Read Online Blue Labyrinth by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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eighteenth-century composers in urtext editions. The opposite wall held half a dozen framed pages of faded handwritten scores, original holographs of Telemann, Scarlatti, Handel, and others.
Not infrequently, Pendergast would glide in, like a silent specter, and take a seat in one of the chairs while Constance was playing. This time, Constance glanced up to see him standing framed in the doorway. She arched an eyebrow, as if to ask whether she should cease playing, but he simply shook his head. She continued with the Prelude no. 2 in C-sharp Minor from Bach’s
Well-Tempered Clavier
. As she worked her way effortlessly through the short piece, wickedly fast and dense with ostinato passages, Pendergast did not take his accustomed seat, but instead roamed restlessly around the room, pluckinga book of sheet music from the bookcase, leafing through it idly. Only when she was done did he move over to one of the leather armchairs and sit down.
“You play that piece beautifully, Constance,” he said.
“Ninety years of practice tends to improve one’s technique,” she replied with a ghost of a smile. “Any further word about Proctor?”
“He’ll pull through. He’s out of the ICU. But he’ll need to spend a few more weeks in the hospital, and then a month or two more in rehabilitation.”
A brief silence settled over the room. Then Constance rose from the harpsichord and took a seat in the opposite armchair. “You’re troubled,” she said.
Pendergast did not immediately reply.
“Naturally, it’s about Alban. You haven’t said anything since—since that evening. How are you doing?”
Still Pendergast said nothing, continuing to leaf idly through the book of sheet music. Constance, too, remained silent. She, more than anyone, knew that Pendergast intensely disliked discussing his feelings. But she also sensed instinctively that he had come to ask her advice. And so she waited.
At last, Pendergast closed the book. “The feelings I have are those that no father would ever wish for. There’s no grief. Regret—perhaps. Yet I’m also conscious of a sense of relief: relief that the world will be spared Alban and his sickness.”
“Understandable. But… he
was
your son.”
Abruptly, Pendergast flung the volume aside and stood up, pacing back and forth across the carpet. “And yet the strongest sensation I feel is bafflement. How did they do this? How did they capture and kill him? Alban was, if anything, a
survivor
. And with his special gifts… it must have taken enormous effort, expenditure, and planning to get him. I’ve never seen such a well-executed crime, one that left only the evidence meant to be left and no more. And most puzzling of all—
why?
What is the message being conveyed to me?”
“I confess I’m as mystified as you are.” Constance paused. “Any results from your inquiries?”
“The only real evidence—a piece of turquoise found in Alban’s stomach—is resisting identification. I just had a call about it from Dr. Paden, a mineralogist at the Museum of Natural History. He doesn’t seem confident of success.”
Constance watched the FBI agent as he continued to pace. “You mustn’t brood,” she said at last in a low voice.
He turned, made a dismissive motion with one hand.
“You need to throw yourself into a fresh case. Surely there are plenty of unsolved homicides awaiting your touch.”
“There is never a shortage of jejune murders out there, unworthy of mental application. Why should I bother?”
Constance continued to watch him. “Consider it a distraction. Sometimes I enjoy nothing more than playing a simple piece written for a beginner. It clears the mind.”
Pendergast wheeled toward her. “Why waste my time with some trifle, when the great mystery of Alban’s murder is staring me in the face? A person of rare ability seeks to draw me into some sort of malevolent game of his own devising. I don’t know my opponent, the name of his game—or even the
Not infrequently, Pendergast would glide in, like a silent specter, and take a seat in one of the chairs while Constance was playing. This time, Constance glanced up to see him standing framed in the doorway. She arched an eyebrow, as if to ask whether she should cease playing, but he simply shook his head. She continued with the Prelude no. 2 in C-sharp Minor from Bach’s
Well-Tempered Clavier
. As she worked her way effortlessly through the short piece, wickedly fast and dense with ostinato passages, Pendergast did not take his accustomed seat, but instead roamed restlessly around the room, pluckinga book of sheet music from the bookcase, leafing through it idly. Only when she was done did he move over to one of the leather armchairs and sit down.
“You play that piece beautifully, Constance,” he said.
“Ninety years of practice tends to improve one’s technique,” she replied with a ghost of a smile. “Any further word about Proctor?”
“He’ll pull through. He’s out of the ICU. But he’ll need to spend a few more weeks in the hospital, and then a month or two more in rehabilitation.”
A brief silence settled over the room. Then Constance rose from the harpsichord and took a seat in the opposite armchair. “You’re troubled,” she said.
Pendergast did not immediately reply.
“Naturally, it’s about Alban. You haven’t said anything since—since that evening. How are you doing?”
Still Pendergast said nothing, continuing to leaf idly through the book of sheet music. Constance, too, remained silent. She, more than anyone, knew that Pendergast intensely disliked discussing his feelings. But she also sensed instinctively that he had come to ask her advice. And so she waited.
At last, Pendergast closed the book. “The feelings I have are those that no father would ever wish for. There’s no grief. Regret—perhaps. Yet I’m also conscious of a sense of relief: relief that the world will be spared Alban and his sickness.”
“Understandable. But… he
was
your son.”
Abruptly, Pendergast flung the volume aside and stood up, pacing back and forth across the carpet. “And yet the strongest sensation I feel is bafflement. How did they do this? How did they capture and kill him? Alban was, if anything, a
survivor
. And with his special gifts… it must have taken enormous effort, expenditure, and planning to get him. I’ve never seen such a well-executed crime, one that left only the evidence meant to be left and no more. And most puzzling of all—
why?
What is the message being conveyed to me?”
“I confess I’m as mystified as you are.” Constance paused. “Any results from your inquiries?”
“The only real evidence—a piece of turquoise found in Alban’s stomach—is resisting identification. I just had a call about it from Dr. Paden, a mineralogist at the Museum of Natural History. He doesn’t seem confident of success.”
Constance watched the FBI agent as he continued to pace. “You mustn’t brood,” she said at last in a low voice.
He turned, made a dismissive motion with one hand.
“You need to throw yourself into a fresh case. Surely there are plenty of unsolved homicides awaiting your touch.”
“There is never a shortage of jejune murders out there, unworthy of mental application. Why should I bother?”
Constance continued to watch him. “Consider it a distraction. Sometimes I enjoy nothing more than playing a simple piece written for a beginner. It clears the mind.”
Pendergast wheeled toward her. “Why waste my time with some trifle, when the great mystery of Alban’s murder is staring me in the face? A person of rare ability seeks to draw me into some sort of malevolent game of his own devising. I don’t know my opponent, the name of his game—or even the
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