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“Take him away,” Coldmoon said.
Each taking an arm, the ICE agents began steering Armendariz toward a door leading from the concourse to customs security. It was only then, as he was forced into motion, that the billionaire seemed to awaken from his daze. “No!” he said, beginning to struggle. “What is this? What are you doing to me?”
Inwardly, Coldmoon cringed. This was just the kind of scene he’d hoped to avoid.
Seeing resistance, more officers rushed over. Gasps arose from the people in line for customs, there was a surge backward in the crowd, and a dozen phones were quickly held up.
“This is a mistake!” Armendariz said. “Did you say homicide? Grand larceny? This is insane, a colossal mistake. Why are you doing this?Where are you taking me?”
And then suddenly—to Coldmoon’s dismay—the man began resisting, trying to tear his arms away from the agents, swinging them to and fro, all pretense of sophistication and civility gone. As still more law officers came over to help subdue him, and as one body they half pushed, half dragged Armendariz toward the door, his voice turned into a yell as he struggled against his captors. “Help!Help!Armstrong! I’m innocent!Don’t let them take me! Don’t let—!”
But the rant was abruptly muffled by the closing of the security door—and soon, even that faded away. As the excited chattering around him subsided and people once again turned their attention to getting out of the airport, Coldmoon was struck by how much he still had to learn when it came to reading people. Here he’d spent hours preparing a mental dossier on Armendariz’s personality—but this spectacle took him by surprise. He’d never expected such an outcry, such melodrama, the man trying so feverishly to maintain his innocence and free himself.
This musing was interrupted by one of the Miami FBI agents. “Good job, Coldmoon,” the man told him. “ICE and DHS will take a while processing him—that was the deal. I doubt we’ll get custody for at least three, maybe four hours. Want to head back to the office?”
“No. Sleep is what I want.” Automatically, Coldmoon began to turn in the direction of the official parking lot, then stopped. “Call me when they’ve released him to us, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks.” Coldmoon walked away.
The case was over. They had their man. Of course, there would be mopping up to do, accomplices to arrest, interrogations, evidence gathering—but the key to everything had been getting Armendariz on U.S. soil, and they’d done that without a hitch. It was like a dream, how willingly the man had walked into their sting. Now that it was all over, Coldmoon was surprised to find he really didn’t feel all that different. He did wish that D’Agosta could have been here to see the collar. He was curious whether the NYPD lieutenant commander had ever witnessed such an Oscar-winning performance as Armendariz gave when they’d slapped the cuffs on him.
78
December 27, 1880
Thursday
D’AGOSTA RESTED IN Awing chair, watching the rising sun work in vain to penetrate the shutters that wreathed the parlor in gloom. His head pounded in time to the beat of his heart.
In the hours that had crawled by since the assault, the house had settled into a frozen state of shock. Féline, slashed by Munck, had been sutured and dressed by Pendergast, and given an injection of antibiotics Pendergast had carried in his pocket from the twenty-first century. Murphy had taken Moseley’s body to the basement, where it had been secretly interred under a newly laid brick floor. Joe was upstairs, asleep, being looked after by a maid. The rest of the servants had retreated to their rooms save for Gosnold, the butler, who insisted on remaining at his position in the parlor.
The urn and spilled ashes had been swept up and taken away. The card that had come with it, however, remained where Pendergast had placed it after reading the contents: on a side table near D’Agosta. All the long night, D’Agosta had been unable to bring himself to read it. But as the sky outside continued to brighten, he finally turned his head painfully toward the table, reached out, and took it up.
My dearest Constance,
I present, with condolences, the ashes of your older sister. They come with my thanks. The surgery was most successful.
Your plan was a desperate one from the start. I sensed you would double-cross me; it was just the mechanics of your betrayal that puzzled me. And then,mirabile dictu, the instrument that could lay bare the precise scheme was delivered to Bellevue…and from there into my hands.
You have the Arcanum; I have you: or rather, your younger self. Give me the formula, true and complete, and the girl will be returned to you intact. And then our business will be concluded…save for one thing. This is not your world to meddle in; it is mine. You, and those who followed you, will return to your own forthwith. Leave mine—or suffer the consequences.
You will signal your agreement by placing a candle inside a blue lantern and hanging it in the southeastern bedroom window of the third floor. I will then contact you with further instructions.
If I do not receive this signal within 48 hours, young Constance will suffer the fate of her older sister.
Until our next correspondence, I remain,
Your devoted, etc.
Dr. Enoch Leng
D’Agosta cursed under his breath and laid the note aside.
In the moments after the liveried messenger departed, Constance had been incandescent with rage and—D’Agosta was certain—at the very brink of madness. Her feral hysteria had been the most unsettling thing he’d ever witnessed. Pendergast had said nothing, his face an expressionless mask of pale marble. He had listened to her imprecations and recriminations without response. And then he had risen and taken care of Féline, examined D’Agosta’s head wound, and silently supervised the cleanup of the murder scene and Murphy’s disposal of the body. Everyone appeared to be in unspoken agreement not to involve the authorities in any way—which, D’Agosta knew, would surely lead to disaster.
And now the three of them remained in the parlor, silent as statues, sunk in a mixture of grief, guilt, and shock as a new and uncertain day crept into life outside the shuttered windows.