Blue Labyrinth

46

Constance Greene walked down a gleaming corridor on the fifth and top floor of Geneva’s Clinique Privée La Colline, a gowned doctor at her side.

“How would you characterize his condition?” she asked in perfect French.

“It has been very difficult to make a diagnosis, mademoiselle,” the doctor replied. “It is something foreign to our experience. This is a multidisciplinary clinic. Half a dozen specialists have been called in to examine the patient. The results of the consultations and tests are… baffling. And contradictory. Certain members of the staff believe he is suffering from an unknown genetic disorder. Others think that he has been poisoned, or is suffering withdrawal symptoms from some compound or drug — there are unusual trace elements in the blood work, but nothing that corresponds to any known substance in our databases. Still others consider the problem to be at least partly psychological — yet nobody can deny the acute physical manifestations.”

“What medications are you using to treat the condition?”

“We can’t treat the actual condition until we have a diagnosis. We’re controlling the pain with transdermal fentanyl patches. Soma as a muscle relaxer. And a benzodiazepine for its sedative effect.”

“Which benzo?”

“Klonopin.”

“That’s a rather formidable cocktail, Doctor.”

“It is. But until we know what the source is, we can only treat the symptoms — if we didn’t, restraints would have been necessary.”

The doctor opened a door and ushered Constance in. Beyond lay a modern, spotless, and functional room containing a single bed. Numerous monitors and medical devices surrounded the bed, some flashing complicated readouts on LCD screens, others beeping in steady rhythms. At the far end of the room was an unbroken series of windows, tinted blue, that looked out onto the Avenue de Beau-Séjour.

Lying in the bed was Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast. Leads were attached to his temples; an IV was inserted into the curve of one wrist; a blood pressure cuff was fixed to one arm and a blood-oxygen meter clipped to a fingertip. A privacy screen was bunched together on overhead rings at the foot of the bed.

“He has said very little,” the doctor said. “And of that, even less has made sense. If you can get us any information that could be of assistance, we would be grateful.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Constance said with a nod. “I’ll do my best.”

“Mademoiselle.” And with that, the doctor gave the briefest of bows, turned, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Constance stood for a moment, glancing at the closed door. Then, smoothing down her dress with a sweep of her hand, she took a seat at the lone chair placed beside the bed. Although nobody had a cooler head than Constance Greene, what she saw nevertheless deeply disturbed her. The FBI agent’s face was a dreadful gray color, and his white-blond hair was disarrayed and darkened with sweat. The chiseled lines of the face were blurred by several days’ growth of beard. Fever seemed to radiate from him. His eyes were shut, but she could see the eyeballs moving beneath the bruised-looking lids. As she watched, his body stiffened, as if in pain; spasmed; then relaxed.

She leaned forward, laid a hand over one clenched fist. “Aloysius,” she said in a low voice. “It’s Constance.”

For a moment, no response. Then the fist relaxed. Pendergast’s head turned on the pillow. He muttered something incomprehensible.

Constance gave the hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry?”

Pendergast opened his mouth to speak, took a deep, shuddering breath. “Lasciala, indegno,” he murmured. “Battiti meco. L’assassino m’ha ferito.”

Constance released her pressure on the hand.

Another spasm shuddered through Pendergast’s frame. “No,” he said in a low, strangled voice. “No, you mustn’t. The Doorway to Hell… stay back… stay away, please… don’t look… the three-lobed burning eye…! ”

His body relaxed and he fell silent for several minutes. Then he stirred again. “It’s wrong, Tristram,” he said, his voice now clearer and more distinct. “He would never change. I fear you were deceived.”

This time, the silence was far longer. A nurse came in, checked Pendergast’s vitals, replaced the transdermal patch for a fresh one, and left. Constance remained in the chair, still as a statue, her hand on Pendergast’s. Finally — at long last — his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they remained vague, unfocused. Then, blinking, they made a survey of the hospital room. At last, they landed on her.

“Constance,” he said in a whisper.

Her response was to squeeze his hand again.

“I’ve… been having a nightmare. It seems never to end.”

His voice was dry and light, like a faint breeze over dead leaves, and she had to lean in closer to catch the words.

“You were quoting the libretto of Don Giovanni,” she said.

“Yes. I… fancied myself the Commendatore.”

“Dreaming of Mozart doesn’t sound like a nightmare to me.”

“I…” The mouth worked silently for a moment before continuing. “I dislike opera.”

“There was something else,” Constance said. “Something that did sound like a nightmare. You mentioned a Doorway to Hell.”

“Yes. Yes. My nightmares have included memories, as well.”

“And then you mentioned Tristram. Some mistake he had made.”

To this, Pendergast only shook his head.

Constance waited as he slipped back out of consciousness. Ten minutes later, he moved, opened his eyes again.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“In a hospital in Geneva.”

“Geneva.” A pause. “Of course.”

“From what I can gather, you ruined some meter man’s day.”

“I remember. He insisted on giving me a ticket. I was dreadful to him. I fear that I… cannot abide petty bureaucrats.” Another pause. “It is one of my many bad habits.”

When he again fell silent, Constance — confident now that he was lucid — filled him in on recent events, as D’Agosta had informed her: the suicide of his attacker in the Indio jail, the man’s face-altering plastic surgery, the reconstruction of his original appearance, and D’Agosta’s discovery of his real identity. She also passed on D’Agosta’s discovery, from Angler’s case file, that when Alban had entered the country under the name Tapanes Landberg a year before, he’d made a brief trip to upstate New York before returning to Brazil. Pendergast listened to it all with interest. Once or twice, his eyes flashed with the old spark she remembered so well. But when she was finished, he closed his eyes, turned his head away, and drifted back into unconsciousness again.

When next he awoke, it was night. Constance, who had not left his side, waited for him to speak.

“Constance,” he began, his voice as quiet as before. “You must understand that, at times, it is becoming difficult for me to… maintain my hold on reality. It comes and goes, as does the pain. At present, for instance, just to converse with you in a lucid fashion requires all my concentration. So let me tell you what I have to say, as briefly as possible.”

Constance, listening, kept very still.

“I said something unforgivable to you.”

“I’ve forgiven you.”

“You are too generous. From almost the beginning, when I scented the lilies in that strange animal gas chamber at the Salton Sea, I sensed what had happened: that my family’s past had come back to haunt me. In the form of someone bent on vengeance.”

He took a few shallow breaths.

“What my ancestor Hezekiah did was criminal. He created an elixir that was in reality an addictive poison, which killed a great many people and ruined the lives of others. But that was so… so far in the past…” A pause. “I knew what was happening to me — and you’d guessed it as well. But at the time, I simply couldn’t bear your pity. What hope I’d initially held out for reversing the effects quickly faded. I preferred not to even think about it. Hence my appalling remark to you in the music room.”

“Please don’t dwell on it.”

He fell into silence. In the dark room, lit only by the medical instrumentation, Constance was not sure if he was still awake.

“The lilies have begun to suppurate,” he said.

“Oh, Aloysius,” she said.

“There is something worse than the suffering. It’s that I lack answers. This baroque plot at the Salton Sea bears all the hallmarks of something Alban would organize. But who was he working with, and why did they kill him? And… how can I bear this slide into madness?”

Now Constance gripped his hand in both of hers. “There has to be a cure, an antidote. We’ll conquer this together.”

In the dimness, Pendergast shook his head. “No, Constance. There is no cure. You must go away. I’ll fly home. I know private doctors who can keep me as comfortable as possible while the end approaches.”

“No!” said Constance, her voice louder than she had intended. “I’ll never leave you.”

“I do not care to have you see me like… like this.”

She stood up and leaned over him. “I’ve got no choice.”

Pendergast shifted slightly under the covers. “You always have a choice. Please honor my request that you not see me in extremis. Like that man in Indio.”

In a languorous movement, she bent over the prostrate sufferer and kissed his brow. “I’m sorry. But my choice is to fight this to the end. Because—”

“But—”

“Because you are the other half of my heart,” she murmured. She sat down once more, took up his hand, and did not speak again.