Crooked River

65

The orderlies swiftly returned with mops, squeegees, and disinfectant, cleaning up the splattered and pooled blood with alarming efficiency while the doctor watched, arms crossed. They took the parang from the floor, wiped it down, disinfected it with alcohol, and placed it back on a gurney, covering it with a white cloth. And then the doctor gestured to an orderly, who exited the lab and, a moment later, opened the door to the observation room.

“The doctor wants the next subject for the second round of experiments,” he said.

The general ignored this and looked instead at Pendergast. “Care to make an observation?”

Pendergast didn’t reply.

“I’d imagine you’re wondering if you could resist the overwhelming compulsion of that drug. She was quite resistant, until the end. Could you do better? I admit to being intrigued myself. It will make an interesting experiment.”

Silence.

“Nothing at all to say?”

Pendergast fixed his eyes on the general. “You and I know perfectly well this is a charade. You’re going to test the drug on me regardless of what I do or say.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The expression of zeal on the good doctor’s face. And, of course, the simple fact that you cannot let me out of here alive.”

“Your latter statement is, I’m afraid, true. As for the doctor, the eagerness you note is an eagerness to get back to his second round of experiments — which your arrival has interrupted. However, I’m sure he won’t protest this further delay when I explain to him that a man like you will prove the ultimate test. I’ve read your jacket, you see — and I’m aware of what you did while in the military. Administering the drug to a person who truly possesses a will of iron and, aware of what is to come, knows what he must prepare for — will you be able to resist? If not, we can be confident the drug has been perfected.” The general turned to the soldiers. “Take him into the lab.”

One soldier grasped the wheelchair while another stood behind and wheeled him out the door, down the hall, and into the lab. A moment later Pendergast was parked in the center of the room, over the drain. The doctor was holding a phone connected to a wall, no doubt an inside line to the general in the observation room. Finally, the doctor hung up, brought over a pair of scissors, and cut the sleeve away from Pendergast’s right forearm. He didn’t bother to swab, but inserted the IV needle, got blood, and taped it down.

“A vial of H12K, please,” he said to an orderly.

“Doctor,” the orderly said, “just so you know: that’s the last of the initial new batch.”

“So?”

“Well, it was earmarked for subject 714, who’s next on the list and has been waiting in the prep room.”

“This one is more important,” the doctor snapped. “Get me the vial and send 714 back to his cell.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

The orderly opened a tabletop refrigerator, took out a vial, and handed it to the doctor, along with a freshly unsealed syringe.

The doctor inserted the needle through the cap of the vial, drew out a precisely measured amount, then held the needle up and depressed the plunger until a clear drop appeared, quivering at the hollow tip. He looked up at the one-way mirror with an anticipatory expression.

“Pendergast?” came the general’s voice over the intercom. “Last chance to speak.”

There was a long silence. Then the general’s voice sounded again. “Inject him.”