A terrible anger rose in her as she looked at the foot. The parang was in her hand, the long, sharp edge glittering in the light, a thing of beauty. It wasn’t a weapon. It was an instrument — an instrument of freedom.
FREE YOURSELF. FREE YOURSELF. FREE YOURSELF...
She brought it over, laid its blade on the skin of her calf. It felt cool. It felt empowering. Now she lifted it and slid it gently along the spot where the alien foot had attached itself to her body. She repeated the motion, drawing the edge across with just a little more pressure. A thin line of red appeared, and she felt a flood of relief. It hadn’t hurt at all. The sense of freedom was enormous, overwhelming. This was the solution, she now realized. Having the leg drawn up like this made things easier. Best to excise the parasite quickly. She steeled herself. She knew she could do it. In times of crisis, she’d always acted decisively.
She took a deep breath, then raised the parang above her head. She felt the muscles of her hand tighten around the handle. She could save herself from this. It was all a matter of self-determination and control. Everything depends on keeping control...
She took in another long, shuddering breath. And then, as she brought the blade down with all her strength, an image flickered briefly across her mind’s eye: a beautiful white horse, restored to health and vigor once again, running through a verdant garden, proud and free — and then, abruptly, stumbling as its fragile front legs cracked like brittle sticks, the animal screaming in pain as it fell into a cloud of dark, miasmic dust.
64
Sitting in the wheelchair, bound and immobile, Pendergast watched Pamela Gladstone through the observation window. He saw her move away from the wheelchair, back up against the wall. The intercom amplified the sound of her gasping, her terrified breathing.
“No,” he heard her suddenly cry out in a voice full of anguish and frustration. “No, no, no...!”
It would have been easy for him to tune this out; to use his arsenal of meditative techniques to retreat from the reality of the present moment. But he would not allow himself to do that; he would not allow himself that escape.
He watched as she made her way to the other side of the lab, searching the medical cabinets for — he surmised — some kind of tool or improvised weapon. Finding none, she retreated to her corner. He noticed her begin to limp.
He would not allow himself that escape because he felt the terrible weight of responsibility for what was happening to her. He had brought Gladstone and Lam into his investigation. Naturally, he had not known the true nature of the conspiracy they unearthed or the extent of the danger they were in. But even in the final days, when it became increasingly clear there was a mole in the commander’s inner circle, he had taken insufficient precautions. After Quarles’s death he had arranged for the safe house and taken certain private measures to protect Constance — but he had not realized he was up against such a powerful and tentacled enemy.
A cry echoed in the room. “Pendergast!” It was Gladstone calling out for him, amplified by the sound system. He felt himself flinch.
The general, observing him, nodded to himself with satisfaction. Alves-Vettoretto remained still and silent, as she had through the entire proceeding.
“No!” came another cry through the speaker.
The general checked the chronograph on his wrist. “One hour and twelve minutes. She’s taking longer than any from the last test group. I shall have to speak to the doctor about this. The process was supposed to be accelerated. It seems her foreknowledge has had a retarding effect. If so, we shall have to compensate.”
Now Gladstone was no longer crying out. Gasps, as if of great effort, came through the speaker at irregular intervals. Pendergast watched fixedly as she raised the parang. A retreat into his memory palace, which he could reach in mere moments through the mental exercise of stong pa nyid, beckoned. But he resisted, forcing himself to watch.
It took less time than he expected. After an initial tentative cut, the blade was brought down with tremendous determination and precision. The first sound he heard Gladstone utter was a high crooning that seemed almost exultant. Despite the blow, it wasn’t enough to take the foot off. Only in the later, hacking cuts through the bone did the resolution she had initially shown begin to flag. But she persisted, screaming ferociously, until once more the parang came down, and this time went all the way through, striking the tiled floor with a ringing sound, the limb abruptly coming free.
The general leaned forward and flicked a button. Abruptly, the cries from below were cut off. He flicked another button. “Doctor? She may be removed now.”
Pendergast looked toward his companions. Alves-Vettoretto seemed rooted in place, eyes wide, one hand over her mouth. Meanwhile, General Smith was looking directly at him, with an expression almost of encouragement. The orderlies came in and collected her, strapping her on to a gurney and hustling out the rear door, leaving the room empty.
A final orderly scooped up the foot and placed it in a medical waste bag.
“Give them a few moments to clean up the mess down there,” the general said. “And then we can proceed. We won’t have long to wait.”
65
The orderlies swiftly returned with mops, squeegees, and disinfectant, cleaning up the splattered and pooled blood with alarming efficiency while the doctor watched, arms crossed. They took the parang from the floor, wiped it down, disinfected it with alcohol, and placed it back on a gurney, covering it with a white cloth. And then the doctor gestured to an orderly, who exited the lab and, a moment later, opened the door to the observation room.
“The doctor wants the next subject for the second round of experiments,” he said.
The general ignored this and looked instead at Pendergast. “Care to make an observation?”
Pendergast didn’t reply.
“I’d imagine you’re wondering if you could resist the overwhelming compulsion of that drug. She was quite resistant, until the end. Could you do better? I admit to being intrigued myself. It will make an interesting experiment.”
Silence.
“Nothing at all to say?”
Pendergast fixed his eyes on the general. “You and I know perfectly well this is a charade. You’re going to test the drug on me regardless of what I do or say.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The expression of zeal on the good doctor’s face. And, of course, the simple fact that you cannot let me out of here alive.”
“Your latter statement is, I’m afraid, true. As for the doctor, the eagerness you note is an eagerness to get back to his second round of experiments — which your arrival has interrupted. However, I’m sure he won’t protest this further delay when I explain to him that a man like you will prove the ultimate test. I’ve read your jacket, you see — and I’m aware of what you did while in the military. Administering the drug to a person who truly possesses a will of iron and, aware of what is to come, knows what he must prepare for — will you be able to resist? If not, we can be confident the drug has been perfected.” The general turned to the soldiers. “Take him into the lab.”
One soldier grasped the wheelchair while another stood behind and wheeled him out the door, down the hall, and into the lab. A moment later Pendergast was parked in the center of the room, over the drain. The doctor was holding a phone connected to a wall, no doubt an inside line to the general in the observation room. Finally, the doctor hung up, brought over a pair of scissors, and cut the sleeve away from Pendergast’s right forearm. He didn’t bother to swab, but inserted the IV needle, got blood, and taped it down.