Prologue    table of contents  

The Astor Tunnels were deserted. Explosions and floods had wreaked havoc here years before. Silence had since reigned over the tunnels...

Until today.

A low sloshing broke the silence. Most of the water had subsided over the years, filtering out slowly, eroding its rocky captors. The sloshing continued, ripples slowly played out from the figure, dancing about floating skulls and large chunks of cement. The figure came upon an intact pile of skulls; pausing before wading through them as if they were dead leaves.

He — definitely a male — grinned to himself as he came upon a small notebook. It was tucked inside a skull that was stranded upon a rocky ledge, jutting from the icy black water like and iceberg. Long slender fingers reached out, shaking slightly from emotion, to grab the notebook, open it, and begin turning pages, gingerly, lovingly. The notebook had been wet several times, but the ink — miraculously, considering the circumstances — was relatively intact.

After standing motionless for a few moments, the figure glanced up, eyes searching the water. The restless orbs landed upon a green skull — just like in the book. Amazing. The figure rushed forward, grabbing the skull and reaching inside to pull out a single white lily. Another grin. It was still alive!

The figure knew this was no ordinary lily. No, it was the last Mbwun lily — at least in the northern hemisphere. Hadn’t that worthless fool destroyed them all?

Turning, the figure threw the lily over his shoulder and adjusted it so it wouldn’t fall. Notebook in hand, he began to slosh through the water, on his way out. This tiresome journey had been much more fruitful than he had originally believed it would. The future now looked very bright for him and his plans.

Very bright indeed.

Chapter 1    table of contents  

Thursday night, 11:59 PM, early April


Margo Green sat at her new desk in the darkened New York Museum of Natural History, yawning heavily. She had been working overtime for the past few weeks since coming back to the Museum, trying to work out the one problem that had been bothering her for several years now: the mystery of the Mbwun lily serum. How in hell had it affected its victims so amazingly speedy, with the same results each time? There were no more lilies in existence, so the sea critters affected had long since died, but that had not stopped Margo from at least trying to unravel the mystery, the antiserum.

She frowned, blinking slowly, trying to fight off the extreme tiredness that threatened to take her down there and then. She knew she should just let the problem die, just drop it all and go home, but... For some reason, she knew she just couldn’t. She just had to know how to cure the serum, what they missed those years ago that could have saved lives.

A sudden ring jerked Margo out of her thoughtful stupor. She stared at the phone for a moment, confused and kind of stunned, before finally giving in to the insistent rings. She plucked the receiver up lazily.

“’Lo?”

A deep voice, honeyed and mellifluous, drifted to her ears, making her frown. “Doctor Green, I presume?” He sounded... somewhat familiar. Margo stifled another yawn.

“Yeah.”

“Oh good, still awake. I have been... researching,”—the way he said this made Margo shiver uncomfortably—“a certain project of yours.”

“Really?” How nice! Margo perked up, her fatigue forgotten. “Which one?”

“The project involving lilies.”

Margo frowned uncertainly. What did he mean, lilies? “Um, right now I’m not doing any projects involving lilies. Are you sure that you’ve been researching my projects?”

“Oh come now,” the voice was quiet, slightly frightening. “That surprises me greatly. Pray tell, Madame, why then are you up at such a late hour?”

“Oh, well, see...” Damn. Cornered. “I — I’m working on a project of mine,” Margo said weakly, well aware of how foolish it sounded.

“I am well aware, Doctor; for that is the one project I mean.”

It took a moment for this to sink in. Margo’s eyes widened and adrenaline rushed through her body. She made herself calm down. Surely he didn’t mean...? There was no one who knew about this but her!

“...And what, sir, would that ‘one project’ be? I’m currently working on several, and—”

“Please do not play stupid with me, Margo. It is most unbecoming.”

Margo was taken aback. “E — excuse me?”

“Excused. Now, I was wondering if you have found the antidote to the lilies yet.”

What the—“Listen, I have no idea what you’re on about, all right? What antidote?” Margo was fast losing patience. It was past midnight, she hadn’t slept in sixteen hours, and this guy...

“The antidote for the—”

“For?” Margo interrupted angrily, her tone cold. Surely he couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. There was no way in hell.

“I would greatly appreciate you calming down. I do hate being interrupted.”

“Just tell me!” She hated him now with every fiber of her being. This was ridiculous and she was rather pissed at how calm he was.

“The antidote for the Mbwun lily serum.”

This was met by a long silence as Margo sat back in her chair, shocked into silence. Her blood went cold suddenly. How...?

“Please do not lose consciousness, Doctor. It is exceedingly difficult to speak to those who are incapacitated.” A pause. “Margo?”

“Yeah.” Margo said weakly, vying for time, trying to find out what to do next. Should she just hang up?

“Good. Now, as I said before, I need—”

“How did you find out?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“No, actually.” She heard the dangerous anger in his tone.

“How did you find out about my project?”

“Unimportant.”

“No, actually!” she retorted angrily, “it’s very important!”

A few more moments passed in silence. “I did some research. Now—”

“Research? RESEARCH?! That is a load of bull, okay? I want some answers, freakshow!” Margo had finally snapped. The lack of sleep and high stress factor coupled with the freakiness of the whole ordeal had finally made her break somewhat. “It’s midnight in a creepy museum and some freak just up and calls—”

“Doctor,” the voice started quietly, threateningly, but Margo took no notice.

“—and expects me to just give him what he wants! And what is it he wants? Information on a top secret project that only a freaking stalker would even have the gall to even figure out—”

“Margo,” the voice started again, but this caused Margo to begin yelling loudly.

“—and STILL expects me to just up and answer him like we’ve been together for YEARS!”

Silence ensued as Margo sat back, breathing heavily, glaring into the darkness that her small desk lamp could not fight back. Finally he spoke.

“I do not think, Margo, that you fully understand the situation here.”

“WHAT situation?” she asked angrily. A low chuckle.

“The situation you are, unfortunately, creating for yourself.” Margo frowned and began to speak, but he spoke over her. “Right now, Miss Margo, I can see you. You have your back to the window, yes, but I know it is you. You are the only one in the museum up at this hour who is not a security guard.” A pause. “I am standing here, Doctor, looking at you and thinking of New York streets. There are so many things that can befall an unfortunate young lady such as yourself in this dreadful part of town... It brings a tear to my eye just to think of what could possibly happen to you out here.” Another chuckle. Margo shivered. “It would be just terrible, terrible, for something, anything, to happen to you on your way home, would it not? As I recall... You don’t own a car.”

Margo realized she was holding her breath and that her blood ran cold again. He was threatening her.

And somehow Margo knew he would do just about anything to her. His voice continued on, like he had never said anything before then. It seemed his voice was even cheerful.

“All I would like to know, dearest Doctor, is if you have discovered an antidote. I know that Professor Frock had made the serum just so, mutating it to take away the horrid body transformations, instead invoking the deepest, darkest obsessions of one’s mind. Am I correct?”

Margo reviewed her choices mentally and found that she really didn’t have a choice anymore. “...Yes.” Her voice was so quiet she could barely hear it through the rushing in her ears.

“Good. So?”

“So what?”

“Is there?”

“What?”

“Margo... An antidote.”

“Oh! Um...” Margo bit her lip, looking down at her notes. “N-not yet... But I feel I’m making a breakthrough here...”

“How nice.” Margo could tell he was going to leave.

“W — wait!”

A pause. Margo bit her lip, afraid he had hung up. “Yes?”

“...Who are you?” she asked finally.

A low chuckling met her ears and she suddenly became very frightened indeed. “Well...” he began, as if reluctant. “I suppose you would know me as... Pendergast.”

Chapter 2    table of contents  

The next day, 2 PM


Cambrian Struthers sat in the courtroom, bored as hell and rather uncomfortable. He wondered to himself why the court still hadn’t taken the large, pew-like, heavy thick wood benches without any cushions out. They were the most uncomfortable things he had ever had the displeasure to sit upon.

And the honeyed droning of that freakish albino didn’t help.

The guy was just plain creepy, what with his long white fingers, corpse-like skin and thinness, immaculate black suit (giving Cambrian the impression that he was a very well-off mortician)... and those eyes. So blue, so silvery... More than once, Cambrian had looked up to find those strange orbs fixed upon him, boring into his skull but for a moment before glancing away again. Cambrian gave an involuntary shiver.

Sooner or later, he tuned into the man’s speech. Damn, even the judge looked bored. No wonder: he had been going on for quite some time now. Why did they have this guy speaking anyway? He barely helped on this case...

But then again, he did solve it within twenty-four hours. Hell, Cambrian had heard he had solved it in just half an hour.

The man began to wrap up his long, long speech when a sudden, insistent ringing cut him off. He paused momentarily. Cambrian noted with a hint of bitterness that he was slightly confused, even startled. However, he did recover in just a second. He glanced up at the judge.

“Excuse me, would it be—”

The judge looked how Cambrian felt: alarmed. VERY alarmed. He couldn’t possibly make this speech any longer! The judge shook his head. “No. Carry on.”

The man winced slightly as the phone rang again, cutting through the air like a sword. However, he did begin to speak over them. It seemed to Cambrian that he just wanted to bolt from the room.

Finally the man stopped talking. Cambrian felt an upsurge of hop: perhaps he would get out early today and be able to see his girlfriend. The judge nodded, looking out across the courtroom. “Any other questions?” Silence. Cambrian bit his lip and glanced at the man still standing near the judge. He looked... a little whiter than usual. He really seemed torn up about the phone. The judge looked to the man, looking very tired indeed. “Please state your FBI standing and name for the record, sir.”

The man inclined his head. “Special Agent Pendergast.”

Pendergast walked quickly down the court steps, a cell phone in one hand. He opened it, pressed a button, and listened to the voicemail while opening the doors and walking outside. He paused on the marble steps, heaving a great inward sigh of relief that nothing was wrong before feeling a minor annoyance. Where did she get this number? Only two others beside him knew...

He stepped down onto the sidewalk, opening the driver’s side back door to a Rolls Royce ’59 Silver Wraith and sliding in effortlessly. His fingers danced over the small buttons of the cell and he pressed his ear to the phone. A familiar female voice answered on the other end.

“’Lo?”

“Doctor Green?”

A long pause before the voice returned, tense and quiet. “Yes?”

“This is Pendergast.”

“Is it now... Which one are you, then?”

He paused, frowning and slightly confused. “S — special Agent Pendergast.”

“Oh.” A sigh of relief. “Good. I’m—”

“How did you get this number?”

“Wait, what?”

“How did you get this number?” he asked sternly.

“I was told it was secret.”

“It was.”

“I still don’t know it.”

“Then how did you leave a message?”

“Well, he dialed and I spoke on the phone.”

“WHO?”

“A man named Wren.”

“Ah.” A mental note: Speak to Wren. “And how did you get him to do that?”

“I gave him a book I had.”

Pendergast sighed heavily. Another mental note: Speak sternly to Wren. “I see.”

There was an uneasy silence while Pendergast glanced down at the mail he had received. He noticed a small package, holding inside special tea that he had ordered.

“Tell me, Margo, what is your favourite kind of tea?”

Confused silence met his ears before a timid “What?”

“What tea do you prefer?”

“Well, I dunno...”

“I rather like green tea... But we’ll speak of this later. What do you mean, ‘Which one are you then?’”

“That’s actually what I called you about.” She paused.

“Do go on.”

“Well, last night I got a phone call.”

“Highly irregular,” Pendergast remarked dryly.

“It was a conversation about...”

“Yes?” Pendergast gently prompted.

“The... The Mbwun lilies.”

This time it was Pendergast who paused, shocked into silence. “Oh?”

“Yeah. The guy sounded almost exactly like you and called himself... Pendergast.”

Pendergast’s blood froze. “You don’t say.”

“Mm. He threatened me, too.”

“Tell me EXACTLY what he said to you.”

Margo related the conversation back to Pendergast, who turned very grim with every word she uttered.

“I see.” Pendergast paused. “Well, Margo, either you were the victim of a very sick joke — doubtable — or you spoke to my brother last night.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yes.” Pendergast grimaced. “Listen to me now, Margo. He is a highly dangerous individual. I doubt he is after you, however, it seems he only asked you because you are the only one who knows. I hope, however, that for your sake you never meet.”

“Okay...”

“I haven’t the slightest idea why he would need to know about the serum, but I have the feeling it is not good. I need you to be on guard at all times. If he contacts you again, or you find something out of the ordinary, I need to know RIGHT AWAY. Do you understand me?”

“Yes...”

“Good. Any questions?”

“Yes... How will I know he has contacted me?”

“Trust me, Margo. You will know,” Pendergast replied grimly before snapping the cell phone shut, just as Proctor pulled up next to the Dakota.

Chapter 3    table of contents  

That night, around midnight


Long slender fingers lovingly caressed the plant, marveling at its exotic beauty, reveling in the destructive properties. He had finally perfected it. Using the very last Mbwun lily of its kind, he had finally created the perfect lily. He placed the original back into its special petri dish, turning to the fish tank at his right. It had in it three black-blue-white lilies.

He wondered momentarily about the colour change before turning away, looking behind him to a dark-wood desk, holding on its surface two diaries: one old with crinkly pages, that had clearly been wet before, and one new with crisp spidery script filling its’ pages, detailing the procedure.

The man wrote just a little bit more before crossing the room again, coming to a small laboratory-like kitchen. Here he picked up a large syringe, looking within the glass confines at a thick, clear liquid. He brought it to his face, marveling at the way it caught the light. Smiling to himself, he set it down again, moving to a chair near the desk.

He sat meditatively, thinking of how he had taken out both body transformation and need of the serum, but strengthened the tasty side effect that caused the victim to fall into the deepest, strongest obsession of their mind. Then, he thought of the plan that was taking effect tomorrow. Deeply he hoped the two men he had employed would not ruin this.

It was so hard to find good help these days.

Eyes flickered back to the notebook. It was perfect. The serum would drag out the victim’s darkest obsession and the victim, in turn, would be eaten alive by his own mind.

In short, he would only destroy himself.

Chapter 4    table of contents  

8:00 in the Morning, the next day (that makes it Saturday)


Margo Green jogged down the busy street along Central Park, weighing up the possibility of actually running into the park itself when she heard lots of screaming and a huge crash. Frowning, she ran quickly ahead to find a huge tourist bus had caved in the passenger side of a Rolls Royce, crushing it down the street just a tad. She gasped. The crash was horrible! Glass was everywhere.

Margo ran forward as fast as she could to the driver, who, with the help of the quickly gathering crowd, had stumbled out into the street. He was dressed in a black suit and had a large cut on the side of his head, which was bleeding profusely. Margo jogged up to him quickly.

“Is there anyone else in the car?” she asked worriedly, eyeing the crash. The man was ashen-faced and couldn’t speak, but nodded all the same, pointing at the driver-side passenger door. Margo turned to the people standing nearby.

“You — Call 911. Get an ambulance and some police here. You — Check out the bus. Make sure no one else is hurt. You — Get this man some medical attention.” The persons nodded and hurried off as Margo turned, wrenching the door open. There, on the seat, was a lily-white hand, long and slender, blood everywhere. She gasped, grabbing the hand and pulling — hard.

The hand was followed by the body in one fast movement, forcing Margo to fall back onto the street, the body falling onto her, the head in her lap. Margo gasped.

“Pendergast!”
—


The elegant agent was cut rather badly on the head, blood pouring down the side of his face, drenching Margo’s sweatpants and leaving a puddle around the two of them on the street. He had large cuts all down his right side and his arm looked like it had been shattered in several places. He was a bloody mess.

Margo began to panic as she wondered if he had died of shock, but at the sound of his name, the pale blue cat’s eyes flittered open. Blinking several times to get the blood from his eyes, he lazily glanced at her, his eyes glazed and clouded with pain, confusion and blood loss.

It seemed like an hour that they sat there and stared at each other, but, in retrospect, Margo found it had only been a moment.

“Greetings, Margo,” Pendergast said weakly, still blinking lazily. “It seems we meet again, hm?” He smiled weakly, but Margo frowned.

“What in God’s name happened?” she asked him softly, barely able to keep her voice above a whisper.

“I haven’t the slightest,” Pendergast replied before passing out.
—


The hospital was a buzz. There had been three car accidents today, one in particular wielding sixteen wounded and one critical condition liked a spiked ball. A large male nurse stood outside the critical condition patient’s room, preparing the IV. Not a soul noticed the syringe inject a thick, clear fluid into the bag. No one thought it strange — nor even noticed — the shaking and palpitating of the bag, forcing the thick globules of liquid to dissolve into the fluid like it had never been there.

Finally the IV was ready, and the nurse wheeled it in, smiling cruelly to himself.
—


Margo watched the nurse walk in, a strange smile on his face. The smile really creeped her out. “Uh, hello...” she said to him timidly, watching the nurse hook the IV up, though she looked away as he poked the needle into Pendergast’s arm.

“Hello,” the nurse replied in the same quiet tone, his voice deep and honeyed in a rich Southern accent. This alone made Margo look and stare at him, deep brown eyes meeting his strange, mismatched ones: one brown, the other electric blue. She gasped.

“You have beautiful eyes!”

He stood up, having finished his work. “Thank you,” he replied, inclining his head.

Her eyes widened. “Um, what is your name?”

The nurse frowned slightly. “What?”

“What’s your name? You sound like someone...” Her voice trailed off as he turned to leave, lost in though. What had Pendergast said? ’Trust me, you will know.’ She heard the nurse open the door to leave.

“Good day, Margo.”

Margo shot up, running over and catching the door to look out, but by the time she stuck her head out of the doorway, Diogenes Pendergast had already melted into the crowd.

Chapter 5    table of contents  

11:00 PM (fifteen hours later)


Margo Green stepped out of the stuffy hospital room into the darkened corridor, closing the door quietly behind her. It was already almost midnight, and Pendergast was well on his way to the mend. He had gone from almost dead to critical to stable quickly, and was already almost healed. She had been allowed to stay with him because the nurses thought that she was married to him.

Margo made her way down the hall stealthily, coming to a pay phone and popping some coins into it. She quickly dialed a number she had long since memorized, hoping he would pick up. A soft male voice danced to her ears and she sent a small prayer of thanks to any spectral being who might have been listening then.

“Hello?”

“Cambrian!”

“Mar?”

“Yep!”

“Where in hell are you?”

“The hospital nearest Central Park. I can’t remember what it’s called though.”

“Why?” The sudden concern in his voice touched her, and she blushed. “Did something happen to you? Are you all right?”

“No. I mean, yes, yes. Wait. Okay. I’m all right, nothing happened.” Margo then proceeded to tell Cam all about the day’s events. “...So I need you to bring me some clean clothes. I’m covered in his blood.”

A long pause. “Alright Mar. Do you want me to bring you something from McDonalds?”

Margo smiled. God she loved this man. “Yes! Please. You know what I like.”

“Okey then babe. I’ll see you in a bit, hon.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“Oh, Cam, I love you too...” Her voice was quiet.

A chuckle, and the line went dead. Margo hung the phone up and turned, going down to the waiting area for Cam.



Pendergast lay motionless in the hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines. His eyes shot open suddenly, searching the room, trying to find out where he was. Then he remembered, closing his eyes painfully to the memories attacked his consciousness: light, blood, glass, metal... and his own hoarse cry.

Taking a deep breath, Pendergast slowly opened his eyes, taking in the unfamiliar world around him. He was hooked to an IV and EKG; his right arm was bound in a cast that went only to his elbow, leaping over it to continue up his arm to the shoulder. He could feel the rough bandages around his abdomen.

Delicately he probed his abdomen, wincing slightly. Some of the cuts were rather deep. It must have been the door he had been leaning on slightly. Laying back slowly — as to not aggravate his wounds — he sighed heavily, closing his eyes once more.

What had become of Proctor and the Wraith? Vaguely Pendergast wondered if anyone else had been wounded. He barely remembered seeing Margo to the point where he questioned if she had even been there.

Echoes of footsteps reached his ears and he opened his eyes momentarily, noting that two people were about to enter his room. The door opened just as his eyes closed.

“Be quiet, Cam, okay? I don’t want to wake him — today was rough.”

A sharp intake of breath, and a voice Pendergast vaguely recognized. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Pendergast realized the woman was Margo. But who was the man?

“That’s the guy I was telling you about the other day!”

“What guy?” Clothing began to rustle.

“The freaky albino one who wouldn’t stop talking forever!”

A smacking sound. Pendergast allowed himself a small unnoticeable smile. “He isn’t an albino!”

“Then what do you call that, Mar?”

A silence. The clothing stopped rustling. Finally Margo spoke, her voice soft.

“Thanks for bringing me these. I felt like a serial killer, covered in his blood.”

“No prob, babe.”

An unfamiliar sound reached Pendergast’s ears and he opened his eyes to see Margo and some man kissing. He raised an eyebrow. They parted and Margo smiled, glancing at Pendergast for a moment before doing a double take and blushing heavily. He smiled.

“Oh! Pendergast... I didn’t know you were awake!”

“Hello, Dr. Green,” he said, his voice hoarse and foreign to his ears. His eyes flickered to the man, a 6 foot, sandy-brown-haired, green eyed youth. Pendergast estimated around 27 years of age. He knew that face.

“Cambrian Struthers, correct?” The man looked alarmed. Margo stepped over to the chair to Pendergast’s right and sat down. “Yeah.” Pendergast nodded and held out his hand.

“Pleased.”

Cambrian hesitated before taking the proffered hand, as if nervous about hurting the agent. After Cambrian had let go, he moved to behind the chair Margo sat in. Pendergast’s eyes followed him.

A long silence ensued, complete with both Margo and Cambrian glancing at each other, Pendergast, and the floor, fidgeting nervously. Pendergast noticed that, as long as he didn’t move suddenly or poke his abdomen, he felt no pain. They must have drugged him.

Finally Margo broke the uneasy silence. “Hey, Pendergast?”

He turned his silvery gaze to her. Cambrian fought the sigh of relief. “Yes?”

“What is your... brother’s name?”

Cambrian could have sworn the room dropped forty degrees.

“Why?” Pendergast asked quietly, his voice wickedly icy.

Margo looked a tad frightened. “W — well... I have reason to believe he was in here...”

The sentence hadn’t left Margo’s face before Pendergast was sitting up.

“What?” he barked harshly.

Now Margo was truly afraid. His eyes were blazing, and he had sat up so fast that he was beginning to bleed a little. He had no shirt on — making it easier to bandage him — so Margo could easily make out the slowly widening crimson stain.

As for Pendergast, he felt slightly ashamed for barking at her. However, he had been unable to quell a sudden, out of character upraise of hatred and disgust. He felt the need to do his brother great harm, and, though he was lax to admit it, it frightened him. Pendergast realized he was breathing hard and bleeding now. Wincing, he lay back down as Cambrian rushed forward to Margo’s aid, afraid the sudden change would cause the agent to strike her.

“Hey! Lay off! She just asked you a question!” Pendergast placed his hand over his eyes and nodded weakly. Margo noticed his ashen face and touched Cambrian’s arm lightly, giving him an ’It’s okay, honest!’ look. Reluctantly he moved behind the chair again, his hands on her shoulders.

“Diogenes,” Pendergast muttered a moment later. “His name is Diogenes.”

“Could you describe him for me?” Margo asked softly.

A long pause, and Pendergast sighed resignedly. “He... He has two different coloured eyes and ginger hair.”

Margo nodded. Damn, he sure was a mess. It broke Margo’s heart to see the agent, who was so smart and resourceful, so cool, quick-witted and brave — yes, so very brave — who had faced insane men and strange, deadly creatures, so beat up after just one car crash.

“I... I’ve seen him.”

“What?” Pendergast opened his eyes.

Margo feared another outburst, but she kept trucking on. “He... He came in and hooked up the IV. He was acting like a nurse.”

Pendergast nodded, fighting the urge to rip out the IV and throw it across the room. What was the problem with him? Why was he acting this way? What had Diogenes done? Perhaps sleep would do him some good.

Margo seemed to think the same thing. She stood and touched Pendergast lightly on the arm. “We’ll leave you now. I left my cell number on the table right there. Call if you need me, okay?” She knew there was no way in hell that Pendergast would ever call her, let alone NEED her, but it put her mind to rest.

Pendergast nodded wanly and sighed heavily, turning on his side and closing his eyes. He was well aware he was staining the sheets, but he didn’t care. He heard Margo leave, taking her boyfriend with her.

As the door closed, he heard Cambrian’s last words. “I don’t understand why you care so much for the freakish albino, Mar. He’s an @#%$!”

Pendergast didn’t care. His thoughts were occupied with plans. All he could think of was doing Diogenes harm.

Chapter 6    table of contents  

That night


Diogenes Pendergast smiled wanly to himself as he stepped into the shabby apartment he had rented in Chinatown. Normally he would have had nice accommodations, but his needs included discretion and subtlety. He had been able to sterilize the apartment within an inch of its life, allowing him to do his experiments fairly well with no fear of infection. He did not wish his brother to die of sickness.

No, he wanted his brother to slowly destroy himself.

The concept was brilliantly simple, Diogenes pondered. The obsession that his brother denied having was soon going to take him over, poisoning his mind. He would convince himself he was doing good, clearing the Pendergast name, while slowly slipping into madness himself. Nothing good could come from this.

The thought was delicious.

Chapter 7    table of contents  

Two days later (Monday, for the challenged)


Margo Green stared incredulously at the man sitting across from her. How does one recover that fast? The man merely stared back, face calm and unreadable, though paler than usual. After a few moments, the man frowned.

“Have I something on my face, Dr. Green?”

Margo shook her head. “No, sorry, Pendergast...” she said with a blush. “I’m just... amazed!”

“At?” Pendergast gingerly picked up the menu lying in front of him.

“Well... It’s just so... strange that you healed so fast!”

“Mm...” Silvery blue eyes scanned the menu. “Should I order the carpaccio, the arista, or the pappa al pomodoro?”

Margo blinked and glanced down at the menu, quickly scanning. She wrinkled her nose at the arista. “Soup is good.”

Pendergast gave a slight disapproving sound and lay the menu down, nodding. “I hear they specialize.”

Pendergast had brought Margo to a very nice, VERY expensive Italian restaurant for lunch. She had politely declined several times, but he had not heard, instead prattling on about Museum exhibits involving monkeys and a strange tribal mating ritual. Margo noticed the waitress heading their way with a determined look on her face and quickly grabbed her menu, reading closely to find something that didn’t scare her. A prickling on her neck told her she was being closely watched. She looked up to see Pendergast staring at her intently. She jumped.

“God, Pendergast!” He cocked an eyebrow inquisitively. “You scared me!”

“Ah. All apologies.”

“Right...”

The waitress arrived and Pendergast ordered, smooth as silk. Both began staring at Margo. In a panic, she ordered the first thing she remembered: the arista. Pendergast smiled as the waitress sauntered off.

Margo looked to Pendergast for a moment. Again they stared at each other, each wondering what to say. After a moment, Margo opened her mouth to say something small, but it all came pouring out: her mother’s death, BioDyne, Cam, how she and Cam moved back to New York, her new job at the Museum, her secret research, her normal research... all of it. The food came while she spoke and Pendergast listened intently, daintily sipping his soup.

When she finally finished, she realized the food had come and how hungry she really was. Pendergast watched calmly as Margo tried to politely wolf down her food. He looked down at his own plate, noticing how very full it was. In a detached way he wondered where his appetite had gone, but pushed it away, closing his eyes meditatively.

“Um, Pendergast?” He opened his eyes to find Margo staring at him worriedly.

“Yes?”

“Are... Are you okay?”

Pendergast pondered this momentarily. He thought about the thoughts that stayed with him at all times since he left the hospital, how he felt sick most of the time, how he hadn’t eaten much since the crash. None of this ever made it to his face, however. He cocked his head.

“I’m just fine, Dr. Green.”

Chapter 8    table of contents  

Thursday, 6:00 PM


Margo Green stretched out her legs in the living room of her and Cambrian’s apartment, preparing to go jogging. As she pondered changing her blood-stained sweat pants, she heard a knock at the door. She stood, hoping it was Cam. She didn’t want to talk to anyone now.

When she got to the door, she remembered Pendergast’s warning to be careful. Cautiously she opened the door a crack, peeking out. There stood a man in a black suit. She frowned, then noticed the bandage on the side of his head. It was Pendergast’s driver.

She opened the door fully. “Hello!” The two stared at each other for a moment. Margo nervously shifted from foot to foot. “Why don’t you come in?”

The man stepped into the landing and bowed slightly. “Thank you, Ms. Green. I am here on behalf of Aloysius.”

Margo frowned. “His first name is... A... A... That?”

The man nodded, his face betraying nothing.

“Okay... What’s your name?”

“Proctor.”

“Right. Come on...” Margo turned and walked into the living room, followed by Proctor. Motioning for him to sit, she flopped down on the couch. He stood in the doorway, not moving. “Please sit,” she said after a moment, but Proctor ignored her.

“I came to ask you if you would come with me to go see Aloysius.”

“Why, is something wrong?”

“I have reason to believe so. He hasn’t been sleeping very well, and he hasn’t eaten in days.”

Margo’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Yes. He won’t tell me what is wrong, won’t let me help him. I understand, it is not quite my place, but...” His face fell suddenly. “To tell you the truth, Ms. Green, I’m worried about him.”

Margo nodded. “All right, I’ll go see him. Lemme change first, okay?”
—


Margo glanced out of the window of the small rental car at the large Gothic building known as the Dakota. It was strangely fitting for Pendergast to live there, she thought as they drove to the curb. The car stopped and she climbed out, followed by Proctor, who led her through the gates and to the building. He nodded at the doorman and they walked in.

Proctor led her to an elevator, pressing a button and standing back. A few moments passed as they began to rise.

“Ms. Green, Aloysius doesn’t know that I’ve asked this of you. Please don’t mention it.”

Margo nodded as the elevator doors opened. She stepped out into a dark hallway, seeing a door at the end. In the door stood a slim figure she recognized as Pendergast. She began to walk forward as the elevator doors closed behind her.

“Hello, Dr. Green.” Pendergast bowed his head. “Please come in.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“The doorman,” Pendergast said simply, closing the door behind her as she walked in. “Please, sit down.”

Margo’s eyes scanned over the dusty rose room and she placed herself in a small chair near the couch. She wondered if he ever moved his furniture.

Pendergast, who had stood waiting politely for her to sit, daintily fell onto the couch, crossing his legs and slightly cocking his head, folding his hands in his lap.

A long moment passed as they stared at each other. Margo was once again shocked. She remembered seeing the cast on his right arm at lunch on Monday, but now it was gone. He was completely healed. How was he healing so freaking quickly?

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Pendergast offered after a bit. Margo shook her head. “Well, this is quite the pleasant surprise. What is the reason you have dropped by this evening?”

Silence. Suddenly Pendergast leaned forward, a maniacal gleam of longing in his eyes. “Had Diogenes spoken to you again?” Margo shook her head, slightly frightened. Disappointed, Pendergast leaned back, back to normal again. “Ah. Okay.”

“Actually, Pendergast, I was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner? I wanted to know how you’re doing.” This was not a lie. Margo had wondered... “I see your arm is healed.”

“Oh, yes. I can’t say I’m not perplexed, but it is nice to have it healed so quickly.”

“Right... So, you wanna go to dinner?”

Pendergast fidgeted slightly, then nodded. “All right.”

Margo smiled and he stood, walking through a door she had never noticed before. A minute passed and he came back. “Onwards, then.”
—


The cold air smacked Margo in the face as they walked out, making her gasp and shiver slightly. It was now 6:30, and was beginning to darken outside. As Pendergast opened the passenger door to the small rental car for her, a ringtone began to play the Lovecardinal’s “Love Me, Love Me” loudly. Margo slid into the car, taking a small phone out of her pocket.

“Hello?”

Cambrian’s voice replied, just as expected. Margo smiled. “Hey Mar. Where are you?”

“I’m... on my way to dinner,” Margo replied, feeling guilty as she looked at Pendergast, who raised an eyebrow in response.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Why?”

“Can you meet me at the Museum at eight tonight?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay. See you then. Love.”

“Love you too.” Margo snapped the phone shut and looked to Pendergast.

“Have to go?”

“No.”

Pendergast sighed. “Right. Proctor...”
—


The two dined at a restaurant that served the most delicious steak tartare Margo had ever had the pleasure to set in her mouth. Granted, she had never had this before, but the new addition to her palate made her very happy indeed. She had to remember to bring Cam here. He’d love it.

The two got into the small rental car afterwards at twenty to eight. As Proctor pulled the car out of the parking lot, Pendergast turned to Margo.

“Margo, I want you to tell me everything you know about Cambrian.”

Chapter 9    table of contents  

Thursday, 8:30 PM


Margo Green watched as the small rental car drive away from the curb and down the street before turning to face Cambrian, who was smiling. “Walk with me.”

The two walked together down the streets, holding hands and chatting softly. Margo told Cambrian all about the new food she had experienced and hinted at going to the restaurant this Saturday. He only smiled and led her into Central Park slowly.

Together they went deeper into the Park, stopping at the Castle. Margo laughed happily, twirling and sitting on the bench across from the Castle. This was her favourite place in the Park! She laughed again and looked at Cambrian, who stood near her, smiling.

Slowly he walked towards her, kneeling before her and pulling a black box out of his pocket. Margo gasped, tears springing up in her eyes.

“Margo Green, will you be my wife?”

Margo gasped again as he flicked open the box, showing a silver band set with diamonds.

“Oh yes, Cambrian, yes!” she cried, launching into his arms, crying and laughing all at once.
—


Margo giggled as she ran into the apartment, followed closely by Cam, who had a grimace on his face like a pirate.

“C’mere, me bonny lass!” he cried out. “I’ll get ye, I will!” He pinched her side and she giggled loudly, dodging more tickles by running full tilt down the hall and into the bedroom. She stealthily hid behind the door, waiting for him.

Cambrian swaggered in, looking around for her and turning in surprise as she slammed the door behind him. Margo walked forward lazily like a model, a soft smile on her lips.

“Hey there mate. Lookin’ for someone?” she asked quietly, pressing up against him and pulling her arms around his neck.

“Aye,” he replied hoarsely after a moment, feeling very uncomfortable in the pants he was wearing. “A lass, like ye, only short, giggly, and beau’iful. Not as beau’iful as ye though.”

“Oh?” she asked quietly as his fingers began to unbutton her shirt.

“Aye. Though seems she’s gotten away. Guess I’ll ‘ave to make do with ye...”

“It’ll cost ye,” she replied tartly, fixing him with a business-like glare.

“Anything for ye,” he said in a husky whisper, slipping her shirt from her shoulders.

“I’ll require love...” she began as she started unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers unclasping her bra. “Money... Diamonds...”

“All for ye,” he whispered, and shirt and bra fluttered to the floor. The couple spun a 180 turn and fell onto the bed in a passionate kiss. Cambrian’s hands roamed her body, pinching and squeezing. She moaned into his mouth, making him feel very tight in these pants indeed.

And then they heard the chunck.

Cambrian looked up in the darkness, listening intently.

“What was that?” Margo whispered below him.

“Shh,” he replied, listening. No sound. He bent back down onto her. “Nothing...” he said softly, his tongue laying softly on her neck and traveling down to her chest, making her moan loudly as his teeth captured her nipple.

Then they heard another chunck.

Margo pushed Cambrian up. “Go see what that is, please?” she asked softly. He sighed impatiently and sat up, walking out the door and closing it behind him.

Margo Green sat up in the darkness, listening, terrified. She heard Cambrian’s soft footsteps, then a loud thump and a muffled yell. The next sounds were a long procession of chuncks. Margo found herself shaking. Finally she heard a door close and nothing.

Quietly she stood and grabbed a robe. Then she opened the door and snuck out, traveling down the hallway in complete darkness. She felt her way into the living room and to the light switch. “C — Cambrian?”

Margo heard the sound of water dripping. Damn faucet. “Cambrian?” she said loudly before clicking on the lights and turning around...
—


Carlos Griego drug the old mop across the floor, cursing the mud quietly, the thrashing of Slipknot in his ear. One of his headphones had gone out, irking him beyond belief, as he had just bought them. “Damn ripoffs,” he muttered with a sigh, ripping them out.

He turned and surveyed the lobby of the apartment building, uninterested. He was surprised to find a man, walking across the lobby holding a large cooler, covered in something red. The man was splattered in the same red substance.

“Hey!” Carlos called out. The man turned. “Whatcha got there?”

The man looked at his cooler. “Oh, paint. I was just painting my friend’s walls.” He smiled wanly and nodded at Carlos.

“Oh.. Kay. Sorry.” The man nodded again and walked out of the building, leaving Carlos a long trail of red paint footsteps to clean. He cursed continuously under his breath as he went into the elevator.

It took him twenty minutes to find the right floor and continue mopping. The steps led to a certain apartment and Carlos nodded, mopping the last of the steps up before turning back for the elevator.

Carlos wondered to himself momentarily why the water was a strange reddish-brown.

Then he heard the scream.

Chapter 10    table of contents  

Friday, 3 AM


Pendergast strode down the hall, trying so hard not to run. He was being led by a female officer who was, in between slightly jogging to keep up with the long-legged man, trying to brief him on the situation. He did not have to listen to her as he was already well aware of what had happened.

Margo had called him not forty minutes ago, sobbing and hardly understandable, but after about twenty minutes Pendergast had gotten the basic gist of the whole affair.

They came to the door of Margo’s apartment, which was surrounded by a few lounging officers and -DO NOT CROSS- tape. The female officer stepped in front of Pendergast.

“Agent, what you are about to see... It’s terrible.”

Pendergast stood before the officer, noticing for the first time how very white she was. She really was shaken up about this. He nodded. “I think I’ll be just fine, thank you, Officer,” he replied dryly as she opened the door to lead the way.

He stepped onto the landing, taking a deep breath as the officer pointed down a hallway. “That way.”

Pendergast walked alone down the hall and came into the living room, silvery blue cat’s eyes scanning the grisly scene.

Hung from the ceiling like streamers were long pink tubes that Pendergast recognized to be the victim’s intestines. One long intestine bit was stretched across the squiggles that was the rest in a straight line. Ducking these, Pendergast stepped forward to view the actual corpse.

Spread-eagled and naked, the body of Cambrian Struthers was hung on the wall. The head was missing, cut clean off. Three nails in a straight line kept the neck on the wall, three nails for the arms (forearm, upperarm, elbow — all perfectly centered) and legs (upper leg, knee, lower leg — again, all centered) in the same manner, one nail for each finger (centered on the middle knuckle) and toe (centered in the middle) and one nail centered exactly in the middle of each palm. Pendergast sighed heavily and turned his attentions to the body.

A long straight cut from the base of the neck to the pelvic bone and the two flaps of skin had been stretched open, held to the wall with three nails in a straight line. This made Pendergast think of a shark being dissected in a high school biology class. The body cavity was missing all the organs but still had all bones intact. The worst, however, was the head area.

Pendergast turned his eyes back to the neck. Nailed in the middle of the neck, centered on the spine perfectly, was Cambrian’s heart. The nail had been shot into the middle of the heart and went straight into the middle of the spine. Right above the heart were two green eyes, nailed through the pupils perfectly, staring straight into Pendergast’s own, blank and misted. Pendergast realized this is where the eyes would be if the head was present. Turning carefully, he surveyed the scene from Cambrian’s eyes.

The intestines weren’t just hung randomly. They were hung to crudely spell NEWLYWED.

Pendergast took a steadying breath and walked back to the female officer slowly, thankful the smell wasn’t great. “I understand there were footprints. Why aren’t they here?”

The female officer frowned. “The only footprints found were outside the door to right outside the apartment. They just stop! We believe the murderer did this on purpose.”

“Mmm. And the blood?”

“What blood?”

“There has to be blood, sergeant. This man was dissected here.”

The sergeant swallowed. “Oh... There was none when we got here. Just that one.”

Pendergast followed her pointing finger to see the only puddle of blood — a small one, right under Cambrian. He nodded, turning to the sergeant.

“And where is Margo?”

A confused stare. “Who?”

“The woman who lives here?”

“Oh. She’s at HQ.”

Pendergast nodded, taking a breath. “I want photographers in here now. I want pictures from the corpse’s view of the intestines, I want the scene from here, there, and there—”—Pendergast pointed at where he stood and two other places in the room—“—and pictures of each body section. I want a series of pictures that connect together of the entire corpse, and three ceiling view pictures, showing the heart’s nail. I also want close-ups of the eyes. Do not touch a single thing. No moving, no cleaning, NOTHING. Do not disassemble the crime scene. I want this room air-conditioned just enough to slow the decay but not enough to ruin anything. I want professionals — the very best — to be working on this case, and I want everyone — and I do mean everyone — involved with this case to meet me in the conference room at Police Headquarters. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” the sergeant replied, writing everything down in a notebook she had pulled from a breast pocket. “Anything else, agent?”

Pendergast noticed again how shaken she was about the murder. He nodded. “I want you to drink this. It will make you feel better.” Pendergast handed her a packet of green tea.

She frowned. “O — okay...”

And with that, Pendergast glided from the room like a shadow, leaving the sergeant alone with her tea.
—


Margo Green looked around the Captain’s office, sniffing miserably, tears rolling down her cheeks. She was clutching a small mug of green tea. She took a sip, feeling morose. Her eyes flicked to Agent Pendergast, who sat across from her, long legs out in front of him, slouching in an uncomfortable looking brown chair. His right hand was tented over his eyes, shielding his face from her. His left arm sat on an armrest, hand hanging over it loosely. Margo wiped the tears from her cheeks, sipping tentatively at her tea.

As the moments passed, Margo stared into her tea, thinking of the last few hours. After calling the police and Pendergast, she had been brought to the station and questioned softly by two female officers. Then she had been given orders to wait in the Captian’s office. Pendergast had swept in not ten minutes ago, wordlessly handing her the tea and dropping into the chair. Around her was utter chaos, but she was numb to it all.

And so the mad she loved, the very love of her life, had slipped... no, more been ripped from her fingers by a wicked soul. With a nail gun.

Movement in her peripheral vision made Margo glance up. Pendergast had tented his fingers over his chest. His eyes locked with hers and they stared at each other for a moment. Finally Pendergast spoke.

“I... Margo, I don’t know what to say.” She nodded, sniffing sadly. “I promise to you I will catch the—” he paused, uncharacteristically groping for words “—monster who did this to the most unfortunate Mr. Struthers.” Another pause. “However, I must request that you—”

“Oh no, Pendergast!” Margo interrupted furiously. “I’m not standing on the wayside for this one!”

Pendergast’s eyebrows went up in surprise and he smiled. “No, Margo, you aren’t. I want you to help me.”

A shocked silence followed this remark. Margo found she could not speak. Vaguely she wondered if Pendergast was joking. “W — what?”

“Oh yes, Margo. I need help on this, and with Vincent in Canada... Besides, you have a right. He was your fiancee.”

Margo gasped. How could he have known? “How...?”

“The...” Pendergast grimaced.

“Go on.”

“The intestines were arranged in the word ’Newlywed’ with a line through it.”

Margo gasped again, softly, as her eyes filled again with tears. “I...”

Pendergast leaned forward. “Will you help me, Margo?”

She nodded miserably, looking down at the floor, tears beginning to fall. She wondered numbly what she had done to deserve all this. Why, why had this happened to her?

Suddenly, she noticed Pendergast crouching in front of her. She stiffened, momentarily, her teary brown eyes meeting again with his beautiful silvery blue. He brushed the hair from her eyes hesitantly, his hand cold.

“You’ll be okay, Margo,” he said softly. For a moment they kept like this, silent, before Pendergast stood, straightening his jacket and heading to the door. He opened it and started through it but paused, looking back. “Margo?”

She looked up.

“You might wish to drink that,” he said, pointing at her tea. “It’s getting cold.”

Chapter 11    table of contents  

7:00 AM, Friday


Special Agent Pendergast strode down the hall, long legs eating up the dimly lit hallway quickly. Outside the station, New York was waking to a beautiful Friday morning, sunny but chilly. Inside, however, melancholy held sway.

Pendergast pondered this momentarily, turning a corner to stop before a door. Straightening his jacket, he took a breath and quietly entered the room.

Twenty men and women sat around a thick oak table, oval in shape. Other wandered around the room, looking out windows or pouring cups of badly made coffee. Pendergast noticed the female officer from before, sitting near the front of the room, sipping at her little cup of green tea, her eyes closed. He smiled to himself before stepping, face blank, to the front of the room. The group slowly noticed him and quieted almost instantly of their own accord. Pendergast looked around at all of them, quickly memorizing faces.

“I am Special Agent Pendergast, and I am the agent in charge of this case.”

“I didn’t think the FBI specialized in petty murder cases,” said a loud reedy voice from the back of the room. Pendergast turned his gaze to the speaker, silvery blue orbs sweeping over a five-foot man with curly orange hair and dull green eyes.

“Does this really seem petty to you?” Pendergast asked softly, his quiet voice like razors in the suddenly electric air. The man frowned, annoyed, and began to open his mouth to speak, but Pendergast stepped over his would-be affirmation. “Have you seen the crime scene? Do you know the woman whose would-be husband was murdered?” The man shook his head, still frowning. Pendergast leaned forward, hands on the table. “What we have here, sir, is a psychopath,” he almost whispered, though his voice rang out through the room as if he had yelled it, his eyes flashing.

Pendergast’s fingers suddenly brushed a file, and, forcing himself to look away from the now silent and slightly nervous looking man, glanced to the left of him. The female officer had opened her eyes and pushed a manila folder to him. He picked it up, straightening and looking inside to find the pictures he had requested, already printed. Pendergast knew the large amount of work this required, paired with superhuman rushing, and truly appreciated the photographers on this one. These prints were perfect — large, glossy, and, best of all, colour.

“Really?” The man finally spoke out, and Pendergast’s eyes snapped right back to him. “So far, all I’ve heard—” here he hesitated, his voice wavering slightly as Pendergast began to slowly walk around the table towards him, green eyes centered on the folder—” is that we have a cold-blooded killer with a nail gun...”

A thrilling silence took the room in it’s icy claws as Pendergast stopped to the right of the man, who swiveled in his chair to face the agent, whose face was blank, though his eyes portrayed a fire with the intensity of what seemed to be fairly held back anger.

“What is your name, sir?” asked Pendergast, his voice quiet but deadly.

“W — Wright,” the man replied.

“Wright. Hm.” With a flick of his wrist, Pendergast threw the folder onto the table. The folder didn’t move, but the pictures inside slid out, going right to the end of the table, their gruesome portrayals of the crime scene laid bare for all to see. There was an audible intake of breath. Some turned away, others, like the female officer from before, closed their eyes; still others leaned in to better see what had become of poor Mr. Struthers. Wright, however, didn’t turn, locked in a fierce stare with Pendergast, his dull green eyes slightly defiant but full of a sudden fear. His freckled face had become white with the sound of the pictures sliding out. Pendergast, however, still kept his face blank, his eyes wicked cold. Wright realized suddenly that, if Pendergast was a different man, the agent would have decked him then and there.

“It does not do well to assume what one does not know, Officer Wright,” said Pendergast, his voice icy and quiet.

Slowly Wright turned in his chair, his face turning from white to grayish to slightly green. How could one person...?

“Do you see now, ladies and gentlemen, what we have to deal with? This is the work of an utter psychopath, an insane artist... not some everyday, garden-variety killer. This man — and yes, the culprit is male, he was seen leaving the building — must be stopped before he kills again.” Pendergast was circling the table now like a hungry panther stalking prey — graceful, slender, a shadow. “Oh yes, he will kill again. There is no doubt. He knew exactly what he was doing here, there was a reason for every single thing he has done here. What I want is subtlety, secrecy, discretion. Yes, I want to know why this man was murdered, how, and by whom. Of course I want to know everything there is to know about the circumstance, the killer, the victim. But what I want is absolute silence. No one — not a single soul — is to know what has transpired. Not a single person but myself and every one of you in this room now are to know what we are doing here. Only the forty people in this room will take care of everything. You are all to report to me each and every time you find even the smallest scrap — even if it’s something that you do not think will matter. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” Pendergast stopped at the front of the room.

Silence.

“Good.” And like a whisper, Agent Pendergast swept from the room.

Chapter 12    table of contents  

Friday, noon


Margo Green snuggled wearily into the blanket Pendergast hand given her and sighed heavily, closing her eyes as the 1951 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith glided noiselessly out of Police Plaza and into the busy New York street. Her weary mind had blissfully blocked out all that had been happening to her since late last night. With another tired sigh, she slipped quietly into the peaceful black nothingness of sleep.
—


Margo awoke slowly to find herself in an unfamiliar room. She lay in cream coloured Egyptian cotton sheets, topped with a rather comfortable, warm, and heavy black comforter. The bed itself was elegant, dark cherry legs holding a cathedral-esque canopy. Black and silvery curtains hung down in cascading layers about her, translucent. Gently she brushed back the curtains, pulling her legs out from under the sheets and placing her feet upon the freezing black marble, flinching at the sudden cold.

The walls were white with black trim all around. The window had the same trim, with the same black and silvery curtains covering it. The light in the room was a soft blue, though Margo had the sneaking suspicion it was around three. She noticed two black doors with silver knobs, one across from her and one to the right, both in the exact center of their respective walls. The window was behind her, also centered. To her immediate left sat a dark cherry wardrobe, its silver knobs shining at her innocently.

Margo stood, her body protesting, aching and tired. The door to her right had a note taped to it. She slowly made her way to it. The paper had upon it, in a spidery script that was elegant and written in black, the following words:

-Margo,

Please do not leave this room. The door to your left lead to a bathroom — you may use it if you wish. I have taken the liberty of recovering three days’ worth of your clothing. You can find it in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. I will be back to fetch you soon. Please do not worry.

-A. P.

Margo nodded at the note and walked back to the bed, setting the note upon the ruffled sheets before heading to the bathroom door. It opened, smooth and silent, to reveal a beautiful bathroom, making Margo gasp quietly.

Black marble tile led to a medium sized black marble bathtub. The tub was shaped like a giant contact that was set in the middle of the room and then pressed in a bit. Four elegant silver faucets were placed around the basin equally. The softly curving walls of the basin edged up from the floor about a foot.

Margo walked to the tub, amazed. Inside the tub was a small bench, curving out from the walls of the tub. A small set of stairs was set into the side of the tub for easy travel in and out of the tub. In the middle of the basin sat a small silver drain. This bathtub is an architectural wonder! Margo thought delightfully, stepping into the tub carefully to stop the drain and turn on the faucets. Giggling like a naughty child, Margo stepped back out of the tub and sneaked back into the room. She picked undergarments, a maroon blouse and loose fitting blue jeans out of the drawer Pendergast had indicated. She found that he had indeed brought clothing and neatly folded and arranged it, making her smile. What a curious man he was.

Upon her return to the tub, Margo found it wasn’t even half full, which sent her on an exploratory journey through the rest of the room. From her vantage point behind the tub, Margo found a black divider in the far right corner. Behind the divider, Margo found a black toilet and matching sink. Above the sink rested a mirror. Margo gratefully used the toilet before looked back into the tub. She found that there was still not enough water.

With a sigh, Margo went to the bathroom door and closed it, noticing a long black marble counter to the left of the tub. Upon it Margo found three towels and a small bag she recognized as her own. Placing two of the towels near the tub — which was close to being full now — and one at the bottom of the stairs on the floor, she moved back to the counter to turn her attentions upon the bag. Inside the bag was her hairbrush, a bar of soap, shampoo and conditioner, and a small bottle of country apple bubble bath from her personal bathroom.

Her eyes lit up and she poured some of the bubble bath into the tub, turning the faucets off once the bath had foamed up nicely, and stripped out of her clothing, sliding into the warm, heavily scented apple bath with her soap and hair products, sighing contentedly.

For forty minutes Margo soaked sleepily, half sitting and half laying on the bench. Finally she forced herself to wash her hair. The sweet scent of apples made her smile. She remembered when Cambrian had bought her this. He had been so proud of himself, getting her favourite flavour...

Then it all came crashing back to her. Tears filled her eyes, falling unhindered into the water as miserable sobs racked her body. For the first time in years, Margo Green truly felt alone.



(Author’s Note:
Okay, I realize how weak the ending to Chapter 12 is, but I have a good reason. I had to cut Chapter 12 in half and make the other half Chapter 13, and this is where I cut it. Please don’t hate me for it...)

Chapter 13    table of contents  

Friday, 3:30 PM


Margo Green stepped from the tub, watching the water begin to drain for a moment before drying herself off and moving towards the counter. She took her brush and clothes and moved into the bedroom, dressing slowly and brushing out her wet hair. It needed a trim, she noticed numbly, her mind moving sluggishly, thoughts elsewhere. Just as she finished rinsing out the tub the rest of the way, she heard a soft knock at the door.

“Yes?” she called, frowning as she moved into the room, closing the bathroom door behind her.

“May I enter?” asked a silky smooth voice from the other side of the door.

“Oh! Yes,” she replied quickly, stuffing her dirty clothes back into the bottom drawer and standing quickly. “Hey Pendergast,” she said, forcing a small smile and sitting on the bed as the agent stepped in.

“I hope you slept well,” he said, standing near the doorway.

“Yeah,” she said, her smile now genuine. “This bed is really comfy!”

Pendergast nodded knowingly with a small smile. Margo’s eyes widened and she stood as she realized this was his bed. “Oh! I — I... Pendergast, I can’t sleep here, this is your—”

She silenced as he held up a hand. “Margo, I was wondering if you would care to lunch with me.”

Margo nodded fervently, her panic over the room forgotten. She was simply ravenous. Pendergast smiled again. “Come with me.”

He led her down a dimly lit hall and into a small dining room. The room’s walls were a grayish white. In the middle of the room sat a dark cherry dining table, which was already set for two. A window was set into the wall directly behind one of the chairs. He pulled the opposite chair out for her, pushing it in once she had sat down before disappearing into a door on the right.

A few moments passed before he returned, carrying two plates. Pendergast set one of the plates in front of Margo before sitting in the chair directly opposite her. The plate had about fourteen lightly charred asparagus stalks arranged quite nicely with fourteen slightly pink slices of top sirloin. It was all drizzled with what looked like a kind of vinaigrette. The salad was garnished with some thin red onion rings and orange slices. Everything looked delicious.

Margo looked up at Pendergast, amazed. She had no idea he could cook! He only stared back, his eyes slightly inquisitive. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked suddenly, and Margo shook her head quickly, stopping him from offering types of wine.

“No, Pendergast, it’s just...”

“Yes?”

“This is so nice...,” she trailed off weakly, at a loss for words.

Pendergast merely nodded and began to eat quietly. Margo followed his example, abandoning his dainty approach for a less sophisticated one, politely snarfing down the zesty stalks and tender steak. Silence ruled the room for twenty straight minutes.

Finally Margo sat back, sighing contentedly to herself. She looked up to see Pendergast watching her intently, his plate almost untouched.

“Pendergast?” she said, sounding worried. She leaned forward. “Are you okay?” The agent looked much whiter than usual, and looked very tired and very thin. She found he looked ill.

He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow before smiling softly, the smile only staying for a moment. “Yes, I’m fine.” Margo frowned and sat back, looking rather worried. “I’ve just been feeling a bit under the weather, as it were.”

“Are you sure?”

Pendergast nodded, standing and taking the plates. He walked back into the dining room after depositing them in the kitchen. “Margo, are you feeling well enough to travel?”

Margo frowned and nodded, standing. He led her through another dimly lit hall and into the living room, opening the door that led to the elevator.

Sitting on the doorstep was a small, brown, rectangular package. Frowning, Pendergast pulled a pair of surgical gloves out of an unseen pocket and slipped them on before kneeling and picking the package very carefully. He straightened, turning the package over in his hands delicately, stopping as his eyes noticed spidery violet script in the dim light.

“What is it?” Margo asked from behind him.

“I have no idea,” Pendergast murmured back. “But it can not be good.”

“Why?”

“Because it is addressed,” Pendergast replied, turning to face her grimly, “to Incitatus.”

Chapter 14    table of contents  

Friday,4:15 PM


For a moment, Pendergast just stood there, staring grimly at the package. Margo wondered who Incitatus was. Finally he began to move, his hands slowly beginning to unwrap the brown paper, making sure not to miss anything, careful not to drop the item within.

While he worked, Margo wondered why this bothered Pendergast so much. With a jolt she realized who might have sent this package. Swallowing, she shook her head slowly, both unwilling to believe and not allowing herself to believe.

With a rustle, the brown paper fell to the floor. In Pendergast’s hands was a video tape. Margo looked from the tape to Pendergast’s face, noticing a brief flicker of confusion and annoyance pass his eyes. His eyes met Margo’s and he frowned, handing her the tape and bending to pick up the brown paper. On the opposite side (the side that had been touching the tape) was more spidery violet script.

Margo craned her neck to read it, but the lighting was too dim. “What does it say?”

“It says, ’Don’t watch me alone’,” Pendergast replied.

“It does?”

“Yes.” Pendergast looked up. There was a short silence.

“Pendergast?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Um... Who is Inc — c...”

“Incitatus?”

Margo blushed. “Yeah...”

Pendergast stared at her for a few minutes, trying desperately to think of a way to answer this question in the least painful of ways. Finally he sighed, looking down at the paper.

“Incitatus was my...” A long pause.

Margo nodded. She could tell this was a big deal. “Go on,” she pressed softly.

“He was... He was my pet mouse.” Another pause as Pendergast gathered his thoughts. “I spent hours teaching him to do tricks and the like. I loved him... One morning, I...” Margo waited patiently for a moment. “One morning, I woke to find Incitatus had been crucified at the foot of my bed.”

Margo’s eyes widened. “He crucified your mouse?”

Pendergast nodded, taking the tape from Margo and turned it over in his hands before sighing heavily. “We have no time to watch this now. We must be going.”

Tucking the tape, paper, and gloves into his suit jacket, Pendergast strode off into the elevator’s hallway quite suddenly, leaving Margo to follow, closing the door to his apartment. She heard a loud click as the door mechanically locked, leaping with a start at the sound before hurriedly running down the hall to catch up, barely making it into the elevator in time.

The two stood in the elevator, the air heavy with a thoughtful silence. Margo was feeling more and more confused as the elevator dropped steadily. -What is happening?- When they reached ground level, the elevator doors opened with a ding just as Pendergast reached them. He left Margo behind, who was almost running after him.

“Pendergast, wait!”

He kept going, as if he hadn’t heard.

“Pendergast!! Wait!”

Still he ignored her. She dodged the door behind him, leaping into the nippy air, the sun bright all around her, though it was on its way down. “Pendergast!” she called after him, now rather annoyed, stopping in a huff.

He turned on his heel, eyes blazing. She could tell he was rather anxious to get this errand over with as soon as possible. Behind him sat the idling Wraith. Margo, who had been too tired to notice before, gasped slightly. How did he...?

“Yes?” Pendergast said quietly, raising an eyebrow.

Margo looked at him. She was feeling furious and confused, which was not a good combination. “You have to answer some questions, Pendergast!” she growled furiously, stomping over to him.

Pendergast held up a hand. “Margo, I understand completely.” The other hand disappeared behind him, opening the driver’s side passenger door. “Get in.”

Margo slid into the back seat as Pendergast closed the door, leaping into the driver’s seat of his Wraith. He started it down the street, slowly merging into traffic before picking up serious speed. Margo wondered momentarily if he was within the speed limit.

But these thoughts were quickly replaced by her original trains of confusion and anger. She leaned forward, taking a deep breath. “You need to tell me what’s going on, Pendergast. I’m part of this too. You said you’d answer my questions!”

“I never specifically spoke the words pertaining to answering any questions from you. However, I understand what you mean, and I will try my best to help you know what is happening,” Pendergast replied calmly.

“So... First. Where were you while I was asleep?”

“At the morgue. I was witnessing the unfortunate Mr. Struther’s autopsy.”

Margo waited a moment before replying, pushing the pictures of Cambrian’s body from her mind. “What was there to autopsy?... The murderer didn’t really leave much to look at...”

“More than was expected. It seems Mr. Struthers died of a mixture of asphyxiation, blood loss, shock, and, of course, the nails in his throat.”

“Really?” Pendergast didn’t reply, so Margo took this as a yes. She thought about this for a moment, shaking the tears and memories from her head. Not the time...

“So...” Margo began after a short silence. “Where are we going now?”

“Your apartment.”

“Pendergast! I can’t go back there! Not now!”

“Margo, you must learn to face that which scares you.”

“Why must we go?”

“I must ask you a question there.”

“What?”

Silence.

“Pendergast?”

“You shall see.”

Margo frowned. “Fine. What’s with the videotape?”

“That’s exactly the reason we’re going to your apartment.”

“What’s the mouse thing all about? Is the tape really from... your brother?”

Pendergast didn’t answer at first. When he did, however, his voice was quiet. “Yes.”

Margo sighed heavily, suddenly wary of being in the car. The answers had only given her more questions, questions to which she wasn’t sure she wanted answers to. She glanced out the window, mulling over the possibilities to all her new questions, each more unlikely than the last.

Chapter 15    table of contents  

Friday, 4:30 PM


Author’s Note:
For my purposes, I have taken the opening and closing times of certain places and warped them to suit my needs. I have also altered the layout of said establishments. Deal. It’s a freaking fan fiction. Also, I know the character of Wren is waaaaaaaaay off. I’m so sorry! *sobs*


Margo’s heart dropped as she stepped out of the Wraith and into the familiar apartment building’s parking lot. Pendergast slipped out beside her, locking the Wraith with a flick of the wrist after straightening his suit jacket and setting off across the lot. After a moment of hesitation, Margo swallowed her fear and started after him, giving herself a mental pep talk. Come on, Mar, you’ve faced worse... Remember Frock? The Museum Beast? Aye... But neither of them were brutally murdered by someone in the apartment you live in, a nasty piece of her mind lashed out. OR asked you to marry them not two hours before.

The trip up to her apartment was uneventful — save for the bloody footprint stains in the elevator — and, had Pendergast not been there, Margo thought it would be just like coming home from work, walking in and throwing her keys at Cambrian, who was always nearby... Margo shook her head firmly. No. Not here, not now. The elevator doors almost didn’t open fast enough for Pendergast, who quickly came to her apartment door with Margo close behind. He knocked on the door three times slowly, which Margo took as the code. The door opened and Pendergast flashed his ID, which, like magic, was in his hand only long enough for Margo to see a flash of it before it disappeared into his amazing bottomless suit jacket. The ID allowed Margo and Pendergast to go inside instantly.

Inside was a bustling cornucopia of activity. Detectives hurried to and fro, while photographers pointed here and there, showing positions and points of interest to officers here and there. Pendergast ignored all this, taking the hallway to the living room with a quick business-like air. Margo took several deep breaths before following. It’s okay, Mar, he’s gone, he’s gone...

Slowly Margo stepped into the living room, amazed at how quickly the homey little room had gone to madman’s murder scene to cold, heartless police investigation. Bright lights illuminated everything, casting dark shadows into the immediate corners and hallways. Where Cambrian had once hung were now only bloody spots, indication of the nails that had pierced his body. She made her way to Pendergast slowly, blinking rapidly, her eyes still adjusting from the darkness of the hallway. She was trying desperately to ignore all that was around her, trying not to think about it.

Pendergast was near the hallway to her bedroom, staring intently up at the ceiling. As Mago walked over, she craned her neck to see what Pendergast was watching so carefully. There, in the ceiling, were two nail-holes that had nothing at all to do with the rest of the crime scene. Pendergast looked at her and she frowned, meeting his eyes.

“What?”

“What hung there?”

Margo thought for a moment. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Pendergast sounded tense, like these two nail-holes meant something. Margo frowned at his concern.

“Y — yeah, why?”

Pendergast ignored the question. “Do you know why those holes are there?”

Margo shook her head and Pendergast sighed heavily, looking troubled.

“Hmm...”

“What do you think they’re for?” Margo asked after a moment. Pendergast ignored her again, nodding to himself and standing directly under the holes, looking up, down, away from and towards Cambrian’s hanging place. Something behind his eyes clicked, and Margo heard a sharp intake of breath. She pounced excitedly.

“What? What is it?”

Pendergast merely shook his head, surveying the holes from different places nearby and holding his arms up, almost brushing the ceiling with his fingers. Margo looked away, annoyed, but she let it slide. She was lucky to have some answers out of the man already, considering he never told anyone anything.

God, this is bizarre, Margo thought to herself as she followed Pendergast back out to the Wraith a few moments later. Everything is just so... Why did you have to go, Cambrian? What in hell is happening?

Margo was still wrapped in her thoughts as the Wraith glided onto the street. She didn’t notice as Pendergast pulled slowly into the New York Public Library parking lot. Most of the cars were leaving; it was almost 5:00.

The passenger door she was leaning on suddenly opened, breaking Margo’s reverie. Pendergast caught her before she had fallen far, his hand cool against her arm. Blushing slightly, Margo looked up at him with a quick smile.

“Sorry...”

Merely bowing his head, Pendergast helped her from the Wraith before leading her into the Library through a familiar, off-to-the-side door. Her curiosity peaked, Margo followed him as he led her deeper into the bowels of the library. There, in a circular office, sat a strange man at a long table, surrounded by books. His white hair, which strongly reminded Margo of a lion’s mane, hung unchecked over his shoulders. He was looking down, his attention caught by a book of some sort.

Pendergast watched the man with neither interest nor disinterest for a moment before reaching out and tapping on the glass window of the door. The man looked up, bright yellow eyes looking Margo and the agent over. He caught Pendergast’s eyes and they stared at each other for a moment. Finally the man stood, walking to the door and opening it with a small smile.

“Wren,” Pendergast said with a small bow of his head.

“Greetings!” the man replied, his eyes flicking to Margo.

“I’ve come to speak to you on two matters, Wren,” Pendergast replied, his voice conveying a slight unhappiness.

The man called Wren did not answer, his eyes locked on Margo, who shifted nervously.

“First, do you remember the agreement we had concerning my cell phone number?” Pendergast’s eyes flashed.

“Aye,” Wren replied, his eyes turning to the agent.

“Even when carrying books, Wren...”

“Agent Pendergast, I had reason to believe you had contacted her... or she had particularly important information. Not many people come to ask me anything, let alone your phone number. Your book is almost finished, Ms. Green,” Wren added suddenly, his eyes flicking back at Margo.

“Wren, had I contacted her, I would have left a number. Do you remember three years ago, Wren?” Pendergast replied, his voice taking a small tinge of anger. Suddenly he closed his eyes, breathing deeply for a moment before reopening them. “I must request you allow us entrance to a room we may watch a videotape in absolute secrecy.”

Wren’s leonine eyes ripped themselves from Margo to rest on Pendergast. “Oh? Follow me, then...”

Wren led them through his office — a circular room, counters covering half of the walls, all laden with books. The rest of the walls were window, and another door sat on the far side. The long table sat in the middle — into a darkened room — which was also circular, but was filled with shelves — and to a pair of doors. They went through the doors into a long white hallway — which was brightly lit by fluorescent lighting — and to a large white door.

Through the door was a large, pure white room. On the immediate right was a large network of computers. In the middle was a small couch and a television, DVD player, and VCR. Pendergast immediately began checking about the room, looking into corners and the like. Margo fidgeted nervously, noticing Wren’s eyes upon her in her peripheral vision.

“You are unlucky, Madame Green,” Wren said quietly. Margo’s eyes widened with confusion.

Finally Pendegast walked back over. “Thank you, Wren. Must I remind you of our agreement?”

Shaking his head, Wren bowed slightly and left the room.

Pendergast turned to Margo, staring at her for a moment before giving a small sigh and moving to the center of the room, inserting the tape into the VCR and stopping it, plucking the remote from its resting place next to the television. He glanced at Margo, who raised her eyebrows.

“Pendergast, why are we here?” Pendergast merely raised an eyebrow. “Well, I know why we’re here, but why are we here?”

“Ah. This is one of Wren’s many ’safe rooms’, a place where he can set up connections in the utmost privacy and protection. No one knows we’re here, and no one can find us. We’re basically off-the-grid, save for those computers. This is the ideal place to watch a secret videotape.” Pendergast walked to the couch, sitting upon the right cushion gracefully, his long legs crossed in front of him. “Wren also has night access to the Library, which in itself has aided me many times.”

Margo walked over to the couch, sitting on the center cushion, next to Pendergast. She sighed and sat back, ready to watch whatever Diogenes wanted her to see. Pendergast looked at the television, preparing to play the tape. Suddenly he hesitated, frowning slightly and looking at Margo. She frowned back.

“What?”

Pendergast sighed. “Margo, I have reason to believe... that this tape...” He paused. “Are you absolutely positive you wish to watch this?” he asked, his eyes taking on a pleading expression. Margo frowned, slightly worried at the sudden change in Pendergast’s demeanour. Slowly she nodded.

Pendergast looked at her sadly for a moment. Finally he leaned back and pressed play on the remote.
—


Author’s Note:
This next chapter is rather graphic, for all those faint-at-heart people. I’m just warning you now... So don’t get angry when you have squelchy nightmares...

Chapter 16    table of contents  

Friday (HOLY CRAP DOES IT NEVER END?!?), 5:15 PM


For a moment the black of the screen didn’t seem to change, but as Margo stared, she realized there was indeed movement. Someone was moving the camera in a dark room. Faintly she could hear speech, movement, laughter.

Then Margo heard the chunck that steadied the camera. Her heart seemed to stop as she heard the second chunck that cemented the camera. A pair of mismatched eyes came into focus and the light switched on, revealing Diogenes Pendergast, who stood in front of the camera with a sort of smirk and a black suit on. He waved before turning to face Cambrian Struthers, who had just walked into the room.

Margo snatched the remote from Pendergast and paused it, standing. Her eyes began to fill with bitter tears. “Pendergast!” she almost shouted, feeling hurt and slightly betrayed. “Why... Why are you showing me this?!?”

Pendergast tore his eyes from the screen and looked at Margo, a kind of hunger in his eyes. “I did ask you if you truly wished to view this,” he reminded her softly.

Margo stared at him. “Had I known...”

Pendergast stood, taking her hands after a split-second hesitation. “Margo, I am truly sorry to have hurt you. If you do not wish to watch, you may leave.” Margo shook her head, not wanting to be alone.

“No, it’s just...”

“It is best to know how he met his demise, Margo, so that you may better understand the situation.”

“Situation? Your brother’s a freaking psychopath!” Margo replied loudly, cocking her head in disbelief.

“That is exactly what you must understand. You must realize what you have been thrust into. I know it hurts now, and it will hurt for a while, Margo. But you must learn to face this, to accept what has happened and move on. You must learn from this. I am not trying to hurt you.” He paused. “Do not let your fear and grief keep you from avenging him.”

Pendergast abruptly let her hands go and sat back down, resuming his former position as if nothing had happened. Margo flopped back onto the couch next to him, feeling slightly dazed. She realized he had taken the remote from her as he restarted the tape.

Margo watched, frozen, as Cambrian’s face registered surprise and anger. He opened his mouth to speak...

And at that precise moment, Diogenes moved.

Margo never thought one human could move so fast. In seconds, Diogenes had Cambrian braced against the wall, one arm holding his arms and chest against it. Pulling a syringe from his pocket, Diogenes pricked his victim in the jugular. Cambrian stiffened suddenly, his eyes going wide with fear. Margo realized suddenly he couldn’t move.

Diogenes, who was still holding Cambrian against the wall, plucked a gun-like object from his pocket. Margo watched in horror as Diogenes placed Cambrian on the wall and quickly nailed his arms to it.

Then, with a business-like speed and efficiency, Diogenes pulled a large knife from his pocket and began slicing the clothes from Cambrian’s body, nailing his legs, ankles, and feet to the wall as he went.

Standing back to survey his work, Diogenes looked at the camera with a cruel smile. Margo heard the horrible gurgling that signified Cambrian struggling to breathe. Twirling the nail gun in his hand, Diogenes locked eyes with Cambrian and whispered something before, in one sudden movement, nailing the three nails in Cambrian’s throat.

Tears spilled down Margo’s cheeks as the blood drained from Cambrian’s face and the light left his eyes. Diogenes, however, was much less passionate, quickly pulling a cooler from nearby — it was against the wall — and placing it under Cambrian’s body to catch the blood. The cooler sat right under Cambrian’s legs, resting slightly against his feet.

Diogenes pulled an ulu knife from the cooler next, along with a large black board. He placed the board behind Cambrian’s head, and, holding the board up with his hand on Cambrian’s forehead, aimed the knife and drew back.

Margo looked away quickly, wincing as she heard the sickening slice; blood, bone, nerves and muscle all tearing to make a horrible crunching squishing. Her eyes fell onto Pendergast, who was watching with a rapt fascination that Margo found kind of sick. His eyes were frozen on the screen, shining hungrily.

A sickening, splashy thud turned Margo’s eyes back to the screen. Diogenes had gouged the eyes from Cambrian’s head, nailed them to the wall, and had dropped the head itself into the cooler. Margo noticed she was shaking as Diogenes grabbed the knife he had used earlier and sliced Cambrian open from the pelvic bone to the base of his neck with the flick of a wrist.

As if in slow motion, Cambrian’s innards slid out into the cooler as Diogenes nailed the skin flaps to the wall. Then he reached down into Cambrian’s ribcage, ripping the heart out in a careful upwards motion, using only as much force as needed. Diogenes carefully placed the heart on the spine, arranging it just so before nailing it in place down upon the spine.

Diogenes stood back again, admiring his work momentarily. Then he turned and smiled at the camera.

“And now,” he said quietly, “the coup-de-grace.”

The younger Pendergast took a small tarp from a chair nearby and spread it on the ground half-heartedly before turning back to the cooler. Taking the intestines from the cooler, Diogenes disappeared from view, leaving the pictures to the imagination as a long stream of chuncks filled the air.

Finally Diogenes came back into view, throwing tarp, gun, and knives into the cooler, shutting it quickly and making sure no blood had dripped out. He waved at the camera, walking to it...

The screen suddenly turned black again. Margo swallowed hard, feeling afraid and shaky, the tears long since gone. She looked over at Pendergast, who was still just sitting there, watching the black screen.

“He had to have left a clue,” Pendergast murmured to himself. “He just had to have left me something, anything...”

Margo watched as Pendergast rewound the tape and began to watch it again. She realized the whole tape had only been about thirteen minutes long as she stood shakily and made her way over to the computers. She wondered at the godly speeds Diogenes had been moving at and began to inspect the computers.

Margo reached the last computer with a sigh, watching its screen — which was blank — with a sort of confused numbness. As she began to turn away, something suddenly popped up on the screen. It was a small box, flashing yellow and red. Margo frowned, annoyed. It reminded her of the annoying popups she always encountered online.

Only this popup, Margo found, was not telling her she had won something in a frantic way.

It was telling her to run.

Warning! Intruder(s)!

Chapter 17    table of contents  

Friday, 5:33 PM


“Pendergast!” Margo said loudly as the screen blinked at her, feeling afraid. “Someone’s broken in!”

“What?” Pendergast replied, not listening.

“Someone’s broken in! Look!”

With what seemed a great effort, Pendergast tore his eyes from the television screen and stood, walking over to Margo.

“There’s an intruder!” Margo told him, panicky, pointing at the computer screen.

Pendergast bent over, inspecting the screen. He frowned slightly, looking worried. “I see...” He straightened up, moving towards the door. Slowly Pendergast opened the door, poking his head out into darkness. Margo bit her lip, the tension growing within her stomach. Why was it so dark...?

Finally Pendergast brought his head back into the room, looking at Margo. “Margo,” he said, his voice calm but tense, “Stay here. Don’t leave under any circumstances, no matter what you may hear. I do not know what is out there, I do not know what has happened, if, indeed, anything has happened, so you must trust me... Do. Not. Leave.”

Margo looked absolutely terrified. “No, Pendergast!” she cried, her voice a sort of wail. Pendergast shushed her quickly. After a quick hesitation, she lowered her voice. “You can’t leave me here alone!”

Pendergast shook his head. “I know. But leaving you here is the only alternative to taking you with me, which I can not do.”

Margo bit her lip again, this time drawing blood. The bitter taste against her tongue seemed a bad omen as she watched, helpless, as Pendergast disappeared into the darkness beyond.
—


Pendergast walked silently into the hall, closing the door carefully behind him. He stood still for a moment, his eyes quickly adjusting to the disturbing darkness. There should be at least an emergency light...

Pulling out his trusty Colt .45, Pendergast moved down the hall towards the doors Wren had led them through not half an hour before, careful to not make a noise. He felt slightly worried at this sudden turn of events, but he pushed this from his mind hurriedly. He couldn’t think about this now. Wren was capable of taking care of himself...

Coming to the double doors, Pendergat took a steadying breath, opening the door slowly. No one met him there to reassure him. All Pendergast saw was darkness, save for the faint orange light within Wren’s office.

Pendergast walked forward a bit, closing the door behind him quietly. Pausing momentarily, Pendergast surveyed the scene. The room was filled with shelves that were about four feet tall and one yard long. Each shelf was heavily laden with books of all sizes. Pendergast moved forward, careful to stay quiet. He did not wish to be taken unaware, and with Margo, alone and defenseless...

As he came closer to Wren’s office, Pendergast could see someone inside, someone much taller and bulkier than Wren...

Silently, Pendergast kneeled and moved to the wall next to the door, which was slightly open. With one hand hovering over the door, Pendergast took a steadying breath, gun at the ready, and pushed the door open with a burst of speed, following the door into the office, his gun before him.

The door on the other side of the office hit the wall with a bang. Pendergast frowned. Not good. Quickly he scanned the office, his eyes coming upon a pool of blood that lay around the legs at the end of the table. Pendergast slowly made his way over to the pool, wondering what had happened.

The man known as Wren lay there, his neck slashed. Pendergast swallowed, looking up out the opposite door. There stood a shadowed figure, watching him.

And suddenly, Pendergast knew.

“Margo,” he breathed, taking a step back. The figure moved as well, the silver nose of a pistol showing briefly in the orange light.

Pendergast ducked as the shot burst through the glass behind his head, turning on his heel and darting out the door, careful to stay low. He heard another shot and spun away, feeling the bullets’ burn as it grazed his shoulder. He ducked down again, running behind a shelf, knowing full well stopping meant death.

The sound of footsteps behind him sent Pendergast on the defensive, weaving in and out of aisles and between shelves to avoid being shot. Books fell from the shelves around him in sudden flurries of paper as the bullets hit. Pendergast dove over a shelf just as a bullet hit the wood beside him. He hit the floor at a roll and stopped himself quickly, slamming his back against the shelf. Pendergast tried to steady his breathing, listening for anything.

But there was only silence.

Moments passed by, the cold silence gripping Pendergast like a clawed hand. Slowly and quietly Pendergast stood, careful to keep down, staying only as tall as the shelf that shielded him. He moved silently down the length of the shelf, carefully looking out.

Standing in the main aisle was his attacker, who was slowly scanning the room for his prey. Pendergast quickly pulled his head back in as the wood his head had been leaning on seconds ago burst into splinters.

Pendergast ran down the length of the aisle, hoping to reach the end before his attacker in order to surprise and disarm him. Pendergast reached the crossway between his aisle and the next, hoping not to be seen.

It was too late when Pendergast noticed the foot.

Pendergast hit the ground hard, skidding slightly on the tile floor. Before he could get up, the now slightly dazed Pendergast was roughly picked up by the back of his suit jacket and thrown against a bookshelf.

“Foolish worm!” his attacker hissed, pressing the cold nose of his pistol against Pendergast’s forehead. Pendergat wondered if Margo was okay, fully aware he was about to die...

But just as the attacker was about to pull the trigger, a sharp whistle sliced through the air. The attacker looked up in the direction of Wren’s office, cursing quietly. He brought the pistol from Pendergast’s head, spitting in his face and hissing “Lucky!” before running off.

It took Pendergast a moment to realize the situation. Slowly, he pulled a cloth from his suit jacket, wiping his face off and placing the cloth in a small plastic baggy before standing. He looked towards Wren’s office sadly, knowing he had lost the attacker.

But standing there, in the doorway, was another shadowed figure, taller than the last. Pendergast froze as the newcomer slowly waved at him and disappeared into the office.

Terrified, Pendergast ran full-out to the room Margo was in. He opened the door. “Margo!”

Mago Green was sitting on the middle cushion of the small couch, sobbing uncontrollably. The couch had been turned around, and Margo was rocking back and forth upon it, her legs against her chest and her arms around her legs. Pendergast moved forward, the door closing behind him.

“He was here, Pendergast...” she whispered. Pendergast noticed a long gash on her cheek, the blood mingling with tears.

“What?”

“He was here! And he wasn’t alone!” Margo shrieked, pointing behind Pendergast with a terrified look on her face.

Pendergast turned, filled with a sudden, unexplainable fear.

There, hanging upon the door, was the eyeless, rotting head of Cambrian Struthers.

Chapter 18    table of contents  

Friday, 5:45 PM


Special Agent Pendergast swallowed heavily at the sight of the head. He turned on his heel, facing Margo.

“Margo, we must get you out of here.”

He moved to Margo quickly, taking her arm. She pulled away, just as quick, scooting away as far from him as possible on the couch, her eyes wide with terror. “No, Pendergast!” she whispered, staring at him with an expression of terror and hurt.“No. I can’t leave. If I do... He’ll find me. He’ll find me, and... and he’ll kill me.” Margo brought her arms back around her legs, sobbing quietly. “He’ll kill me, Pendergast. He promised.”

Pendergast closed his eyes as Margo put her head in her lap and breathed in deep before opening them again. His eyes flicked to the television, knowing right away the tape was gone. Sighing heavily, he looked back to Margo, who had begun rocking back and forth, clutching her legs for dear life. Pendergast reached down and took her arm again.

“Margo, we can not stay here. He killed Wren and police will be here soon. That is the way the security system works.”

“I don’t care, I can’t leave here...”

“Margo, we must leave now,” Pendergast replied firmly. He kneeled down to her eye level as she looked up, watery brown eyes meeting fiery pale blue. “When the police get here, not only will they make you move using any means possible, but they will ask you what happened.”

Margo’s eyes widened even more, if that was even possible. She swallowed hard and let Pendergast pull her from the couch. He led her from the room, shielded, and through the library slowly. Margo only got a glimpse of Wren’s body before Pendergast ushered her through the door.

As they were coming to the door, Pendergast stopped Margo suddenly. He looked worried.

“Margo, I...” He frowned slightly, opening and closing his mouth once, lost for words. Finally he swallowed hard, muttering something unintelligible to Margo’s numb ears and placed his suit jacket upon her shoulders. “You’ll be okay...” he murmured before leading her out the door.

The cold wind didn’t touch Margo, who was currently preoccupied with trying to pick up the pieces of her broken life to notice the chilly weather. With a tenderness that was comforting, Pendergast led her across the parking lot and sat her in the back seat of his Wraith. Margo barely noticed the cold bite of the leather and the lack of company. Pendergast was standing outside, calmly conversing to the unknown entity on the other end of his cell phone.

A few moments later Pendergast slid into the back seat next to Margo, starting the vehicle before falling back into the seat. Margo looked over at him, taking in the sight of the tired agent. His right shoulder was bleeding still, and his face was slightly flushed. Frowning worriedly, he sighed heavily and closed his eyes, relaxing slightly.

Margo’s eyes filled with tears again, and, unable to fight them any longer, she let them fall. Pendergast was the only thing she had left in the world. Bill was on honeymoon, Vincent (though they had never really been all that close) was in Canada, and her parents and now Cambrian were all dead. With a miserable sob, she threw her arms around Pendergast, who froze instantly before gradually relaxing. Tenitavely he put him arms around her, trying to give her a little bit of comfort and security as she sobbed helplessly into his chest, clutching his shirt as if letting go meant his disappearance and her to slip into a world much darker and harsher, an abyss she would never escape.

“Shhh...” Pendergast whispered softly. “Margo, it’s okay... You’ll be okay... I will forever be here for you...”

Had Margo been in any other situation with any other person, she would have taken this to be a vow of undying love. However, here, in the Wraith with Pendergast, that single proclamation meant only comfort and support, the one thing that would get her back up onto her feet. She found the effect of his words calming, her sobs slowly subsiding into blissful sleep, her head against his chest.

Margo knew that this peaceful reprieve from life would soon be broken by police sirens, and she came to regret that it had ended so soon. Margo would have been very grateful, however, had she known that her one moment of peace from the world around her could have been - and almost was - broken by the man who had been standing outside the passenger door, watching the two with a maniacal smile upon his face.

Chapter 19    table of contents  

Friday, 6:00 PM


Special Agent Pendergast stood up out of the Rolls Royce ’59 Silver Wraith, Margo asleep in his arms. He nodded at Proctor, who got back into the car as Pendergast moved into the doorway of the Dakota to watch the beautiful vehicle drive away. For a moment he stood there, watching the rain begin and become steadily harder before turning to go inside.

The trip up to his room was fairly uneventful, save for a few terrified whispers from a sleeping Margo and the difficulty he had with unlocking his door. Finally he reached his room, carefully throwing the sheets of the bed back and slipping Margo under them, tucking her in with great care not to wake her.

Pendergast closed the door of the bedroom silently behind him, sighing tiredly and closing his eyes for a moment before heading to his other bedroom. He walked into the simple room, closing the door and striding over to open the window that was directly across from said door. He pulled the flowy curtains back, watching the rain for a moment in a sort of disinterested way.

Slowly the agent turned, surveying the room. It was smaller than his normal room, dusty rose walls framed with black trim. The bed was smaller but just as comfortable, the comforter matching the walls quite nicely. There was no closet, nor dresser; howe9ver, there was a small desk that had a small laptop upon it next to a stack of clothing. The biggest difference, however, was a body length mirror sitting in the corner next to the bed.

Pendergast was not a vain man. The mirror, however, could help perfect a disguise or allow a better view of wounds, so Pendergast found that having a body length mirror around was an asset. Besides, no one was ever in his room. Who would know?

The bed made no sound as Pendergast slumped down on it, leaning his elbows on his knees. He sighed heavily, mulling over everything that had happened over the past forty-eight chaotic hours. He thought of Margo and all that had happened to her, she was taking everything quite well... Then his thoughts turned to Diogenes.

A sudden burning pain broke Pendergast from thought. Frowning, he glanced at his right shoulder, his eyes widening. Standing, he quickly took his shirt off, leaning forward to inspect it in the mirror.

The cut on his shoulder had suddenly turned a bright blood red. To the amazement of Pendergast, the wound began to knit itself together, healing perfectly up all by itself. Pendergast, in his amazed stupor, didn’t notice the pain that accompanied his new healing powers.

Lily white fingers shakily examined the newly healed cut in disbelief. Something was definitely wrong here.

Definently wrong indeed.

Chapter 20    table of contents  

Wednesday, 2:30 PM


Author’s note:
I have fashioned One Police Plaza to suit my needs, being as I am rather ignorant of the layout of New York. I’ve also butchered any mention of it (and don’t even know if I’m using the right building and whatever, but that’s okay! ehehe...). I’m sorry if this disturbs anyone, but it is a fanfiction, and so you’ve kind of brought this upon yourself, haven’t you?


The four days after the two murders were fairly normal. Margo awoke on Saturday to find another note from Pendergast that told her the rooms she as allowed in and that he had called in for her, informing the Museum she would be back in no more than two weeks. The Museum allowed her an indefinite time to heal and rebuild her world with pay, thanks to Hugo Menzies, who Margo had become rather fond of and grown close to upon her return to New York.

Margo spent the four days alone, never seeing hide nor hair of Pendergast. She felt like a ghost in his house, wandering listlessly. She had been allowed into his small library - which soon became her small paradise, a getaway from the brutality of life and reality. Proctor would come in once in a while to ask her if she was hungry and bring her tea. Though Margo barely ate anything over the short time, she found him to be a great cook. She spent the days reading, bathing, sleeping and nibbling upon one or two of Proctor’s brilliant concoctions, deeply fond of the long quiet days.

On Wednesday Pendergast found Margo hidden in her favourite corner of his personal library, quietly read Plato’s Republic, brow furrowed with some sort of annoyed expression - perhaps confusion? - and a steaming cup of tea on the table beside her. She hadn’t heard him enter, so Pendergast stood for a moment, watching her. Finally he cleared his throat.

“Margo.” She looked up, startled. A smile came to her lips as she realized it was just the elusive agent.

“Hey Pendergast,” she replied cheerfully, her voice quiet. He inclined his head slightly at the greeting as she stood with a stretch. “What’s up?”

“A breakthrough has been made. I was wondering if you would like to accompany me to the lab at HQ? If you feel you’re up to the journey.”

Margo paused, mulling over the offer. In the four days she had had to think about everything, Margo found she fostered a burning hatred for Diogenes, as well as an extreme fear. Frowning, she wondered if she should risk it - she was still rather distraught about Cam’s death, though she felt so detached from it all - and finally came to the decision of yes.

Pendergast smiled slightly as Margo nodded. He admired her bravery. Anyone who endured the horror that was the abomination he hesitantly called his brother and still didn’t give up deserved one of the highest levels of respect. After Margo finished her tea and fetched her coat the two traveled down to the Wraith, Pendergast telling Margo of his encounter with the mysterious assailant.

As the Wraith nosed into the lot behind the police headquarters, Pendergast finished the tale, leaving Margo with a frown and a question.

“So why are we here?”

Pendergast eased the elegant vehicle into a parking spot, turning the engine off with a glance at Margo. “Because the attacker made the mistake of leaving DNA behind.”

It took a bit for Margo to realize what in the blazes Pendergast was talking about, but she finally came to the conclusion as they walked to the tall building, taking a small back door. Pendergast led her to a large lab. A short man - Margo guessed about five feet - with bright orange hair and piercing green eyes quickly greeted them.

“Hello again, Special Agent Pendergast!” the man called from the other end of the room, his back to them. He threw a quick glance at the two over his shoulder as Pendergast began walking towards him, Margo in tow. She noticed only one other scientist in the room, a tall and slightly plump man with mussed gray hair and dull blue eyes.

“Greetings, - ” here Pendergast hesitated briefly - “Dr. Wright.”

Wright smiled, turning to face Pendergast and Margo. His bright orbs landed on Margo, and his smile widened.

“Well hello there, young lady! Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Jonathan Wright, head scientist of this little case we have here.” Margo shook his hand with a smile.

“Margo Green.”

Wright inclined his head slightly. “And this,” he said, pointing to the other man, “is Harold McCready.” Margo held out her hand but the man merely blinked at her through large thick glasses, giving him the look of a very surprised fish.

“Nice to meet you,” the man intoned, his voice reminding Margo of the little blue cartoon dog that always looked downtrodden. She gave a strained smile, her hand dropping to her side.

“Likewise.”

There was an awkward pause. Margo rubbed her left arm, feeling nervous. Finally Pendergast spoke.

“If we are done with the pleasantries, Dr. Wright,” he remarked dryly, arching an eyebrow. Wright stared at Pendergast for a moment before clapping his hands together, breaking the cold stare he held with the agent and glancing at Margo.

“Right! The results are about to come in. The DNA sample you gave us was nice - would been nicer if we hadn’t had to almost destroy it by taking yours out. Troublesome, troublesome,” Wright turned his back to them and began typing at a computer Margo hadn’t noticed before. There was a sudden ding! and Wright gave a short bark of victory laughter. Everyone crowded around him.

“Miguel Ocoa, 28 years old, six-foot-four. He’s a Mexican native. He’s done some hard time for repeated theft, attempted murder, sexual assault... It’s been rumored that he’s the head of some kind of gang, but it’s never ben proven. He was also caught on a drug charge - quite recently, actually, but an unknown with a lot of money and pull bailed him out, real hush-hush.”

Pendergast gestured at the computer in a ’May I?’ fashion. Wright frowned and pursed his lips but moved anyway, allowing Pendergast to stare at the screen, scrolling, clicking and typing at an alarming rate. A printer suddenly went off near Margo’s elbow, who jumped, unaware.

Snatching the paper, Pendergast nodded at Wright, muttering something about “good job” before sweeping from the room in a sudden rush. Margo stared after him for a moment before starting after him. Wright’s voice stopped her at the door.

“Hey Margo?”

She turned and smiled at Wright in a strained way. “Yeah?”

“You...” He paused. “You doin’ anything this Saturday? New movie comin’ out Friday, maybe we could go?” His eyes were hopeful, friendly.

Margo’s eyes, however, were neither; they widened instead. She felt unsteady and saddened, her mind’s eye cruelly showing her Cambrian’s face. Her vision blurred as she began to cry.

“How could you?” she whispered, hurt. “You’re... You’re working on the case! My fiancee was brutally murdered five days ago and you’re already hitting on me?” Her voice was beginning to ride. “You don’t even think with your brain, you sick bastard! You don’t care, don’t give a damn!”

Wright’s face fell. He could tell this was not good. “Margo,” he broke in, sounding hurt. “No, it isn’t like that, it’s just that I—”

“You just what? Want in my pants? Want to hurt my feelings? Want to watch me suffer?” She was breathing heavily now, advancing on Wright, who shrunk back. “You think that all women are easy when they’re in pain? Is that it? You think I’m a slut? You’re such a bastard! You don’t consider anything? If you weren’t so goddamned important, I’d—”

“Margo.” The voice in her ear was not New York or Droopy, but soft New Orleans, creamy and soothing. She could feel a cold hand on her arm and turned to see Pendergast standing there. She swallowed, choking back a sob.

“I think,” Pendergast intoned quietly, flashing furious blue eyes on Wright, “that our business here is finished for today. Thank you, gentlemen.” Without another word, Pendergast led the quietly sobbing Margo from the room, leaving Wright with a pained expression on his face and a hurt ego.

Chapter 21    table of contents  

Wednesday, 6:30 PM


That night Pendergast asked Margo to eat with him again. The two sat down to a salad of sorts, involving cheese, lettuce-like leaves, and a strange vinaigrette. Margo found that, like everything else that she had eaten in this house, the salad was delicious. As she ate, Pendergast sat across from her, picking uneasily at the food. Finally he seemed to reach a suitable point in his mental train of thought.

“Margo,” he began, setting his fork down.

“Mm?” She looked up at him and licked her lips. “Yeah?”

“Margo, I’ve come to a decision about the case. I...” He paused with an uneasy sigh.

“Yes?” She prompted slowly.

“I... I want you to stop working on the case.”

“What?” Margo asked darkly.

“You are no longer to work with me on this. In truth, you are not to work on it at all.”

“Why?” Margo asked furiously, her voice raising.

Pendergast held up a hand. “It is much too dangerous. You have already suffered greatly at my brother’s hands, Margo. Therefore, I cannot allow myself to have you help me. Perhaps near the final move I will allow you to assist me, but for now you need to rest and recover.” Pendergast stood, looking at Margo regretfully. “Please forgive me,” he muttered, leaving Margo to smolder in silence.
—


Three Weeks Later (Friday, 12:05 PM)


Cambrian’s service was quiet and small. Margo was finally able to meet Cam’s mom, a short dumpy woman with long, brown, elegantly braided hair. The two hit it off quite nicely, and met several times in a small cafe near Central Park.

Pendergast hadn’t gone to Cambrian’s funeral; in fact, Margo had seen neither hide nor hair of the elusive agent since the night before the service. The entire week after Margo spent in the library, long lonely stretches of reading punctuated by short visits from Proctor.

Finally came the day Margo couldn’t take it anymore. Packing her things into her carryall, Margo hailed a taxi and returned to the Museum.

For two weeks Margo fought to catch up, aided by some of her Museum friends and the man who allowed her to stay away in the first place: Hugo Menzies. Margo found Menzies to be a great help both in work and out. In the two short weeks they spent together, Margo and Menzies began to eat lunch together down at the Bones. His humor and compassion for her troubles helped Margo melt back into society with little difficulty.

The case was stumbling along fine without Margo, though Pendergast did call her from time to time to update her on recent movements. The man who had attacked Pendergast was proving rather wily and elusive. Margo feared that Pendergast would meet his end in one of the many encounters with Ochoa’s men.

Scarier still was the transformation Pendergast seemed to be going through. Every wound he received healed completely in the hour and he suddenly became faster, stronger. This, however, was not what Margo worried about. Pendergast wasn’t sleeping much anymore, if at all; his eating habits had almost completely disappeared as well, allowing the agent to dedicate himself fully to the case he was quickly becoming obsessed with. Every communication had something to do with Diogenes, whether it be an offhand remark or the entire conversation. Margo was truly beginning to wonder if Pendergast was okay, but whenever she would ask him he wouldn’t give her a straight answer, instead beginning to talk about some obscure plant he had recently read about or whether or not she thought opera was boorish and unnecessary (God forbid if she didn’t agree).

Menzies also seemed to wonder about Pendergast’s mental state. Margo told him almost everything and every time he seemed very concerned with the situation at hand.

Margo sat in the Bones mulling over all this on Friday, four weeks after Cam’s death. She was waiting for Menzies, who had promised to meet her here. She sighed heavily, glancing around the small pub. Her eyes came upon a familiar face she gasped, breaking into a smile.

“Bill!”

The reporter and his amazing cowlick looked over in confusion, his eyes landing upon her face with a surprised smile on his face. He strut over to her booth and slid in across from her.

“Hey Mar! Long time no see!”

Margo looked him over. He looked a little older, wearier, thinner. What in hell had come over him to begin nice suits for once? He was wearing his wedding ring also, she noticed.

“How’ve you been?”

“Well, you know... good. Just got back from the honeymoon!” He flashed the ring at her, stretching his arms out on the back of the seat.

“Oh? How was it?”

Smithback grinned roguishly at her. “It was great.”

“That Kelly chick, right?”

“Yeah. Nora.”

“Right.” Margo vaguely remembered seeing her name on a long list of... curators, was it? Hmm... She’d have to check after lunch.

“How nice...” Margo replied, as if preoccupied.

“So... How’ve you been?” Smithback asked tentatively after an uncomfortable silence, cocking his head to the side. Margo stared at him, trying to figure out how to answer when Menzies walked up.

“Hello, Margo,” he greeted warmly before turning to Smithback. “Is this gentleman bothering you?” Menzies asked, looking over Smithback with curious eyes and a sort of disgusted air.

“Uh? Oh, no no no, Hugo, thanks.” Margo smiled up at him.

“Alright. Just making sure.” Menzies slid into the booth next to Margo. She beamed over at Smithback.

“Bill, this is Hugo Menzies. He’s a good friend of mine. And this, Hugo, is—”

“William Smithback, New York Times,” Smithback cut in, holding out a hand. Menzies hesitated, shaking it briefly.

“Pleasure.”

“Likewise.” Smithback assumed his previous position.

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Bill and I go way back. He’s a very dear friend of mine, really close. He’s one of the first I met around my first employment at the Museum,” Margo began uneasily, smiling at Menzies.

A look came over Menzies, one that reminded Margo of someone who had just stumbled upon a great amount of luck. His eyes lit up and he grinned. “Really? How very nice!”

“Have you ever read Relic?” Smithback asked, his voice casual but his eyes roving over Menzies face.

Menzies seemed to recover. “Oh, yes. Yes, I have. I found it to be a fascinating read.”

Smithback dismissed his uneasiness with another grin. “I wrote that book, you know.”

Menzies smiled. “Quite the adventure. I’m sorry I didn’t make the connection earlier. ”

Another long pause. Smithback yawned and stretched. “Hey, I’ll see you later, Mar. I’ve gotta scat.” He smiled and nodded at her.

“Need a ride?” Menzies asked.

“Smithback shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.” Smithback nodded at Margo. “Later!”

“Later!” she called as he strut off.

Menzies stood and moved to the other side of the booth. He scoot in, opening his mouth to say something when an outbreak of shouting outside the Bones cut in. Menzies looked questioningly at Margo, then at the door as a dripping Smithback walked in, looking rather defeated.

“I’ll take you up on that ride, if you don’t mind,” he murmured sadly as he walked back to their table. Margo grinned, fighting the urge to giggle and Menzies shook his head, standing.

“No problem. My pleasure, trust me.”

Chapter 22    table of contents  

Friday, 12:25 PM


Margo Green sighed heavily as she watched Menzies and Smithback leave. She slid to the end of the booth seat, gathering her carryall and coat together, but as she stood a familiar ring stopped her. Sitting back down, Margo tore through her coat pockets hurriedly. The special cell Pendergast had given her had begun to ring.

She found it, hurriedly flipping the phone open. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” a rather breathless-sounding Pendergast replied.

“Uh... Bones. The Bones.” Margo frowned. “Wh—”

“No time, Margo. You need to go outside NOW. Look for the Wraith.”

“Pendergast!” But he had already hung up.

Quickly she slipped into her coat, grabbing her carryall and running outside just as the Wraith glided up. The door flew open and she jumped in before the graceful car glided off again.

Next to her sat a broad-shouldered, dark-skinned man. He had thick muscled arms and a chest that was, in a word, ripped. He regarded her calmly with narrowed brown eyes. His hair was short and black-brown, tied into a small braid. He was wearing a shirt that had the sleeves ripped off and large baggy blue jeans.

Margo stared at the man, and he in turn stared back. He seemed impatient, a faraway look in his eyes. Suddenly he snapped back.

“Margo.” The creamy New Orleans accent didn’t quite seem to fit the large black man.

“Pendergast?”

He nodded, to Margo’s amazement. He then sighed.

“It is imperative that we stay in disguise for the duration of the visit we are about to make.”

Margo frowned. “What? What’s going on?”

A sigh. “This morning, two children were found. They had been brutally tortured and mercilessly murdered.” He paused. “They... They were Wright’s children.”

Margo was speechless as she digested this terrible new information. “Wait. Wright? As in, our Wright?”

Pendergast nodded. “He... He is married.”

Margo felt her face flush in anger, and opened her mouth to begin ranting. Pendergast cut her off immediately.

“That b—”

“Margo, we need to get you into a disguise.” He pulled a bag up from the floor of the Wraith and set it next to him, rifling through it for a moment. He pulled out a terrible puke orange sweater vest and a long-sleeved black turtleneck. He threw these at her.

“Please try this on. I... had to, ah, guess at your size.” Pendergast seemed slightly flustered at having to say this. Margo grinned slightly, then looked down at the horrible sweater vest.

“Pendergast, are you colourblind?” she asked, only half in jest.

“Wasting time,” he replied, not listening to or looking at her. He was glancing over his appearance with a mirror that had appeared out of nowhere.

Margo swallowed hard and stared at the clothed disgustedly. Finally she began to take off her shirt - and instantly became acutely aware of Pendergast’s eyes on her. She blushed, frozen.

“Uh, P—”

“There’s a window behind you, Dr. Green,” he replied, pointing.

She blushed heavily. “Oh... riiight...” she murmured meekly, sliding her shirt back down.
—


Pendergast stood, leaning slightly against the Wraith, waiting for Margo to finish. He didn’t need to wait long, for soon came a timid knocking on the window. He opened the door, sliding in next to Margo. She was now wearing the hideous sweater vest, the black turtleneck underneath, and a tightish pair of blue jeans. Her hair was slightly teased and poufy, and she had on modest makeup.

“Well?” she asked, sounding like she felt foolish. “How do I look?”

Wordlessly he bent and picked up the bag, pulling out a contact case. “Can you put these in?”

Margo nodded, taking the case. She carefully put the left eye in. Suddenly everything went blurry, and was slightly tinted blue. “Ah!”

“Yes, they are meant to do that. Quickly now.”

She frowned, marveling at how he could read minds like that (or maybe he’s just very observant without looking? His head was down...) while she slid in the right contact. The sudden blurriness made her head hurt. She yelped, off-guard, as cold plastic slid against her cheek and everything was thrown back into focus - even if it was slightly blue.

Pendergast looked her over carefully. Good enough.

“Uh... Pendergast?”

He made a noise to show he was listening as he packed the makeup and contact case back into the bag.

“Where are we?”

“We are in Miguel Ochoa’s base of operations, a ’hideout’, if you will.”

“Why?”

Pendergast fixed her with stern brown eyes. “We are here to find out why Ochoa has paired with my brother. We will also try to learn his next move.” A long pause. Pendergast looked away. “And we may need to kill Ochoa as well.”

Chapter 23    table of contents  

1:45 PM, Friday


“Miguel! The visitors have arrived!”

Miguel Ochoa glanced up angrily. The sudden burst of Spanish in his office had forced his inking pen to scratch up and ruin the piece he was working on. Growling, he shoved the paper and ink to the side and looked up at the two women posing for him.

“Get up. Get clothed. Stay on the couch,” he ordered in Spanish, sighing heavily. He smoothed his hair down and fixed his shirt, shifting in his chair. Ochoa glanced at the now suitable ladies and cleared his throat.

“Let them in,” he commanded in flawless English that was tinged with hints of Mexico.

In walked a large African-American and a small mousy woman. The woman wore large glasses that magnified her eyes tenfold and a horrid orange sweater vest. Ochoa looked her over carefully. She had hip huggers on, and the jeans hugged said hips quite beautifully. Her sweater vest would need burned, but other than that she was kind of sexy — but too damn bookish. She was clutching a clipboard like letting go meant death and her hair was all poufy and big, but still...

Ochoa stood and opened his arms with a smile. “Bienviendos, mi amigo! Y tu, mi preciosa amiga.” He took her hand and kissed it after coming around the desk to her.

Margo fidgeted nervously under his hungry gaze. “Uhm... Th-thank you, er... Mister... Mister Ochoa.”

Ochoa grinned impishly. He wondered briefly how she would sound screaming his name. He then turned his eyes from the (sexy but) bookish mouse to the imposing figure near her.

“Gracias for coming, Senor Cowen. I am so—”

“Cut to the crap, Ochoa!” Pendergast barked, still looking pissed. Margo was amazed at his new accent — he sounded like he had lived in Queens all his life. “We here to find why the hell you workin’ with someone else.”

Ochoa sighed, moving from the large irate (and rather tough-looking) man and slipped back behind his desk. “Never do waste words, do you? But I do not see the reason I should explain myself to you.”

Pendergast slammed his hands on the desk and Ochoa jumped with a small gasp. “You’ve been killin’ innocents, Ochoa,” he said darkly, his eyes locked with Ochoa’s. “You don’t stop, the police might find something. You slip up, and all this goes down. I wanna know why you think you can cut so damn close to bringin’ our entire operation down! What makes this God-damned outsider so special!”

Margo was amazed at this outburst and so, it seemed, was Ochoa. He blinked with surprise, then frowned angrily.

“The man I am working with is much more sophisticated than you will ever be! His motives are personal and important to me! He has gracefully given me much money and offers more AND a chance at power.” Ochoa was breathing heavily. For a moment the two stared angrily into each other’s eyes, sizing the other’s power up.

“So what the hell are his ’pur-son-all motives’?” Pendergast asked quietly, his voice laced with a mocking furiousness. Ochoa sat again.

“I... I have no clue,” he sighed. “He has not told me and refuses to tell me. Very reclusive, secretive. But he is—” Ochoa smiled evilly “—particularly cruel in his ways and I do not anger him with questions. However...” Ochoa maintained his terrible grin. “He has given me a woman to use as I please, and allowed me to participate in chasing down his weak adversary. He almost allowed me a kill!” Ochoa arched an eyebrow. “What do you say to that, my friend?”

Pendergast went quiet for a moment. Margo was amazed at how completely he had dissolved into the fictional Maurice Cowen. He spoke, finally, in a quiet but curious voice. “Can I see the woman?”

Margo wondered what the hell Pendergast was up to. “Urm... S-sir, I d-don’t buh-believe that we should st-stay any... any longer, and—”

She didn’t get to finish, for Pendergast had suddenly spun and slapped her — hard. Her clipboard and glasses hit the ground as one with a clatter and she fell to her knees with a spin caused by his force. Her eyes began to fill. How could he?!

“Don’t speak against me, woman!” he barked. Margo grabbed her glasses after groping about for them and slipped them back on, looking up at Pendergast with a whimper as Ochoa began to laugh. Pendergast’s eyes filled with pain for a moment, as if beseeching her to forgive him. Then they became neutral, filling with anger and curiosity again as he turned to face Ochoa.

“Now. Can I see the woman alone?”

Ochoa grinned roguishly. “I’ve seen that look before, Maurice. I haven’t gotten a chance yet, just got her today...”

Pendergast gave a bark of laughter and grinned back at Ochoa. “You know I only work two at a time, Miguel. And Violet over there isn’t good for anything but paper shit. Besides, I just wanna look. Maybe touch a little too,” he added and Ochoa laughed again.

“Alright. Just because you are so charming.”

Ochoa led them down the hall they had come, into a room, through a secret door, down another hall, and into a long gray hall with large solid oak doors lining one side. He walked up to a certain door and unlocked it, opening the door just enough for Pendergast to get through.

There, sitting on the cot in the middle of the bare stone room, sat a ragged-looking Nora Kelly.

“Nora?” Pendergast breathed incredulously as soon as the door had shut.

Her eyes widened in terror. “Stay away from me,” she told him in a dangerous undertone.

Pendergast checked the door. No one. “Listen, Nora, it’s me. Agent Pendergast.” She opened her mouth to say something, but he silenced her with a hand. She looked terrified again. “No time. Listen, we’re going to save you. Something is terribly wrong and are in great danger.”

Nora opened her mouth again but he silenced her again. She looked absolutely terrified, and began pointing conspicuously behind Pendergast.

He turned to the click of a bullet and Miguel Ochoa’s angry face.

“Well now, this is an unfortunate twist, Senor Pendergast,” Ochoa spat, placing the cold tip of a silver-barreled .45 Luger to Pendergast’s forehead. “It is all the more unfortunate that you must now die.”

And his finger squeezed the trigger.

Chapter 24    table of contents  

2:00 PM, Friday


—-Spoiler Alert: Don’t read this chapter unless you’ve read Cabinet of Curiosities. Unless you like the ending of books revealed for you before you’ve read them. I sure as hell don’t. See, I was reading the sixth Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and I, being of amazing reading speed, had paused just for a moment to get online to check this board. And on one of my other forums had the end of the book in big letters. I cried. Even though I totally love the ending and the character involved, I still hate it when the ending cannot be revealed naturally within the book. So before you go and ruin CoC for yourself, think about what I have typed here. Thank you.—-


The clatter of keys on tile was quite a welcoming sound as Smithback dropped them near the door as he walked in. Nora would be pissed if she saw them there, still on the floor. He bent and picked them up, placing them on the key hook near the door as he closed it behind him.

“Honey?” he called out. No reply.

“Nora?” he called again, shedding his shoes and traveling with padded white feet into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, pulled out the OJ carton, twisted off the lid and took a long swig. She hate this one too. He smiled to himself as he thought of the morning she threw a tizzy about his drinking from the carton.

A strange metallic sound broke his reverie. He frowned, closing the fridge. Maybe she was here.

The noise occurred again and Smithback swore under his breath, strangely nervous. He had heard this sound before, not 5 months before.

No. No it’s not that, you’re just overreacting, he thought putting on a (nervous) roguish grin. He’d tell her about the OJ. He wanted to see her freak out, she always looked so cute when she did!

“Babe? Nora, what in hell are you doing?” The sound was coming repeatedly now, faster and faster, and seemed to be from the bedroom. “Nora, bad news. I’ve been found drinking from the OJ container, and I know how you... h-hate...”

The sound was a scalpel being sharpened. Smithback, who had just pushed into the bedroom (the door had been ajar), stared at the intruder’s back as he carefully placed the scalpel down, turning to look at Smithback. Smithback dropped the carton with a flinch. He knew this man.

“If you know she hates that, then why do you do it?” the man asked, pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. “Asinine, don’t you think?”

Not twenty seconds later Smithback lay on the floor in the middle of the hallway, wondering vaguely how a man could be so strong and still move so fast—he jumped over the bed, how did he...?—when he felt the icy cold of a syringe enter a vein—This has happened before, oh God no not again, that’s the same goddamned vein!—a telltale hear and weakness filled his body.

The man bent low enough over the motionless reporter so his lips were level with Smithback’s ear.

“What was it he said to you? Oh yes, I remember now.” A dry chuckle. “Be like the gazelle in the jaws of a lion: limp, accepting, resigned. That is the best way.”

Smithback panicked breathlessly—literally! Oh please, Nora, someone!—as he was lifted and carried into the room.

“Do you know,” the man was saying as he lay Smithback on the bed, “It was so hard to track down all of what Fairhaven did to you, that I almost gave up. To put it rather bluntly, there was a hell of a lot of tracking on my part.” He slipped a tube into Smithback’s mouth, supplying just enough air to survive. The man then leaned over onto Smithback, his hands on Smithback’s chest, a terrifyingly hungry look in his eyes.

“I cannot even tell you how many phone conversations, diner whispers, cafe speeches and Internet messages I had to find! Rather exhausting. Fortunately for you, however, this will be almost nothing like what Fairhaven did.”

The man pushed off Smithback and ripped his simple dress shirt off with one simple economical movement. “Oh no,” he continued as he tore the sleeves from Smithback’s frozen arms. Finishing this task, he plucked the newly-sharpened scalpel from its nesting place.

“No, this will be much worse. Trust me.”

The scalpel bit into Smithback’s skin and his eyes rolled back and squeezed shut tightly. He gave a gurgled scream that was met with another dry chuckle.

This time was worse, he realized with a jolt. Smithback knew now there was not hope for his soul this time. There would be no daring rescue, no amazing story to be told in the end.

For this time, he knew he was truly alone.

Chapter 25    table of contents  

2:15 PM, Friday


Nora gave a hoarse cry as the shot rang through the stone chamber, fully expecting a splatter of blood and the dull whump of Pendergast’s limp body on the floor. This, however, never happened.

Instead, she heard the sounds of a strangled scream — much like a woman’s, come to think of it — and a struggle. Opening her eyes, she found Pendergast and Ochoa fighting over the Luger.

Pendergast must have bat the Luger away before the shock, for his arm was bleeding rather heavily as he struggled with the furious criminal. Pendergast seized the gun from Ochoa, knocking him to the ground with a rough groin kick and the butt of the gun.

“Run!” he yelled, bolting from the room with Nora in tow. The two ran down the halls and through the rooms, drawing confused stares and creating chaos.

They broke out into the crisp afternoon April air, running for their lives across the great expanse of a parking lot filled with vehicles, the Wraith idling at the very end.

Nora had never run so fast in her life. Her lungs were beginning to burn as the adrenaline laced through her blood. Pendergast was so far ahead, she’d never catch up -!

A crack filled the air and a window in the car next to her shattered. She gave a yelp and struggled to run faster.

“Pendergast!” she shouted breathlessly. “They’re shooting at us!”

“Weave!” he shouted back, suddenly side-stepping into a row of tightly packed vehicles.

Nora plunged into the sea of vehicles, the shine from the sun making her head spin. She could faintly hear rushing footsteps below the heavy beating of her own heart, which nearly skipped a beat every time a mirror or window exploded into shards behind, in front of, or even right next to her.

The Wraith had long since gone from her sight. Nora was now simply following Pendergast’s head as it bobbed about the cars. There was another sudden crack behind her, a bright flash of red, and Pendergast dropped out of sight completely.

“Pendergast!” Nora screamed. She ran to a stop, trying to see the body, or if Pendergast had been hit at all. The pounding feet behind her turned her attention to the six or seven Mexican men barreling after her with pistols in their hands. She knew just standing around would soon bring her back into capture, force her to be subjected to God knows what...

“Fuck,” she whispered breathlessly. Then it came to her, the reminder of the man she had only met a few months ago.

If Pendergast was out, there was still Proctor.

Nora hit the ground running, breaking free from the suffocating jungle of vehicles and rocketing for the Wraith, which was still sitting there, idling innocently.

More bullets nipped about her, some destroying paint jobs nearby while others scored little craters in the (dangerously close) pavement around her feet.

Where the hell is Pendergast? He couldn’t have been hit! Nora wondered, trying so hard not to dwell on the painful possibility that he had indeed taken one in the temple, fearing she would stop and be overtaken.

It was the home stretch — a clear shot to the Rolls, seeming only 25 feet. The steps behind her were rapidly catching up, and Nora felt a rush of adrenaline as a hand brushed hers. She ran as her already stressed heart would allow. The back door suddenly opened for her, it was so close...!

The man who had brushed Nora’s hand stopped running, aiming his pistol at the running figure before him. He carefully centered the barrel with her back...

Nora’s energy was failing; with a last-ditch effort, she dove for the door. There was a sudden sharp pain in her foot as she landed on the creamy leather seat, the door closing as the Rolls sped off.

There was a crash as the back window exploded into dust, the bullet embedding itself into the front passenger seat.

Nora groaned in pain before gasping in surprise as the seat beneath her legs moved.

“That is a shame, I must say. I just had this entire vehicle restored.”
—


“Hmm... It looks rather deep, but the wound itself is not too bad, Nora.”

Special Agent Pendergast murmured this as he stood, his pale blue cat’s eyes meeting her deep green-brown. Nora groaned.

“It is like nothing I have ever...”

“Injuries to the foot are usually among the most painful, as the foot is normally padded and therefore becomes tender and inflamed at even the smallest of cuts.” Pendergast wiped his hands off on a fluffy white towel, observing as Nora carefully bandaged her foot.

“I will escort you to the hospital shortly. But—”

Nora glanced up as she heard the flashlight he had previously been holding clattered on the tiled floor of the bathroom. He had paled quite visibly, and Nora feared he might pass out.

“Margo!” he whispered hoarsely before dashing from the room without another word.

Chapter 26    table of contents  

3:00 PM, Still Friday


Author’s notes:
This chapter deals with a strong sexual theme: the act of rape. If you have been raped before, my sincerest apologies. Please do not read this chapter if it will torment you. I do not wish to make anyone feel hurt, uncomfortable, or alone. This warning is your only one. Please consider it of the highest priority.

If you have been raped, but you have not told anyone, stop reading this now and go. Tell someone. Healing only begins when you no longer feel alone. If you tell someone, they can be there for you, and can help bring the bastard in.

If a friend has told you they have been raped but forced you to promise not to tell, please tell anyway. How can you know such a terrible secret and not act upon it? That alone makes you a terrible friend.

I am being dead serious here, people. Rape is not a laughing matter, and should not be taken lightly.



Margo Green turned as the door behind her opened. She was sitting in a plush room, red velvet comforter upon a large circular bed. Fine prints and sculptures decorated the room. There were, however, no windows.

“I do so hope you are comfortable,” Miguel Ochoa purred as he shut the door, his business suit exchanged for an open-chested shirt of baby blue and fine white pants. “I picked the very best room for you.”

He bolted the heavy oaken door behind him and walked forward towards her, his socked feet making no sound as he descended the slight steps to the bed in the middle of the room.

Margo swallowed hard. Oh, would Pendergast hear about this. If, that is, she ever saw him again.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, turning away from him.

“Oh, senorita, do not be so snappish. I fear I might lose interest in you.” She felt the bed twitch as he brushed the side.

“So?”

“So, that would mean,” Ochoa ginned, coming around to face her, “I would have to dispose of you, even though I so wish to keep you here with me.”

“Pretty sure that death seems preferable,” Margo replied, jutting her chin out.

“Aye, but senorita,” he began, sitting next to her and taking her hand. “I can give you anything you require.” Ocho over to her. “Love, money... diamonds.”

Margo’s eyes threatened to water as she thought of Cambrian saying that exact sentence only a month before.

“So you’re rich then,” she whispered, as if in a dream.

“You could say that,” he purred in her ear, his lips touching her neck.

“You repulsive bastard!” she shouted, pulling away from him and walking furiously to the top of the stairs. “Why do people like you do shit like this? Do it make you feel better about yourselves? Oh, forcing a woman to have sex, real MANLY!”

Ochoa stood angrily. “Be silent, woman!” he hissed as he began making his way towards her.

“Why? What do I have to gain by silencing? Or, what do I lose? I lose my will to fight, my right to have a say in my own matter—”

She felt her body swing around, his hand on her shoulder. He slammed her against the wall, causing a vase to fall to the floor.

“When I say quiet, you quiet. When I say scream, you scream. Do you understand?”

Margo spit in his face. “You don’t control me.”

Ochoa grinned cruelly. “I love it when they’re feisty. Bit more of a challenge.”

Margo began to fight, but he proved the stronger; manoeuvring her back down the steps, he threw her onto the plushy bed, laying upon her.

Margo could smell the harsh whiskey on his breath, trying to look calm while she was inwardly panicking. Why was this happening to her?

“You know,” Ochoa began, “I will give you a choice...” Margo noticed his words were slightly slurred. Jesus...

“Oh?” she replied angrily. “And what’s that? Give in or die?”

“No, silly woman!” He placed his lips on her neck softly. “Either become a willing one-time mistress—” his eyes met hers “—or a repeatedly unwilling one.”

His hand traveled up her shirt and under her bra, pinching, poking, prodding, and playing. Margo gasped, disgusted.

“Get OFF OF ME, you DISGUSTING EXCUSE for a HUMAN MALE!” she screamed, struggling with the heavy burden on top of her.

He frowned furiously. “Woman!” he roared, taking her hands (with much difficulty, maybe he should have drugged her?) and securing them in on of his own, forcing them above her head. “Damn you!” he muttered.

Margo opened her mouth to scream but was silenced by his lips, a bruising kiss of a drunk tasting her, his tongue roaming hungrily against hers. She made a furious sound shutting her eyes tight.

His rough hand moved to her waist, pausing momentarily as he broke from her, taking a gasping breath before taking her mouth again in a softer kiss -though still quite harsh- and his hand slipped to the edge of her jeans. Margo fidgeted, panicking, but he took no notice; his fingers deftly unbuttoning the jeans and slid down further, until just before—

Margo had shut her eyes again, waiting for everything to end. But the very second he was to slide his fingers into her body, there came a barrage of hits upon the door.

“Open this door!” a furious (but unknown) voice roared from the hallway. Ochoa rolled his eyes, his hand mercifully withdrawing and instead greasing once more on top of one of her breasts.

“Damn it,” he muttered, looking annoyed at the intrusion. “Who goes?” he asked, raising his voice. Margo glared furiously at him.

“Open this door!” the voice demanded again. Ochoa’s hand was the only thing moving in the room, slightly palpating her breast. Margo tried to struggle but stopped immediately upon seeing the look in her captor’s eyes.

“Stop, woman. Don’t make a sound.”

For a moment there was noting. Ochoa — excepting his hand, of course, that bastard — was completely still. Margo was sure the stranger had left her to her fate, and was about to scream absolute bloody murder when there were three loud shots and the doorknob fell from the door. Ochoa and Margo both stared at it in disbelief as a sudden kick broke the lock and the door swung open.

In walked Pendergast, the .45 Luger held before him, centered on Ochoa’s head. His eyes were blazing.

“Let,” the furious-looking agent hissed, his voice an icy murmur, “Her. Go. NOW.”

Ochoa barked a laugh. “Oh how sweet. You’ve come back to reclaim your wench! It must be—”

“Last warning. Let her go NOW.”

Ochoa gave a hoarse laugh, his hand clamping down quite visibly on Margo. She gave a cry of pain and—

Red was suddenly everywhere, the after-effect of a shot. Ochoa’s limp body fell to the side of Margo, who lay frozen with fear, watching all the little red droplets fall silently around her.

Chapter 27    table of contents  

Author’s notes:
It was brought to my attention recently that my Pendergast isn’t as smooth as the real. I must now say to you all: HE ISN’T RIGHT IN THE HEAD. Diogenes injected something, remember? He isn’t... well... Quite right. Anyways, sorry I can’t write decently. Enjoy anyway!



Margo sat up slowly, fixing her bra and shirt numbly. She had blood all over her, still warm on her clammy skin. Pendergast was breathing hard, near the door still, the gun still in his outstretched hand. Slowly, as if in water, his arm lowered, the gun sliding from his long white fingers to the floor.

“Margo,” he muttered, stepping forward to help her. She put out her hand, stopping him.

“Don’t you come near me,” she whispered, the pain quite evident in her voice.

Pendergast stared at her, his face neutral — save for those brilliant eyes, which hinted at a deep underlying sadness.

“Margo, I am... so very sorry. But everything is okay now, you will be f—”

“No I won’t, Pendergast!” Margo cut in exaperatedly. “Do you have any idea of what he was doing” An uneasy silence. “He almost raped me, Pendergast. And where the hell were you?” Tears were now pouring down her face, and she was clutching her arms, rocking slightly back and forth.

“You left me here with a homicidal rapist after keeping me in the dark and hurting me. I thought he was going to, Pendergast. I thought he was going to hurt me and I can’t believe I trusted you... He... he was all over...” Her anger dissapated with a wrenching sob and numbness returned, taking place of almost all emotion.

“You’re just as bad as your brother.”

“I am NOTHING like my brother!” Pendergast roared, as if unable to control it. She looked up at him. He seemed... slightly surprised, as if he didn’t understand what had just come from his mouth.He shook his head slightly. “No. I am nothing like him. He murders and tortures and...”

“And you leave your so called friends behind,” Margo finished.

Pendergast’s eyes met hers. Hers were slightly blank, his filled with sadness, regret, pity, and... something else, something foriegn, unknowable.

He seemed weak, and it scared her. It seemed like he wanted to say something else, something more...

But before he got the chance to, a shout rang down the hall. People were coming... Ochoa’s henchmen.

Pendergast recovered instantly, swooping down and taking Margo in his arms before running off down the hall.

He ran faster than anyone Margo had ever known while carrying someone in their arms. She had been so surprised at the sudden contact, however, that she forgot to protest. She merely curled into a tight ball, making it easier for him to run without bouncing her about.

Instead of going down and out, however, Pendergast went up and in, scaling floors as fast as he could while still reserving his energy. He ran all the way up to the thirteenth floor, weaving in and out of rooms and halls to confuse his pursuers.

It worked.

Unhindered, Pendergast calmly slipped into one of Ochoa’s many offices, setting Margo down onto her feet. He walked over to the window, glancing out.

“Jeans, Doctor,” he murmured, his soft mellifluous voice almost a whisper. Margo glanced down, blushing as she redid her pants. Her fingers were trembiling as the shock and fear slowly ebbed away again. He had come so close...

But he didn’t.

Ochoa had never got what he wanted. She was okay. Okay! Alive, unscathed... and almost untouched.She was lucky. She could have had it so much worse. So very much worse.

With a happy sob, Margo hugged herself. She heard Pendergast sigh heavily.

“He’s late,” the agent murmured angrily, turning to look back at Margo. “Margo, are you alright?” he asked softly.

She nodded, and he looked around the room. The room was clean — almost fanatically — and had a large bookshelf behind the door and a large mahogany desk right near the window.

There, from a cherry frame, stared the face of a woman he had not seen for years. Pendergast swallowed slightly, his eyes frozen on the photograph.

Diogenes Pendergast had only one person close to him in his life: his mother. She was the only person he had truly cared for, the only one he bothered to waste the energy to think of her in a positive — even loving! — way. Her death was something that had truly cut Diogenes off from the human race, as his mother had roasted to death, and he had heard her shrieks.

He didn’t believe there would ever be another.

The only thing he had left of her — not counting those cursed memories — was a picture. This picture.

It was just her, their mother, sitting and smiling into the camera, wearing a lilac dress and a perfect string of diamonds.

“Oh my,” murmured Pendergast, taking the frame from the desk gingerly. he couldn’t believe his luck, couldn’t imagine what had driven Diogenes to be so careless. Unless...

Unless he didn’t know about him finding and killing Ochoa. He didn’t know Ochoa had left DNA behind.

Perfect.

“Margo.” She looked up at him, a new light in her eyes. He wondered what she was thinking briefly, tucking the frame casually into a suit pocket. Pendergast began to walk around the desk, not noticing his pant leg caught on a desk drawer.

Margo had never seen anyone fall gracefully, but Pendergast had almost — almost — pulled it off. He would have done so, had he not cursed loudly in a surprised state.

“Huh. You said ’damn,’ Pendergast,” she said, her voice slightly amused.

Pendergast stood, his face slightly flushed. He looked down at the drawer that had taken him down. It was slightly open.

Inside was a pistol, a couple of broken scalpels, an empty vial, and a long rope.

Pendergast gingerly pulled the rope out afterpulling surgical gloves on and brushing the scalpel bits aside. The rope was thick, strong, and not waxy or greasy (which signified that there were no poisons on it). Pendergast looked up at Margo.

“Have you another shirt on under that?” he asked quietly.

Margo shook her head. “No, O—” She paused uneasily, bit her lip. “He made me get rid of that horrid sweater-vest.”

Pendergast nodded slowly, tying the end of the rope to a desk leg, his eyes scanning the room. nothing. He shed the gloves, stuffing them into a coat pocket, and took his coat, holster, and shirt off. He threw the holster and coat back on, quickly adjusting said holster.

Margo watched as he ripped the fine shirt into two long strips.

“Here.” She took her strip carefully, watching as he threw the rest of the rope from the window. “Margo, you will go after me. Wrap each end of the strip around your wrists, and the rest around the rope, like this.” She nodded. “Walk down the wall carefully, like this.”

She nodded again as she watched him carefully start out the window. He paused.

“Are you sure you will be able to do this?”

Margo stared at the tired, strained face of the special agent, feeling exhausted and terrified herself. She was achy and still shaking slightly. Margo knew there was no way she could do this.

“Yes,” she replied, wrapping her strip around the rope determinedly.

The two made their way slowly, sliping a bit every once in a while. Margo was slightly calmed by the boring and repetitive activity, her limbs now only shaking from the strain of the climb. It didn’t quite fully register that she was escaping for her life, nor did it matter that she was one small mistake away from plummeting to a harsh concrete death twelve stories below. She was confused and still afraid, still slightly dazed from the whole “I almost was raped” thing that kept playing over and over in her mind, no matter how strong her revelation was.

Margo slipped slightly and her mind went blank with a moementary fear, which cleared as she realized the rope felt... lighter. Carefully she craned her neck and glanced down. Pendergast had reached the ground, and was slowly pulling it tight to make her descent a bit easier, careful to not knock her off. Margo smiled softly to herself and began the slow descent again. She was about five stories up, she guessed, and it wasn’t much longer...

A sudden outburst of gunfire brought Margo’s attention to the window she and Pendergast had begun their daring escape from. Two men were hanging out of it, wielding Uzi’s and looking rather pissed. Panicked, Margo began to climb down faster.

She reached the third floor window and looked up to find one of the men had also been crawling down, hand by hand, much like a monkey. He was going much faster than her and was gaining. Margo swallowed hard and adjusted her hands, hearing a terrible crack-

The sky was such a clear, beautiful blue. What a nice day, Margo thought numbly as she fell. Everything seemed to go in slow motion, and, as if far away, she could Pendergast’s lovely voice.

“Margo!”

She heard a sickening crack signifying broken bones and fleeting life as she landed. This was it, she was dead. And everything had been going so well, too...

And then the pavement moved. Margo wrenched her eyes open to see Pendergast’s silvery blue cat’s eyes staring into hers, his slightly pained. She was alive! Again he had saved her!

Margo gave a sigh of relief and layed her head upon his chest gratefully. Suddenly it hit her — she had landed in his arms and was now laying on him, her hands on his beautifully sculpted chest, staring up into his perfect eyes...

With a blush and a gasp Margo returned to reality, rolling quickly off Pendergast as gunfire rang out again. She noticed the man who had been pursuing her down the rope was laying on the ground nearby, the rope coiled upon him, the end still attached to a desk leg, and realized he was quite dead.

Pendergast rolled the opposite way of Margo at the same time, pulling the dazed blushing female to her feet and picking her up again. He turned and began to run, fresh out of ideas.

Men burst from the building behind him, though he was a tad too preoccupied with his burning legs to notice. He was so tired, so very tired, and had nowhere to go... How depressing, to finally bite it in the parking lot of a dead mob master.

With a sudden screech of tires, the Rolls once again came into view. Proctor leaned over, throwing open the passenger door in the front, allowing Pendergast to half-slide, half-leap into it again, slamming the door as Proctor floored it onto the highway.

Pendergast gave a rare sigh of relief. He looked down at Margo, who was still in his arms.

For the third time in two months, she had falled asleep in his arms, her head snuggled against his chest, as if nothing had happened. Pendergast smiled softly, carefully placing the sleeping woman on the back seat, feeling slightly remorseful for her sorrows. Such troubles seemed to require sleep. Pendergast sighed heavily, turning and facing the road.

“Harder trials lay ahead, I fear,” he murmured, his creamy voice soft.

“Yes, sir,” Proctor replied, just as softly.

Sighing once more, Pendergast leaned back, closing his eyes against the glare of the road.

Chapter 28    table of contents  

Saturday (FINALLY! WOO!), 9:45 AM


Ellen Meredith Holt-Wright was a stuffy, stupid, picky woman. But she was an excellent lay, and that was all Jonathon cared about. Or, at least, that was what he told his friends. He did feel something for the poor woman, and was terribly sad about the horrible loss of their children.

At the request of Special Agent Pendergast, the two had temporarily left their home in Manhattan to live his Jon’s best friend’s flat. It was there that he kissed his wife and left for work.

Ellen sighed as the door closed, glad that annoying wuss of a death sentence was gone. She was so sick of pretending to love him, to enjoy the sad attempt at sex. Timidly the blonde picked up the phone, having made sure her husband was gone. She slowly, carefully dialed his number, the number of her newest lover.

“Hello?” God she loved his voice. It made her feel so... good.

“Hey,” she replied, her voice husky. “He’s gone.”

“Good.” Something about the way he said this made Ellen shiver, and she wondered if it was the good kind of shiver. Reluctantly she decided it was, though something was screaming at her from the back of her mind to beware. “I’ll be over momentarily.”

The line went dead, as it usually did after one of their short correspondences. He wasn’t much of a talker, and he did have some strange blood fetish, but he was rich, he was sexy, and the things he could do with his hands..!

Ellen laid the phone back upon the cradle, slipping into the tiny bedroom and throwing open the closet door. She eyed the small closet with distaste, eager to return to her enormous walk-in closet at home. It was spectacular, filled with little niches and drawers scattered here and there that only she knew about. Rather handy. Pursing her lips, she pulled out a silky red nightgown with black spaghetti straps — his favourite (and hers as well). The light fabric was almost nonexistant, it was so thin. She quickly took off her everyday, plain, complete-coverage nightgown and slipped into the new selection. The fabric was freezing cold and ended just two inches below her crotch.

Foxy, Ellen though with an amused smile as she looked herself over in the mirror. She released her long, dirty-blonde hair from its boring captor bun and was about to begin finding the best style in which to tie it up when she heard the flat, yawning door bell.

Quickly she fliped her hair over her bare shoulders seductively and half-ran to the door, happily excited. She stopped before the door, calming herself with a deep breath, and opened the thin wooden barrier that seperated her from a tall, beautiful incarnation of pleasure.

“Pleasure” was standing there patiently, nonchalantly pulling off a pair of bloody latex gloves with a black briefcase under his arm. Ellen could faintly see a small bit of red in the hallway behind him and down the hall (is that blood? What on earth was he doing?!) before he stepped in, closing te door and locking it briskly behind himself.

“Hello, darling,” he said distractedly, pocketing the mysterious (and now inside-out) gloves.

She replied by pushing him against the door and attaching her lips to his. Her leg wrapped itself around his waist and she smiled into the kiss as she felt his briefcase fell to the floor. Her tounge forced itself into his mouth ferociously and he replied, reluctant at first, then hungrily. His hands slid up her waist, the nightgown tickiling her skin as it followed his touch.

Ellen moaned into his mouth and thrust her hips against his, pressing him roughly into the door. But, suddenly, his mouth broke away and he steadied his breathing after pushing her from him.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she asked in a whiny, seductive whisper. She walked back up to him, her hands on his arms. For a moment she was worried he had suddenly grown a conscience, but the soft smile proved otherwise, alleviating her unrealistic fear. His mixed eyes met her nasty, offal brown.

“Not yet, darling. I have to do something first. Come,” he instructed, and she followed him loyally into the bedroom. Playfully she leapt onto the bed, crawling up to the pillows and resting her back against the headboard. He, on the other hand, walked into the room reservedly, walking beside the bed and sliding his breifcase onto the mattress while he sat by her.

“I’ve got a new toy,” he whispered coyly, winking.

“Oh? What is—?”

“I think you’ll like it. I know I will.”

There was that strange tone again. She frowned momentarily, but smiled eagerly again. “Well, what is it?”

Her lover snapped open the locks on the briefcase, opening it. Inside lay scalpels that she had thought only existed in horror movies, along with vials, syringes, a leather-bound, blood red notebook, and a beautiful box. It was this he pulled out, snapping the case shut again. Ellen swallowed nervously but he ignored her scared glances and she brushed aside her (sadly misguided) fear, replacing it with curiousity.

Long white fingers pulled a strange silver tool from the box. It had a scoop-like bit on the end, but the scoop was long and pointy. The handle had a black grip and was interestingly scary.

Ellen tilted her head. “What the hell does that do?” she asked, feeling annoyed she could not figure it out on her own.

He crawled to her, taking her and laying her on the bed, his knees at her hips, and held her hands abover her head with one of his own. An evil, knowing smile graced his lips and he held it to her throat.

“Why, my dear!” he replied. “Can’t you see? It does — this.”

And he gouged out her eye with one quick scoop.



Author’s notes:
Mrs. Wright is actually a real person: Madam Ellen Meredith Holt. She’s a terrible bitch with quite an attitude and always tried to make me unhappy with her stupid, fourth-grade taunts until I found out what her middle name was. That made her scurry off real quick. I barely saw her afterwards... Immature, but effective. I hate her with a passion, that smoking, snail-for-a-brain 16-year-old slut from the deepest pits of hell. That’s why I love being a writer. It allows me to brutally kill. Kinda scary, no? It’s better to take one’s frustrations out on words, though, right?

---