Blue Labyrinth

68

Constance lay in the dirt, unmoving. A dim light played over her, and she could hear faint murmurings as the men communicated with one another. She felt a strange, gathering combination of remorse, chagrin, and particularly anger: not because she was about to be killed — she cared nothing for her own life — but because her discovery meant that Pendergast would die.

She heard faint footfalls, and then a different voice said: “Stand her up.”

Her neck was prodded again. “Get up. Slow.”

Constance rose to her feet. A tall man with a military bearing stood in front of her, dressed in a dark business suit. His face, dimly illuminated by the moonlight, was large and granitic, with prominent cheekbones and a heavy, over-thrusting jaw.

Barbeaux.

For a moment her concentration narrowed to a fierce pinpoint, so overpowering was her hatred and loathing for this man. She remained motionless while Barbeaux played a light over her.

“What a sight you are,” he sneered in a gravelly tone.

Several other men had silently appeared and now took up positions around her. All were heavily armed. Every avenue of escape had been cut off. She considered snatching a firearm, but knew that would be useless; besides, these automatic weapons were foreign to her. Barbeaux did not look like the kind of man who could be surprised or overcome easily, if at all. He had a calm, intelligent, and alert air of cruelty about him that she had encountered, notably, only twice before: her first guardian, Enoch Leng, and Diogenes Pendergast.

His inspection complete, Barbeaux spoke again. “So this is the operative Pendergast sends as his avenging angel. I didn’t believe it when Slade told me about you.”

Constance did not react.

“I’d like to know the name of the plant you’re looking for.”

She continued to stare at him.

“You’ve come in some last-ditch, desperate attempt to save your precious Pendergast. We were one step ahead of you, as you can see. Nevertheless, I am impressed at how far you managed to get in this fool’s errand before we caught you.”

Constance let him talk.

“Pendergast is on his deathbed now. You can’t imagine the delight I take in his suffering. His malady is unique: unendurable physical pain, mingling with the knowledge that you are losing your mind. I know all about it. I’ve seen it.”

Barbeaux paused, his eyes lingering on her mud-smeared form. “I understand that Agent Pendergast is your ‘guardian.’ What exactly does that mean?”

Silence.

“You don’t speak, but your eyes give you away. I can see your hatred of me. The hatred of a woman for her lover’s killer. How touching. What is the age gap — twenty, twenty-five years? Disgusting. You could be his daughter.”

Constance did not drop her eyes. She continued to stare into his.

“A bold girl.” Barbeaux sighed. “I need the name of the plant you seek. But I can see you will require persuading.” He reached out, touched her face. She did not flinch or draw away. His hand moved down, smearing the mud on her neck, then descended to her chemise, lightly grazing her breast through the silk.

Fast as a striking snake, Constance slapped him sharply across the face.

Barbeaux stepped back, breathing hard. “Hold her.”

Men on either side seized her by the arms. One had a shaved head; the other, hair to his shoulders. She did not struggle. Barbeaux took a step forward and reached out again, his hand closing over her breast. “Too bad Pendergast won’t be here to see his little plaything abused. Now tell me the name of the plant.” He squeezed her breast, hard.

Constance bit her lip against the pain.

“The name of the plant.”

He hurt her again. She gave a short cry, checking herself immediately.

“Don’t annoy us with hysterical outbursts. They won’t do you any good. We’ve neutralized what little security there was here. We have the place to ourselves.”

Now Barbeaux’s hand descended farther, gathering the material of the chemise. He pulled it up. “Such a young, supple body. I can just imagine Pendergast bending it like a pretzel for his own recreation.”

He let go of the chemise and stared at her a moment, appraisingly. Then he stepped back once again, nodded to Shaved Head. The man turned toward Constance, slapped her hard across the face: once, twice.

Constance endured this in silence.

“Bring the prod,” Barbeaux ordered.

From a small pack slung over his shoulder, Long Hair removed a villainous-looking device about two feet long with a rubber handle, a spring-like curl of metal encircling its central shaft, and two silvery prongs protruding from the business end. A cattle prod. He waved it under her nose.

“Gag her,” said Barbeaux. “You know how I can’t stand screaming.”

Out of the pack came a wad of cotton and some duct tape. Shaved Head gave her a sudden punch in the stomach and, when she doubled forward, jammed the cotton into her mouth, then wrapped duct tape over it, circling her head. He stepped back while Long Hair readied the prod. The other men had formed a dark, silent ring around the proceedings, watching intently.

While Shaved Head held her by both arms, Long Hair jammed the prod into her stomach. He hesitated a moment, smiling crookedly, and then pressed the button, activating the electric current. Constance jerked in agony, all her muscles constricting, while Shaved Head pinned her in place with his hands. A muffled sound of anguish rushed from her nose, defeating all her efforts to remain silent.

Long Hair pulled the prod away.

“Again,” said Barbeaux. “When she’s ready to talk, she’ll let us know.”

Constance tried to straighten herself up. Long Hair waved the prod around teasingly, getting ready for another jolt. Suddenly he darted forward, jabbing it between her breasts and pulling the trigger again. She writhed, driven almost mad by the pain, but this time made no sound. Long Hair withdrew the prod again.

Constance struggled to straighten up again.

“This filly needs breaking hard,” said Barbeaux.

“Maybe,” said Shaved Head, “she needs stimulation in a more sensitive area.”

Barbeaux nodded, reached out, and lifted her chemise. Smiling, Long Hair closed in with the cattle prod.

Just then a shot rang out. At the same moment, the top of Long Hair’s head came off in a single piece, spinning, hair flying, blood and brain matter rising in a cloud of pink and gray.

The men reacted instantly, throwing themselves to the ground, Shaved Head yanking Constance to the ground with him. But even as the men took cover, two more shots rang out in close succession. One man doubled up, grabbing his belly with a roar, while another already on the ground was struck in the back. He jerked, letting out a scream of agony.

Constance tried to twist out from under Shaved Head’s grip, but her muscles were still convulsing from the electric shocks and he held her fast. She saw that Barbeaux was the only other one to remain standing — he had coolly stepped behind the cover of a massive tree trunk.

“Single shooter,” said Barbeaux. “Upper level. Flanking maneuver, both sides.” He signaled to three men, who immediately jumped up and disappeared, leaving her with Barbeaux, Shaved Head, a third man, and the three bodies crumpled and bleeding out within the orchids. She heard several more shots and looked up. Plucking a radio from his waistband, Barbeaux issued more orders, apparently to men in place outside the greenhouse. As she listened to the fugue of voices over the radio, Constance estimated Barbeaux must have close to ten men still in place in and around the Aquatic House. She watched him with narrowed eyes. What was happening? Had Lieutenant D’Agosta somehow deduced her location and arrived with the NYPD?

Shaved Head pushed her back down. “Don’t fucking move,” he said.

From his position behind the tree, Barbeaux continued to issue a calm stream of commands into his radio. For a while, all was silent. And then another series of shots rang out, deeper within the complex of greenhouses, followed by the sound of falling glass. There was excited chatter over Barbeaux’s radio.

Constance lay pinned in the muck, gradually recovering her breath. Barbeaux had mentioned a single shooter. But if that shooter was D’Agosta, he would have brought backup. Whatever it meant, Pendergast might not be lost, after all…

Another burst of chatter over the radio, and then Barbeaux turned to Shaved Head. “Get her on her feet. You can remove the gag now — they’ve got the shooter. It’s Pendergast.”