The Obsidian Chamber

65

Once the sun dipped below the sea horizon, darkness fell rapidly. A small kayak, in dull olive, slid out from behind Johnston Key and embarked on the half-mile crossing of the shallow channel. A. X. L. Pendergast, paddle in hand, headed for the cluster of mangrove islands that lay off the southeastern end of Halcyon Key. The kayak glided over the water as Pendergast struggled with the paddle, trying to get into the rhythm of it, propelling the kayak forward without splashing or tipping over. It was a quiet November evening, herons flying low over the water, their wings making a sound like rustling silk.

He knew he had very little time; the two SWAT helicopters would be arriving from Key West Naval Station in less than twenty minutes. Pendergast had been unable to persuade Longstreet that his sort of massive response would not be effective against a man like Diogenes, that it would play to his strengths, and that it might well end in the death of Constance — whether she was hostage or participant. Pendergast was painfully unaware of her state of mind, but he felt certain she was — whatever else — unbalanced. For these reasons, during the staging process Pendergast had slipped away and “appropriated” a cigarette boat from the South Beach Harbor Marina. It had a carbon-fiber hull and twin engines that, in quiet water, could put out a thousand horsepower and do close to ninety knots. At Upper Sugarloaf Key, he’d exchanged it for a kayak and tropical wet suit from one of several kayak rental shops, now closed for the day. The problem was, he had never used a kayak before and not only was the bloody thing tippy and hard to control, but he kept catching the feathered paddles in the water as he tried to go forward.

Finally, though, he mastered the basic motion. And it was not much later when the little island cluster loomed into sight ahead. They were not actual islands, per se, but clusters of mangroves rising out of the shallow water, their roots forming a tangled mass. Pendergast drew the kayak into a hidden channel in the mangroves and tied it up. After a brief struggle he managed to extract himself silently and stood up in about two feet of water. He reached into the kayak’s cargo compartment and took out a shoulder holster holding his Les Baer, strapped it on, then shrugged into a small black Osprey backpack.

Light was fading from the sky as he waded around the side of the mangrove island. The charts indicated the water was no more than three feet deep, and that proved to be the case as he moved forward, threading his way among mangrove stands. The lightweight black wet suit made him almost invisible in the gathering dark. Emerging from the cluster of mangroves, he kept low as he waded across an area of open, shallow water toward the main island, Halcyon. He emerged from the water at a small, sandy beach and paused there, listening. All was quiet. A trail wound inland, which he knew from satellite images led to the smaller house on the island; he moved along the trail until it opened up in the sandy area surrounding the house. It revealed itself as a caretaker’s cottage, a light glowing in the living room window. Moving stealthily, he came up to the window, raised himself, and peered in. An elderly black man, seated in a wing chair, was reading a thick copy of Ulysses.

Pendergast considered that the gentleman’s quiet evening was about to be disturbed — but not quite yet.

Moving past the window, he consulted his mental map of the island, and chose the trail that led to the big house. The path carried him through a shadowy buttonwood grove and a pair of old gumbo-limbo trees before the rear of the house came into view. The lights were off; it didn’t appear anyone was at home. A black night was falling; the moon would not be rising for a few hours yet. Keeping to the shadows, he ventured onto the back veranda and tested the door. Unlocked. He let himself inside, made a quick reconnaissance of the first floor, then exited the front door, convinced no one was home but that the house was currently occupied. Diogenes and Constance were on the island somewhere; he was sure of that.

He paused. There was a distant sound: a high-pitched cry, echoing from far down the island. Drawing his weapon, he listened intently. And then he heard three shots fired in quick succession.

Seeing the handgun, Constance dove straight for her assailant’s knees, tackling her as the shots passed overhead with a whiff of air. They both fell and rolled in the sand, Constance grabbing the girl’s forearm in both hands and slamming it repeatedly into the sand, knocking the gun loose. But the woman was amazingly strong for her size and managed to wrench free of Constance’s grip; they both lunged for the weapon, the woman dropping her knife in order to get it. They fell upon it at the same time, clawing and scrabbling in the sand, seizing it with all four hands at once. They rolled over and over in the sand, squirming and writhing, first one on top and then the other. The girl tried to bite Constance but she jerked her head away, then bit back, aiming for her face, her teeth sinking into the woman’s cheek, the woman screeching in pain. They rolled again and Constance ended on top, trying to dislodge the gun, while the other woman keened, blood flowing from the bite on her cheek. Just as Constance began to prize the gun free, she left herself open and the attacker hit her in the solar plexus with one knee, knocking the wind from her, and in the same moment wrenched the gun away.

Swinging out with her arm, Constance knocked the gun aside just as the shot came, the round hitting the ground next to her with a thud and kicking up a gout of sand. Constance’s head was turned, but the attacker got a faceful. The woman fell back, shaking her head to try to clear the sand from her eyes, firing wildly, again and again and again, the shots going wide as Constance, gasping for breath, jumped on her once more and — with the strength of a rising madness — grabbed the gun and tore it away, jammed it into the woman’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

The clip was finally empty. In that moment the girl — with remarkable presence of mind — took full advantage of her momentary astonishment, striking Constance across the face with a karate chop and then rolling out from under her, reversing their positions. Now she was on top, and had recovered her knife from the sand; she lunged downward, but Constance rolled and the thrust went through the heavy material of her dress into the sand. With a determined silence the girl slashed and tore with the knife, back and forth, but it had snagged in the fabric. As her adversary worked to free her knife, Constance managed to draw her own stiletto out of her bodice and instantly thrust it upward.

The woman jumped back, landing nimbly but giving Constance time to get to her own feet. They circled each other like scorpions, knives drawn.

“Who are you?” Constance asked. The young woman looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place her.

“Your worst nightmare,” came the reply.

She thrust; Constance danced to one side.

That was when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Diogenes. He had appeared at the edge of the beach and was watching them. His arms were folded, just like a spectator’s.

But Constance had to maintain focus — and with a cool opponent like this she could not afford to give in to homicidal anger. The two circled tensely. She could see from the way the girl held her knife, and her light and quick movements, that she was far more experienced with a blade and that Constance would lose any extended contest.

The woman lunged; Constance dodged, but just barely, the swipe tearing the fabric of her sleeve and nicking flesh.

“A hit, a very palpable hit,” said Diogenes.

She jabbed at the woman and found only air, the woman leaping to one side with a spinning martial arts movement, capitalizing on Constance’s miss by offering her own lightning cut, this one nicking Constance’s wrist even as she pivoted to avoid it.

One of those jabs was going to find its way home, Constance realized, and soon. Her heavy dress, weighted down with her blood, was slowing her. Would Diogenes intervene? But no: another glance revealed him standing in place, a look of interest, even amusement, on his face. Of course this would be just the kind of spectacle he’d enjoy: two women fighting to the death over him.

The heavy dress… The masses of fabric could be to her advantage. But she had to move fast; any moment, the attacker would connect with a thrust.

Constance made her move: taking a running leap at the woman, she swung her legs up in a swirl of fabric, enveloping her opponent in the dress; the girl, taken completely by surprise, issued a muffled cry and slashed with the knife, but it rent only cloth as they both fell to the sand, Constance scissoring the woman tightly between her knees. The woman thrashed and struggled, keening with fury, but she couldn’t get her knife arm out of the tangle of material.

Crushing the girl between her legs, Constance twisted around, picked up the gun, and slammed the woman in the side of her head with it, and then again, until the screaming turned into a gurgle and she felt the woman’s body go limp. Now she pinned the stuporous girl’s knife arm, wrenching the wrist around and forcing the blade from it. Snatching up the knife, she scrambled backward, then rose unsteadily, knives in both hands.

Her attacker lay on the sand, unable to rise, moaning and semiconscious.

Constance turned to Diogenes. He was flushed, breathing fast, a look of almost sexual excitement in his eyes. This was the old Diogenes; the one she remembered so well. He made no move to help her and said nothing; he was spellbound by what he had just witnessed.

She felt abruptly dizzy. She placed her hands on her knees and lowered her head to try to clear it, taking deep breaths.

After a moment she heard Diogenes speak: she looked up, but he was not talking to her. The look of libidinous gratification on his face had changed to one of utter amazement and consternation, as he stared at a dark figure emerging from the buttonwood. The figure stepped forward into the last glimmer of twilight, dressed in a sleek black wet suit.

“Ave, frater,” came Diogenes’s rasping salutation.