D’AGOSTA LISTENED WITH DISBELIEF. His head was pounding again, and he leaned back in his chair to ease the pain. This was insane. How were they, marooned in a strange world, going to handle Constance, save Binky, kill Leng—and then get back home again?
He turned to Diogenes. “You say the time machine was wrecked. How wrecked?”
“You mean, can we use it to return?” Diogenes asked him. “As I said, that fool Ferenc left its levels at maximum when he went through, timed I assume to give him sufficient opportunity to accomplish his scheme and return. The most logical explanation is that the man simply didn’t return in time to ease back the power—and the machine overloaded.”
“So we’re stuck here?”
“Unless Proctor can repair it,” said Pendergast.
“Proctor?” cried D’Agosta. “He’s a chauffeur! How’s he going to fix a time machine?” He felt horror settle in. Laura—he’d never see her again. The twenty-first century, the New York he loved—gone.
“My advice to you, Vincent,” said Pendergast coolly, “is not to ponder such existential questions for the moment.” He rose. “The first thing we must do, before something even more dire occurs, is to get the one entrusted to us safely away and far from here. Gosnold, will you take Joe upstairs while we discuss what is to be done?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can go on my own,” said Joe coldly.
“In that case, pack a bag for yourself, with some warm clothes, a book, and a deck of cards. You’ll be going on a journey.”
Joe turned stiffly and went upstairs.
D’Agosta looked at Pendergast. “What’s to stop Leng from killing Constance after he gets the Arcanum?”
“For one thing, his suspicious nature—if the formula has been tampered with, he might still need her. For another, I believe Constance has a certain amount of leverage over him.”
“What leverage?”
“Constance knows a great deal about Leng—and, what’s more, she knows his future.”
“What I don’t understand,” Diogenes said, “is this: if this world is supposedly identical to our own, except that it’s in the past of 1880, what is that monstrosity I saw being erected at the southern edge of Central Park? Nothing like that ever existed in the past of our world.”
D’Agosta had seen this himself, during a carriage ride on his first trip back here with Pendergast—an ugly tower under construction, like a ten-story chimney. He’d just assumed that it, like so much else built in Manhattan, had vanished with time.
Pendergast made a dismissive gesture. “Consider it a raspberry pip under the dentures of the space-time continuum. We don’t have the luxury to speculate how precisely this world mirrors our own—it’s damned close. It’s Joe’s safety we should be discussing.”
D’Agosta looked over at Pendergast as he leaned forward impatiently. Was it his imagination, or had the agent just cursed?
“Joe is in great danger,” Pendergast continued. “This house is no doubt being watched, and we shall have to be clever.” He turned to the butler. “Gosnold, my man, be so kind as to send a note to the closest funeral home, informing them that we have the body of Mr. Moseley in the house, and that we require a hearse and coffin be sent to pick it up. Make sure they understand that time is of the essence.”
“May I remind you, Mr. Pendergast, sir, that Mr. Moseley is buried in the basement?” said Gosnold, with admirable restraint.
“And there he shall stay. Joe will be in the coffin. Here’s what will happen: on the way to the mortuary, the horse will throw a shoe, which shall necessitate a trip to the nearest livery stable, at which point Joe will be removed and spirited away to a place of safety. The coffin will be delivered empty to the funeral home. Some hefty bribes will be required to make this work—to that end, please help yourself, Gosnold, to as much gold as is required from the safe.”
Gosnold bowed as if this were the most ordinary request in the world. “Anything else, sir?”
“Can we rely on you to help us carry out this bit of prestidigitation with complete discretion?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see that Constance chose her household well. That’s all for now; thank you.”
Gosnold retreated with another bow.
Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “You, Vincent, will be Joe’s protector. After smuggling him out of the livery, you will take him to the Grand Central Depot, where you will buy passage on the New York, Providence, and Boston line. From Boston, you’ll book passage on a steamer to an island far to the north, called Mount Desert. That is your ultimate destination.”
D’Agosta held his hand to his head. The pounding was not going away.
“Pull yourself together, please. Joe is Leng’s next logical victim, and we must immediately remove him from the field. There are reasons to choose Mount Desert Island, which I shall brief you on as soon as I’ve finalized the details.”
“Right, okay,” said D’Agosta, taking a deep breath. “Christ, I need some ibuprofen.”
“There’s no ibuprofen or aspirin. Laudanum is the analgesic of choice in 1880. I would not recommend it.”
“Son of a bitch.” D’Agosta sat up, taking a deep breath. As messed up as this situation was, Pendergast was right: he had to get his shit together.
“You’ll need fresh clothes for the journey—those bloodstains would be noticed and arouse suspicion. It seems to me you are Moseley’s size, more or less. You have no objection to wearing a dead man’s clothes?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“His room will be on the third floor—and no doubt easy to find. Help yourself.”
D’Agosta groaned and rose, steadying himself on the arm of the chair.
Pendergast turned to Diogenes. “Under normal circumstances, I would never make this gesture—but these circumstances are far from normal.” He extended his hand. “Until this matter is resolved for good or ill, can we work together, Brother—without duplicity or malice?”
Diogenes rose and extended his own hand, grasping Pendergast’s.
“Once Joe is safely away,” said Pendergast, “we must shut off Leng’s access to experimental subjects—he will want them more than ever to test the Arcanum Constance is giving him. We must stop the killing. This will have the additional benefit of frustrating him, perhaps even smoking him out.”
“I have some ideas along those lines,” said Diogenes, “involving the Five Points Mission.” They turned away, heads together, and began to murmur.
D’Agosta made his way up the stairs, taking them slowly, one at a time. Just get through this, he said to himself. Just get through it. Then worry about getting home.
*
In Moseley’s room, D’Agosta found a meager wardrobe of shabby clothing. The tutor’s pants were too tight, so he tossed them aside: his own trousers would have to do. Thankfully, most of the blood was on his shirt. Moseley’s shirts were a little snug but serviceable, as were the frock coat and greatcoat. The old-fashioned tie stumped him, so he just stuffed it in his pocket. He debated whether to take the top hat and decided it would at least keep his head warm.
Mount Desert Island—the name was not encouraging. He was going to need more clothing than this. Rummaging through more drawers turned up some gloves and socks. Pendergast would surely send up warmer clothes at the first opportunity.
Atop the dresser next to a dry sink, he saw a bottle labeled HEZEKIAH’S TINCTURE OF LAUDANUM. It was filled with a murky, reddish-brown liquid. Fucking A, he was hurting so bad, what harm could there be in it? He read the printed label on the back, which called for six to twelve drops dissolved in water. He grasped the bottle, filled up its dropper, poured himself a glass from the nearby water pitcher, and put in ten drops. Then he drank it down, shuddering at the bitter flavor.
Just then he heard a carriage arrive below. Was Constance returning already, or was it the undertaker? He quickly combed his hair with Moseley’s brush, the calming medicine already spreading through his body and easing the pain in his head. This stuff really works, he thought. He began to stuff the bottle into his pocket, thought better of it, then returned it to the dresser and went downstairs.
It was an undertaker, but the exact opposite of what D’Agosta had imagined: a plump, rosy-cheeked fellow with a big grin, yellow teeth, and a restless manner. A coffin made of rough pine—for transport only, it seemed—was carried in the front door by four burly workmen. As they set it on the floor, Joe was brought down from upstairs by Féline, bandaged but with a look on her face almost as determined as Constance’s. The boy carried a leather satchel. Pendergast detached himself to speak to the woman in rapid-fire French.
Gosnold approached the undertaker and his men with a small leather bag. Murmuring instructions, he dispensed several $20 gold pieces.
“This,” said Pendergast, turning back and introducing D’Agosta to the undertaker, “is Mr. Harrison, the boy’s guardian, who will be driving with you in the carriage to the funeral home. He will handle all the details of the transfer. And Mr. Harrison, allow me to introduce Mr. Porlock, the undertaker kind enough to assist us on such short notice.”
“Sir,” said the undertaker, bowing. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harrison.”
“Likewise,” D’Agosta said. “I’m sure.” He gritted his teeth. Jesus Christ, all of this had to be some kind of karmic joke.
Féline was speaking in a low voice to Joe, leading him over to the coffin. The boy looked into it and took a step back.
How the hell were they going to get the boy into the coffin? He was staring at it, shaking his head.
“Now, young man,” said Pendergast, “I realize this is not the ideal form of transportation, but it will have to do. If you please—get in.”
For all his brilliance, Pendergast had no idea how to talk to a twelveyear-old boy. D’Agosta stepped forward.
“I’ll handle this,” he said, then knelt before the youth. “Joe, here’s the situation, and I’m going to give it to you straight. Man to man. What Constance, I mean the duchess, said is true. Some awful things happened here last night. I don’t know what you saw, or how much you know, but the house is being watched by some very bad people, and we’ve got to smuggle you out of here. You’re going to have to be brave and get in that coffin. It’s a disguise, a trick—nothing else. You’ll be in there for about an hour, and then we’ll get you out. You and I will take a train to a place where they can’t find us. When things are safe again, I’ll bring you home. Okay?”
The boy stared at him with a tight, hostile expression. “Who took Binky?” he asked.
So he knew that Binky had been kidnapped.
“Criminals. The same people who are watching the house. The duchess has gone to get her back. But if things—if things take too long, they’ll try to take you next. That’s why we have to get you out of here.” He held his hand out toward the coffin. “Come on, there’s no time to waste. It’s you and me against the bad guys.”
Joe climbed in without another hesitation. It was a large coffin, and despite its flimsy appearance the inside had been spread with cushions and blankets for the short journey. Small slits had been cut into the sides for air. As Joe made himself comfortable, Féline gave him a little bag of sweets. The boy then lay down and the lid was affixed on top. The four men hoisted it up on their shoulders and headed out the door.
Pendergast came up to D’Agosta and slipped an envelope into his hand. “You will get off in Boston, go to the Dorchester Piers, and take the Bar Harbor Coastal Packet, a steamer, north to Mount Desert Island. You will then go to the address in the envelope—complete instructions are inside.”
He handed D’Agosta a traveling case of rough cloth. “There’s a little more clothing in here, some sandwiches, a few necessaries, and of course money. I will send warmer clothes for you and Joe, along with instructions on how we will communicate. From now on, you’re Mr. George Harrison of Sleepy Hollow, New York.”
“George Harrison?”
“I picked a name you aren’t likely to forget.”
“Jesus.”
“Good luck, my friend.”
D’Agosta left the house and descended the steps as the men were sliding the coffin into the back of the hearse. He got into the passenger seat next to Mr. Porlock, the four men clambering into the back. They started off, the frost on the lampposts glittering in the morning light, the horses blowing steam from their nostrils, hooves clip-clopping on the cobblestones. D’Agosta had the strange feeling of slowly waking from a dream, waiting expectantly for the moment that these surroundings would melt away and he’d wake to find Laura in bed next to him, the sun pouring in through the curtains, the twenty-first century running on as usual outside.