preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第88节

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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　from　the　surrounding　walls。　In　fact；　he　could　see　that　Pendergast's　faltering　footsteps　led　directly　to　the　center　of　the　room；　where　he　had　collapsed。　But　it　would　do　to　be　careful。　Pendergast；　even　in　this　pathetic　state；　was　dangerous。　If　he　tried　to　talk；　it　would　be　best　to　just　shoot　him。　Words；　in　the　mouth　of　this　man；　were　subtle　and　pernicious。
　He　looked　around　again；　more　carefully　this　time。　There　was　every　weapon　imaginable　on　the　walls。　He　had　read　histories　of　some　of　them；　studied　others　in　museums。　The　choice　would　prove　amusing。
　The　word　fun　came　to　mind。
　Always　keeping　Pendergast　in　his　field　of　vision；　Fairhaven　shone　his　light　around；　finally　selecting　a　bejeweled　sword。　He　plucked　it　from　the　wall；　hefted　it；　turned　it　around　in　the　beam　of　the　flashlight。　It　would　have　served　his　purpose；　except　it　was　rather　heavy；　and　the　blade　was　so　rusty　it　looked　as　if　it　wouldn't　cut　butter。　Besides；　the　handle　was　sticky　and　unpleasant。　He　hung　it　back　up　on　the　shelf；　wiping　his　hands　on　his　surgical　cloth。
　Pendergast　was　still　sitting；　watching　him　with　pale；　cloudy　eyes。　Fairhaven　grinned。　〃Got　any　preferences？〃
　There　was　no　reply；　but　Fairhaven　could　see　a　look　of　profound　distress　cross　the　agent's　face。
　〃That's　right；　Agent　Pendergast。　'Quick'　is　no　longer　in　the　cards。〃
　A　slight；　terrified　widening　of　the　eyes　was　Pendergast's　only　response。　It　was　enough。　The　Surgeon　felt　a　swell　of　satisfaction。
　He　moved　along　the　collections；　picked　up　a　dagger　with　a　handle　of　gold　and　silver；　turned　it　over；　laid　it　down。　Next　to　it　was　a　helmet　shaped　like　a　man's　head；　with　spikes　inside　that　you　could　screw　closed；　driving　the　spikes　bit　by　bit　through　the　skull。　Too　primitive；　too　messy。　Hanging　on　the　wall　nearby　was　an　oversized　leather　funnel。　He'd　heard　of　this：　the　torturer　would　jam　it　into　the　victim's　mouth；　then　pour　water　down　the　victim's　throat　until　the　poor　wretch　either　drowned　or　exploded。　Exotic；　but　too　time…consuming。　Nearby　was　a　large　wheel　on　which　peopl