The Cabinet of Curiosities

Pendergast examined the cramped room. It was isolated and very dark. It was cut off from view of the other exhibits by a sharp turn of the corridor. It would comfortably admit only one person at a time.

A cry for help here would be unheard, out in the main galleries.

The little alcove ended in a cul-de-sac. As Pendergast stared at it, pondering, the wall wavered, then disappeared, as fog once again enshrouded his memory construct and the mental image fell away. But it did not matter: he had seen enough, threaded his way through sufficient passages, to understand.

And now—at last—he knew how Leng had procured his victims.

TWELVE

PATRICK O’SHAUGHNESSY STOOD on the corner of Seventy-second and Central Park West, staring at the facade of the Dakota apartment building. There was a vast arched entrance to an inner courtyard, and beyond the entrance the building ran at least a third of the way down the block. It was there, in the darkness, that Pendergast had been attacked.

In fact, it probably looked just about like this when Pendergast was stabbed—except for the old man, of course; the one Pendergast had seen wearing a derby hat. Astonishing that the guy had almost managed to overpower the FBI agent, even factoring in the element of surprise.

O’Shaughnessy wondered again just what the hell he was doing here. He was off duty. He should be in J. W.’s hoisting a few with friends, or messing about his apartment, listening to that new recording of The Bartered Bride. They weren’t paying him: so why should he care?

But he found, strangely enough, that he did care.

Custer, naturally, had dismissed it as a simple mugging: “Friggin’ rube out-of-towner, no surprise he got his ass mugged.” Well, O’Shaughnessy knew Pendergast was no rube. The man probably played up his New Orleans roots just to keep people like Custer off guard. And he didn’t think Pendergast had gotten mugged, either. But now it was time to decide: just what was he going to do about it?

Slowly, he began to walk toward the site of the attack.

Earlier in the day, he’d visited Pendergast in the hospital. Pendergast had hinted to him that it would be useful—more than useful—to have the coroner’s report on the bones found at the construction site. To get it, O’Shaughnessy realized, he would have to go around Custer. Pendergast also wanted more information on the developer, Fairhaven—who Custer had made it clear was off-limits. It was then O’Shaughnessy realized he had crossed some invisible line, from working for Custer to working for Pendergast. It was a new, almost heady feeling: for the first time in his life, he was working with someone he respected. Someone who wasn’t going to prejudge him on old history, or treat him as a disposable, fifth-generation Irish cop. That was the reason he was here, at the Dakota, on his night off. That’s what a partner did when the other one got into trouble.

Pendergast, as usual, was silent on the attack. But to O’Shaughnessy, it had none of the earmarks of a mugging. He remembered, dimly, his days at the academy, all the statistics on various types of crimes and how they were committed. Back then, he had big ideas about where he was going in the force. That was before he took two hundred bucks from a prostitute because he felt sorry for her.

And—he had to admit to himself—because he needed the money.

O’Shaughnessy stopped, coughed, spat on the sidewalk.

Back at the academy, it had been Motive, Means, Opportunity. Take motive, for starters. Why kill Pendergast?

Put the facts in order. One: the guy is investigating a 130-year-old serial killer. No motive there: killer’s dead.

Two: a copycat killer springs up. Pendergast is at the autopsy before there’s even an autopsy. Christ, thought O’Shaughnessy, he must have known what was going on even before the doctor did. Pendergast had already made the connection between the murder of the tourist and the nineteenth-century killings.

How?

Three: Pendergast gets attacked.

Those were the facts, as O’Shaughnessy saw them. So what could he conclude?

That Pendergast already knew something important. And the copycat serial killer knew it, too. Whatever it was, it was important enough that this killer took a big risk in targeting him, on Seventy-second Street—not exactly deserted, even at nine o’clock in the evening—and had almost succeeded in killing him, which was the most astonishing thing of all.

O’Shaughnessy swore. The big mystery here was Pendergast himself. He wished Pendergast would level with him, share more information. The man was keeping him in the dark. Why? Now that was a question worth asking.