Page 97 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“What are you doing?” Ferenc asked.

Proctor didn’t reply.

Ferenc straightened up. “We’ve exercised the machine. I don’t need you anymore.”

“Change of protocol,” Proctor repeated.

“Okay. Maybe you’d better tell me all about this new protocol of yours.”

“From now on, access to this room is restricted. I’ll admit you for scheduled tests and maintenance; assist or monitor you as necessary; then let you out again. Should there be any problems with the device, or additional servicing is required, you will alert me, and we’ll proceed along similar lines.”

“Well, what’s the new door code? I may need to get in here for emergency repairs or something. What if there’s an electrical fire?”

“Smoke, temperature, and movement monitors have been installed and are operational. I will be present in this room at all times when you are here. If you need access to the machine at any time of the day or night, you will call me and I’ll provide it within ten minutes—and stay with you until your work is completed.”

Ferenc couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After all the time he’d put in on this project—the labor, the brilliant shortcuts, the brainstorms that had turned unfixable problems into fixable triumphs—they were rewarding him with this kind of treatment?

Like many arrogant, egotistical geniuses, Ferenc grew short-tempered when he wasn’t praised and pampered, and now his ego overcame his better instincts. “Really? And just when did you get the brilliant idea to institute thisprotocol?”

“I’m merely following the instructions of Agent Pendergast,” came the cool reply.

Agent Pendergast.Suddenly, Ferenc visualized how it must have played out. He’d been allowed to work on the machine under minimal supervision while trying to restore it to working order. But now that it was operational, and his job here had entered a second and final phase—maintenance—the supervision was no longer minimal. What before had felt like a silken thread was now more of a choke collar.

“So Pendergast doesn’t trust me—is that what you’re saying?”

Proctor stood up slowly. “Agent Pendergast is suspicious, but inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt. I, on the other hand, haven’t trusted you since I drove up to your shack.”

Ferenc wasn’t sure what infuriated him more—this dismissive, distrustful treatment or the fact Pendergast had been thinking one step ahead of him. He stepped forward quickly, rashly. “I’ve delivered what nobody else could—and now I’m being treated like a galley slave? You can take this machine and shove it up your ass.”

Proctor came forward, too—he didn’t run, not exactly, but within the space of two seconds he was standing in front of Ferenc, leaning well into his personal space. Despite Ferenc’s petulant outburst, some instinct for survival cautioned him to stay perfectly still.

“My employer gave you a gift—the chance to work on something extraordinary. Something better than a go-kart picking up and sniffing rocks on Mars. You took that gift, knowing full well what it entailed. You’ll see the mission through—to the end. And when it’s done, you won’t say a single word about it. Toanybody.”

Ferenc tried to respond but found that, though his mouth worked, no sound came out.

“Not only do I not trust you,” Proctor said in that same, awful, weirdly calm tone, “but I don’tlikeyou. Step out of line, and you’ll vanish. Just like that.”

While these words sank in, Proctor remained as still as if he were made of marble. Silence descended on the lab. After perhaps thirty seconds, Ferenc gave a faint nod of acknowledgment. Proctor took one step back, and another, then walked to his chair by the door and sat down while Ferenc returned to work, blazing with rage and shame.

The minutes passed as Proctor sat in the chair, watching him work. Ferenc discovered he wasn’t getting much done: the unexpected confrontation had left him so upset it was hard to concentrate. At last—just as he was finally getting into the rhythm of the inspection—he heard the rasp of a chair upon the floor, followed by the sound of footsteps.

He looked up from where he was crouching behind the device. Proctor had moved the chair behind the mysterious table. As Ferenc watched, he pulled away the tarp, exposing several items: a small pile of sturdy plastic containers with locking tops; a weighing scale such as you’d use for diamonds or gold dust; some hammers and other tools; a miniature burlap sack—and some machine, bolted to the table, that reminded Ferenc of the device his mother had used to force ground pork into sausage casings.

As he watched, Proctor began arranging the plastic boxes and tools in front of him. When he opened the burlap sack and spilled its shiny brass contents onto the table, Ferenc—who’d rubbed elbows with plenty of survivalists, hunters, and nut jobs in the backwoods of West Virginia—realized what he was doing: reloading spent shells with new bullets.

Naturally the guy would roll his own. Why leave it to someone else when you can tailor bespoke ammo to your own murderous specifications? Muttering to himself, Ferenc ducked down again to continue his inspection. As he did so, he tried unsuccessfully to tune out the sounds of the operation taking place across the room. He could hear Proctor rubbing down the brass cartridges with a lube pad, cleaning out the burnt powder, and inserting new primers with a hand priming tool. For some reason, this process—just the thought of the man getting something accomplished, instead of wasting time watching him—irritated him even more. A sound like the scattering of tiny pebbles informed him Proctor was now measuring out gunpowder in the scale. He figured the cold-blooded sadist would probably load his bullets heavy, 150 or even 160 grains for a 9mm hollow-point. Next, he heard the lowwhumpof the reloading press. He’d test one round for weight, then run the rest through.

Sure enough: as Ferenc tried once again to get on with his work, he heard the press being cranked, again and again and again. Then a brief silence, followed by a series of short, sharp volleys:crack,crack,crack…

Goaded beyond endurance, he stood up. Proctor had lined up the shells—at least a hundred—in neat rows, and was now crimping down the bullets to the proper depth. Hewasmaking hollow-points—the fucker. Not only that, he was using tweezers to seat some kind of rubber or polymer into the dimples, making sure the bullets wouldn’t clog on clothing but rather penetrate through to flesh before mushrooming.

“I could just walk out of here, you know,” he said.

Proctor had put down the tweezers and picked up a caliper, no doubt to measure the Parabellums for correct length. He raised his eyebrows in mute inquiry.

“Today, for instance. I could walk on out of here—and just keep walking. Screw you and your ‘protocols.’ I’d lose a lot of money, sure, but I’ve made a shitload already, and it just might be worth it, seeing you left in the lurch. What happens when you can’t exercise the machine by yourself? Or if, maybe, it blows a gasket?” He barked a laugh. “I’d like to see what you’d do then.”

As Proctor sat staring back at him, caliper in hand, Ferenc heard his own last words echo a few times, then die away:I’d like to see what you’d do then.

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