Page 9 of Angel of Vengeance

Pendergast made a dismissive gesture. “Consider it a raspberry pip under the dentures of the space-time continuum. We don’t have the luxury to speculate how precisely this world mirrors our own—it’s damned close. It’s Joe’s safety we should be discussing.”

D’Agosta looked over at Pendergast as he leaned forward impatiently. Was it his imagination, or had the agent just cursed?

“Joe is in great danger,” Pendergast continued. “This house is no doubt being watched, and we shall have to be clever.” He turned to the butler. “Gosnold, my man, be so kind as to send a note to the closest funeral home, informing them that we have the body of Mr. Moseley in the house, and that we require a hearse and coffin be sent to pick it up. Make sure they understand that time is of the essence.”

“May I remind you, Mr. Pendergast, sir, that Mr. Moseley is buried in the basement?” said Gosnold, with admirable restraint.

“And there he shall stay. Joe will be in the coffin. Here’s what will happen: on the way to the mortuary, the horse will throw a shoe, which shall necessitate a trip to the nearest livery stable, at which point Joe will be removed and spirited away to a place of safety. The coffin will be delivered empty to the funeral home. Some hefty bribes will be required to make this work—to that end, please help yourself, Gosnold, to as much gold as is required from the safe.”

Gosnold bowed as if this were the most ordinary request in the world. “Anything else, sir?”

“Can we rely on you to help us carry out this bit of prestidigitation with complete discretion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see that Constance chose her household well. That’s all for now; thank you.”

Gosnold retreated with another bow.

Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “You, Vincent, will be Joe’s protector. After smuggling him out of the livery, you will take him to the Grand Central Depot, where you will buy passage on the New York, Providence, and Boston line. From Boston, you’ll book passage on a steamer to an island far to the north, called Mount Desert. That is your ultimate destination.”

D’Agosta held his hand to his head. The pounding was not going away.

“Pull yourself together, please. Joe is Leng’s next logical victim, and we must immediately remove him from the field. There are reasons to choose Mount Desert Island, which I shall brief you on as soon as I’ve finalized the details.”

“Right, okay,” said D’Agosta, taking a deep breath. “Christ, I need some ibuprofen.”

“There’s no ibuprofen or aspirin. Laudanum is the analgesic of choice in 1880. I would not recommend it.”

“Son of a bitch.” D’Agosta sat up, taking a deep breath. As messed up as this situation was, Pendergast was right: he had to get his shit together.

“You’ll need fresh clothes for the journey—those bloodstains would be noticed and arouse suspicion. It seems to me you are Moseley’s size, more or less. You have no objection to wearing a dead man’s clothes?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“His room will be on the third floor—and no doubt easy to find. Help yourself.”

D’Agosta groaned and rose, steadying himself on the arm of the chair.

Pendergast turned to Diogenes. “Under normal circumstances, I would never make this gesture—but these circumstances are far from normal.” He extended his hand. “Until this matter is resolved for good or ill, can we work together, Brother—without duplicity or malice?”

Diogenes rose and extended his own hand, grasping Pendergast’s.

“Once Joe is safely away,” said Pendergast, “we must shut off Leng’s access to experimental subjects—he will want them more than ever to test the Arcanum Constance is giving him. We must stop the killing. This will have the additional benefit of frustrating him, perhaps even smoking him out.”

“I have some ideas along those lines,” said Diogenes, “involving the Five Points Mission.” They turned away, heads together, and began to murmur.

D’Agosta made his way up the stairs, taking them slowly, one at a time. Just get through this, he said to himself. Just get through it. Then worry about getting home.

In Moseley’s room, D’Agosta found a meager wardrobe of shabby clothing. The tutor’s pants were too tight, so he tossed them aside: his own trousers would have to do. Thankfully, most of the blood was on his shirt. Moseley’s shirts were a little snug but serviceable, as were the frock coat and greatcoat. The old-fashioned tie stumped him, so he just stuffed it in his pocket. He debated whether to take the top hat and decided it would at least keep his head warm.

Mount Desert Island—the name was not encouraging. He was going to need more clothing than this. Rummaging through more drawers turned up some gloves and socks. Pendergast would surely send up warmer clothes at the first opportunity.

Atop the dresser next to a dry sink, he saw a bottle labeled HEZEKIAH’S TINCTURE OF LAUDANUM. It was filled with a murky, reddish-brown liquid. Fucking A, he was hurting so bad, what harm could there be in it? He read the printed label on the back, which called for six to twelve drops dissolved in water. He grasped the bottle, filled up its dropper, poured himself a glass from the nearby water pitcher, and put in ten drops. Then he drank it down, shuddering at the bitter flavor.

Just then he heard a carriage arrive below. Was Constance returning already, or was it the undertaker? He quickly combed his hair with Moseley’s brush, the calming medicine already spreading through his body and easing the pain in his head. This stuff really works, he thought. He began to stuff the bottle into his pocket, thought better of it, then returned it to the dresser and went downstairs.

It was an undertaker, but the exact opposite of what D’Agosta had imagined: a plump, rosy-cheeked fellow with a big grin, yellow teeth, and a restless manner. A coffin made of rough pine—for transport only, it seemed—was carried in the front door by four burly workmen. As they set it on the floor, Joe was brought down from upstairs by Féline, bandaged but with a look on her face almost as determined as Constance’s. The boy carried a leather satchel. Pendergast detached himself to speak to the woman in rapid-fire French.

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