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Chapter One

The make-shift cell had all the illusions of luxury. It was a spacious room, and if Pendergast had not been shackled at his wrists and ankles, it would have seemed a lovely place.

He was chained to a handsome mahogany bed, wearing a black silk dressing robe. His body was clean, but he had no recollection of how it had gotten that way.

The last thing he remembered was finally losing consciousness after a long struggle in Fosco’s make-shift grave. Someone had saved him, only to imprison him again. It was all very perplexing.

Pendergast tested the strength of his shackles. All of his lock-picking instruments had been unsurprisingly removed from his person, and even his thin wrists were tightly bound by this pair.

On further inspection of his surroundings, the only thing he noticed about the room was how conspicuously bare it was. There were two doors, one presumably leading to a restroom and the other leading out. No paintings adorned the scarlet colored walls, and the gleaming wooden floor was empty except for his bed.

Suddenly, one of the doors opened. Two people stepped through into his room. Pendergast felt every muscle in his body clench with shock at the sight of them.

It was his brother. And his late wife.

**


“Aloysius,” his brother stepped forward, a cruel smile twisting his features, “Nice to see you awake. We didn’t know if you were going to pull through.”

Pendergast said nothing, unable, for once in his life, to formulate any kind of response to the situation he had just been presented with.

His eyes finally settled on Helen. Her tall, athletic body was corseted into a black dress, and she looked vastly uncomfortable. Her gleaming blond hair, now dark instead of bleached by the African sun, was twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. A ridiculously gaudy black necklace hung around her thin, long neck. She stood subserviently at Diogenes’ side, looking down determinedly. She hadn’t acknowledged Pendergast.

Diogenes noticed his brother watching her.

“Oh, this is my assistant, Helen. Have you two met?” The sarcastic, mocking tone in his voice infuriated Pendergast just as much as it had when they were children.

Still he didn’t speak.

“Don’t you have something you need to tell me?” Diogenes crossed his arms, stepping closer.

When Pendergast still said nothing, Diogenes back-handed him hard enough to draw blood from his mouth. Helen winced, looking away.

“How about some appreciation, little brother? I saved your life!” Diogenes features contorted with anger for only a moment, and then he started laughing. A horrible, high laugh.

“Fine. I have something much larger than bad blood to deal with, Aloysius. That date I sent you... it’s coming nearer.”

Pendergast looked at him at last.

“You must be wondering why I saved your life.” Diogenes said, dabbing at the blood on Pendergast’s mouth with a handkerchief from his jacket.

“You saved my life so you could take care of me yourself. If someone else attempted to kill me, I could still escape. You think the closer I am, the safer you are. And the more assured your success.” Pendergast finally spoke, his voice weak and tired.

Diogenes clapped his hands together.

“Very good. But then, you always were the smart one.” That horrible mocking tone was back again.

“So you plan to kill me yourself?” Pendergast asked, almost wearily.

“Eventually. But as I said, there’s more pressing matters I must attend to first. Things will be kept relatively comfortable for you here. I don’t intend to torture you, just keep an eye on you.”

“How considerate.” Pendergast said, so softly it was almost inaudible.

“Yes. Well. Helen will be my conduit to you. If ever I need your invaluable assistance, she will procure it.”

“Why would you trust anything I tell you?” Pendergast asked.

Diogenes snapped his fingers. Helen withdrew a stack of photographs from behind her back.

“Put them on the bed so he can see.” Diogenes spoke to her patronizingly.

She did so, still not looking once at Pendergast.

“Recognize their faces, Aloysius?”

Of course he did.

“Constance Greene. Vincent D’Agosta. Margo Green. They really weren’t that difficult to track down. If you prove unhelpful, I will systematically have them eliminated. And believe me, Aloysius- these aren’t the only names on the list. I’ll keep killing your friends until you agree to join me.”

“Join you?” Pendergast asked.

“Yes. I was getting to that. I so desperately need a partner in all of this. Yours is the only intellect in this world I truly respect, even if it is a bit misguided at times. Assist me in my greatest undertaking, or they will all die.”

Pendergast looked away from the photographs. The photographs were making him slightly ill.

“I will, of course, give you a few days to consider the matter. But time is of the essence in this particular project, so I will need your answer soon. All right, well, that’s all for now. Helen will bring your dinner presently.” Diogenes shrugged, as if they had been chatting about the weather, and left the room.

Helen gathered the photographs, still not speaking or meeting his eyes. Her thin hands were shaking violently.

Pendergast watched her, taking in all the subtle differences since the last time they had been together. He remembered that trip like it was yesterday, yet it still seemed like a very distant part of his life. It felt as though he had been without her for a very long time, and he had long since accepted her death. Yet here she was.

Her hand brushed his leg as she picked up the photograph, and she froze.

Pendergast kept looking at her, and finally she met his eyes. Her green eyes were dark and unreadable.

“I think I’ve seen you in a dress one other time in my entire life.” Aloysius finally spoke, speaking the only coherent thought he could articulate.

“Well, your American traditions demanded it that time.” Helen replied, her French accent still heavy and deliciously melodic.

She looked at him for a long moment. Suddenly, her hand reached up to his pale cheek. She leaned towards him, her lips against his ear.

“There are so many things I need to say to you.” She said, her voice so quiet he could barely hear it.

Pendergast waited for her to continue, feeling the spark of her proximity echo through a part of him he thought long-forgotten.

“He wanted you to think I was dead.”

“Why?”

Helen paused, sighing heavily, her breath hot against his skin.

“I cannot tell you that. If I even have a chance of...” She stopped, jumping as if she had heard something and stepping away from him.

“Dinner is at seven. I’ll bring it to you.” She said, her tone now oddly businesslike and at normal volume.

Pendergast watched her go.

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