preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第51部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


s　1917　through　1923；　antedating　the　fire　that　burned　the　chemist's　shop。　Clearly；　they'd　been　the　only　things　to　survive　the　fire。　They　had　been　in　the　possession　of　the　grandfather；　and　the　father　had　had　them　rebound。　That　was　why　the　antiques　dealer　hadn't　bothered　to　examine　them：　they　looked　modern。　It　had　been　sheer　luck　that　he　himself　had…
　Antiques　dealer。　Now　that　he　thought　about　it；　it　seemed　suspicious　that　some　dealer　just　happened　to　walk　into　the　store　a　few　weeks　after　the　old　man's　death；　interested　in　the　safe。　Perhaps　that　death　hadn't　been　an　accident；　after　all。　Perhaps　the　copycat　killer　had　been　there　before　him；　looking　for　more　information　on　Leng's　chemical　purchases。　But　no…that　was　impossible。　The　copycat　killings　had　begun　as　a　result　of　the　article。　This　had　happened　before。　O'Shaughnessy　chastised　himself　for　not　getting　a　description　of　the　dealer。　Well；　he　could　always　go　back。　Pendergast　might　want　to　e　along　himself。
　Suddenly；　he　stopped。　Of　their　own　accord；　his　feet　had　taken　him　past　the　subway　station　to　Ann　Street。　He　began　to　turn　back；　then　hesitated。　He　wasn't　far；　he　realized；　from　16　Water　Street；　the　house　where　Mary　Greene　had　lived。　Pendergast　had　already　been　down　there　with　Nora；　but　O'Shaughnessy　hadn't　seen　it。　Not　that　there　was　anything　to　see；　of　course。　But　now　that　he　was　mitted　to　this　case；　he　wanted　to　see　everything；　miss　nothing。　He　thought　back　to　the　Metropolitan　Museum　of　Art：　to　the　pathetic　bit　of　dress；　the　desperate　note。
　It　was　worth　a　ten…minute　detour。　Dinner　could　wait。
　He　continued　down　Ann　Street；　then　turned　onto　Gold；　whistling　Costa　Diva　from　Bellini's　Norma。　It　was　Maria　Callas's　signature　piece；　and　one　of　his　favorite　arias。　He　was　in　high　spirits。　Detective　work；　he　was　rediscovering；　could　actually　be　fun。　And　he　was　rediscovering　something　else：　he　had　a　knack　for　it。
　The　setting　sun　broke　through　the　clouds；　casting　his　own　shadow　before　him；　long　and　lonely　down　the　street。　To　his　left　lay　the　South　Street　Viaduct　and；　beyond；　the　East　River　piers。　As　he　walked；　office　and　financial　buildings　began　giving　way　to　tenements…some　sporting　re…pointed　brick　facades；　others　vacant　and　hollow…looking。
　It　was　growing　chilly；　but　the　last　rays　of　the　sun　felt　good　on　his　face。　He　cut　left　onto　John　Street；　heading　toward　the　river。　Ahead　lay　the　rows　of　old　piers。　A　few　had　been　asphalted　and　still　in　use；　others　tilted　into　the　water　at　alarming　angles；　and　some　were　so　decayed　they　were　nothing　more　than　double　rows　of　posts；　sticking　out　of　the　water。　As　the　sun　dipped　out　of　sight；　a　dome　of　afterglow　lay　across　the　sky；　deep　purple　grading　to　yellow　against　a　rising　fog。　Across　the　East　River；　lights　were　ing　on　in　the　low　brownstones　of　Brooklyn。　He　quickened　his　pace；　seeing　his　breath　in　the　air。
　It　was　as　he　passed　Pearl　Street　that　O'Shaughnessy　began　to　feel　that　he　was　being　followed。　He　wasn't　sure　why；　exactly；　if；　subliminally；　he　had　heard　something；　or　if　it　was　simply　the　sixth　sense　of　a　beat　cop。　But　he　kept　walking；　not　checking　his　stride；　not　turning　around。　Administrative　leave　or　no；　he　had　his　own　。38　Special　strapped　under　his　arm；　and　he　knew　how　to　use　it。　Woe　to　the　mugger　who　thought　he　looked　like　an　easy　target。
　He　stopped；　glancing　along　the　tiny；　crooked　maze　of　streets　that　led　down　to　the　waterfront。　As　he　did　so；　the　feeling　grew　stronger。　O'Shaughnessy　had　long　ago　learned　to　trust　such　feelings。　Like　most　beat　cops；　he　had　developed　a　highly　sensitive　street　radar　that　sensed　when　something　was　wrong。　As　a　cop；　you　either　developed　this　radar　fast；　or　you　got　your　ass　shot　off　and　returned　to　you；　gift…wrapped　by　St。　Peter　in　a　box　with　a　nice　pretty　red　ribbon。　He'd　almost　forgotten　he　had　the　instinct。　It　had　seen　years　of　disuse；　but　such　things　died　hard。
　He　continued　walking　until　he　reached　the　corner　of　Burling　Slip。　He　turned　the　corner；　stepping　into　the　shadows；　and　quickly　pressed　himself　against　the　wall；　removing　his　Smith　&　Wesson　at　the　same　time。　He　waited；　breathing　shallowly。　He　could　hear　the　faint　sound　of　water　lapping　the　piers；　the　distant　sound　of　traffic；　a　barking　dog。　But　there　was　nothing　else。
　He　cast　an　eye　around　the　corner。　There　was　still　enough　light　to　see　clearly。　The　tenements　and　dockside　warehouses　looked　deserted。
　He　stepped　out　into　the　half…light；　gun　ready；　waiting。　If　somebody　was　following；　they'd　see　his　gun。　And　they　would　go　away。
　He　slowly　reholstered　the　weapon；　looked　around　again；　then　turned　down　Water　Street。　Why　did　he　still　feel　he　was　being　followed？　Had　his　instincts　rung　a　false　alarm；　after　all？
　As　he　approached　the　middle　of　the　block；　and　Number　16；　he　thought　he　saw　a　dark　shape　disappear　around　the　corner；　thought　he　heard　the　scrape　of　a　shoe　on　pavement。　He　sprang　forward；　thoughts　of　Mary　Greene　forgotten；　and　whipped　around　the　corner；　gun　drawn　once　again。
　Fletcher　Street　stretched　ahead　of　him；　dark　and　empty。　But　at　the　far　corner　a　street　lamp　shone；　and　in　its　glow　he　could　see　a　shadow　quickly　disappearing。　It　had　been　unmistakable。
　He　sprinted　down　the　block；　turned　another　corner。　Then　he　stopped。
　A　black　cat　strolled　across　the　empty　street；　tail　held　high；　tip　twitching　with　each　step。　He　was　a　few　blocks　downwind　of　the　Fulton　Fish　Market；　and　the　stench　of　seafood　wafted　into　his　nostrils。　A　tugboat's　horn　floated　mournfully　up　from　the　harbor。
　O'Shaughnessy　laughed　ruefully　to　himself。　He　was　not　normally　predisposed　to　paranoia；　but　there　was　no　other　word　for　it。　He　had　been　chasing　a　cat。　This　case　must　be　getting　to　him。
　Hefting　the　journals；　he　continued　south；　toward　Wall　Street　and　the　subway。
　But　this　time；　there　was　no　doubt：　footsteps；　and　close。　A　faint　cough。
　He　turned；　pulled　his　gun　again。　Now　it　was　dark　enough　that　the　edges　of　the　street；　the　old　docks；　the　stone　doorways；　lay　in　deep　shadow。　Whoever　was　following　him　was　both　persistent　and　good。　This　was　not　some　mugger。　And　the　cough　was　bullshit。　The　man　wanted　him　to　know　he　was　being　followed。　The　man　was　trying　to　spook　him；　make　him　nervous；　goad　him　into　making　a　mistake。
　O'Shaughnessy　turned　and　ran。　Not　because　of　fear；　really；　but　because　he　wanted　to　provoke　the　man　into　following。　He　ran　to　the　end　of　the　block；　turned　the　corner；　continuing　halfway　down　the　next　block。　Then　he　stopped；　silently　retraced　his　steps；　and　melted　into　the　shadow　of　a　doorway。　He　thought　he　heard　footsteps　running　down　the　block。　He　braced　himself　against　the　door　behind　him；　and　waited；　gun　drawn；　ready　to　spring。
　Silence。　It　stretched　on　for　a　minute；　then　two；　then　five。　A　cab　drove　slowly　by；　twin　headlights　lancing　through　the　fog　and　gloom。　Cautiously；　O'Shaughnessy　eased　his　way　out　of　the　doorway；　looked　around。　All　was　deserted　once　again。　He　began　making　his　way　back　down　the　sidewalk　in　the　direction　from　which　he'd　e；　moving　slowly；　keeping　close　to　the　buildings。　Maybe　the　man　had　taken　a　different　turn。　Or　given　up。　Or　maybe；　after　all；　it　was　only　his　imagination。
　And　that　was　when　the　dark　figure　lanced　out　of　an　adjacent　doorway…when　something　came　down　over　his　head　and　tightened　around　his　neck…when　the　sickly　sweet　chemical　odor　abruptly　invaded　his　nostrils。　One　of　O'Shaughnessy's　hands　reached　for　the　hood；　while　the　other　convulsively　squeezed　off　a　shot。　And　then　he　was　falling；　falling　without　end　。　。　。
　The　sound　of　the　shot　reverberated　down　the　empty　street；　echoing　and　reechoing　off　the　old　buildings；　until　it　died　away。　And　silence　once　more　settled　over　the　docks　and　the　now　empty　streets。
　
　FIVE
　　
　PATRICK　O'SHAUGHNESSY　AWOKE　very　slowly。　His　head　felt　as　if　it　had　been　split　open　with　an　axe；　his　knuckles　throbbed；　and　his　tongue　was　swollen　and　metallic　in　his　mouth。　He　opened　his　eyes；　but　all　was　darkness。　Fearing　he'd　gone　blind；　he　instinctively　drew　his　arms　toward　his　face。　He　realized；　with　a　kind　of　leaden　numbness；　that　they　were　restrained。　He　tugged；　and　something　rattled。
　Chains。　He　was　shackled　with　chains。
　He　moved　his　legs　and　found　they　were　chained　as　well。
　Almost　instantly；　the　numbness　fled；　and　cold　reality　flooded　over　him。　The　memory　of　the　footsteps；　the　cat…and…mouse　in　the　deserted　streets；　the　smothering　hood；　returned　with　stark；　pitiless　clarity。　For　a　moment；　he　struggled　fiercely；　a　terrible　panic　bubbling　up　in　his　chest。　Then　he　lay　back；　trying　to　master　himself。　Panic's　not　going　to　solve　anything。　You　have　to　think。
　Where　was　he？
　In　a　cell　of　some　sort。　He'd　been　taken　prisoner。　But　by　whom？
　Almost　as　soon　as　he　asked　this　question；　the　answer　came：　by　the　copycat　killer。　By　the　Surgeon。
　The　fresh　wave　of　panic　that　greeted　this　realization　was　cut　short　by　a　sudden　shaft　of　light…bright；　even　painful　after　the　enveloping　darkness。
　He　looked　around　quickly。　He　was　in　a　small；　bare　room　of　rough…hewn　stone；　chained　to　a　floor　of　cold；　damp　concrete。　One　wall　held　a　door　of　rusted　metal；　and　the　light　was　streaming　in　through　a　small　slot　in　its　face。　The　light　suddenly　diminished；　and　a　voice　sounded　in　the　slot。　O'Shaughnessy　could　see　wet　red　lips　moving。
　〃Please　do　not　dispose　yourself；〃　the　voice　said　soothingly。　〃All　this　will　be　over　soon。　Struggle　is　unnecessary。〃
　The　slot　rattled　shut；　and　O'Shaughnessy　was　once　again　plunged　into　darkness。
　He　listened　as　the　retreating　steps　rang　against　the　stone　floor。　It　was　all　too　clear　what　was　ing　next。　He'd　seen　the　results　at　the　medical　examiner's　office。　The　Surgeon　would　e　back；　he'd　e　back；　and　。　。　。
　Don't　think　about　that。　Think　about　how　to　escape。
　O'Shaughnessy　tried　to　relax；　to　concentrate　on　taking　long；　slow　breaths。　Now　his　police　training　helped。　He　felt　calmness　settle　over　him。　No　situation　was　ever　hopeless；　and　even　the　most　cautious　criminals　made　mistakes。
　He'd　been　stupid；　his　habitual　caution　lost　in　his　excitement　over　finding　the　ledgers。　He'd　forgotten　Pendergast's　warning　of　constant　danger。
　Well；　he　wouldn't　be　stupid　any　longer。
　All　this　will　be　over　soon；　the　voice　had　said。　That　meant　it　wouldn't　be　long　before　he'd　be　ing　back。　O'Shaughnessy　would　be　ready。
　Before　the　Surgeon　could　do　anything；　he'd　have　to　remov