Blue Labyrinth

63

Margo stood there, paralyzed by the blinding light.

“Well, well, why am I not surprised?”

It was Frisby’s voice, coming from behind the light.

“Switch off that damned headlamp. You look like a miner.”

Margo complied.

“Here you are, on schedule, caught red-handed stealing one of the most valuable items in our entire herbarium.” The voice was triumphant. “This is no longer an internal Museum matter, Dr. Green. This is a criminal matter for the police. This will put you away for many years — if not for good.”

The light was lowered and Frisby — now visible behind the brilliance — extended a hand. “Give me your bag.”

Margo hesitated. What on earth was he doing down here? How had he possibly known?

“Hand me the bag or I will be forced to take it from you.”

She looked left and right for an escape route, but Frisby’s bulk blocked the way. She would have to knock him over — and he was more than half a foot taller than she.

He took a menacing step forward and, realizing she had no choice, she held out her bag. He opened it, slid out one of the glass plates, and read, in a stentorian tone: “Thismia americana.” He carefully replaced it in the bag. “Caught red-handed. You are finished, Dr. Green. Let me tell you what is going to happen now.” He took out his cell phone and held it up. “I’m going to call the police. They will arrest you. Since the value of these specimens is far in excess of five thousand dollars, you will be charged with a Class C felony, burglary in the second degree, which carries a sentence of up to fifteen years in prison.”

Margo listened, only barely comprehending. She was stupefied, because this meant the end of not just her own life — but Pendergast’s, as well.

He searched through the rest of the bag, poking around while shining the light inside. “Pity. No weapon.”

“Dr. Frisby,” Margo said in a wooden tone, “what is it you have against me?”

“Who, me, have something against you?” His eyes widened in mock satire, and then narrowed. “You’re a hindrance. You’ve been a disruption in my department with your incessant comings and goings. You’ve been meddling in a police investigation, encouraging them to cast suspicion on our staff. And now you’ve rewarded my generosity in giving you access to the collections with outright thievery. Oh, I have nothing against you.” With a frosty smile, he punched in 911 on his cell phone, holding it so she could see what he was doing.

He waited a moment, then frowned. “Bloody reception.”

“Listen,” Margo managed to say. “A man’s life—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, spare me the pathetic excuses. You played a nasty trick on Jörgensen, got him all riled up. He came boiling into my office and I feared he might have a heart attack. When I heard you’d been in his office asking for access to a rare, extinct plant, I figured you were up to something. What were you planning to do — sell it to the highest bidder? So I came down here, placed a chair in the far corner, and waited for you.” His voice swelled with satisfaction. “And here you came, on cue!”

He grinned triumphantly. “Now I’ll take you to security to await the police.”

A thousand ideas raced through Margo’s head. She could run; she could snatch the bag; she could knock Frisby down and escape; she could plead with him, try to talk him out of it; she could try to bribe him… But not a single option had the slightest chance of success. She was busted, and that was that. Pendergast would die.

For a moment the two stared at each other. Margo could see from the expression on Frisby’s face that there would be no mercy from this man.

And then his look of triumph suddenly changed: first to one of puzzlement, then to shock. His eyes grew wide and bugged out; his lips contracted. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, save for a strange boiling in the back of his throat. He dropped the flashlight, which hit the stone floor and went out, plunging the room into darkness. Instinctively, Margo reached out and snatched back her bag with nerveless fingers. A moment later she heard the sound of his body hitting the floor.

And then a new light came on, revealing the outline of a man who had been standing behind Frisby. He stepped forward and, in an act of courtesy, shone the light on his own face, revealing a shortish man with a dark face, black eyes, and the very faintest of smiles playing at the corners of his mouth.

At that same exact time, at precisely nine fifteen, a livery cab turned in at 891 Riverside Drive, then circled around the drive and came to a stop beneath the mansion’s porte cochere, engine idling.

A minute passed, and then two. The front door opened and Constance Greene stepped out, wearing an ebony-colored pleated dress with ivory accents. A black duffel of ballistic nylon was slung over one shoulder. In the dim glow of moonlight, the formal, even elegant dress acted almost like camouflage.

She leaned in at the driver’s window, whispered something inaudible, opened the rear passenger door, placed the duffel carefully on the seat, and then slid in beside it. The door closed; the cab moved back down the drive; and then it merged with the light evening traffic, heading north.