“Yes. Yes. My nightmares have included memories, as well.”

“And then you mentioned Tristram. Some mistake he had made.”

To this, Pendergast only shook his head.

Constance waited as he slipped back out of consciousness. Ten minutes later, he moved, opened his eyes again.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“In a hospital in Geneva.”

“Geneva.” A pause. “Of course.”

“From what I can gather, you ruined some meter man’s day.”

“I remember. He insisted on giving me a ticket. I was dreadful to him. I fear that I… cannot abide petty bureaucrats.” Another pause. “It is one of my many bad habits.”

When he again fell silent, Constance — confident now that he was lucid — filled him in on recent events, as D’Agosta had informed her: the suicide of his attacker in the Indio jail, the man’s face-altering plastic surgery, the reconstruction of his original appearance, and D’Agosta’s discovery of his real identity. She also passed on D’Agosta’s discovery, from Angler’s case file, that when Alban had entered the country under the name Tapanes Landberg a year before, he’d made a brief trip to upstate New York before returning to Brazil. Pendergast listened to it all with interest. Once or twice, his eyes flashed with the old spark she remembered so well. But when she was finished, he closed his eyes, turned his head away, and drifted back into unconsciousness again.

When next he awoke, it was night. Constance, who had not left his side, waited for him to speak.

“Constance,” he began, his voice as quiet as before. “You must understand that, at times, it is becoming difficult for me to… maintain my hold on reality. It comes and goes, as does the pain. At present, for instance, just to converse with you in a lucid fashion requires all my concentration. So let me tell you what I have to say, as briefly as possible.”

Constance, listening, kept very still.

“I said something unforgivable to you.”

“I’ve forgiven you.”

“You are too generous. From almost the beginning, when I scented the lilies in that strange animal gas chamber at the Salton Sea, I sensed what had happened: that my family’s past had come back to haunt me. In the form of someone bent on vengeance.”

He took a few shallow breaths.

“What my ancestor Hezekiah did was criminal. He created an elixir that was in reality an addictive poison, which killed a great many people and ruined the lives of others. But that was so… so far in the past…” A pause. “I knew what was happening to me — and you’d guessed it as well. But at the time, I simply couldn’t bear your pity. What hope I’d initially held out for reversing the effects quickly faded. I preferred not to even think about it. Hence my appalling remark to you in the music room.”

“Please don’t dwell on it.”

He fell into silence. In the dark room, lit only by the medical instrumentation, Constance was not sure if he was still awake.

“The lilies have begun to suppurate,” he said.

“Oh, Aloysius,” she said.

“There is something worse than the suffering. It’s that I lack answers. This baroque plot at the Salton Sea bears all the hallmarks of something Alban would organize. But who was he working with, and why did they kill him? And… how can I bear this slide into madness?”

Now Constance gripped his hand in both of hers. “There has to be a cure, an antidote. We’ll conquer this together.”

In the dimness, Pendergast shook his head. “No, Constance. There is no cure. You must go away. I’ll fly home. I know private doctors who can keep me as comfortable as possible while the end approaches.”

“No!” said Constance, her voice louder than she had intended. “I’ll never leave you.”

“I do not care to have you see me like… like this.”

She stood up and leaned over him. “I’ve got no choice.”

Pendergast shifted slightly under the covers. “You always have a choice. Please honor my request that you not see me in extremis. Like that man in Indio.”

In a languorous movement, she bent over the prostrate sufferer and kissed his brow. “I’m sorry. But my choice is to fight this to the end. Because—”

“But—”

“Because you are the other half of my heart,” she murmured. She sat down once more, took up his hand, and did not speak again.

47

The uniformed police officer pulled the squad car over to the curb. “We’re here, sir,” he said.

“You’re sure?” Lieutenant D’Agosta said, peering out the passenger window.

“Forty-One Twenty-Seven Colfax Avenue. Did I get the address wrong?”

“No, that’s the one.”

D’Agosta was surprised. He’d expected a trailer park or a grim apartment deep in the projects. But this house in the Miller Beach section of Gary, Indiana, was well tended, and — though it might be small — was freshly painted, and the grounds were neatly pruned. Marquette Park was only a few blocks away.

D’Agosta turned to the Gary cop. “Would you mind going over his record again for me? Just so I’ve got everything in my head.”

“Sure thing.” The cop unzipped a case, pulled out a computer printout. “It’s pretty clean. A couple of traffic tickets, one for doing thirty-eight in a thirty zone, another for passing on the shoulder.”

“Passing on the shoulder?” D’Agosta asked. “They give tickets for that here?”

“Under the last chief, we did. He was a hard-ass.” The cop looked back at the rap sheet. “Only thing of any substance we have on him was being nabbed during a raid on a known mob hangout. But he was clean — no drugs, no weapons — and since he had no other connections or affiliations we knew of, no charges were pressed. Four months later, his wife reported him missing.” The cop returned the rap sheet to the case. “That’s it. Given possible ties to the mob, we figured he’d been killed. He never showed up again, alive or dead, no body, nothing. It was eventually shelved as a cold case.”

D’Agosta nodded. “Let me do the talking, if you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest.”

D’Agosta glanced at his watch: half past six. Then he opened the door to the cruiser and heaved himself out with a grunt.

He followed the uniformed officer up the walkway and waited while the doorbell was pressed. A few moments later, a woman appeared at the door. With long practice, D’Agosta took in the details: five foot six, 140 pounds, brunette hair. She held a plate in one hand and a dishcloth in the other, and she was dressed for work in a pantsuit that was dated but clean and well pressed. When she saw the officer, a look went across her face: an expression of both anxiety and hope.

D’Agosta stepped forward. “Ma’am, are you Carolyn Rudd?”

The woman nodded.

D’Agosta flashed his badge. “I’m Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta of the New York Police Department and this is Officer Hektor Ortillo of the Gary police. I was wondering if we could have a few minutes of your time.”

There was just the slightest hesitation. “Yes,” the woman said. “Yes, of course. Come in.” She opened the door and ushered them into a small living room. The furniture was, again, old and functional, but well kept and impeccably clean. Once again D’Agosta got the clear impression of a household in which money had grown tight, but form and civility still mattered.

Ms. Rudd asked them to sit down. “Would you like some lemonade?” she asked. “Coffee?”

Both men shook their heads.

Now there were noises on the stairs leading to the second floor and two curious faces appeared: a boy, maybe twelve, and a girl a few years younger.

“Howie,” the woman said. “Jennifer. I’m just going to have a little chat with these gentlemen. Could you please go back upstairs and finish your homework? I’ll be up soon.”

The two children looked at the cops, silent and wide-eyed. After a few seconds they crept back upstairs and out of sight.

“If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll just put this dish away.” The woman retreated to the kitchen, then returned and took a seat across from D’Agosta and the Gary cop.