Pendergast had taken the deception as far as he could. He had indeed exited the room by the window, leaping first from the bathroom interior to the bed frame — closing the door with one hand as he did so — and from there to the outer sill, so as not to leave tracks. He’d edged out on the sill, as he hoped Ozmian would ultimately assume. But then he had scaled the decorative brickwork to the tenth floor, taking up an unexpected vantage point. Ozmian would expect him either right or left on the ledge outside the ninth-floor window — not one story above. Or so he hoped. The man would be anticipating an ambush…but from the wrong direction. Still, in mulling over the plan, Pendergast had to admit that so far Ozmian had outplayed him in the game of reverse, double-reverse, and double-double-reverse psychology.
He waited. And waited. But Ozmian did not appear.
Perched on the ledge, in the freezing gusts of wind, Pendergast now understood he had made another error in judgment. Again the man had not responded as expected. Either he had been outmaneuvered again, or Ozmian was engaged in some other strategy of his own. For perhaps the first time in his life, Pendergast felt stymied and anxious. Nothing he had done so far had worked. It was like a nightmare in which, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his legs to move fast enough. And now, he had made himself a perfect target, crouching on the ledge. He had to get back inside the building as soon as possible.
Even as he crept along the ledge, he was thinking. As every hunter knew, the key to a successful stalk was to first understand the behaviors and thought patterns of your prey. You had to “learn” your quarry, as his mentor had once told him. In this case he was now “learning” Ozmian; how he thought, what he wanted, what motivated him. And he had a surprising revelation, one that might allow him ultimately to prevail — if Ozmian acted as he hoped.
He moved along the ledge to a broken window on the tenth floor, paused, and gave a swift glance inside. It was another padded, cell-like room, bathed in a streak of moonlight and empty save for the skeleton bed and chair. Lightly as a cat, he leapt from the sill onto the floor and crouched again, sweeping the room with his gun. Empty. He went to the door, turned the handle.
Locked — from the outside.
This was precisely the situation he had anticipated, spinning around to cover the bathroom door, but he was too late. Ozmian had emerged from it with amazing speed and stealth, and Pendergast felt the icy barrel of Ozmian’s 1911 pressed into his ear as the man’s other hand seized him by the wrist, giving it a sharp wrench calibrated to jerk the Les Baer free of his grip. It clattered to the floor.
Now was the moment of truth.
After a long, agonizing silence, Pendergast heard a sigh.
“Eighteen minutes?” came Ozmian’s voice. “Is that all you could manage?” He released the wrist and took two steps back. “Turn around. Slowly.”
Pendergast complied.
“Those misleading footprints into the bathroom. Not bad. I almost wasted a couple of rounds firing through the door. But then I realized that was too easy; of course you’d left by another route — the window. You were waiting on the ledge. That much was clear. But then it occurred to me that you wouldn’t be waiting on the ledge one might expect, to the left or right of the window. No — you’d add an additional layer of deception by climbing up a story! So while you were inching up the façade, I took the stairs at my leisure, figured what room you would end up in, and set up my trap. Recall, this is a psychiatric hospital, and the patients were locked into their rooms — not the other way around. How convenient for me that you seem to have overlooked that small point.”
Pendergast said nothing. Ozmian couldn’t resist gloating, toying with him. It led Pendergast to believe that his risky guess was correct: if Ozmian caught him this early in the game, he would give him a second chance. Too much of Ozmian’s sense of self-worth was riding on this hunt for Ozmian to end it so quickly. But it was more than that; not killing him right now would say something important to Pendergast about the power this place held over Ozmian, and it would give him a deep and revealing glimpse into Ozmian’s psyche.
“I expected better from you, Pendergast. What a disappointment.” Ozmian aimed the gun at his head, and as Pendergast saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger, he suddenly realized he was wrong: Ozmian wasn’t going to give him a second chance. As he closed his eyes, bracing himself for the roar and ensuing oblivion, an image jumped into his mind, utterly unexpectedly — the face of Constance — just before the hot explosion of the shot.
58
Marsden Swope looked on with a kind of passionate, benevolent grace, feeling an almost paternal love for the murmuring, chanting, singing throng that surrounded him.
Although he could not help feel a little disappointment in the actual number of believers that had shown up on the Great Lawn — in the dark it was hard to say how many, but it certainly wasn’t the countless thousands he had anticipated. Perhaps that was to be expected. Many had fallen by the wayside, like the rich man who wanted to follow Jesus and went away saddened when Jesus told him to give away all he owned first.
But there was another problem. The pile had grown so quickly, and with so many non-burnable items, that it had overwhelmed the fire that was meant to consume it. Swope had exhausted his supply of jerrycans and now the massive heap was simply smoldering, sending up coils of foul-smelling black smoke. Swope had sent one of his disciples — no, that was wrong, one of his brethren—out to get more fuel, and he hoped he would return soon.
The crowd around him was now swaying gently back and forth, singing “Peace in the Valley” in low, earnest voices. Swope joined in with a glad heart.
The one thing that really surprised him was the lack of police presence. Granted, the initial blaze had died down, but even so a crowd of this size, massing on the Great Lawn late at night with no permit, would surely have attracted the quick attention of law enforcement. But there had been no sign of them. Oddly, this was a disappointment to Swope, because it was his intention to confront the powers of the state and prevent — with his very life, if necessary — any interruption of the bonfire. A part of him yearned for martyrdom, like his hero Savonarola.
There was a jostling to one side, and then a woman approached through the crowd. She was in her late thirties, attractive, dressed in a simple down jacket and jeans, and in one hand she clutched something that had the gleam of gold. The woman held up the item, as if to toss it on the pile, then turned to Swope.
“Are you the Passionate Pilgrim?”
For the last ninety minutes, people had been coming up to shake his hand, embrace him, thank him tearfully for his vision. It had proven a most humbling experience.
He nodded gravely. “Yes, I am the Pilgrim.”
The woman looked at him a moment, awestruck, holding out her hand to shake his. When she did so, she opened her hand to reveal, not the piece of gold jewelry or watch that Swope expected, but the gold of a police badge. In that moment, she grasped his hand with her other and he felt the cold of steel latch around it.
“Captain Hayward, NYPD. You’re under arrest, shitbird.”
“Wha—?”
But the woman, who did not appear particularly strong or fast, suddenly grabbed him with some kind of martial arts movement, spun him around, pulled his hands behind his back, and cuffed the other wrist. It was all done in a second.
All of a sudden, the Great Lawn blazed with light. High-intensity lamps hidden in the trees along its perimeter had snapped on, illuminating the bonfire. And now, a large battery of official vehicles — police cruisers, SWAT vans, fire trucks — began rolling across the grass toward the group, light bars flashing and sirens whooping. Other police in riot gear trotted forward on foot, talking into their radios.