“No!” Helen screamed, leaping away.
The chaos swelled: screams, the crack of gunfire, the tread of fleeing people. Helen was aware of none of it. She fell to her knees, staring in horror at his open but unseeing eyes.
“Judson!” she cried. “Judson!”
A few seconds may have passed, or more—she had no way of knowing—and then she heard Pendergast calling her name. She looked up. He was running toward her, his pistol drawn, firing to one side.
“Fifth Avenue!” he cried. “Run to Fifth Avenue—!”
Another gunshot rang out, and he, too, was knocked to the ground. This second shock roused her. She leapt to her feet, her trench coat wet with her brother’s blood. Aloysius was still alive and had managed to get back on his feet, taking cover behind a bench, continuing to fire at the couple who, just moments before, had apparently been interested only in making out.
He’s covering my escape.
Wheeling around, she took off at top speed. She’d get to Fifth Avenue, lose the gunmen in the teeming crowds, then make her way to the Dakota, meet up with him there… Her panicked thoughts were interrupted by another fusillade of shots, more screaming of panicked people.
Helen ran on, hard. The avenue lay ahead, beyond the stone gates of the park. Just fifty feet to go…
“Helen!” She heard Pendergast’s distant cry. “Look out! To your left!”
She glanced left. Under the darkness of the trees, she could see two men in jogging outfits, sprinting directly for her.
She swerved away, toward a grove of sycamores off the main path. She glanced over her shoulder again. The joggers were following—and they were gaining fast.
More shots rang out. She redoubled her efforts, but the heels of her shoes kept sinking into the soft earth, slowing her down. Then she felt a terrific impact against her back and was thrown to the ground. Someone grasped the neck of her trench coat and hauled her roughly to her feet. She struggled, crying out, but the two men pinned her arms and began dragging her toward the avenue. With horror, she recognized their faces.
“Aloysius!” she cried at the top of her lungs, looking back over her shoulder. “Help! I know these people! Der Bund—the Covenant! They’ll kill me! Help me, please—!”
In the dying light, she could just make out Pendergast. He had struggled to his feet, bleeding freely from the gunshot wound, and he was limping toward her on his one good leg.
Ahead, on Fifth Avenue, a taxi idled at the curb, waiting—waiting for her and her abductors.
“Aloysius!” she screamed again in despair.
The men pushed her forward, opened the cab’s rear door, and flung her inside. Bullets ricocheted off the tempered front window of the cab.
“Los! Verschwinden wir hier!” one of the joggers shouted as they tumbled in after her. “Gib Gas!”
Helen struggled fiercely as the taxi pulled away from the curb, trying with her one good hand to claw her way to the door. She got the briefest glimpse of Pendergast, in the gloom of the park. He had fallen to his knees, still looking in her direction.
“No!” she cried as she struggled. “No!”
“Halt die Schnauze!” barked one of the men. He drew back his fist and punched her in the side of the head—and darkness came rushing over all.
+ Six Hours
A DOCTOR IN WRINKLED SCRUBS STUCK HIS HEAD INTO the waiting room of the Lenox Hill ICU. “He’s awake, if you’d like to talk to him.”
“Thank God.” Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta of the NYPD stuffed the notebook he’d been examining into his pocket and stood up. “How is he?”
“No complications.” A note of irritation crossed the physician’s face. “Although doctors always make the worst patients.”
“But he’s not—” D’Agosta began, then fell silent. He followed the doctor into the intensive care unit.
Special Agent Pendergast was sitting up in bed, attached to half a dozen monitoring machines. An IV was in one arm, and a nasal cannula was fitted to his nostrils. His bed was strewn with medical charts, and he held an X-ray in his hand. Always very pale, the skin of the FBI agent was now like porcelain. A doctor was bending over the bed, in intense conversation with his patient. Although D’Agosta could barely hear Pendergast’s replies, it was clear the two men were not exactly in agreement.
“—Completely out of the question,” the doctor was saying as D’Agosta approached the bed. “You’re still in shock from the gunshot wound and loss of blood, and the wound itself—not to mention the two bruised ribs—will require healing and ongoing medical attention.”
“Doctor,” Pendergast replied. Normally, Pendergast was the quintessence of southern gentility, but now his voice sounded like ice chips rattling on iron. “The bullet barely grazed the gastrocnemius muscle. Neither the tibia nor the fibula was touched. The wound was clean, and no operation was required.”
“But the blood loss—”
“Yes,” Pendergast interrupted. “The blood loss. How many units was I given?”
A pause. “One.”
“One unit. Due to damage to the minor tributaries of the Giacomini vein. Trivial.” He waved the X-ray like a flag. “As for the ribs, you said it yourself: bruised, not broken. The costae verae five and six, at the heads, approximately two millimeters from the vertebral column. Being true ribs, their elasticity will aid in quick recovery.”
The doctor fumed. “Dr. Pendergast, I simply cannot permit you to leave this hospital in your condition. You of all people—”
“On the contrary, Doctor: you cannot prevent it. My vitals are within acceptable norms. My injuries are minor, and I can tend to them myself.”
“I will note on your chart that you are leaving the hospital against my express orders.”
“Excellent.” Pendergast flipped the X-ray like a playing card onto the nearby table. “And now if you’ll excuse me?”
The physician took one final, exasperated look at Pendergast, then turned on his heel and left the room, followed by the doctor who had admitted D’Agosta.
Now Pendergast turned to D’Agosta as if seeing him for the first time. “Vincent.”
D’Agosta quickly approached the bedside. “Pendergast. My God. I’m so sorry—”
“Why aren’t you with Constance?”
“She’s safe. Mount Mercy redoubled their security measures. I had to…” He paused a moment to control his voice. “To check up on you.”
“Much ado about nothing, thank you.” Pendergast removed the nasal cannula, slid out the IV needle from the inside of his elbow, then detached the blood pressure cuff and pulse oximeter. He pulled back the sheets and sat up. The movements were slow, almost robotic; D’Agosta could see the man was driving himself by a sheer iron will.
“I hope to hell you aren’t really planning to leave.”
Pendergast turned to look at him again, and the fire in his eyes—fierce coals in an otherwise dead face—shut D’Agosta up immediately.
“And how is Proctor?” Pendergast asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
“He’s fine, they say. Considering. A few broken ribs where the impact of the shot hit his bulletproof vest.”
“Judson?”
D’Agosta shook his head.
“Bring me my clothes,” Pendergast said, nodding toward the closet.
D’Agosta hesitated, realized it was useless to protest, and brought them over.
With a wince, Pendergast stood up; swayed almost imperceptibly for a second; then steadied himself. D’Agosta handed him his clothes, and he drew the curtain.