preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第78部分

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e　recovered。　He　had　to　keep　going；　to　keep　looking　for　the　answer。
　He　moved　out　of　the　forest　of　cabinets；　through　an　archway　of　hanging　tapestries；　into　the　next　room。　As　he　moved；　he　was　racked　by　a　second　intense　spasm　of　pain。　He　stopped；　waiting　for　it　to　pass。
　The　trick　he'd　intended　to　play　on　Fairhaven…ducking　through　the　secret　panel　without　being　shot…had　required　exquisite　timing。　During　their　encounter；　Pendergast　had　watched　Fairhaven's　face　intently。　Almost　without　exception；　people　betrayed　by　their　expression　the　moment　they　decided　to　kill；　to　pull　the　trigger；　to　end　the　life　of　another。　But　Fairhaven　had　given　no　such　signal。　He　had　pulled　the　trigger　with　a　coolness　that　had　taken　Pendergast　by　surprise。　The　man　had　used　Pendergast's　own　custom　Colt。　It　was　regarded　as　one　of　the　most　dependable　and　accurate　。45　semiautomatics　available；　and　Fairhaven　clearly　knew　how　to　use　it。　If　it　hadn't　been　for　the　man's　pause　in　breathing　just　before　squeezing　off　the　shot；　Pendergast　would　have　taken　the　bullet　dead　center　and　been　killed　instantly。
　Instead；　he　had　taken　the　bullet　in　his　side。　It　had　passed　just　below　the　left　rib　cage　and　penetrated　into　the　peritoneal　cavity。　In　as　detached　a　way　as　possible；　Pendergast　once　again　considered　the　precise　form　and　nature　of　the　pain。　The　bullet　had；　at　the　very　least；　ruptured　his　spleen　and　perhaps　perforated　the　splenetic　flexure　of　the　colon。　It　had　missed　the　abdominal　aorta…he　would　have　bled　to　death　otherwise…but　it　must　have　nicked　either　the　left　colic　vein　or　some　tributaries　of　the　portal　vein；　because　the　blood　loss　was　still　grave。　The　law　enforcement　Black　Talon　slug　had　done　extensive　damage：　the　wound　would　prove　fatal　if　not　treated　within　a　few　hours。　Worse；　it　was　severely　debilitating　him；　slowing　him　down。　The　pain　was　excruciating；　but　for　the　most　part　he　could　manage　pain。　He　could　not；　however；　manage　the　growing　numbness　that　was　enfeebling　his　limbs。　His　body；　bruised　from　the　recent　fall　and　still　not　fully　recovered　from　the　knife　wound；　had　no　reserves　to　fall　back　on。　He　was　fading　fast。
　Once　again；　motionless　in　the　dark；　Pendergast　reviewed　how　his　plans　had　miscarried；　how　he　had　miscalculated。　From　the　beginning；　he　had　known　this　would　be　the　most　difficult　case　of　his　career。　But　what　he　had　not　anticipated　were　his　own　psychological　shortings。　He　had　cared　too　much；　the　case　had　bee　too　important　to　him。　It　had　colored　his　judgment；　crippled　his　objectivity。　And　now　for　the　first　time　he　realized　that　there　was　a　possibility…indeed；　a　high　probability…of　failure。　And　failure　meant　not　only　his　own　death…which　was　inconsequential…but　also　the　deaths　of　Nora；　Smithback；　and　many　other　innocent　people　in　the　future。
　Pendergast　paused　to　explore　the　wound　with　his　hand。　The　bleeding　was　growing　worse。　He　slipped　off　his　jacket　and　tied　it　as　tightly　as　he　could　around　his　lower　torso。　Then　he　uncloaked　the　lantern　and；　once　again；　held　it　briefly　aloft。
　He　was　in　a　smaller　room　now；　and　he　was　surprised　at　what　he　found。　Instead　of　more　chemical　pounds；　the　tiny　space　was　crowded　with　cases　of　birds；　stuffed　with　cotton。　Migrating　birds。　All　arranged　taxonomically。　A　superb　collection；　even　including　a　suite　of　now…extinct　passenger　pigeons。　But　how　did　this　collection　fit　with　the　rest？　Pendergast　felt　staggered。　He　knew；　deep　down；　that　all　this　fit　together；　was　part　of　some　great　plan。　But　what　plan？
　He　stumbled　on；　jostling　his　wound　as　little　as　possible；　into　the　next　room。　He　lifted　his　light　once　again；　and　this　time　froze　in　utter　astonishment。
　Here　was　a　collection　entirely　different　from　the　others。　The　lantern　revealed　a　bizarre　aggregation　of　clothing　and　accessories；　arrayed　on　dressmaker's　dummies　and　in　cases　along　both　walls：　rings；　collars；　hats；　fountain　pens；　umbrellas；　dresses；　gloves；　shoes；　watches；　necklaces；　cravats…all　carefully　preserved　and　arranged　as　if　in　a　museum；　but　this　time　with　no　apparent　systemization。　It　seemed　very　unlike　Leng；　this　haphazard　collection　from　the　past　two　thousand　years；　from　all　over　the　world。　What　did　a　nineteenth…century　Parisian　man's　white　kid　glove　have　to　do　with　a　medieval　gorget？　And　what　did　a　pair　of　ancient　Roman　earrings　have　to　do　with　an　English　umbrella；　or　to　the　Rolex　watch　sitting　next　to　it；　or　to　the　flapper…era　high…heeled　shoes　beside　that？　Pendergast　moved　painfully　forward。　Against　the　far　wall；　in　another　case；　were　door　handles　of　all　kinds…none　holding　the　slightest　aesthetic　or　artistic　interest…beside　a　row　of　eighteenth…century　men's　powdered　wigs。
　Pendergast　hid　the　lantern；　pondering。　It　was　an　utterly　bizarre　collection　of　monplace　objects；　none　of　them　particularly　distinguished；　arranged　without　regard　to　period　or　category。　Yet　here　they　were；　preserved　in　cases　as　if　they　were　the　most　precious　objects　in　the　world。
　As　he　stood　in　the　dark；　listening　to　the　drip　of　his　blood　against　the　stone　floor；　Pendergast　wondered　for　the　first　time　if　Leng　had　not；　in　the　end；　gone　mad。　This　certainly　seemed　the　last　collection　of　a　madman。　Perhaps；　as　he　prolonged　his　life；　the　brain　had　deteriorated　even　while　the　body　had　not。　This　grotesque　collection　made　no　sense。
　Pendergast　shook　his　head。　Once　again；　he　was　reacting　emotionally；　allowing　his　judgment　to　be　affected　by　feelings　of　familial　guilt。　Leng　had　not　gone　mad。　No　madman　could　have　assembled　the　collections　he　had　just　passed　through；　perhaps　the　greatest　collection　of　chemicals；　inorganic　and　organic；　the　world　had　ever　seen。　The　tawdry　objects　in　this　room　were　related。　There　was　a　systematic　arrangement　here；　if　only　he　could　see　it。　The　key　to　Leng's　project　was　here。　He　had　to　understand　what　Leng　was　doing；　and　why。　Otherwise　。　。　。
　Then　he　heard　the　scrape　of　a　foot　on　stone；　saw　the　beam　of　Fairhaven's　flashlight　lance　over　him。　Suddenly；　the　small　red　dot　of　a　laser　appeared　on　the　front　of　his　shirt。　He　threw　himself　sideways　just　as　the　crash　of　the　gun　sounded　in　the　confined　space。
　He　felt　the　bullet　strike　his　right　elbow；　a　sledgehammer　blow　that　knocked　him　off　his　feet。　He　lay　on　the　ground　for　a　moment；　as　the　laser　licked　through　the　dusty　air。　Then　he　rolled　to　his　feet　and　limped　forward；　ducking　from　case　to　case　as　he　crossed　the　room。
　He　had　allowed　himself　to　bee　distracted　by　the　strange　collection；　he　had　neglected　to　listen　for　Fairhaven's　approach。　Once　again；　he　had　failed。　With　this　thought　came　the　realization　that；　for　the　first　time；　he　was　about　to　lose。
　He　took　another　step　forward；　cradling　his　shattered　elbow。　The　bullet　seemed　to　have　passed　above　the　medial　supracondlar　ridge　and　exited　near　the　coronoid　process　of　the　ulna。　It　would　aggravate　the　blood　loss；　render　him　incapable　of　resistance。　He　must　get　to　the　next　room。　Each　room　had　its　own　clues；　and　perhaps　the　next　would　reveal　Leng's　secret。　But　as　he　moved　a　wave　of　dizziness　hit　him；　followed　by　a　stab　of　nausea。　He　swayed；　steadied　himself。
　Using　the　reflected　light　of　Fairhaven's　searching　beam；　he　ducked　beneath　an　archway　into　the　next　room。　The　exertion　of　the　fall；　the　shock　of　the　second　bullet；　had　drained　the　last　of　his　energy；　and　the　heavy　curtain　of　unconsciousness　drew　ever　closer。　He　leaned　back　against　the　inside　wall；　breathing　hard；　eyes　wide　against　the　darkness。
　The　flashlight　beam　stabbed　abruptly　through　the　archway；　then　flicked　away　again。　In　its　brief　illumination；　Pendergast　saw　the　glitter　of　glass；　rows　of　beakers　and　retorts；　columnar　distillation　setups　rising　like　city　spires　above　long　worktables。
　He　had　penetrated　Enoch　Leng's　secret　lab。
　
　EIGHT
　　
　NORA　STOOD　OVER　the　metal　table；　her　gaze　moving　from　the　monitoring　machines　to　Smithback's　pallid　form；　then　back　again。　She　had　removed　the　retractors；　cleaned　and　dressed　the　wound　as　best　she　could。　The　bleeding　had　finally　stopped。　But　the　damage　was　already　done。　The　blood　pressure　machine　continued　to　sound　its　dire　warning。　She　glanced　toward　the　saline　bag：　it　was　almost　empty；　but　the　catheter　was　small；　and　even　at　maximum　volume　it　would　be　difficult　to　replenish　lost　fluids　quickly　enough。
　She　turned　abruptly　as　the　sound　of　a　second　shot　echoed　up　from　the　dark　staircase。　It　sounded　faint；　muffled；　as　if　ing　from　deep　underground。
　For　a　moment　she　stood　motionless；　lanced　by　fear。　What　had　happened？　Had　Pendergast　shot…or　been　shot？
　Then　she　turned　back　toward　Smithback's　inert　form。　Only　one　man　was　going　to　e　up　that　staircase：　Pendergast；　or　the　other。　When　the　time　came；　she'd　deal　with　it。　Right　now；　her　responsibility　lay　with　Smithback。　And　she　wasn't　going　to　leave　him。
　She　glanced　back　at　the　vitals：　blood　pressure　down　to　70　over　35；　the　heart　rate　slowing　too；　now；　down　to　80　beats　per　minute。　At　first；　this　latter　development　sent　relief　coursing　through　her。　But　then　another　thought　struck；　and　she　raised　her　palm　to　Smithback's　forehead。　It　was　growing　as　cold　as　his　limbs　had　been。
　Bradycardia；　she　thought；　as　panic　replaced　the　transitory　feeling　of　relief。　When　blood　loss　is　persistent；　and　there　are　no　more　areas　for　the　body　to　shut　down；　the　patient　depensates。　The　critical　areas　start　to　go。　The　heart　slows。　And　then　stops　for　good。
　Hand　still　on　Smithback's　forehead；　Nora　turned　her　frantic　gaze　back　to　the　EKG。　It　looked　strangely　diminished；　the　spikes　smaller；　the　frequency　slower。　The　pulse　was　now　50　beats　per　minute。
　She　dropped　her　hands　to　Smithback's　shoulders；　shook　him　roughly。　〃Bill！〃　she　cried。　〃Bill；　damn　it；　e　on！　Please！〃
　The　peeping　of　the　EKG　grew　erratic。　Slowed。
　There　was　nothing　more　she　could　do。
　She　stared　at　the　monitors　for　a　moment；　a　horrible　feeling　of　powerlessness　stealing　over　her。　And　then　she　closed　her　eyes　and　let　her　head　sink　onto　Smithback's　shoulder：　bare；　motionless；　cold　as　a　marble　tomb。
　
　NINE
　　
　PENDERGAST　STUMBLED　PAST　the　long　tables　of　the　old　laboratory。　Another　spasm　of　pain　wracked　his　gut　and　he　paused　momentarily；　mentally　willing　it　to　pass。　Despite　the　severity　of　his　wounds；　he　had　so　far　managed　to　keep　one　corner　of　his　mind　clear；　sharp；　free　of　distraction。　He　tried　to　focus　on　that　corner　through　the　thickening　fog　of　pain；