preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第87节

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e　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；　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　hav