preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第79部分

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r；　sharp；　free　of　distraction。　He　tried　to　focus　on　that　corner　through　the　thickening　fog　of　pain；　tried　to　observe　and　understand　what　lay　around　him。
　Titration　and　distillation　apparatuses；　beakers　and　retorts；　burners；　a　vast　thicket　of　glassware　and　metal。　And　yet；　despite　the　extent　of　the　equipment；　there　seemed　to　be　few　clues　to　the　project　Leng　had　been　working　on。　Chemistry　was　chemistry；　and　you　used　the　same　tools　and　equipment；　regardless　of　what　chemicals　you　were　synthesizing　or　isolating。　There　were　a　larger　number　of　hoods　and　vintage　glove　boxes　than　Pendergast　expected；　implying　that　Leng　had　been　handling　poisons　or　radioactive　substances　in　his　laboratory。　But　even　this　merely　corroborated　what　he　had　already　surmised。
　The　only　surprise　had　been　the　state　of　the　laboratory。　There　was　no　mass　spectrometer；　no　X…ray　diffraction　equipment；　no　electrophoresis　apparatus；　and　certainly　no　DNA　sequencer。　No　puters；　nothing　that　seemed　to　contain　any　integrated　circuits。　There　was　nothing　to　reflect　the　revolution　in　biochemistry　technology　that　had　occurred　since　the　1960s。　Judging　by　the　age　of　the　equipment　and　its　neglected　condition；　it　looked；　in　fact；　as　if　all　work　in　the　lab　had　ceased　around　fifty　years　before。
　But　that　made　no　sense。　Leng　would　certainly　have　availed　himself　of　the　latest　scientific　developments；　the　most　modern　equipment；　to　help　him　in　his　quest。　And；　until　very　recently；　the　man　had　been　alive。
　Could　Leng　have　finished　his　project？　If　so；　where　was　it？　What　was　it？　Was　it　somewhere　in　this　vast　basement？　Or　had　he　given　up？
　The　flicker　of　Fairhaven's　light　was　licking　closer　now；　and　Pendergast　ceased　speculating　and　forced　himself　onward。　There　was　a　door　in　the　far　wall；　and　he　dragged　himself　toward　it　through　an　overwhelming　wash　of　pain。　If　this　was　Leng's　laboratory；　there　would　be　no　more　than　one；　perhaps　two；　final　workrooms　beyond。　He　felt　an　almost　overpowering　wave　of　dizziness。　He　had　reached　the　point　where　he　could　barely　walk。　The　endgame　had　arrived。
　And　still　he　didn't　know。
　Pendergast　pushed　the　door　ajar；　took　five　steps　into　the　next　room。　He　uncloaked　the　lantern　and　tried　to　raise　it　to　get　his　bearings；　examine　the　room's　contents；　make　one　final　attempt　at　resolving　the　mystery。
　And　then　his　legs　buckled　beneath　him。
　As　he　fell；　the　lantern　crashed　to　the　floor；　rolling　away；　its　light　flickering　crazily　across　the　walls。　And　along　the　walls；　a　hundred　edges　of　sharpened　steel　reflected　the　light　back　toward　him。
　
　TEN
　　
　THE　SURGEON　SHONE　the　light　hungrily　around　the　chamber　as　the　echoes　of　the　second　shot　died　away。　The　beam　illuminated　moth…eaten　clothing；　ancient　wooden　display　cases；　motes　of　disturbed　dust　hanging　in　the　air。　He　was　certain　he　had　hit　Pendergast　again。
　The　first　shot；　the　gut　shot；　had　been　the　more　severe。　It　would　be　painful；　debilitating；　a　wound　that　would　grow　steadily　worse。　The　last　kind　of　wound　you　wanted　when　you　were　trying　to　escape。　The　second　shot　had　hit　a　limb…an　arm；　no　doubt；　given　that　the　FBI　agent　could　still　walk。　Exceedingly　painful；　and　with　luck　it　might　have　nicked　the　basilic　vein；　adding　to　Pendergast's　loss　of　blood。
　He　stopped　where　Pendergast　had　fallen。　There　was　a　small　spray　of　blood　against　a　nearby　cabinet；　and　a　heavier　smear　where　the　agent　had　obviously　rolled　across　the　ground。　He　stepped　back；　glancing　around　with　a　feeling　of　contempt。　It　was　another　of　Leng's　absurd　collections。　The　man　had　been　a　neurotic　collector；　and　the　basement　was　of　a　piece　with　the　rest　of　the　house。　There　would　be　no　arcanum　here；　no　philosopher's　stone。　Pendergast　had　obviously　been　trying　to　throw　him　off　balance　with　that　talk　of　Leng's　ultimate　purpose。　What　purpose　could　be　more　grand　than　the　prolongation　of　the　human　life　span？　And　if　this　ridiculous　collection　of　umbrellas　and　walking　sticks　and　wigs　was　an　example　of　Leng's　ultimate　project；　then　it　merely　corroborated　how　unfit　he　was　for　his　own　discovery。　Perhaps　with　the　long；　cloistered　years　had　e　madness。　Although　Leng　had　seemed　quite　sane　when　he'd　first　confronted　him；　six　months　before…as　much　as　one　could　tell　anything　from　such　a　silent；　ascetic　fellow…appearances　meant　nothing。　One　never　knew　what　went　on　inside　a　man's　head。　But　in　the　end；　it　made　no　difference。　Clearly；　the　discovery　was　destined　for　him。　Leng　was　only　a　vessel　to　bring　this　stupendous　advancement　across　the　years。　Like　John　the　Baptist；　he　had　merely　paved　the　way。　The　elixir　was　Fairhaven's　destiny。　God　had　placed　it　in　his　path。　He　would　be　Leng；　as　Leng　should　have　been…perhaps　would　have　been；　had　it　not　been　for　his　weaknesses；　his　fatal　flaws。
　Once　he　had　achieved　success；　he；　Fairhaven；　would　not　hole　up　like　a　recluse　in　this　house　to　let　the　years　roll　endlessly　by。　Once　the　transformation　was　plete…once　he　had　perfected　the　elixir；　absorbed　all　Leng　had　to　give　into　himself…he　would　emerge；　like　a　butterfly　from　a　pupa。　He　would　put　his　long　life　to　wonderful　use：　travel；　love；　learning；　pleasure；　exotic　experiences。　Money　would　never　be　a　problem。
　The　Surgeon　forced　himself　to　put　aside　these　reflections　and　once　again　take　up　Pendergast's　irregular　path。　The　footprints　were　growing　smudged　at　the　heels：　the　man　was　dragging　his　feet　along　the　ground。　Of　course；　Pendergast　could　be　faking　the　gravity　of　his　wound；　but　Fairhaven　sensed　he　wasn't。　One　couldn't　fake　that　heavy　loss　of　blood。　And　the　man　couldn't　fake　that　he　had　been　hit…not　once；　but　twice。
　Following　the　trail　of　blood；　he　crept　through　the　archway　in　the　far　wall　and　entered　the　next　room。　His　flashlight　revealed　what　looked　like　an　ancient　laboratory：　long　tables　set　up　with　all　manner　of　strange　glassware；　racked　into　fantastic　shapes；　tubes　and　coils　and　retorts　mounting　almost　to　the　ceiling　of　undressed　rock。　It　was　old　and　dusty；　the　test　tubes　caked　with　rust…colored　deposits。　Leng　clearly　hadn't　used　the　place　in　years。　On　the　nearest　table；　one　of　the　racks　had　rusted　through；　causing　glassware　to　fall　and　shatter　into　pieces　on　the　dark　woodwork。
　Pendergast's　ragged　steps　went　straight　through　this　lab；　without　stopping；　to　a　door　on　the　far　side。　Fairhaven　followed　more　quickly　now；　gun　raised；　steady　pressure　on　the　trigger。　It's　time；　he　thought　to　himself　as　he　approached　the　door。　Time　to　finish　this。
　
　ELEVEN
　　
　AS　HE　ENTERED　the　room；　Fairhaven　immediately　saw　Pendergast：　on　his　knees；　head　drooping；　in　a　widening　pool　of　blood。　There　was　to　be　no　more　hiding；　no　more　evading；　no　more　clever　dissembling。
　The　man　reminded　Fairhaven　of　the　way　an　animal　died　when　gut…shot。　It　didn't　instantly　keel　over　dead。　Instead；　it　happened　in　stages。　First；　the　animal　stood　there；　shocked；　trembling　slightly。　Then　it　slowly　kneeled；　holding　the　position　for　a　minute　or　more；　as　if　praying。　Then　its　rear　legs　collapsed　into　a　sitting　position。　And　there　it　might　remain　for　several　minutes　before　suddenly　rolling　onto　its　side。　The　slow…motion　ballet　always　ended　with　a　spasm；　that　violent　jerk　of　the　legs　at　the　moment　of　death。
　Pendergast　was　in　the　second　stage。　He　could　survive　as　much　as　a　few　more　hours…helpless　as　a　baby；　of　course。　But　he　wasn't　going　to　live　that　long。　The　chase　had　been　diverting；　but　pressing　business　remained　upstairs。　Smithback　was　spoiled　by　now；　but　the　girl　was　waiting。
　The　Surgeon　approached　Pendergast；　gun　hand　extended；　allowing　himself　to　briefly　savor　the　triumph。　The　clever；　the　diabolically　cunning　Special　Agent　Pendergast　lay　before　him：　stuporous；　unresisting。　Then　he　stepped　back　to　give　himself　room　for　the　final　shot　and；　without　much　curiosity；　raised　his　light　to　illuminate　the　room。　He　wouldn't　want　to　spoil　anything　with　his　bullet；　on　the　remote　chance　this　room　contained　anything　useful。
　He　was　amazed　at　what　he　saw。　Yet　another　bizarre　collection　of　Leng's。　Only　this　one　was　different。　This　was　all　weapons　and　armor。　Swords；　daggers；　crossbows　and　bolts；　harquebuses；　lances；　arrows；　maces　were　mixed　higgledy…piggledy　with　more　modern　guns；　rifles；　blackjacks；　grenades；　and　rocket　launchers。　There　were　also　medieval　suits　of　armor；　iron　helmets；　chain…mail；　Crimean；　Spanish…American；　and　World　War　I　army　helmets；　early　bulletproof　vests　and　stacks　of　ammunition…a　veritable　arsenal；　dating　from　Roman　times　to　the　early　twentieth　century。
　The　Surgeon　shook　his　head。　The　irony　was　incredible。　If　Pendergast　had　been　able　to　get　here　a　few　minutes　earlier；　in　better　condition；　he　could　have　armed　himself　with　enough　firepower　to　fight　off　a　battalion。　The　contest　might　have　gone　very　differently。　But　as　it　was；　he'd　spent　too　much　time　browsing　the　earlier　collections。　He'd　arrived　here　a　little　too　late。　Now　he　lay　there　in　his　own　blood；　half　dead；　lantern　near　his　feet。　Fairhaven　barked　a　laugh；　his　voice　ringing　off　the　vaults；　and　raised　the　gun。
　The　sound　of　laughter　seemed　to　rouse　the　agent；　who　looked　up　at　him；　eyes　glassy。　〃All　I　ask　is　that　you　make　it　quick；〃　he　said。
　Don't　let　him　speak；　the　voice　said。　Just　kill　him。
　Fairhaven　aimed　the　gun；　placing　Pendergast's　head　squarely　before　the　center　dot　of　the　tritium　sights。　A　solid　hit　with　a　hollow…point　bullet　would　effectively　decapitate　the　FBI　agent。　It　would　be　about　as　quick　as　you　could　get。　His　finger　tightened　on　the　trigger。
　And　then　something　occurred　to　him。
　Quick　was　a　lot　more　than　Pendergast　deserved。　The　man　had　caused　him　a　lot　of　grief。　Pendergast　had　dogged　his　trail；　ruined　his　latest　specimen；　brought　him　anxiety　and　suffering　at　the　very　moment　of　triumph。
　As　he　stood　over　the　agent；　he　felt　a　hatred　rise　within　him；　the　hatred　he　had　felt　for　the　other　one；　Leng；　who　had　looked　so　similar。　The　hatred　he　had　felt　for　the　trustees　and　professors　of　his　medical　school；　who　had　refused　to　share　his　vision。　Hatred　for　the　pettiness　and　small…mindedness　that　kept　people　like　him　from　achieving　their　true　greatness。
　So　Pendergast　wanted　it　quick？　Not　with　this　arsenal　at　his　disposal。
　He　walked　over　to　Pendergast　and　once　again　searched　the　unresisting　man　carefully；　recoiling　a　little　from　the　warm　sticky　blood　that　soaked　his　side。　Nothing。　The　man　had　not　been　able　to　slip　a　weapon