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66

T WENTY MINUTES AFTER LEAVING the chaos at the Grand Circle, Diogenes pulled up at the fortified entrance to the alleyway. Bloom must have been waiting just inside, because now he pushed his way past a couple of burly roustabouts and stepped onto the pavement.

"Milord!" he said, looking Diogenes up and down. "What's happened? Have you been accosted?"

Diogenes realized the man was referring to his once-resplendent outfit, now bereft of its ruffles and lace. He was also covered with soot and ash. Above the tops of the buildings on the north side of the avenue, the conflagration was still visible: the tower of fire had subsided, but black smoke was belching upward as thickly as ever.

"We almost got caught in an explosion in the park," he told Bloom. "Anarchists, maybe—but I think it's the Theosophical Society, creating a diversion. If I'm right, that means an attack might be imminent. They must have learned about the nexus and are preparing an assault on our barricades."

As he listened, Bloom's expression wavered between incredulity and alarm. The latter won out—thanks, in part, to the inferno. "Those blasts got the men riled up," he said. "They're ready for anything."

"‘Anything' is the perfect word," Diogenes said, a not entirely theatrical quaver in his voice. "A mob might descend upon us. My brother will certainly be here momentarily. God only knows what will happen—" He paused to look at Bloom. "You haven't let anyone near—"

"Lord, no, sir!"

"Good. Now, tell your men: we might have to open the alley barricade for my brother at a moment's notice… while preparing to repel anyone else. Lively, now!"

As Bloom took off, yelling for his men inside the tenements to rally round, Diogenes made his way through the barricade that blocked the alley entrance. Here, between the unlit buildings that rose on both sides, night had fallen—save for the barrier of thick tarps in the very center of the alley, where an unearthly glow shone from behind the canvas shroud.

Diogenes dashed forward and ducked inside. There it was, strong and stable as before: the gateway, not only to his home, but to countless distant worlds beyond. With its brilliance and fearsome power, it had an ineffable attraction, awe inspiring in its promise of the unknown…

… Forcing himself to look away, Diogenes ducked back out of the enclosure and glanced down Smee's Alley toward Seventh Avenue. Half a dozen men, at least, were now manning the barricade.

He paused a moment, thinking. When the three of them—Pendergast, Constance, and himself—had held their meeting at the bordello, they had agreed on one crucial element: a deadline. Since Constance knew the Riverside Drive residence intimately, she was key to the plan; Pendergast was to find Binky, get captured, and ensure she was brought back with him to the mansion, where Constance would find a way to free her and, if necessary, Joe. It was a desperate and unlikely stratagem, but then so were their circumstances. Constance had set the deadline at January 9—she refused to say why exactly but insisted that if the day should arrive without at least Binky being back at Leng's mansion, all would be lost.

There was, of course, a codicil to this plan: in addition to impeding Leng's access to new victims, Diogenes was to keep an eye on Smee's Alley and—in the unlikely event the portal should reappear—contrive to send out a signal that would reach the length and breadth of Manhattan, and that could not be missed by Pendergast, wherever he might be.

And late this afternoon, that event had—remarkably—transpired, and the signal had been duly sent: the destruction of the tower.

Diogenes now went deeper into the alley and through the door leading to the rambling ground floor of the northern tenement. The building was by now a virtual armory, and he grabbed a brace of pistols as he followed the twists and turns leading at last onto Forty-Second Street. There he stopped, tucking one pistol into the waistband of his silk trousers and the other into his vest. If everything had gone according to plan; if Pendergast had found Binky and returned with her to Leng's mansion; if Constance had managed to slip past Leng and his gang and freed Binky; if Pendergast had been able to extricate himself from the mansion… if, if, if.

Diogenes was certain of one thing: they could not fail to notice his signal—and if all was well, they would now be coming to Smee's Alley at a gallop.

Thanks to the explosions, the thoroughfares surrounding Central Park were full of panicked people, carriages, and horses… no doubt impassable. If they'd still been in Leng's mansion, Pendergast's group would come down the Post Road, then remain near the Hudson as the road became Tenth Avenue, not turning until Forty-Second—which meant they would probably be approaching from the west, if they were coming at all.

He surveyed the broad street. Here, ironically, there was less traffic than usual; the confusion and frantic bottleneck seemed to have created something of a ghost town on these cross streets to the south. A few carriages and pedestrians jogged up Seventh Avenue and Broadway, apparently spurred on by curiosity. A greater number were making their way south. He could hear the frantic ring of distant fire bells and the occasional gunshot from the direction of the Grand Circle.

Diogenes squinted westward through the intersecting pools of light the gas lamps cast along the boulevard. As he stared at the scene, a strange sensation of past, present, and future images overlapped in his head, along with a succession of conflicting emotions. And then he saw a large black shape—a four-in-hand barouche coach—emerge from Tenth Avenue and swerve east onto Forty-Second Street. It was Leng's: Diogenes recognized it from that first day, when he'd seen it pull up at Bellevue. As Diogenes stared, his heart accelerated when he saw Murphy, Constance's coachman, at the reins.

The coach was moving like the devil. Having navigated the turn, it accelerated toward him at breakneck speed, the horses thundering along the cobblestones at more of a stampede than a run.

No sane person would drive as recklessly as that… unless it was a matter of life and death.

Turning abruptly and breaking into a run, he cried to the bodyguards maintaining watch. "Open the gate!" he yelled. "Open the gate!"

He reached the corner and turned onto Seventh Avenue. His shouted commands had preceded him: the massive construction of lumber, prepped for such an occasion, crept open like the gates of Troy. Now a dozen or more men were rushing over the scaffolding like ants, pushing boards and metal columns out of the way, while others fanned out across the alley and beyond, firearms at the ready, keeping watch. Diogenes glanced into the alley in time to see Bloom appear out of the darkness. The black of night was diluted by gas lamps, but the alley itself had an illumination all its own: an unearthly glow that, for all their efforts, still permeated the heavy tarps. Bloom had trained his men well; although they had to be curious, and perhaps fearful, of whatever was within that enclosure, his sharp orders—and the promise of a thousand dollars each—kept them at their posts.

The rattle of iron horseshoes ringing off the cobblestones approached, and a second later the big coach turned into the alley at full speed, wheels screeching, forcing men to jump out of the way. There was a commanding shout from Murphy and the horses reared, skidding on the bricks, half falling in the effort to stop. Flecks of foam from their bits spattered Diogenes as he ran past them toward the carriage door, which burst open even as his fingers grasped its handle.

Diogenes was stunned by the scene within. The dark interior of the carriage was in a state of confusion, the coppery smell of blood overpowering.

"Hurry!" Pendergast cried from the darkness. "Get her to the portal!"

He emerged, carrying a bloody body slung in a blanket. With a profound shock, Diogenes realized that all was, in fact, not well—Constance had been terribly, if not mortally, wounded.

"Good God, what happened?" Diogenes cried.

"Clear the way!" Pendergast shouted. D'Agosta jumped off the coachman's seat, and the two of them carried Constance toward the shrouded enclosure.

Diogenes turned and ran before them. "Bloom! Open the canvas!"

The workmen fell back in a scramble, Bloom untying and pulling aside the heavy tarps. In an instant they were bathed in a kaleidoscope of light. As if from far away, Diogenes could hear shouts of surprise and dismay rise from the workmen as they shrank away in fear. As the unnatural light spilled across the alleyway, thousands of cockroaches stirred in alarm and scuttled, in disgusting chitinous waves, every which way.

The portal was exposed, coruscating.

"Is she alive?" Diogenes shouted at Pendergast.

"I don't know. We've got to get her back." He turned to D'Agosta. "We can't all go through simultaneously. You go first; tell them we're coming. I'll follow with Constance in a few seconds once the portal recharges."

He turned to Diogenes. "You guard the portal, keep everyone back, and follow last. As soon as you come through, we'll shut it down on our end."

"What about Leng?"

"Dead—or as good as dead. Constance poisoned him with an extraction from the death cap mushroom."

Diogenes looked into his brother's face, smeared with blood. "I'm not coming, Frater ."

Pendergast stared back. "What?"

"Go on, get her through—save her life, if you can!"

"We'll never open the portal again. This is your only chance."

"I made a hash of my life in your time."

Pendergast looked carefully at him. "If there was ever a time for jokes—this is not it."

"I'm not joking. For me, this world is a fresh start—and I have things to do here. Enough said. Ave atque vale! "

Pendergast stared at him, the expression on his face unreadable. "Goodbye then, Brother," he said, and turned away. "Vincent," he cried: " Go! "