As Pribeaux lay paralyzed and unconscious on the kitchen floor, Jonathan Harker produced a comb from his shirt pocket. He had bought it earlier in the day but had not used it himself.
He drew it through the killer’s thick hair. Several loose strands had tangled in the plastic teeth.
He put the comb and these hairs in an envelope that he brought for this purpose. Evidence.
Pribeaux had regained consciousness. “Who . . . who are you?”
“Do you want to die?” Jonathan asked.
Tears swelled in Pribeaux’s eyes. “No. Please,
no.
“You want to live even if you’ll be paralyzed for life?”
“Yes. Yes, please. I have plenty of money I can receive the finest care and rehabilitation. Help me dispose of… of what’s in the freezers, everything incriminating, let me live, and I’ll make you rich.”
The New Race was not motivated by money Jonathan pretended otherwise. “I know the depth of your resources. Maybe we can strike a bargain, after all.”
“Yes, we can, I know we can,” Pribeaux said weakly but eagerly “But right now,” Jonathan said, “I want you to be quiet. I’ve got work to do, and I don’t want to have to listen to your whining. If you stay quiet, we’ll bargain later. If you speak once, just once, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
When Pribeaux tried to nod, he couldn’t.
‘All right,” said Jonathan. “We’re on the same page.”
Pribeaux bled from his shattered wrist, but slowly and steadily rather than in arterial spurts.
With a new eyedropper that he had purchased in the same drugstore where he’d bought the comb, Jonathan suctioned blood from the puddle on the floor. He transferred a few ccs at a time to a little glass bottle that he had also brought with him.
Pribeaux’s eyes followed his every move. They were moist with self-pity, bright with curiosity, wide with terror.
When he had filled the small bottle, Jonathan screwed a cap on it and stowed it in a jacket pocket. He wrapped the bloody eyedropper in a handkerchief and pocketed that, as well.
Quickly he searched the kitchen drawers until he found a white plastic garbage bag and rubber bands.
He slid the bag over Pribeaux’s damaged left arm and fixed it tightly above the elbow with two rubber bands. This would make it possible to move the man without leaving a blood trail.
Effortlessly, Jonathan lifted Pribeaux and put him on the floor near the dinette set, out of the way.
He cleaned the blood from the white ceramic tiles. Fortunately, Pribeaux had sealed the grout so effectively that the blood did not penetrate.
When he was certain that not one drop or smear of blood remained and that no other evidence of violence could be found in the kitchen, he bagged the paper towels and other cleanup supplies in another garbage bag, knotted the neck of it, and secured it to his belt.
At the desk in the living room, he switched on the computer. He chose a program from the menu and typed a few lines that with great thought he had earlier composed.
Leaving the computer on, Jonathan went to the front door, opened it, and stepped onto the roomy landing at the head of the stairs that served Pribeaux’s loft. He stood listening for a moment.
The businesses on the first floor had closed hours ago. Pribeaux didn’t seem to have friends or visitors. Deep stillness pooled in the building.
In the apartment again, Jonathan lifted Pribeaux and carried him in his arms as though he were a child, out to the landing.
In addition to stairs, the apartment was served by the freight elevator that was original to the building. With an elbow, Jonathan pressed the call button.
Pribeaux’s eyes searched Jonathan’s face, desperately trying to read his intent.
Aboard the elevator, still carrying the paralyzed man, Jonathan pressed the number 3 on the control panel.
On the flat roof of the former warehouse were storage structures that required elevator service. When Pribeaux realized they were going to the roof, his pale face paled further, and the terror in his eyes grew frenetic. He knew now that there would be no bargain made to save his life.
“You can still feel pain in your face, in your neck,” Jonathan warned him. “I will cause you the most horrific pain you can imagine, in the process of blinding you. Do you understand?”
Pribeaux blinked rapidly, opened his mouth, but dared not speak a word even of submission.
“Excruciating pain,” Jonathan promised. “But if you remain silent and cause me no problem, your death will be quick.”
The elevator arrived at the top of the building.
Only orange light of an early moon illuminated the roof, but Jonathan could see well. He carried the killer to the three-foot-high safety parapet.
Pribeaux had begun to weep, but not so loud as to earn him the unendurable pain that he had been promised. He sounded like a small child, lost and full of misery The cobblestone alleyway behind the warehouse lay forty feet below, deserted at this hour.
Jonathan dropped Pribeaux off the roof. The killer screamed but not loud or long.
In desperate physical condition before he had been dropped, Roy Pribeaux had no chance whatsoever of surviving the fall. The sound of him hitting the pavement was a lesson in the fragility of the human skeleton.
Jonathan left the elevator at the roof and took the stairs to the ground floor. He walked to his car, which he had parked three blocks away.
En route, he tossed the garbage bag full of bloody paper towels in a convenient Dumpster.
In the car, he used a cell phone that just hours ago he had taken off a drug dealer whom he rousted near the Quarter. He called 911, disguised his voice, and pretended to be a junkie who, shooting up in an alley, saw a man jump from a warehouse roof.
Call completed, he tossed the phone out of the car window.
He was still wearing the latex gloves. He stripped them off as he drove.
CHAPTER 56
THE ELEVATOR IS like a three-dimensional crossword-puzzle box, descending to the basement of the Hands of Mercy.
Randal Six had turned left in the second-floor hallway, entering the elevator on his fourth step; therefore, the letter that this box contains—and from which he must proceed when he reaches the lower level—is t.
When the doors open, he says, “Toward,” and steps o-w-a-r-d into the corridor.
A life of greater mobility is proving easier to achieve than he had expected. He is not yet ready to drive a car in the Indianapolis 500, and he may not even be ready for a slow walk in the world beyond these walls, but he’s making progress.
Years ago, Father had conducted some of his most revolutionary experiments on this lowest floor of the hospital. The rumors of what he created here, which Randal has overheard, are as numerous as they are disturbing.
A battle seems to have been fought on this level. A section of the corridor wall has been broken down, as if something smashed its way out of one of the rooms.
To the right of the elevator, half the width of the passageway is occupied by organized piles of rubble: broken concrete blocks, twisted rebar in mare’s nests of rust, mounds of plaster, steel door frames wrenched into peculiar shapes, the formidable steel doors themselves bent in half. . .
According to Hands of Mercy legend, something had gone so wrong down here that Father wished always to keep the memory of it clear in his mind and, therefore, made no repairs and left the rubble instead of having it hauled away Dozens of the New Race had perished here in an attempt to contain … something.
Because Father enters and exits Mercy every day on this level, he is regularly confronted with the evidence of the terrible crisis that apparently almost led to the destruction of his life’s work. Some even dare to speculate that Father nearly died here, though to repeat this claim seems like blasphemy.
Turning away from the rubble, Randal Six uses the last letter of toward to spell determination in a new direction.
By a series of side steps that spell small words, alternating with forward steps that spell long words, he comes to a door at the end of the hallway. This is not locked.
Beyond is a storage room with rows of cabinets in which are kept hard-copy backup files of the project’s computerized records.
Directly opposite the first door stands another. That one will be locked. Through it, Father comes and goes from Mercy Randal Six navigates the tile floor in this room by means of crosswords, at last settling in a hiding place between rows of file cabinets, near the second door but not within sight of it.
Now he must wait.
CHAPTER 57
FROM THE LUXE, Carson went to Homicide, settled at the computer on her desk, and launched her web browser.
There was no graveyard shift in Homicide. Detectives worked when the investigation required, night or day, but they tended to be in-office less as the day waned, on call but not sitting desks in the wee hours. At the moment, though the night was not yet that late, she sat alone in the corpse-chasers’ corner.
Reeling from what Deucalion had told her, Carson wasn’t sure what to believe. She found it surprisingly difficult to disbelieve any of his story regardless of the fact that it was fantastic to the point of insanity.
She needed to get background on Victor Helios. With the World Wide Web, she was able to unwrap a fictitious biography more easily than in the days when a data chase had to be done on foot or through cooperating officers in other jurisdictions.
She typed in her search string. In seconds, she had scores of hits. Helios, the visionary founder of Biovision. Helios, the local mover and shaker in New Orleans politics and society Helios, the philanthropist.
At first she seemed to have a lot of material. Quickly, however, she found that for all his wealth and connections, Helios didn’t so much swim the waters of New Orleans society as skim across the surface.
In the city for almost twenty years, he made a difference in his community, but with a minimum of exposure. Scores of people in local society got more press time; they were omnipresent by comparison to Helios.
Furthermore, when Carson attempted to track the few facts about Helios’s past, prior to New Orleans, they trailed away like wisps of evaporating mist.
He had gone to university “in Europe,” but nothing more specific was said about his alma mater.
Though he inherited his fortune, the names of his parents were never mentioned.
He was said to have greatly enlarged that fortune with several financial coups during the dot-com boom. No details were provided.
References to “a New England childhood” never included the state where he had been born and raised.
One thing about the available photos intrigued Carson. In his first year in New Orleans, Victor had been handsome, almost dashing, and appeared to be in his late thirties. In his most recent photos, he looked hardly any older.
He had adopted a more flattering hairstyle—but he had no less hair than before. If he’d had plastic surgery, the surgeon had been particularly skilled.
Eight years ago, he had returned from an unspecified place in New England with a bride who appeared to be no older than twenty-five. Her name was Erika, but Carson could find no mention of her maiden name.
Erika would be perhaps thirty-three now. In her most recent photos, she looked not a day older than in those taken eight years previously.
Some women were fortunate enough to keep their twenty-something looks until they were forty. Erika might be one of those.
Nevertheless, the ability of both her and her husband to defy the withering hand of time seemed remarkable. If not uncanny “They got him, O’Connor.”
Startled, she looked up from the computer and saw Tom Bowmaine, the watch commander, at the open door to the hallway, on the farther side of the Homicide bullpen.
“They got the Surgeon,” Tom elaborated. “Dead. He took a header off a roof.”
CHAPTER 58
ONE BLOCK OF the alleyway had been cordoned off to preserve as much evidence as possible for the CSI crew. Likewise the roof of the building and the freight elevator.
Carson climbed the stairs to Roy Pribeaux’s apartment. The jake outside the door knew her; he let her into the loft.
She half expected to find Harker or Frye, or both. Neither was present. Another detective, Emery Framboise, had been in the area and had caught the call.
Carson liked Emery The sight of him didn’t raise a single hair on the back of her neck.
He was a young guy—thirty-four—who dressed the way certain older detectives had once dressed before they decided they looked like throwbacks to the lost South of the 1950s. Seersucker suits, white rayon shirts, string ties, a straw boater parked dead-flat on his head.
Somehow he made this retro look seem modern, perhaps because he himself was otherwise entirely of a modern sensibility.
Carson was surprised to see Kathy Burke, friend and shrink, with Emery in the kitchen. Primarily Kathy conducted mandatory counseling sessions with officers involved in shootings and in other traumatic situations, though she also wrote psychological profiles of elusive perpetrators like the Surgeon. She seldom visited crime scenes, at least not this early in the game.
Kathy and Emery were watching two CSI techs unload the contents of one of two freezers. Tupperware containers.
As Carson joined Kathy and Emery, one of the techs read a label on the lid of a container. “Left hand.”
She would have understood the essence of the situation without hearing those two words, because the raised lid of the second freezer revealed the eyeless corpse of a young woman.
“Why aren’t you home reading about swashbuckling heroines and flying dragons?” Carson needled.
“There’s a different kind of dragon dead in the alleyway,” Kathy said. “I wanted to see his lair, see if my profile of him holds any water.”
“Right hand,” a tech said, taking a container from the freezer.
Emery Framboise said, “Carson, looks like you’ve just been saved a ton of casework.”
“I suppose it wasn’t an accident he went off the roof?”
“Suicide. He left a note. Probably heard you and Michael were on his trail, figured he was a dead man walking.”
“Do homicidal sociopaths commit suicide?” Carson wondered.
“Rarely,” Kathy said. “But it’s not unheard of.”
“Ears,” said one of the CSI techs, removing a small container from the freezer, and his partner read the label on another: “Lips.”
“I disappointed my mother,” Emery said. “She wanted me to be an airline pilot like my dad. At times like this, I think maybe I would be better off high in the night, up where the sky is clean, flying San Francisco to Tokyo.”
“Yeah,” Carson said, “but then what airline pilot is ever going to have stories like this to tell his grandkids when he tucks them into bed? Where’s the suicide note?”