Crooked River

64

Sitting in the wheelchair, bound and immobile, Pendergast watched Pamela Gladstone through the observation window. He saw her move away from the wheelchair, back up against the wall. The intercom amplified the sound of her gasping, her terrified breathing.

“No,” he heard her suddenly cry out in a voice full of anguish and frustration. “No, no, no...!”

It would have been easy for him to tune this out; to use his arsenal of meditative techniques to retreat from the reality of the present moment. But he would not allow himself to do that; he would not allow himself that escape.

He watched as she made her way to the other side of the lab, searching the medical cabinets for — he surmised — some kind of tool or improvised weapon. Finding none, she retreated to her corner. He noticed her begin to limp.

He would not allow himself that escape because he felt the terrible weight of responsibility for what was happening to her. He had brought Gladstone and Lam into his investigation. Naturally, he had not known the true nature of the conspiracy they unearthed or the extent of the danger they were in. But even in the final days, when it became increasingly clear there was a mole in the commander’s inner circle, he had taken insufficient precautions. After Quarles’s death he had arranged for the safe house and taken certain private measures to protect Constance — but he had not realized he was up against such a powerful and tentacled enemy.

A cry echoed in the room. “Pendergast!” It was Gladstone calling out for him, amplified by the sound system. He felt himself flinch.

The general, observing him, nodded to himself with satisfaction. Alves-Vettoretto remained still and silent, as she had through the entire proceeding.

“No!” came another cry through the speaker.

The general checked the chronograph on his wrist. “One hour and twelve minutes. She’s taking longer than any from the last test group. I shall have to speak to the doctor about this. The process was supposed to be accelerated. It seems her foreknowledge has had a retarding effect. If so, we shall have to compensate.”

Now Gladstone was no longer crying out. Gasps, as if of great effort, came through the speaker at irregular intervals. Pendergast watched fixedly as she raised the parang. A retreat into his memory palace, which he could reach in mere moments through the mental exercise of stong pa nyid, beckoned. But he resisted, forcing himself to watch.

It took less time than he expected. After an initial tentative cut, the blade was brought down with tremendous determination and precision. The first sound he heard Gladstone utter was a high crooning that seemed almost exultant. Despite the blow, it wasn’t enough to take the foot off. Only in the later, hacking cuts through the bone did the resolution she had initially shown begin to flag. But she persisted, screaming ferociously, until once more the parang came down, and this time went all the way through, striking the tiled floor with a ringing sound, the limb abruptly coming free.

The general leaned forward and flicked a button. Abruptly, the cries from below were cut off. He flicked another button. “Doctor? She may be removed now.”

Pendergast looked toward his companions. Alves-Vettoretto seemed rooted in place, eyes wide, one hand over her mouth. Meanwhile, General Smith was looking directly at him, with an expression almost of encouragement. The orderlies came in and collected her, strapping her on to a gurney and hustling out the rear door, leaving the room empty.

A final orderly scooped up the foot and placed it in a medical waste bag.

“Give them a few moments to clean up the mess down there,” the general said. “And then we can proceed. We won’t have long to wait.”