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Desert； two jars full of the shriveled corpses of the tiny red…bellied lizard of Australia。 Farther along were numberless cockroaches； from the giant Madagascar hissing cockroaches to beautiful green Cuban roaches； winking in their jars like tiny emerald leaves。
Pendergast realized these creatures had not been collected for taxonomic or classification purposes。 One did not need a thousand bog spiders in order to do taxonomic studies…and drying insects was a poor way to preserve their biological details。 And they were arranged in these cabinets in no conceivable taxonomic order。
There was only one answer： these insects had been collected because of the plex chemical pounds they contained。 This was a collection of biologically active pounds； pure and simple。 It was； in fact； a continuation of the inorganic chemical cabinets he had observed in the preceding rooms。
Pendergast now felt even more certain that this grand； subterranean cabinet of curiosities…this stupendous collection of chemicals…was directly related to Leng's real work。 The collections here perfectly filled the hole he'd noticed in the collections displayed in the house above。 This was Antoine Leng Pendergast's ultimate cabinet of curiosities。
In contrast to those other collections； however； this was clearly a working cabinet： many of the jars were only partially full； and some almost empty。 Whatever Leng had been doing had required an enormous variety of chemical pounds。 But what had he been doing？ What was this grand project？
Pendergast covered the lantern again； trying to will the pain away long enough to think。 According to his great…aunt； just before heading north to New York； Leng had talked of saving the human race。 He remembered the word his great…aunt had used： healing。 Leng would heal the world。 This vast cabinet of chemicals and pounds was central to that project。 It was something Leng believed would benefit humanity。
Pendergast felt a sudden spasm of pain that threatened to bend him double。 With a supreme effort of will； he recovered。 He had to keep going； to keep looking for the answer。
He moved out of the forest of cabinets； through an archway of hanging tapestries； into the next room。 As he moved； he was racked by a second intense spasm of pain。 He stopped； waiting for it to pass。
The trick he'd intended to play on Fairhaven…ducking through the secret panel without being shot…had required exquisite timing。 During their encounter； Pendergast had watched Fairhaven's face intently。 Almost without exception； people betrayed by their expression the moment they decided to kill； to pull the trigger； to end the life of another。 But Fairhaven had given no such signal。 He had pulled the trigger with a coolness that had taken Pendergast by surprise。 The man had used Pendergast's own custom Colt。 It was regarded as one of the most dependable and accurate 。45 semiautomatics available； and Fairhaven clearly knew how to use it。 If it hadn't been for the man's pause in breathing just before squeezing off the shot； Pendergast would have taken the bullet dead center and been killed instantly。
Instead； he had taken the bullet in his side。 It had passed just below the left rib cage and penetrated into the peritoneal cavity。 In as detached a way as possible； Pendergast once again considered the precise form and nature of the pain。 The bullet had； at the very least； ruptured his spleen and perhaps perforated the splenetic flexure of the colon。 It had missed the abdominal aorta…he would have bled to death otherwise…but it must have nicked either the left colic vein or some tributaries of the portal vein； because the blood loss was still grave。 The law enforcement Black Talon slug had done extensive damage： the wound would prove fatal if not treated within a few hours。 Worse； it was severely debilitating him； slowing him down。 The pain was excruciating； but for the most part he could manage pain。 He could not； however； manage the growing numbness that was enfeebling his limbs。 His body； bruised from the recent fall and still not fully recovered from the knife wound； had no reserves to fall back on。 He was fading fast。
Once again； motionless in the dark； Pendergast reviewed how his plans had miscarried； how he had miscalculated。 From the beginning； he had known this would be the most difficult case of his career。 But what he had not anticipated were his own psychological shortings。 He had cared too much； the case had bee too important to him。 It had colored his judgment； crippled his objectivity。 And now for the first time he realized that there was a possibility…indeed； a high probability…of failure。 And failure meant not only his own death…which was inconsequential…but also the deaths of Nora； Smithback； and many other innocent people in the future。
Pendergast paused to explore the wound with his hand。 The bleeding was growing worse。 He slipped off his jacket and tied it as tightly as he could around his lower torso。 Then he uncloaked the lantern and； once again； held it briefly aloft。
He was in a smaller room now； and he was surprised at what he found。 Instead of more chemical pounds； the tiny space was crowded with cases of birds； stuffed with cotton。 Migrating birds。 All arranged taxonomically。 A superb collection； even including a suite of now…extinct passenger pigeons。 But how did this collection fit with the rest？ Pendergast felt staggered。 He knew； deep down； that all this fit together； was part of some great plan。 But what plan？
He stumbled on； jostling his wound as little as possible； into the next room。 He lifted his light once again； and this time froze in utter astonishment。
Here was a collection entirely different from the others。 The lantern revealed a bizarre aggregation of clothing and accessories； arrayed on dressmaker's dummies and in cases along both walls： rings； collars； hats； fountain pens； umbrellas； dresses； gloves； shoes； watches； necklaces； cravats…all carefully preserved and arranged as if in a museum； but this time with no apparent systemization。 It seemed very unlike Leng； this haphazard collection from the 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；