Page 15 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

He told himself not to bother trying the handle. He did anyway. Locked as usual.

“Pendergast,” he said to the door, “I thought you should know that I got Dr. Quincy back onto a bus headed west. Just this morning. He kept asking about you, even as he was boarding. I didn’t say anything. But I think you owe him a phone call, at least. And you owe me a couple of hundred bucks in beer money—that old guy was like a sponge.”

He was answered by the usual silence.

“Look,” he said after a minute. “I know I’ve said this before. But I really mean it. You can’t stay in there forever. I know what you’re going through—that is, I don’t know from your perspective, but…hell, it’s wrong to just stew in there, like…like a potato in a bank of honey-locust embers. At leasttalkto me. It would help me to, you know…hear from my partner.”

He fell silent, waiting, but no sound came from within. Up above on the roof, the noise of construction faded as the workers paused for Sunday lunch.

He took a deep breath. “You know, speaking of heading west, I got another call last night from the SAC of the Denver Field Office. Dudek. He’s been pressing me pretty hard, and I finally had to tell him I couldn’t take on any cases until—”

The door opened with such speed it was all Coldmoon could do not to fall out of his chair. In the entryway stood Agent Pendergast. Coldmoon stood up, blinking away his surprise. Instead of the devastated man with mussed hair, a rumpled shirt, and a week’s worth of beard that Coldmoon imagined, Pendergast looked as immaculate as the day they’d first met. The obligatory black suit, white shirt, and elegant, muted tie—Hermès today; Coldmoon had never seen him wear the same one twice—looked as crisp as if they’d come off a tailor’s dummy. His face was as pale, smooth, cool and chiseled as marble. Coldmoon ticked off these observations instinctively, one after the other, with both relief and surprise.

“Agent Coldmoon,” Pendergast said. There was a slight rasp in his voice, as if from long silence, but the tone was neutral, the accent as smooth as the molasses in dark rum. “Please come in.” He indicated a set of chairs in the front room. “Have a seat.”

Coldmoon took the opportunity to look around. The suite was neat as a pin. Through the open door leading to Pendergast’s bedroom, he could see the bed was made up. Who, he wondered, was taking care of that? The door to Constance’s bedroom, on the other hand, was shut.

Pendergast took the chair across from him. He moved gingerly, a mark of his earlier injuries, but without obvious signs of pain or frailty. Coldmoon was relieved—he looked almost recovered from the severe blood loss he’d suffered. His true state of mind, Coldmoon knew, lay behind Pendergast’s ice-blue eyes…and that was territory he could not hope to traverse.

“I apologize for my rudeness,” Pendergast said. “There really is no excuse I can offer.”

“No worries,” Coldmoon replied. “And no need to explain. I only wish I could have been of help.”

“You can help now,” Pendergast said.

“Anything.”

“Excellent. Then please take out your phone and make another call to SAC Dudek.”

Coldmoon frowned. “I’m not sure—”

“Just call him, if you please. You can tell him you’ll be there late this afternoon.”

Coldmoon began to protest but saw from Pendergast’s expression it would be useless. He pulled out the phone and made the call—all the time under the senior agent’s watchful eye. As he put his phone away, it occurred to him that Pendergast had opened the door because he mentioned he was, essentially, beginning to put his new assignment in jeopardy.

“You’ll need to leave shortly,” Pendergast said, “but I believe there’s time for a drink.” He stood up. “What will you have?”

Coldmoon glanced at his watch. It was quarter past noon. There was no use asking for a beer; Pendergast would have none. He glanced at the row of bottles on a shelf. “Um, just a little dry vermouth, please. On the rocks.”

“Very well.” Pendergast made his way over to the serving cart. Coldmoon watched him splash some vermouth into a tumbler, toss in some ice. Taking a highball glass, he poured in a generous measure of Belvedere vodka, followed by ice, fruit-infused Italian sparkling water, and a jigger of some unctuous purple liquid from a large, medicinal-looking bottle. He dropped in a glass stir rod, then returned. Coldmoon watched the agent’s movements more carefully now. They were a trifle unsteady, but he nevertheless put down the drinks without spilling a drop.

Pendergast seated himself once again and reached for a small tin of blackcurrant-flavored pastilles, removed one, and dropped it into his glass. He stirred the mixture slowly with the crystal stirrer and lifted the highball glass to his lips.

“That’s ‘lean,’” Coldmoon said.

Pendergast raised his eyebrows as he took a sip. “I’m sorry?”

“What you’re drinking.”

“This? It’s a concoction favored by a friend of mine from the French Quarter of New Orleans. Now sadly deceased, alas.” Pendergast raised the glass again and took another deep sip. “There’s one more thing you can do,” he said. “To help.”

“Anything.” Coldmoon sat forward.

“Please listen to what I have to tell you, without interruption, and while suspending your disbelief. I would caution you to never tell a living soul what you are about to hear—but that won’t be necessary, since no one would believe you anyway.”

Coldmoon hesitated a moment. And then he nodded. “Okay.”

10

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