And Smithback had walked right into his house.
That noise he was hearing, that hideous gasping, was his own hyperventilation, the suck of air through tape covering his mouth. He forced himself to slow down, to take stock. There was a strong smell of mold around him, and it was pitch black. The air was cold, damp. The pain in his head increased. Smithback moved his arm toward his forehead, felt it stop abruptly—felt the tug of an iron cuff around his wrist, heard the clank of a chain. What the hell was this?
His heart began to race, faster and faster, as one by one the holes in his memory filled: the endless echoing rooms, the voice from the darkness, the man stepping out of the shadows… the glittering scalpel. Oh, God, was it really Leng? After 130 years? Leng?
He tried to stand in automatic groggy panic but fell back again immediately, to a chorus of clinks and clatterings. He was stark naked, chained to the ground by his arms and legs, his mouth sealed with heavy tape.
This couldn’t be happening. Oh, Jesus, this was insane.
He hadn’t told anyone he was coming up here. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody even knew he was missing. If only he’d told someone, the pool secretary, O’Shaughnessy, his great-grandfather, his half-sister, anyone…
He lay back, head pounding, hyperventilating again, heart battering in his rib cage.
He had been drugged and chained by the man in black—the man in the derby hat. That much was clear. The same man who tried to kill Pendergast, no doubt; the same man, probably, who had killed Puck and the others. The Surgeon. He was in the dungeon of the Surgeon.
The Surgeon. Professor Enoch Leng.
The sound of a footfall brought him to full alertness. There was a scraping noise, then a painfully bright rectangle of light appeared in the wall of darkness ahead. In the reflected light, Smithback could see he was in a small basement room with a cement floor, stone walls and an iron door. He felt a surge of hope, even gratitude.
A pair of moist lips appeared at the iron opening. They moved.
“Please do not discompose yourself,” came the voice. “All this will be over soon. Struggle is unnecessary.”
There was something almost familiar in that voice, and yet inexpressibly strange and terrible, like the whispered tones of nightmare.
The slot slid shut, leaving Smithback in darkness once more.
All those Dreadful
Little Cuts
ONE
THE BIG ROLLS-ROYCE GLIDED ITS WAY ALONG THE ONE-LANE ROAD THAT crossed Little Governors Island. Fog lay thick in the marshes and hollows, obscuring the surrounding East River and the ramparts of Manhattan that lay beyond. The headlights slid past a row of ancient, long-dead chestnut trees, then striped their way across heavy wrought iron gates. As the car stopped, the lights came to rest on a bronze plaque: Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
A security guard stepped out of a booth into the glare and approached the car. He was heavyset, tall, friendly looking. Pendergast lowered the rear window and the man leaned inside.
“Visiting hours are over,” he said.
Pendergast reached into his jacket, removed his shield wallet, opened it for the guard.
The man gave it a long look, and then nodded, as if it was all in a day’s work.
“And how may we help you, Special Agent Pendergast?”
“I’m here to see a patient.”
“And the name of the patient?”
“Pendergast. Miss Cornelia Delamere Pendergast.”
There was a short, uncomfortable silence.
“Is this official law enforcement business?” The security guard didn’t sound quite so friendly anymore.
“It is.”
“All right. I’ll call up to the big house. Dr. Ostrom is on duty tonight. You can park your car in the official slot to the left of the main door. They’ll be waiting for you in reception.”
Within a few minutes Pendergast was following the well-groomed, fastidious-looking Dr. Ostrom down a long, echoing corridor. Two guards walked in front, and two behind. Fancy wainscoting and decorative molding could still be glimpsed along the corridor, hidden beneath innumerable layers of institutional paint. A century before, in the days when consumption ravaged all classes of New York society, Mount Mercy Hospital had been a grand sanatorium, catering to the tubercular offspring of the rich. Now, thanks in part to its insular location, it had become a high-security facility for people who had committed heinous crimes but were found not guilty by reason of insanity.
“How is she?” Pendergast asked.
There was a slight hesitation in the doctor’s answer. “About the same,” he said.