The Obsidian Chamber

35

A commotion in his hospital room roused D’Agosta out of a narcotic torpor. He felt confused, in a fog. There was a faint but steady ringing in his ears and a dull headache at the back of his skull. The room swam as if underwater.

He tried to clear his head with a shake. Big mistake. With a groan, he lay carefully back, closing his eyes.

Voices were speaking: voices he recognized. He opened his eyes again, tried to blink away the confusion and the sedative. A large clock on the wall read five o’clock. Christ, have I really been out all day? Laura Hayward was sitting in a chair beside his bed. She now had a look on her face he recognized: a protective, hostile look, like a lioness guarding her mate.

“Vinnie!” she said, rising.

“Mmmm.” He tried to speak, but his tongue wasn’t working.

“Vincent, my friend.”

The new voice came from the foot of the bed and — keeping his head still this time — D’Agosta swiveled his eyes in its direction. Special Agent Pendergast was sitting there. D’Agosta blinked some more, utterly shocked by his skeletal appearance, gray circles under his eyes, skin pale beneath the dirt, his face covered with raw cuts and bruises. He was dressed in an FBI windbreaker too large for his emaciated frame.

They made a fuss over him, even as he began to subside back into a half world of semiconsciousness. He lay there with his eyes closed, trying to focus on the conversation. Pendergast was speaking to Laura.

“The helicopter took me to the Downtown Manhattan Heliport,” Pendergast was saying. “They told me what happened, and I came directly here. Was it you who found him?”

“When I couldn’t reach him on his cell, I sent a black-and-white to your house. They found him on the floor of the reception hall, facedown, unconscious.”

“I understand a large NYPD response has been mobilized.”

“Are you kidding? With a woman kidnapped and an officer attacked? They’ve called out the cavalry.”

D’Agosta found his voice again, his head clearing. “Pendergast!”

The FBI agent swiveled toward him. “How do you feel?”

“Never better. God, am I glad to see you…” He felt his voice choking up.

From his seat at the end of the bed, Pendergast waved this away impatiently.

“So… what happened?” D’Agosta managed.

“I’ve been… at sea. To make a long story short, the gentlemen who saved me from drowning decided to ransom me instead. I was held prisoner on their boat until it unfortunately sank. All irrelevant to the present situation. I wasn’t myself when I sent you into danger. I’m truly sorry.”

“Forget it,” said D’Agosta.

A pause. “Can you tell me, please… what transpired?”

“Don’t tire him out,” Laura said.

Even through the pharmaceutical fog, D’Agosta could see that his friend was, most uncharacteristically, agitated and worried. He cleared his throat, struggled against the almost overwhelming feeling of fatigue. The doctor had told him he might experience amnesia, as well, but thankfully that had not happened — although the exact details of the morning were a little vague.

“I entered the house, using the key code you gave me. I walked into the reception hall just moments before… before Diogenes did.”

At this Pendergast rose partway out of his chair. “Diogenes? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. He was coming from the rear of the house. I recognized him right away.” D’Agosta paused to think. “He had a suitcase in one hand.”

“And then?”

“He recognized me, too.” D’Agosta swallowed. “I drew down on him. Then Constance came into the room.”

Pendergast went even more pale. “Constance.”

“I told her to take a protective position behind me. I was covering Diogenes, getting ready to call for backup, when I was clobbered on the back of my skull…” He stopped. “Next thing, I was waking up in an ambulance.”

The look on Pendergast’s hollow face was terrible to behold. “Constance,” he said, as if to himself.

“It seems cut and dried enough,” Laura said. “Diogenes had an accomplice Vinnie didn’t see, who hit him from behind. We’re dusting the broken vase presumably used as a weapon for fingerprints now.”

“I thought Diogenes was dead,” D’Agosta said.

“We all did,” Pendergast said. He sat for a moment, very still. Then he spoke again. “How did Diogenes react when he saw you?”

“He was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.”

“And Constance. Was she handcuffed? Restrained in any way?”

D’Agosta thought through the haze for a moment. “Not that I saw.”

“How did she seem to you? Rebellious? Drugged? Coerced?”

“I never could read her. Um, sorry. She, she had a bag over one shoulder. Oh, and she was wearing a hat. I don’t remember what it looked like.”

“Did she struggle? Say anything?”

“Nothing. She got behind me when I asked her to. Didn’t say a word.”

“Did he have a weapon?”

The ringing in D’Agosta’s ears was getting louder. “Nothing visible.”

“I think maybe Vinnie’s had enough,” Laura said, with a note of finality.

Pendergast did not reply. His gaze seemed to go far away for a moment. Then he came back to the present again. The look on his face, the glitter in those silvery eyes, was as bad as D’Agosta had ever seen it.

He rose. “Vincent, I wish you a speedy recovery.”

“You look pretty bad yourself,” D’Agosta said. “Just saying.”

“I’ll get myself looked after. Captain Hayward?” He turned, gave her a curt nod, then swiveled to the door and walked quickly toward it. As he did, D’Agosta noticed — just before he drifted off once again — that underneath the FBI windbreaker, the agent was wearing a pair of filthy black trousers that had been sliced practically to ribbons.