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“Mary?” came the little girl’s first word.
“Yes, Mary. Your sister. She isn’t here anymore—they took her away. But come with me and you’ll be safe.” A particularly garrulous gang of men went by, one of them staggering to a stop and reaching out to grope her, his companions thankfully hauling him away with derisive laughter.
She had to move quickly. “I knew your parents. I’ve been searching for you a long time. I have a house—a large house where you’ll be warm and dry.” It was all she could do not to squeeze the matchstick limbs too tightly. “Joe’s there already. He’s waiting for you. I got him out of Blackwell’s. And now I’m here to bring you home, too.”
The girl stared, confusion and hope mingling on her dirty face.
Constance rose to her feet, helping the girl stand but also keeping tight hold as she did so. “Come, now—we need to hurry. I have a carriage just a few blocks away.”
It broke her heart to watch her younger self briefly consider crying out for help or running away, but then resign herself. Whatever this was, whatever fate might be in store for her, good or bad, she would have to go; and her shoulders drooped in submission as she let Constance lead her off into the dirty night.
33
ASTORM HAD BROKENover the city by the time the Rolls-Royce pulled up to a dark house on the west side of Manhattan, facing the river. Flashes of lightning forked the night sky. Ferenc stared up at it, in his mind the very picture of a haunted mansion. What had he gotten himself into? But there was no turning back now.
The Rolls slid under the porte cochere, and almost immediately a stout oaken door was opened by an equally stout elderly woman.
“Mr. Proctor, do come in,” she said, “and get yourself and your guest out of that nasty weather!”
As they entered, the woman closed, locked, and bolted the door behind her. “I am Mrs. Trask, the housekeeper,” the woman said to Ferenc, stepping back to let him pass.
Proctor swept past her, not bothering to introduce Ferenc.
Ferenc couldn’t help but feel he’d entered some sort of strange horror film, directed by Wes Craven or, more likely, Herk Harvey. They’d flown back to New York, Proctor saying nothing beyond ordering Ferenc to put on his seat belt when the weather turned bad. They had landed at Teterboro Airport, the jet taxiing off to some remote corner, where a vintage Rolls-Royce sat on the tarmac, as serenely as if at some Hollywood premiere. And now their journey had ended at a mansion the Addams Family would have been proud to own. The sensation of unreality and menace only grew as he followed Proctor through a dim passageway and into a huge, vaulted room that was more like a museum than a private residence, with case after case full of rocks, bones, fossils, and gemstones.
“What is this place?” he asked Proctor, receiving no answer.
They came to the entrance of what was apparently a library, where Proctor halted. “Dr. Ferenc,” he announced to the occupant, seated by the fire, then abruptly turned and left.
Ferenc stood on the threshold of a most elegantly appointed room. A gaunt figure, remarkably pale, rose from a wing chair.
“How good of you to come, Dr. Ferenc,” the figure said in a honeyed southern accent, extending his hand. “My name is Pendergast.”
Ferenc took the hand, put off by its marble-like coolness.
“Please sit down,” the man said, indicating a chair. “Mrs. Trask will bring you something. What would you like? I’m having absinthe, but that is not to everyone’s taste.”
Ferenc gathered his wits. Everything had happened so fast. Just this morning, he’d been in a zip code where the lone dentist barely had sufficient teeth to work on. He eyed the pearly green liquid on the inlaid table beside the man, and it brought back the memory of his grandfather drinking the same during his childhood in Budapest.
Aloud, he said: “James Joyce thought absinthe rendered you impotent.”
Pendergast glanced at him with a bemused expression. “Indeed?”
“Well, so I read.”Funny. If that was the case, how could I be here? Herecouldbe, I? No.
“I’ll have one anyway,” Ferenc said, as he settled into the chair, which was exceedingly comfortable, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Occasional flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder barely penetrated the deep, shuttered windows. It was all so strange, so marvelous, so Old World. These people, whoever they were, might be crazy—in fact, he was sure they were—but he might as well enjoy the ride. If they meant him harm, he’d be dead by now. Or maybe he was in a movie, with hidden cameras all around, recording his reaction.
“First things first,” said the man named Pendergast, handing him an envelope sitting next to his drink. Ferenc took it, opened it, and pulled out a slip of paper. It was a SWIFT wire transfer of $250,000, made several hours ago, into his own bank account. He stared. Could this be fake?
“It’s quite real,” said Pendergast. “You’re welcome to check.”
“I will.” Ferenc pulled out his cell phone, logged into his bank account. “Holy shit,” he said as he stared at the new balance.
“Now, Dr. Ferenc—” Pendergast began.
“Call me Gaspard,” he said.
“We’re on a formal basis here,” came the cool reply. “After we enjoy our cocktail, would you care to be taken to your rooms to freshen up? You’ll find clothes and toiletries already provided. It’s just past seven. Dinner is in an hour, and you’ve had a busy day.”