced from Pendergast to Diogenes, who was still seated. "And you two?"

"I, for one, have been conducting research." He tossed aside the book he'd been perusing. Constance glanced at its spine: Puritanism and the Decline of the Reformation .

She turned back to Pendergast. "Tell me about Joe."

"I put into motion the arrangements we discussed earlier. At this moment, Vincent and your brother should be approaching the Old Colony Railroad terminal in Boston, on their way to a ‘cottage' on Mount Desert Island owned by the Rockefeller family. As you know, our family was once linked to them through shared business concerns, and when I hastily reached out to William—William Avery Jr., that is—he proved most cooperative."

"But he doesn't know you personally. Can he be trusted?"

"My dear Constance, you are correct to be on your guard. But you should know better than most that there exist certain fraternal bonds and secret societies that transcend time, money—everything except honor." And, beckoning her closer for a moment, he briefly murmured the details.

Constance, reassured, allowed Diogenes to pour her a glass of brandy. She looked from one brother to the other. It was clear that, whether or not they agreed with her plan, they knew better than to object.

After a silence, Diogenes reached for his brandy. "While you were paying your social call, Aloysius and I spoke at length—and we agreed that a critical way to start undermining Fortress Leng is to cut off his supply of victims."

"You once told me that, in order to test the new variants of his Arcanum, Leng would use a special, accelerated formulation on his human guinea pigs, in hope of success," Pendergast said to Constance.

"Correct. Followed by an autopsy."

"On those guinea pigs where his latest variant was unsuccessful?"

"Whether it was successful or not."

" What? " Pendergast looked even more horrified.

"Once he stumbled on the working formula, he still dosed, and dissected, half a dozen or so ‘subjects'—to make sure there were no negative internal effects. Only then did he start taking it himself."

There was a brief silence before Pendergast spoke again. "I assume he'll employ this same accelerated formulation on the Arcanum, now in his possession. How long will it take him to be confident the formula works?"

Constance shrugged. "Hard to say."

"Hard to say?" Diogenes replied, lifting an eyebrow. "You don't remember?"

"I tried my best to suppress those memories," Constance said with irritation, "and I don't appreciate you scolding me for it."

"Scolding? Merely trying to help."

"That's enough," said Pendergast quietly.

"Perhaps you should remind your ward to be more grateful," said Diogenes. "I sacrificed myself by coming back here, too—remember?"

"No one asked you to," Constance said. "No one asked either of you," she added icily, then took in a deep, shuddering breath. "When a new version of the elixir seemed potentially successful, he allowed two weeks for observation. Sometimes a little more, never less."

"And for each new formulation—it required vivisecting the cauda equina from a victim each time, as well?"

Constance nodded.

"Then our plan should be sound," Pendergast went on. "We'll do our best to cut off his supply of victims, interfere with or destroy his laboratories of operation—at least, those we can find. You've said Binky is too young to be used as a test subject—Leng will be desperate for new victims, both as guinea pigs and as resources." His voice had returned to its normal level, but Constance still detected the faintest quaver of emotion. With surprise, she realized that, beyond his self-recrimination and frustration, he too was angry—angry in a way she had never seen before. Looking at his pale eyes, she could sense the same thirst for blood vengeance that filled herself.

Abruptly, those eyes locked on hers. "Constance, I'm aware you intend to operate independently. But the three of us have the same goals: save Binky—and kill Leng. We can attack the problem as individuals, but we must nevertheless agree on meeting—once, at the very least—to check on the others' progress and ensure our efforts don't unintentionally collide. And we must have a means of emergency communication."

He fell silent, and for a time everyone sat motionless. Then Constance leaned forward, picked up her snifter, drained the brandy, and then, reaching into her handbag, took out a small notebook and wrote something on it with a gold pencil. She tore out the page, folded it, and handed it to Pendergast.

He opened it, read it. "This will suffice."

Immediately, Constance rose. "In that case, good night. I need rest before I go." She paused. "Since I presume you two plan on staying, ask Gosnold to put you up somewhere on the third floor." And she turned to leave.

"Constance," she heard Diogenes say—and the uncharacteristically serious tone in his voice made her pause. "Let me caution you. You of all people must realize not to push Leng too hard or too far. If we cross his red line… Binky will die."

Constance's only response was to remain still a moment, forcing herself to let the truth of this sink in. Then she turned to go upstairs.

As the sounds of her footsteps disappeared, the brothers looked at each other. Pendergast was the first to speak. "I'm glad you said that. I was beginning to wonder if you were really here to help us—or just goad her and stir up mischief."

"That's rich, coming from the person who's made a hash of everything—hiring that idiot Ferenc, for starters. Why didn't you just leave her here, unmolested? She was doing all right."

"She was not. She was allowing passion to govern her reason. Leng was already taking advantage of it, toying with her. She would have been doomed."

"You don't know that. Clever as we think ourselves, there are times she's surprised both of us. Besides, look at this place!" He waved his hand, indicating the room. "It's the first palace I've seen that actually has taste. And her carriage! I thought Leng's was impressive. Why, it's got the loveliest… the finest…" He stopped, at a loss for words. "I don't yet have the knowledge to articulate my admiration, but something I never expected has happened: I've developed carriage envy."

Pendergast leaned forward. "This badinage is pointless. You know why I returned. For the very same reason you did."

There was a moment of silence. Then Diogenes rose.

"Are you going to scare up Gosnold?" Pendergast asked him. "His rooms are just off the back kitchen."

Diogenes shook his head. "No, Brother—I'm off."

"Where?"

"That's my business. Did you think Constance the only one who values her secrets? Now, good night; I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep." He paused. "I quite like the sound of that. Perhaps I'll construct a poem around those lines."

"I never took you for a plagiarist."

"One can't steal words that have yet to be written. Besides, Frater , plagiarism is the last thing you should fear when it comes to this new, or rather old, world of sin now open before me. I find myself looking at it with wild surmise and wondering: can so many unanticipated temptations be resisted?" He shrugged into his greatcoat, lit another salmon-colored cigarette, put on his hat. "I'll use the front door on my way out," he said as he strode into the entryway. "That will be a novelty."

"Diogenes—"

"I know. Sweet dreams to you, too." He opened the inner, then the outer door, and then—with a bow, and a slight doff of his hat—he strode off into the night.