The Obsidian Chamber

36

Diogenes Pendergast, in his carefully curated identity as Petru Lupei, stepped out onto the private terrace of the tenth-floor suite of the Corcoran Hotel, then paused — as was his long habit — to scrutinize his surroundings with obsessive care. The Atlantic Ocean stretched from north to south in an unbroken line, its creamy breakers reflecting the pink of the evening clouds. The bustle of Miami’s South Beach neighborhood surrounded the hotel on all sides, salsa music floating up to him on the freshening late-afternoon breeze. Nothing appeared amiss.

He probed his own sixth sense for danger, the internal psychic alarm he trusted more than anything else. It was quiescent.

Except for the sudden appearance of the NYPD lieutenant at Riverside Drive that morning — an event Diogenes, compulsive planner though he was, had been utterly unprepared for — everything had gone well. Even that unwelcome surprise turned out to have a silver lining: he had been gratified by how quickly, and without hesitation, Constance had acted to neutralize the threat.

He glanced over at her now, sitting on a deck chair, wearing a knee-length white skirt and a pale lemon-colored blouse, large-brimmed straw hat obscuring her face and dark glasses. One slender ankle was crossed over the other, and an iced glass of tart limeade sat on a nearby side table.

It was the outfit he had suggested she wear when they checked into the hotel. He had chosen this location — Ocean Drive, the very heart of the South Beach Art Deco District — because of how easy it was to hide in plain sight among the chic, flashy, self-absorbed crowds. And he had chosen this hotel not only for its elegance and comfort — it was the old Vanderbilt Arms, done over, as had been most of the hotels on Ocean Drive, in Streamline Moderne, although thankfully with a degree of restraint — but because it was large. A cruise ship full of German tourists had just arrived and was occupying the staff’s full attention. He’d considered booking the penthouse, which occupied the hotel’s entire top floor and came with four bedrooms, a seven-foot grand piano, and an infinity pool, but he’d decided that might attract attention. Instead, he’d settled for one of the dozen grand suites, with three bedrooms, rainfall showers, Frette linens, and cedar saunas. It seemed a good stepping-stone between the austerity of Constance’s Riverside Drive rooms and the understated luxury of Halcyon.

Flying first-class to Miami had been straightforward. Thanks to the ironclad, unquestionable veracity of his Petru Lupei identity, it had not been necessary to “break his profile” for the flight. Everything was going according to plan — and yet, as he looked at Constance, he felt a tug of concern. Beneath the hat and behind the Bulgari sunglasses it was impossible to see her expression, but the stillness of her limbs, and the very way she was staring motionlessly out to sea, drink untouched, brought to mind the impenetrable stillness he’d noticed when he had watched her packing, preparing to take her final leave of 891 Riverside Drive.

Looking at her, he wondered if perhaps South Beach had been the right choice to stay during his harvesting of the cauda equina. After her ghastly, impoverished childhood, she had lived shut away from the world in the confines of the Riverside Drive mansion. Even after his brother had taken her under his wing, she had hardly ventured out into the world: only a few New York locations; Italy; England; New Orleans; and coastal Massachusetts. The gaudy Ocean Drive scene — all retro-chic neon and deco, steeped in preening narcissism — was perhaps even more outré than Las Vegas. Hiding in plain sight in such a trendy atmosphere had been part of the cover he’d chosen for them. But now he wondered if such a culture shock, coming as it did at a moment of galvanic change in Constance’s life, might have been ill chosen.

Constance took a sip of her limeade.

“Constance?” he said gently.

She turned to look at him.

“I wonder if you would mind coming inside for just a moment. I thought it would be a good idea if I went over the arrangements I’ve made for the next few days.”

After a moment, she rose. She appeared unsteady, because she placed one hand on the deck chair briefly before heading into the suite’s salon. Taking a seat on an overstuffed sofa, she removed her hat, smoothed its brow, placed it on the arm of the sofa, then took off her sunglasses.

Diogenes was shocked. Inside, out of the glare of the sun, her face looked pallid and drawn, and her eyes dark, as if slightly bruised. Could this be the result of the flight, or the shock of leaving her home of so many years? No: these manifestations looked systemic, not emotional. Was it possible that — now she was no longer in denial of the physical degeneration caused by Leng’s faulty elixir — she was succumbing to its effects? As he looked at her, pain and sympathy mingled with love.

“Are you all right?” he asked before considering his words.

She waved a hand. “A slight headache. It will pass.”

He took a seat on a chair across from her. “Here’s what will happen next. Lucius Garey is scheduled to die at nine PM tomorrow, in the Florida State Prison at Pahokee, about ninety miles northwest of here. The execution order has been signed and will not be rescinded. I’ll take the place of the medical examiner, who at the last minute will be suddenly indisposed — nothing serious, I assure you, but an issue that will keep him from performing his duties. The body should be delivered to the M.E.’s office by about ten. I’ll immediately remove and stabilize the cauda equina. Then I’ll make the examination of the body, as required by law. I’ll have to prepare a report and fill out the paperwork to have the body transferred to the next of kin. The incision I will make in the lower back will be small, and my report will give a medical reason for it. Nobody will be the wiser. Everything will be done by the book. My credentials and affiliation will pass muster.”

He swept a hand around the room. “Over the next thirty-six hours, while I’m gone, I would strongly encourage you to remain in the suite. The less we show of ourselves, the better. I’ve done all I can to make this a comfortable retreat. Choose whichever of the three bedrooms pleases you most. There are books, music, and a video library at your disposal: I’ve laid in a set of the complete works of Yasujirō Ozu, by the way, and recommend them if you’re not yet acquainted with his filmography. There’s twenty-four-hour maid and butler service, of course, and a full menu for in-suite dining at your disposal. You’ll find the refrigerator stocked with mineral water, fruit juices, and Dom Pérignon.” He tapped a cell phone that sat on the glass tabletop between them. “Should you need anything at all, please call me anytime.”

He stood up. “I should be back early the morning after tomorrow. My yacht is moored at South Beach Harbor. By that evening, we’ll be at Halcyon. I’ll have synthesized the arcanum — and you’ll be on your way back to health.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to leave in a moment. Is there anything else I can do for you, to make you more comfortable in my absence?”

“There’s nothing, thank you.”

“No meds? Muscle relaxants? Stimulants?”

She shook her head.

Suddenly, on impulse, he knelt before her and took her hand. “Constance, I make you a solemn promise: two days from now, we will already have begun our new life on my private island. Our private island. And I will devote myself entirely to your health and happiness.”

He gently turned her hand over in his, kissed her palm. Constance smiled.

He rose again. “Remember: call me anytime. I love you.”

And then he turned, picked up Petru Lupei’s elegant malacca cane, and silently left the hotel suite.