Page 32 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

He didn’t move out of his chair. “You thinking I shot Twoeagle with a varmint rifle?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call your Browning a varmint rifle.”

“It was stolen a week ago.”

At this, Coldmoon felt a prickle of suspicion. “Did you report it to the police?”

“I’m reporting it now. You’re cops, aren’t you?”

“Why didn’t you report it before?”

Running shifted uneasily. “Maybe I need that lawyer after all. Maybe you should leave.”

Coldmoon rose. “Fine. We’ll see ourselves out.”

They climbed back in the car and Coldmoon exhaled. “We’d better get that warrant ASAP.”

“Yup,” said Pologna. “I think we found our man.”

That was a little premature, Coldmoon thought as he started the car and eased onto the road, but then he couldn’t really disagree.

20

HE’D LIKE TO SPEAKwith you. In the library.”

Proctor, staring moodily into a cup of black coffee in the back kitchen of the mansion on Riverside Drive, did not immediately realize this statement was directed at him. After a moment, he looked up to see Mrs. Trask staring in his direction.

“Me?” Proctor said. The question sounded stupid even as he asked it, but somehow he needed confirmation.

Since his employer had returned from Savannah, he had not spoken once to Proctor: his driver, bodyguard, and Keeper of Particular Secrets. A few others had passed in and out of the house—doctors or scientists, a two-star general, and another person who stood out because he was so utterly banal in appearance Proctor figured he must be an undercover agent of some kind—but still Pendergast had not spoken with him.

Proctor considered that if he had feelings to be hurt, they would be. Fortunately, he did not.

Two days ago, Pendergast had suddenly arrived, without Constance. He had deactivated the security system and walked in, leaving his suitcases in the refectory. He had glided up the stairs and locked himself in his private chambers almost before Proctor knew he was in the house. Since then, Mrs. Trask had seen him several times—she’d served him spartan meals in the library, along with afternoon tea—but whenever she entered his private chambers, there’d been something in her expression that told Proctor she knew as little as he did…and warned him not to make any inquiries.

This late-evening summons, therefore, had come as a surprise. Proctor stood up, smoothed his jacket, drained his coffee, and made his way toward the front rooms of the mansion.

He arrived at the marble reception hall and the double doors leading into the library. He paused before the doors to practice some box breathing. Strange he should feel more anxious now than when slipping into the bedroom of a snoring dictator armed only with a garrote, or while being ambushed by enfilading fire in Yemen.

He rapped on the door.

“Come in,” came the familiar voice. Proctor entered the library and closed the doors behind him.

Agent Pendergast was standing by the tall windows at the far end of the room, hands behind his back. He looked exactly as if he was taking in the view, which of course was impossible, since the library’s shutters were, as usual, closed.

“Ah, Proctor,” he said. “Please join me.” And he indicated the wing chair on one side of the fireplace.

This was a most unusual request. But then, everything had taken on a touch of unreality in the last few days, and Proctor saw no reason to question his employer. He came forward and sat down. As he did so, he noticed the library appeared unused: there were no piles of books or old papers spread about as was often the case, and the polished wood surfaces were dust-free and gleaming. Also, unusually, no fire flickered in the grate. The harpsichord sitting in a far corner—its painted lid closed—caught his eye, reminding him of Constance’s absence.

Pendergast took a seat in the chair opposite him. “I apologize, old friend, for not greeting you earlier,” he said. “I’m not myself.”

“Unnecessary, sir.” Proctor took the opportunity to observe Pendergast carefully. The man was paler than usual, and his movements indicated to Proctor’s keen eye that he was recovering from an injury to his left shoulder. Most startling were his eyes, which stared out at the world with a kind of desperate ferocity that belied his easy, courtly manner. He was, indeed, not his normal self.

But Proctor prided himself on his lack of imagination, and he knew Pendergast would notice signs of curiosity, so he was careful to maintain an impassive expression.

“I’m afraid it is necessary,” Pendergast replied. “Especially since I’m going to be asking a lot of you in the coming days.”

“I’ll assist however I can, sir.”

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