Blue Labyrinth (29 page)

F
ar below Pendergast’s bedroom, Constance stood at one of the last of the long sub-basement rooms, breathing hard. A black nylon bag was slung over her shoulder. Traceries of cobwebs hung from her dress.

She had reached the end of Dr. Enoch’s cabinet. It was two thirty
PM
, and she’d spent hours trying to assemble the necessary compounds for the antidote. Putting the nylon bag down, she consulted her list again, although she knew perfectly well what was still missing. Chloroform and oil of chenopodium.

She had found a large carboy of chloroform, but it hadn’t been well sealed and, over the years, had evaporated. She had found no trace of chenopodium. Chloroform was available by prescription, but that would take too long and Constance did not expect that it would be easy to persuade Dr. Stone, upstairs, to write a scrip. But oil of chenopodium was the bigger problem, as it was no longer used in herbal preparations because of its toxic nature. If she couldn’t find it down here, she would be out of luck. There had to be some in the collections somewhere, as it had been a common ingredient in patent medicines.

But she had seen none.

She started back through the rooms, sweeping beneath the archways. She had skipped the few remaining ruined storage rooms on her outward exploration. Now she would inspect those, too. Over
the months, she and Proctor had undertaken the painstaking cleaning process—tossing away the piles of broken glass, gingerly clearing away the crushed artifacts or spilled chemicals.

What if the bottles of oil of chenopodium had been among those broken and disposed of…?

She paused in the one room they had not yet restored. Toppled shelves lay strewn about, and millions of fragments of broken glass winked and glittered on the floor, which was stained with various colored substances and sticky, dried pools. A vile, moldy smell hung in the air here like a toxic miasma. But not everything was broken: many bottles lay on the floor intact, and some shelves still were upright or leaning, crowded with jars of numerous colors, each with a label written in Enoch Leng’s elegant hand.

She started going through the unbroken bottles on some shelves that had escaped the general destruction. The bottles rattled under her fingers as she sorted through them, one Latin name after another, an endless procession of compounds.

It was maddening. The cataloging system Dr. Enoch had used had all been in his own head—and after his death she had never been able to decipher it. She suspected it was random—and that the doctor had simply recorded the entire library of chemicals in his photographic memory.

Completing one shelf, she started on the next, and then the next. A bottle fell and shattered; she kicked the pieces aside. A stench rose up. She kept going, sorting faster and faster, more bottles dropping in her haste. She looked at her watch. Three o’clock.

With a hiss of irritation, she moved to the intact bottles lying about the floor—the ones that hadn’t broken. Stooping, her feet crunching over broken glass, she continued searching, plucking up a bottle, reading the label, tossing it aside. Here were many oils: calendula, borage seed, primrose, mullein, poke root… but no chenopodium. With sudden frustration she lashed out at one of the shelves she had already ransacked, sweeping all the bottles to the floor. They landed with a crashing and popping sound, and now a truly horrific stench rose up.

She stepped aside. Her loss of control was regrettable. Taking a series of deep breaths, she regained her presence of mind and began searching the last of the shelves. Still nothing.

And suddenly there it was: a big bottle labeled
OIL OF CHENOPODIUM
. Right in front of her.

Scooping up the bottle, she put it in her bag and continued searching for chloroform. Almost the next bottle she picked up turned out to be a small, well-sealed vial of that, too. She stuffed it into the bag, rose, and swept toward the stairs leading to the elevator.

She took this sudden reversal of luck to be a sign. But even as she reached the library, the bookshelves sliding back into place, Mrs. Trask was there, proffering her a phone.

“It’s the lieutenant,” she said.

“Tell him I’m not in.”

With a look of disapproval, Mrs. Trask continued holding out the telephone. “He’s most insistent.”

Constance took the phone and made an effort to be cordial. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I want you and Margo down here, on the double.”

“We’re rather occupied at the present time,” said Constance.

“I’ve got some vital information. There are some really,
really
bad people involved in this. You and Margo are going to get yourselves killed. I want to help.”

“You can’t help us,” said Constance.

“Why?”

“Because…” She went silent.

“Because you’re planning some illegal shit?”

No answer.

“Constance, get your ass down here now. Or so help me God I’ll come up there with a posse and bring you down myself.”

L
et’s go through it,” D’Agosta said. It was late afternoon, and Margo and Constance were seated in the lieutenant’s office. “You say you’ve found a cure for what poisoned Pendergast?”

“An antidote,” said Constance. “Developed by Hezekiah Pendergast to counteract the effects of his own elixir.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Not positive,” said Margo. “But we’ve got to try.”

D’Agosta sat back. This sounded crazy. “And you’ve got all the ingredients?”

“All but two,” Margo said. “They’re plants, and we know where to get them.”

“Where?”

Silence.

D’Agosta stared at Margo. “Let me guess: you’re going to rob the Museum.”

More silence. Margo’s face looked white and strained, but there was a hard glitter in her eyes.

D’Agosta smoothed a hand over his balding pate and looked back at the two defiant women sitting across the desk. “Look. I’ve been a cop for a long time. I’m not an idiot, and I know you’re planning something illegal. Frankly, I don’t care about that right now. Pendergast is
my friend. What I do care about is you being successful in getting those plants. And not being killed in the process. You understand?”

Margo finally nodded.

D’Agosta turned to Constance. “You?”

“I understand,” said Constance, but he could tell from her face that she did not agree. “You said you had vital information. What is it?”

“If I’m right, this Barbeaux is a lot more dangerous than anyone imagined. You’re going to need backup. Let me help you get those plants, wherever they are.”

More silence. Finally, Constance rose. “How can you help us? You yourself pointed out that what we’re doing is illegal.”

“Constance is right,” said Margo. “Can you imagine the red tape? Look. Pendergast—your friend—is dying. We are almost out of time.”

D’Agosta felt himself losing his temper. “I’m well aware of that, which is why I’m willing to step over the line. Look, damn it, if you don’t let me help you, I’m going to throw you both in the tank. Right now. For your own protection.”

“If you do that, Pendergast is sure to die,” Constance said.

D’Agosta exhaled. “I’m not going to let you two go running around playing cop. Barbeaux or his men have been a step ahead of us all the way. How do you think I’d feel with three deaths on my head instead of one? Because he may well try to stop you.”

“I hope he does,” said Constance. “And now I’m afraid we must be going.”

“I swear I’m going to have you taken in.”

“No, you’re not,” she said quietly.

D’Agosta rose. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”

He left his office, closing the door behind him, and went over to Sergeant Josephus, manning the outer desk. “Sergeant? Those two in my office? When they leave, I want them followed. A full tail, twenty-four seven, until further notice.”

Josephus glanced back toward D’Agosta’s office. D’Agosta followed his gaze. Through the glass of the door, he could see Constance and Margo talking between themselves.

“Yes, sir,” Josephus said. He pulled out an official form. “Now, if I could have their names—”

D’Agosta thought a moment, waved his hand. “Scratch that. I’ve got another idea.”

“Sure thing, Loo.”

D’Agosta opened the door to his office, stepped inside, and stared at the two women. “If you’re planning to go to the Museum to steal some plants, it isn’t the guards you need to worry about—it’s Barbeaux’s men. You got that?”

Both of them nodded.

“Get out of here.”

They left.

D’Agosta stared at the empty doorway, full of an impotent anger. Son of a bitch, he had never met two more impossible women in his life. But there was one good way to keep them safe, or at least reduce their chances of tangling with Barbeaux. And that way was to put out a warrant on the man, bring him in for questioning, and keep his ass in the station until the women did what they had to do. But to get the warrant, he would need to work up the evidence he had, put it together, and give it to the DA.

He turned to his computer and began furiously typing.

The departmental offices fell silent. It was a typical late-afternoon lull at the station, while most of the officers were in the field and had yet to return to book perps or file reports. A minute passed, then two. And then steps sounded softly in the hallway outside D’Agosta’s office.

A moment later, Sergeant Slade appeared. He’d come from his office, which—if he stood in just the right spot—commanded an excellent view of D’Agosta’s own doorway. He continued walking past D’Agosta’s office, then stopped at the next door—the door to the empty room in which D’Agosta and others in the department had been keeping overflow files.

Slade glanced casually around. There was nobody in sight. Turning the knob, he opened the door of the empty office, stepped inside,
and locked the door behind him. The lights were off, naturally, but he did not turn them on.

Making sure to remain quiet, he walked toward the common wall to D’Agosta’s office, from which the sounds of typing continued without relent. A pile of boxes was stacked against the wall, and he knelt, carefully moving them aside. Placing his fingertips against the wall, he felt along it for a few moments until he found what he was searching for: a tiny wire microphone, embedded into the drywall, with a miniaturized, voice-activated digital tape recorder attached.

Rising to his feet and popping a piece of licorice toffee into his mouth, Slade fixed an earbud to the device, then inserted it into one ear and snapped the recorder on. He listened for a moment, nodding slowly to himself. He heard D’Agosta’s futile arguing; the opening of the door; and then, the two women talking.

“Where is the plant in the Museum, exactly?”

“In the Herbarium Vault. I know where that is, and I have its combination. What about you?”

“The plant I need is in the Aquatic Hall of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Once the garden is closed, and it’s completely dark, I’ll secure it. We don’t dare wait any longer than that.”

Slade smiled. He was going to be well rewarded for this.

Slipping the device into his pocket, he carefully pushed the boxes back in place, moved to the office door, unlocked it, and—checking to make sure he remained unobserved—stepped out and began strolling languidly back down the corridor, the sounds of D’Agosta’s typing ringing in his ears.

T
he Gates of Heaven Cemetery lay atop a thinly wooded bluff overlooking Schroon Lake. In the green distance to the east lay Fort Ticonderoga, guarding the Hudson approaches. Far to the north rose the bulk of Mount Marcy, tallest mountain in New York State.

John Barbeaux moved pensively through the manicured grass, threading a slow course between the gravestones. The ground rose and fell in slow, graceful curves; here and there a graveled walk curved beneath the trees. The leaves scattered the rays of the afternoon sun and threw dappled shadows over the drowsy pastoral landscape.

At length, Barbeaux arrived at a small, tasteful family plot, consisting of two memorials surrounded by a low iron fence. He stepped inside and approached the larger: a statue of an angel, hands clenched to her breast, tearful eyes glancing heavenward. A name was carved into the base of the monument:
FELICITY BARBEAUX
. There was no date.

Barbeaux was carrying two cut flowers in his right hand: a long-stemmed red rose and a purple hyacinth. He knelt and laid the rose before the memorial. Then he stood again and contemplated the statue in silence.

His wife had been killed by a drunk driver, not quite ten years ago. The police investigation had been botched—the man, a telemarketing executive, had not been read his rights, and the chain of
custody had been imperfectly established. A shrewd lawyer was able to get the man a one-year suspended sentence.

John Barbeaux was a man who prized family above all else. He was also a man who believed in justice. This was not justice as he understood it.

Although Red Mountain had been a far smaller and less powerful company a decade ago, Barbeaux nevertheless exerted significant influence, and he had many contacts in various obscure walks of life. First, he arranged to have the man arrested again when over one hundred grams of crack cocaine was found in his glove compartment. Although a first offense, this precipitated a five-year mandatory minimum sentence. Six months later, once the telemarketer had begun serving his term at Otisville Federal Correctional Institution, Barbeaux saw to it that—for a onetime payment of ten thousand dollars—the man was shivved with a filed-down screwdriver in the prison shower and left to bleed his life down the drain.

Justice served.

Barbeaux took a last, lingering look at the statue. Then, with a deep breath, he moved toward the second monument. This one was much smaller: a simple cross bearing the name
JOHN BARBEAUX JR.

In the years following Felicity’s death, Barbeaux had showered affection and attention on his young son. After a childhood beset with health problems, John Jr. had emerged into adolescence as a promising artist. More than promising, in fact: a truly gifted pianist, a prodigy as both a performer and composer. His father lavished everything on him: the best tutors, the best schools. In John Jr., Barbeaux saw great hope for the future of his line.

And then things began to go horribly wrong. It started out innocently enough. John Jr. grew a little moody; his appetite waned; and he seemed increasingly distracted by insomnia. Barbeaux put it off to some adolescent phase. But then it grew worse. The youth began smelling an odor; an odor he was unable to rid himself of. At first, it was sweet, lovely—but over time it slowly changed to the most vile stench of rotting flowers. Barbeaux’s son grew weak, febrile;
he was plagued by headaches and joint pains that worsened by the day. He became increasingly delusional, the victim of ungovernable rages interspersed with periods of exhaustion and lethargy. Frantic, Barbeaux sought the aid of the world’s greatest doctors, but no one was able to diagnose, let alone treat, the malady. Barbeaux could only watch as his son steadily declined into madness and unbearable pain. At the end, the once-promising boy was little more than a vegetable. The death that ultimately claimed him at sixteen years of age—heart failure, brought on by severe weight loss and exhaustion—had been almost merciful.

That had been less than two years ago. And Barbeaux had retreated into a fog of grief. He had been too unmanned even to select a large, elaborate memorial for the son, as he had for the wife: the very thought was unendurable, and in the end a simple cross became the only testament to so much wasted promise.

But then, almost a year to the day after John Jr.’s death, an event happened that Barbeaux could never have predicted. He had a visitor one evening—a young man that could not have been more than a few years older than Barbeaux’s son, but of such a different build, energy, and magnetism as if to have come from another planet. He had a foreign accent, but spoke excellent English. This young man knew a great deal about Barbeaux. In fact, he knew more about Barbeaux’s family than Barbeaux did himself. He told Barbeaux the tale of his great-grandparents, Stephen and Ethel, who had lived on Dauphine Street in New Orleans. He told the story of a neighbor of the couple, Hezekiah Pendergast, who had created the nostrum known as Hezekiah’s Compound Elixir and Glandular Restorative—a quack patent medicine that was responsible for the suffering, madness, and death of thousands. Among the victims, this young man told the astounded Barbeaux, were Stephen and Ethel Barbeaux, barely in their thirties, who both died of its effects in 1895.

But that wasn’t all, the young man said. There was another victim in the family, far closer to Barbeaux. His own son, John Jr.

The young man explained how the elixir had caused epigenetic
changes in the Barbeaux family’s bloodline—heritable changes to genetic makeup that had, in this case, jumped the generations to kill his son, more than a hundred years later.

Then the young man came to the real point of the meeting. The Pendergast family was still alive, in the form of one Aloysius Pendergast, a special agent with the FBI—and not only alive, but prospering, thanks to the wealth accumulated by Hezekiah and his deadly elixir.

And now the young man revealed just why he had come. He was, he said, named Alban… and he was the son of Special Agent Pendergast. Alban told him a most harrowing tale—and then proposed a complex, curious, but exceedingly satisfying plan.

One last thing, Alban said. The words echoed in Barbeaux’s mind.
You might be tempted to hunt me down, as well—and thus eliminate another Pendergast. I warn you against any such attempt. I have remarkable powers beyond your comprehension. Satisfy yourself with my father. He’s the one living like a parasite off of Hezekiah’s fortune
. And then he left behind an extensive packet of documents backing up his story, and outlining his plan… and vanished into the night.

Barbeaux had dismissed this talk of “powers” as the braggadocio of youth. He sent two men to follow Alban, excellent men, experienced men. One returned with his eye hanging out, and the other was found with his throat cut. All this Alban had done, quite deliberately, in full view of Barbeaux’s security cameras.

I have remarkable powers beyond your comprehension
. Indeed, he did have remarkable powers. But they were not beyond Barbeaux’s comprehension. And that had been Alban’s fatal mistake.

The tale Alban had told seemed too strange to be true. But as Barbeaux looked through the packet he’d been given; as he examined his family history and the symptoms of his own son; and especially once he’d had certain blood tests performed—he realized that the story was, in fact, true. This was a revelation; a revelation that turned his grief into hatred and hatred into obsession.

A cell phone rang in the breast pocket of his suit. Gazing off in the direction of Mount Marcy, Barbeaux plucked it from his pocket.

“Yes?” he said.

He listened for a minute. As he did, his knuckles went white grasping the phone. A shocked look came over his face.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he interrupted, “that he not only
knows
what has happened, but is taking steps to
stop
it?”

He listened again, longer this time, to the voice on the far end of the line.

“All right,” he said at last. “You know what to do. And you’ll have to move fast—very fast.”

He hung up, then dialed another number. “Richard? Is the Ops Crew standing by? Good. We have a new objective. I want you to prep them for an emergency deployment to New York City. Yes, immediately. They have to be in the air inside of half an hour.”

And with that he slipped the phone back into his pocket, turned away, and quickly left the cemetery.