preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第85节

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d　parted　the　curtain　with　the　gun　barrel　while　shining　his　torch　through　the　gap。　Another　room　met　his　eye：　larger；　broader；　filled　with　oaken　cases　fronted　by　glass。　Pendergast's　trail　led　right　into　the　thick　of　them。
　The　Surgeon　crept　forward　with　infinite　care。　Again；　Pendergast's　tracks　seemed　to　explore　the　collection；　stopping　at　occasional　cases。　His　tracks　had　begun　to　take　on　an　irregular；　weaving　pattern。　It　was　the　spoor　of　a　gravely　wounded　animal。　The　blood　was　not　diminishing。　If　anything；　the　bleeding　was　getting　worse。　Almost　certainly　that　meant　a　shot　to　the　gut。　There　was　no　need　to　hurry；　to　force　a　confrontation。　The　longer　he　waited；　the　weaker　Pendergast　would　bee。
　He　reached　a　spot　where　a　larger　pool　of　blood　shone　in　the　beam　of　his　flashlight。　Clearly；　Pendergast　had　stopped　here。　He　had　been　looking　at　something；　and　the　Surgeon　peered　into　the　case　to　see　what　it　was。　It　wasn't　more　chemicals；　as　he　had　assumed。　Instead；　the　case　was　filled　with　thousands　of　mounted　insects；　all　exactly　alike。　It　was　an　odd…looking　bug　with　sharp　horns　on　its　iridescent　head。　He　moved　to　the　next　case。　Strange：　this　contained　bottles　housing　only　insect　parts。　Here　were　bottles　filled　with　gossamer　dragonfly　wings；　while　over　there　were　others　with　what　looked　like　curled…up　abdomens　of　honeybees。　Yet　others　held　innumerable　tiny；　dried…up　white　spiders。　He　moved　to　the　next　case。　It　contained　desiccated　salamanders　and　wrinkled　frogs　in　a　multitude　of　bright　colors；　a　row　of　jars　containing　a　variety　of　scorpion　tails；　other　jars　full　of　numberless　evil…looking　wasps。　In　the　next　case　were　jars　holding　small　dried　fish；　snails；　and　other　insects　the　Surgeon　had　never　seen　before。　It　was　like　some　vast　witch's　cabinet　for　brewing　potions　and　concocting　spells。
　It　was　quite　strange　that　Leng　had　felt　the　need　for　such　a　vast　collection　of　potions　and　chemicals。　Perhaps；　like　Isaac　Newton；　he　had　ended　up　wasting　his　life　in　alchemical　experiments。　The　〃ultimate　project〃　Pendergast　mentioned　might　not　be　a　red　herring；　after　all。　It　could　very　well　have　been　some　useless　attempt　to　turn　lead　into　gold；　or　similar　fool's　challenge。
　Pendergast's　trail　led　out　of　the　cabinets　and　through　another　arched　doorway。　The　Surgeon　followed；　gun　at　the　ready。　Beyond　lay　what　looked　like　a　series　of　smaller　rooms…closer　to　individual　stone　crypts　or　vaults；　actually…each　containing　a　collection　of　some　kind。　Pendergast's　trail　weaved　back　and　forth　between　them。　More　oaken　cabinets；　filled　with　what　looked　like　bark　and　leaves　and　dried　flowers。　He　stopped　a　moment；　staring　around　curiously。
　Then　he　reminded　himself　that　Pendergast　was　the　pressing　issue。　Judging　from　the　weaving　tracks；　the　man　was　now　having　trouble　walking。
　Of　course；　knowing　Pendergast；　it　could　be　a　ruse。　A　new　suspicion　arose　within　him；　and　the　Surgeon　crouched　beside　the　nearest　scattering　of　crimson　droplets；　touching　his　fingers　to　one；　rubbing　them　together。　Then　he　tasted　it。　No　doubt　about　it：　human　blood；　and　still　warm。　There　could　be　no　way　of　faking　that。　Pendergast　was　definitely　wounded。　Gravely　wounded。
　He　stood　up；　raised　the　gun　again；　and　moved　stealthily　forward；　his　flashlight　probing　the　velvety　darkness　ahead。
　
　SIX
　　
　NORA　STEPPED　WARILY　through　the　doorway。　After　the　darkness　of　the　cell；　the　light　was　so　bright　that　she　shrank　back　into　shadow；　temporarily　blinded。　Then　she　came　forward　again。
　As　her　eyes　adjusted；　objects　began　to　take　form。　Metal　tables；　covered　with　gleaming　instruments。　An　empty　gurney。　An　open　door；　leading　onto　a　descending　staircase　of　rough…hewn　stone。　And　a　figure；　strapped　facedown　onto　a　stainless　steel　operating　table。　Except　the　table　was　different　from　others　she　had　seen。　Gutters　ran　down　its　sides　into　a　collecting　chamber；　full　now　with　blood　and　fluid。　It　was　the　kind　of　table　used　for　an　autopsy；　not　an　operation。
　The　head　and　torso　of　the　figure；　as　well　as　the　waist　and　legs；　were　covered　by　pale　green　sheets。　Only　the　lower　back　remained　exposed。　As　Nora　came　forward；　she　could　see　a　ghastly　wound：　a　red　gash　almost　two　feet　long。　Metal　retractors　had　been　set；　spreading　the　edges　of　the　wound　apart。　She　could　see　the　exposed　spinal　column；　pale　gray　amidst　the　pinks　and　reds　of　exposed　flesh。　The　wound　had　bled　freely；　red　coagulating　tributaries　that　had　flowed　down　either　side　of　the　vertical　cut；　across　the　table；　and　into　the　metal　gutters。
　Nora　knew；　even　without　drawing　back　the　sheet；　that　the　body　was　Smithback's。　She　suppressed　a　cry。
　She　tried　to　steady　herself；　remembering　what　Pendergast　had　said。　There　were　things　that　needed　to　be　done。　And　the　first　was　to　verify　that　Smithback　was　dead。
　She　took　a　step　forward；　glancing　quickly　around　the　operating　theater。　An　IV　rack　stood　beside　the　table；　its　clear　narrow　tube　snaking　down　and　disappearing　beneath　the　green　sheets。　Nearby　was　a　large　metal　box　on　wheels；　its　panel　festooned　with　tubes　and　dials…probably　a　ventilator。　Several　bloody　scalpels　sat　in　a　metal　basin。　On　a　nearby　surgical　tray　were　forceps；　sterile　sponges；　a　squirt　bottle　of　Betadine　solution。　Other　instruments　lay　in　a　scatter　on　the　gurney；　where　they　had　apparently　been　dropped　when　the　surgery　was　interrupted。
　She　glanced　at　the　head　of　the　table；　at　the　rack　of　machines　monitoring　the　vital　signs。　She　recognized　an　EKG　screen；　a　ghostly　line　of　green　tracing　a　course　from　left　to　right。　Tracing　a　heartbeat。　My　God；　she　thought　suddenly；　is　it　possible　Bill's　still　alive？
　Nora　took　a　rapid　step　forward；　reached　over　the　gaping　incision；　and　lifted　the　sheet　away　from　his　shoulders。　Smithback's　features　came　into　view：　the　familiar　tousled　hair　with　the　unrepentant　cowlick；　the　skinny　arms　and　shoulders；　the　curl　of　hair　at　the　nape　of　his　neck。　She　reached　forward　and　touched　his　neck；　felt　the　faint　pulse　of　the　carotid　artery。
　He　was　alive。　But　barely。
　Had　he　been　drugged？　What　should　she　do？　How　could　she　save　him？
　She　realized　she　was　hyperventilating；　and　struggled　to　slow　both　her　breathing　and　her　thoughts。　She　scanned　the　machines；　thinking　back　to　the　pre…med　classes　she'd　taken　in　college；　to　the　courses　in　gross　anatomy；　biological　and　forensic　anthropology　in　graduate　school；　her　brief　experience　as　a　hospital　candy　striper。
　She　quickly　moved　on　to　the　next　machine；　trying　to　frame　the　overall　situation。　The　machine　was　clearly　a　blood　pressure　monitor。　She　glanced　at　the　systolic　and　diastolic　readouts：　91　over　60。　At　least　he　had　pressure　as　well　as　pulse。　But　it　seemed　low；　too　low。　Beside　it　was　another　machine；　connected　to　a　line　leading　to　a　clip　on　Smithback's　index　finger。　Nora's　uncle　had　worn　one　of　these　when　he'd　been　in　the　hospital　a　year　before；　suffering　from　congestive　heart　failure：　it　was　a　pulse…oximeter。　It　shone　a　light　upon　the　fingernail；　and　measured　the　oxygen　saturation　of　the　blood。　The　readout　was　80。　Could　that　be　right？　She　seemed　to　recall　that　anything　less　than　95　was　cause　for　concern。
　Nora　looked　back　now　at　the　EKG　machine；　at　the　pulse　readout　in　its　lower　right　corner。　It　stood　at　125。
　Abruptly；　the　blood　pressure　meter　began　bleating　a　warning。
　She　knelt　toward　Smithback；　listening　to　his　breathing。　It　was　rapid　and　shallow；　barely　audible。
　She　straightened；　gazing　around　at　the　machines　with　a　moan　of　despair。　God；　she　had　to　do　something。　She　couldn't　move　him；　that　would　mean　certain　death。　Whatever　she　did；　she　would　have　to　do　it　here　and　now。　If　she　couldn't　help　him；　Smithback　would　die。
　She　fought　to　control　her　panic；　struggled　with　her　memory。　What　did　this　all　mean：　low　blood　pressure；　abnormally　fast　heart　rate；　low　blood　oxygen？
　Exsanguination。　She　looked　at　the　appalling　pool　of　blood　in　the　collecting　basin　at　the　bottom　of　the　table。　Smithback　was　suffering　from　massive　blood　loss。
　How　did　the　body　react　in　such　cases？　She　thought　back　to　the　distant　lectures　she'd　only　half　paid　attention　to。　First；　by　tachycardia；　as　the　heart　beat　faster　in　an　attempt　to　profuse　the　tissues　with　oxygen。　Next；　by…what　was　the　damn　term？…vasospasm。　She　quickly　stretched　out　a　hand；　felt　Smithback's　fingers。　As　she　expected；　they　were　ice　cold；　the　skin　mottled。　The　body　had　shut　down　blood　to　the　extremities　to　maximize　oxygen　in　the　critical　areas。
　The　blood　pressure　would　be　the　last　to　go。　And　Smithback's　was　already　dropping。　After　that　。　。　。
　She　did　not　want　to　think　about　what　would　happen　after　that。
　A　wave　of　sickness　passed　over　her。　This　was　insane。　She　wasn't　a　doctor。　Anything　she　did　could　easily　make　things　worse。
　She　took　a　deep　breath；　staring　at　the　raw　wound；　forcing　herself　to　concentrate。　Even　if　she　knew　how；　closing　and　suturing　the　incision　would　not　help：　the　blood　loss　was　already　too　great。　There　was　no　plasma　around　for　a　blood　transfusion；　and　had　there　been　any；　administering　a　transfusion　was　beyond　her　abilities。
　But　she　knew　that　patients　who　had　lost　a　lot　of　blood　could　be　rehydrated　with　crystalloids　or　a　saline　solution。
　She　looked　again　at　the　IV　rack　beside　the　table。　A　thousand…cc　bag　of　saline　solution　hung　from　it；　tube　drooping　down　from　the　metal　stand　and　into　the　vein　in　Sm