Bloodless

64

Seconds after the newsfeed flashed across the portal, with Pendergast’s and Coldmoon’s attention riveted on the scene of disaster unfolding on the Times Square screen, Constance ducked out of the room, exiting through the concealing closet and out into the basement. She’d had a revelation and was already thinking beyond the devastation that was being wreaked—would be wreaked — on Savannah.

She took the stairs up into the lobby, and then still farther up, three more flights. Making her way quickly down the hallway, she reached the closed door that led up to Frost’s penthouse. This time it was locked. Pulling a hairpin from a pocket of her dress, she picked the lock, then ran up the stairs. The door at the top of the landing was locked, too; Constance shook the knob and then, in a sudden display of rage, violently kicked it — once, twice — and it flew open, banging loudly against the doorstop.

The interior of the apartment was even darker than usual, lit only by a few Tiffany lamps. Along the room’s far side, the shutters over the French doors had been pulled up, exposing the balcony and the twinkling rooftops beyond. The byōbu screens had been pulled back, giving the rooms a spectacular view of Savannah. The moonlight, punctuated by scudding clouds, threw dappled shadows over the bookcases, sculptures, and furniture.

She glanced around quickly. Frost was just visible, sitting on the same sofa as during their previous conversation, the pearl-handled cane resting by her side. She was wearing an elegant kimono-style dressing gown in crimson silk, and beneath it a white silk blouse. There was an open bottle of wine on the tea table, and a single glass, half-full.

The book she never seemed to be without was on her lap, and she was making a notation in it. Now Frost put volume and pen aside. “That was rude,” she said. “However, at least you spared me the trouble of having to open the door. I’m afraid this old corpus of mine is acting up more than usual this evening.”

This was said in the same droll tone the woman had used before. Constance nevertheless detected a quaver in the old lady’s voice: an undercurrent of fear. Breathing hard, she stepped forward.

“Join me in a glass of Giacomo Conterno. Since your last visit, I’ve been doing some rooting around in my collections.”

“There’s no time for wine or chitchat,” Constance said.

“My, my, you do seem a trifle overexcited.”

“You lied to me.”

“I never lied to you.”

Constance cut her off with a gesture. “At the very least, you left out something important. Something Ellerby did.”

Instead of answering, Miss Frost raised her glass. But her hand was trembling so much that she put the glass down without sipping.

“I’ve seen the machine,” Constance continued. “In use. Both at the first setting... and the second. No doubt you saw that yourself when you surprised Ellerby in the basement. But there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Hearing this, Frost remained silent.

In an instant, Constance stood over the proprietress. “No excuses,” she said. “No remonstrances. You’re too old for those to matter, anyway... Miss Rime.”

Hearing herself addressed by her true name, Frost’s pallid eyes widened.

“You robbed an old man of his life’s work. And now you’ve let Ellerby turn his invention into a nightmare. Intentional or not, you still have to answer for it. So you will tell me what you’ve been withholding... beginning with whether Ellerby experimented with any settings past those marked on the dial.”

The world-weary façade dropped from Frost’s face.

“The time for lying is past. Savannah’s on the verge of destruction — we saw it in the machine. Tell me everything you know, everything you suspect, now.”

“It’s the many-worlds hypothesis I mentioned,” Frost said immediately. “Patrick was greedy. He souped up the machine to see an hour ahead. But to do that, the portal has to traverse many more universes — some quite unlike ours. And the chance grows that the portal would not simply cross those worlds, but... intersect with them. Open a door to them.”

When she fell silent, Constance heard, filtering up from below, what sounded like shouts and screams: faint through the closed windows but distinctly audible. “Do you hear that?”

“Sounds like typical Savannah drunkenness,” said Frost.

“It isn’t. We’re out of time. Answer my question: if Ellerby pushed the machine farther than level two, what would happen?”

But even as Frost began to protest, a tremendous crash sounded outside. The eyes of the two women met. They both moved to the French doors overlooking Savannah. Constance flung them open and stepped out onto the balcony, stiletto in hand. A yellow light played over her face as she stared eastward, toward the sound of tumult and chaos. Frost stepped out on the balcony beside Constance. As the two gazed down across the city, Frost instinctively raised a hand to her mouth — but it did little to muffle the cry of horror that came involuntarily to her lips.