preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第57节

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ing　shallowly。　He　could　hear　the　faint　sound　of　water　lapping　the　piers；　the　distant　sound　of　traffic；　a　barking　dog。　But　there　was　nothing　else。
　He　cast　an　eye　around　the　corner。　There　was　still　enough　light　to　see　clearly。　The　tenements　and　dockside　warehouses　looked　deserted。
　He　stepped　out　into　the　half…light；　gun　ready；　waiting。　If　somebody　was　following；　they'd　see　his　gun。　And　they　would　go　away。
　He　slowly　reholstered　the　weapon；　looked　around　again；　then　turned　down　Water　Street。　Why　did　he　still　feel　he　was　being　followed？　Had　his　instincts　rung　a　false　alarm；　after　all？
　As　he　approached　the　middle　of　the　block；　and　Number　16；　he　thought　he　saw　a　dark　shape　disappear　around　the　corner；　thought　he　heard　the　scrape　of　a　shoe　on　pavement。　He　sprang　forward；　thoughts　of　Mary　Greene　forgotten；　and　whipped　around　the　corner；　gun　drawn　once　again。
　Fletcher　Street　stretched　ahead　of　him；　dark　and　empty。　But　at　the　far　corner　a　street　lamp　shone；　and　in　its　glow　he　could　see　a　shadow　quickly　disappearing。　It　had　been　unmistakable。
　He　sprinted　down　the　block；　turned　another　corner。　Then　he　stopped。
　A　black　cat　strolled　across　the　empty　street；　tail　held　high；　tip　twitching　with　each　step。　He　was　a　few　blocks　downwind　of　the　Fulton　Fish　Market；　and　the　stench　of　seafood　wafted　into　his　nostrils。　A　tugboat's　horn　floated　mournfully　up　from　the　harbor。
　O'Shaughnessy　laughed　ruefully　to　himself。　He　was　not　normally　predisposed　to　paranoia；　but　there　was　no　other　word　for　it。　He　had　been　chasing　a　cat。　This　case　must　be　getting　to　him。
　Hefting　the　journals；　he　continued　south；　toward　Wall　Street　and　the　subway。
　But　this　time；　there　was　no　doubt：　footsteps；　and　close。　A　faint　cough。
　He　turned；　pulled　his　gun　again。　Now　it　was　dark　enough　that　the　edges　of　the　street；　the　old　docks；　the　stone　doorways；　lay　in　deep　shadow。　Whoever　was　following　him　was　both　persistent　and　good。　This　was　not　some　mugger。　And　the　cough　was　bullshit。　The　man　wanted　him　to　know　he　was　being　followed。　The　man　was　trying　to　spook　him；　make　him　nervous；　goad　him　into　making　a　mistake。
　O'Shaughnessy　turned　and　ran。　Not　because　of　fear；　really；　but　because　he　wanted　to　provoke　the　man　into　following。　He　ran　to　the　end　of　the　block；　turned　the　corner；　continuing　halfway　down　the　next　block。　Then　he　stopped；　silently　retraced　his　steps；　and　melted　into　the　shadow　of　a　doorway。　He　thought　he　heard　footsteps　running　down　the　block。　He　braced　himself　against　the　door　behind　him；　and　waited；　gun　drawn；　ready　to　spring。
　Silence。　It　stretched　on　for　a　minute；　then　two；　then　five。　A　cab　drove　slowly　by；　twin　headlights　lancing　through　the　fog　and　gloom。　Cautiously；　O'Shaughnessy　eased　his　way　out　of　the　doorway；　looked　around。　All　was　deserted　once　again。　He　began　making　his　way　back　down　the　sidewalk　in　the　direction　from　which　he'd　e；　moving　slowly；　keeping　close　to　the　buildings。　Maybe　the　man　had　taken　a　different　turn。　Or　given　up。　Or　maybe；　after　all；　it　was　only　his　imagination。
　And　that　was　when　the　dark　figure　lanced　out　of　an　adjacent　doorway…when　something　came　down　over　his　head　and　tightened　around　his　neck…when　the　sickly　sweet　chemical　odor　abruptly　invaded　his　nostrils。　One　of　O'Shaughnessy's　hands　reached　for　the　hood；　while　the　other　convulsively　squeezed　off　a　shot。　And　then　he　was　falling；　falling　without　end　。　。　。
　The　sound　of　the　shot　reverberated　down　the　empty　street；　echoing　and　reechoing　off　the　old　buildings；　until　it　died　away。　And　silence　once　more　settled　over　the　docks　and　the　now　empty　streets。
　
　FIVE
　　
　PATRICK　O'SHAUGHNESSY　AWOKE　very　slowly。　His　head　felt　as　if　it　had　been　split　open　with　an　axe；　his　knuckles　throbbed；　and　his　tongue　was　swollen　and　metallic　in　his　mouth。　He　opened　his　eyes；　but　all　was　darkness。　Fearing　he'd　gone　blind；　he　instinctively　drew　his　arms　toward　his　face。　He　realized；　with　a　kind　of　leaden　numbness；　that　they　were　restrained。　He　tugged；　and　something　rattled。
　Chains。　He　was　shackled　with　chains。
　He　moved　his　legs　and　found　they　were　chained　as　well。
　Almost　instantly；　the　numbness　fled；　and　cold　reality　flooded　over　him。　The　memory　of　the　footsteps；　the　cat…and…mouse　in　the　deserted　streets；　the　smothering　hood；　returned　with　stark；　pitiless　clarity。　For　a　moment；　he　struggled　fiercely；　a　terrible　panic　bubbling　up　in　his　chest。　Then　he　lay　back；　trying　to　master　himself。　Panic's　not　going　to　solve　anything。　You　have　to　think。
　Where　was　he？
　In　a　cell　of　some　sort。　He'd　been　taken　prisoner。　But　by　whom？
　Almost　as　soon　as　he　asked　this　question；　the　answer　came：　by　the　copycat　killer。　By　the　Surgeon。
　The　fresh　wave　of　panic　that　greeted　this　realization　was　cut　short　by　a　sudden　shaft　of　light…bright；　even　painful　after　the　enveloping　darkness。
　He　looked　around　quickly。　He　was　in　a　small；　bare　room　of　rough…hewn　stone；　chained　to　a　floor　of　cold；　damp　concrete。　One　wall　held　a　door　of　rusted　metal；　and　the　light　was　streaming　in　through　a　small　slot　in　its　face。　The　light　suddenly　diminished；　and　a　voice　sounded　in　the　slot。　O'Shaughnessy　could　see　wet　red　lips　moving。
　〃Please　do　not　dispose　yourself；〃　the　voice　said　soothingly。　〃All　this　will　be　over　soon。　Struggle　is　unnecessary。〃
　The　slot　rattled　shut；　and　O'Shaughnessy　was　once　again　plunged　into　darkness。
　He　listened　as　the　retreating　steps　rang　against　the　stone　floor。　It　was　all　too　clear　what　was　ing　next。　He'd　seen　the　results　at　the　medical　examiner's　office。　The　Surgeon　would　e　back；　he'd　e　back；　and　。　。　。
　Don't　think　about　that。　Think　about　how　to　escape。
　O'Shaughnessy　tried　to　relax；　to　concentrate　on　taking　long；　slow　breaths。　Now　his　police　training　helped。　He　felt　calmness　settle　over　him。　No　situation　was　ever　hopeless；　and　even　the　most　cautious　criminals　made　mistakes。
　He'd　been　stupid；　his　habitual　caution　lost　in　his　excitement　over　finding　the　ledgers。　He'd　forgotten　Pendergast's　warning　of　constant　danger。
　Well；　he　wouldn't　be　stupid　any　longer。
　All　this　will　be　over　soon；　the　voice　had　said。　That　meant　it　wouldn't　be　long　before　he'd　be　ing　back。　O'Shaughnessy　would　be　ready。
　Before　the　Surgeon　could　do　anything；　he'd　have　to　remove　the　shackles。　And　that's　when　O'Shaughnessy　would　jump　him。
　But　the　Surgeon　was　clearly　no　fool。　The　way　he'd　shadowed　him；　ambushed　him：　that　had　taken　cunning；　strong　nerves。　If　O'Shaughnessy　merely　pretended　to　be　asleep；　it　wouldn't　be　enough。
　This　was　it：　do　or　die。　He'd　have　to　make　it　good。
　He　took　a　deep　breath；　then　another。　And　then；　closing　his　eyes；　he　smashed　the　shackles　of　his　arm　against　his　forehead；　raking　them　laterally　from　left　to　right。
　The　blood　began　to　flow　almost　at　once。　There　was　pain；　too；　but　that　was　good：　it　kept　him　sharp；　gave　him　something　to　think　about。　Wounds　to　the　forehead　tended　to　bleed　a　lot；　that　was　good；　too。
　Now　he　carefully　lay　to　one　side；　positioning　himself　to　look　as　if　he'd　passed　out；　scraping　his　head　against　the　rough　wall　as　he　slumped　to　the　floor。　The　stone　felt　cold　against　his　cheek；　the　blood　warm　as　it　trickled　through　his　eyelashes；　down　his　nose。　It　would　work。　It　would　work。　He　didn't　want　to　go　out　like　Doreen　Hollander；　torn　and　stiff　on　a　morgue　gurney。
　Once　again；　O'Shaughnessy　quelled　a　rising　panic。　It　would　be　over　soon。　The　Surgeon　would　return；　he'd　hear　the　footsteps　on　the　stones。　The　door　would　open。　When　the　shackles　were　removed；　he'd　surprise　the　man；　overwhelm　him。　He'd　escape　with　his　life；　collar　the　copycat　killer　in　the　process。
　Stay　calm。　Stay　calm。　Eyes　shut；　blood　trickling　onto　the　cold　damp　stone；　O'Shaughnessy　deliberately　turned　his　thoughts　to　opera。　His　breathing　grew　calmer。　And　soon；　in　his　mind；　the　bleak　walls　of　the　little　cell　began　to　ring　with　the　exquisitely　beautiful　strains　of　O　Isis　Und　Osiris；　rising　effortlessly　toward　street　level　and　the　inviolate　sky　far　above。
　
　SIX
　　
　PENDERGAST　STOOD　ON　the　broad　pavement；　small　brown　package　beneath　one　arm；　looking　thoughtfully　up　at　the　brace　of　lions　that　guarded　the　entrance　to　the　New　York　Public　Library。　A　brief；　drenching　rain　had　passed　over　the　city；　and　the　headlights　of　the　buses　and　taxis　shimmered　in　countless　puddles　of　water。　Pendergast　raised　his　eyes　from　the　lions　to　the　facade　behind　them；　long　and　imposing；　heavy　Corinthian　columns　rising　toward　a　vast　architrave。　It　was　past　nine　P。M。；　and　the　library　had　long　since　closed：　the　tides　of　students；　researchers；　tourists；　unpublished　poets　and　scholars　that　swirled　about　its　portals　by　day　had　receded　hours　before。
　He　glanced　around　once　more；　eyes　sweeping　the　stone　plaza　and　the　sidewalk　beyond。　Then　he　adjusted　the　package　beneath　his　arm；　and　made　his　way　slowly　up　the　broad　stairs。
　To　one　side　of　the　massive　entrance；　a　smaller　door　had　been　set　into　the　granite　face　of　the　library。　Pendergast　approached　it；　rapped　his　knuckles　lightly　on　the　bronze。　Almost　immediately　it　swung　inward；　revealing　a　library　guard。　He　was　very　tall；　with　closely　cropped　blond　hair；　heavily　muscled。　A　copy　of　Orlando　Furioso　was　in　one　meaty　hand。
　〃Good　evening；　Agent　Pendergast；〃　the　guard　said。　〃How　are　you　this　evening？〃
　〃Quite　well；　Frances；　thank　you；〃　Pendergast　repli