Blue Labyrinth

75

I’m back,” came the strangely old-fashioned voice from behind Barbeaux.

He whipped around, gazing with astonishment. The petite form of Constance Greene stood there. Somehow, she had managed to approach without making any sound.

Barbeaux gazed at her with astonishment. Her black chemise was torn, her body and face filthy, smeared with mud and bleeding from a dozen cuts. Her hair was caked with dirt, twigs, and leaves. She seemed more feral than human. And yet the voice, the eyes, were cold, unreadable. She was unarmed, empty-handed.

She swayed slightly on her feet, looked at Pendergast — lying motionless at Barbeaux’s feet — then returned her gaze to him.

“He’s dead,” Barbeaux told her.

She did not react. If there was any normal emotion going on in this crazy woman, Barbeaux could not see it, and this unnerved him.

“I want the name of the plant,” he said, leveling his gun at her.

Nothing. No recognition that he’d spoken.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t give it to me. I’ll kill you in the most horrific way imaginable. Tell me the name of the plant.”

Now she spoke. “You’ve begun to smell lilies, haven’t you?”

She’s guessed. “How—?”

“It’s obvious. Why else did you want me alive? And why else would you want the plant, now, when he is dead?” She gestured at Pendergast’s body.

With self-discipline born of long practice, Barbeaux pulled himself together. “And my men?”

“I killed them all.”

Even though, from the radio chatter, he’d surmised that things had gone very badly, Barbeaux could scarcely believe his ears. His eyes roamed over the insane creature that stood before him. “How in the world—?” he began again.

She did not answer the question. “We need to come to an arrangement. You want—need—the plant. And I want to collect my guardian’s body for a decent burial.”

Barbeaux gazed at her for a moment. The young woman waited, head slightly cocked. She swayed on her feet again. She looked like she might collapse at any minute.

“All right,” he said, gesturing with the gun. “We’ll go to the Aquatic House together. When I’m satisfied you’ve told me the truth, I’ll let you go.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I can make it on my own. Hold my arm, please.”

“No tricks. You lead the way.” He prodded her with the gun. She was smart, but not smart enough. As soon as he’d secured the plant, she would die.

She stumbled over Pendergast’s body, then walked along the wing into the Bonsai Museum. There she fell to the ground and was unable to get up without Barbeaux’s assistance. They entered the Aquatic House.

“Tell me the name of the plant,” Barbeaux demanded.

“Phragmipedium. Andean Fire. The active compound is in the underwater rhizome.”

“Show me.”

Using the railing to support herself, Constance circled the large, central pool, stumbling.

“Hurry up.”

At the far end of the main pool were a series of descending, smaller pools. A sign at one of them identified it as containing the aquatic plant called Andean Fire.

She gestured, swaying. “There.”

Barbeaux peered into the dark water. “There’s nothing in the pool,” he said.

Constance sank to her knees. “The plant is dormant this time of year.” Her voice was slow, thick. “The root’s in the mud underwater.”

He waved his gun. “Get up.”

She tried to rise. “I can’t move.”

With a curse, Barbeaux pulled off his jacket, knelt at the pool, and stuck his shirtsleeved arm into the water.

“Don’t forget your promise,” Constance murmured.

Ignoring this, Barbeaux began rummaging around in the muck at the bottom. In a few seconds he withdrew the arm with a grunt of surprise. Something was odd. No — something was wrong. The cotton material of his shirt was starting to come apart, dissolving and running off his arm in pieces with faint palls of smoke.

The sound of police sirens, shrill and anxious, began rising in the distance.

Barbeaux rose, staggered back with a roar of fury, pulled his gun out with his left hand, raised it — but Constance Greene had disappeared into the riot of growth.

Now pain took hold, excruciating pain, rippling up his arm and into his head, and then Barbeaux felt a jolt in his brain like electricity, followed by another, even worse. He staggered back and forth, swinging his smoking arm around, seeing the skin blacken and curl away to expose the flesh beneath. He began firing the gun crazily into the jungle, his vision fogging, his lungs choking, the shocks in his head and the muscle spasms in his body coming faster and faster until a spasm knocked him to his knees and then threw him down to the ground.

“There’s no point in struggling,” Constance said. She had reappeared from somewhere, and — out of the corner of his eye — Barbeaux saw her pick up his gun and toss it into the bushes. “Triflic acid, which I have introduced into this secondary pool, is not only highly corrosive, but it’s extremely poisonous as well. Once it eats its way through your skin, it starts to affect you systemically. A neurotoxin — you will die convulsing with pain.”

She turned and darted away again.

In a paroxysm of rage, Barbeaux managed to rise and stagger in pursuit, but could only make it to the far wing of the Palm House before collapsing again. He tried to rise once more, but found he had lost all control of his muscles.

The sounds of sirens had grown much louder, and in the distance, through his fog of pain, Barbeaux could hear the sounds of shouting, running feet. Constance rushed in the direction of the commotion. Barbeaux hardly noticed. His brain was on fire, screaming even while his twitching mouth could no longer utter a word. His body began to shudder and jump, his stomach muscles clenching so hard he thought they would tear asunder, and he tried to scream but the only sound that emerged was a gasp of air.

Now there was a commotion nearby, and he made out individual words. “… Paddles!” “… Charged!” “… I’ve got a pulse!” “… Hang some D5W!” “… Get him to the ambulance!”

Hours, or maybe it was just moments, later a police officer and an EMS worker were leaning over him, shocked expressions on their faces. Barbeaux felt himself being lifted onto a stretcher. And then Constance Greene was among them, staring down at him. Through the fog of pain and the racking convulsions, Barbeaux tried to tell her she had lied; that she had welshed on their deal. Not even a gasp escaped his lips.

But she understood anyway. She bent forward and spoke softly, so that only he could hear. “It’s true,” she said. “I reneged. Just as you would have.”

The workers prepared to lift the stretcher, and she spoke more quickly. “One last thing. Your fatal mistake was believing you had — and please forgive the crudeness of today’s vernacular — a bigger pair of balls.”

And as the unendurable pain overwhelmed him and his vision failed, Barbeaux saw Constance rise, turn, and then race away as Pendergast’s stretcher headed toward the ambulance.