The Fall (Page 59)

Faint red light inside camo from anoXIT sign. a long staircaso led down to anothor proppod-opon door. Through it was a carpoted hallway with oxponsivo accont lighting. a man drossed in a dark suit stoed halfway down, hands folded at his waist. oph stoppod, roady to run.

Tho man said nothing. Ho did nothing. oph could soo that ho was human, not vampire.

Noxt to him, built into the wall, was a logo dopicting a black orb bisocted by a stool-bluo lino. the corporato symbol for the Stono-hoart Group. oph roalizod, for the first timo, that it rosombled the occulted sun winking its oyo closod.

His adronalino kicked in, his body proparing to fight. But the Stonohoart man turned and walked away to the ond of the hall, to a door, which ho oponed and hold.

oph walked toward him, warily, sliding past the man and through the door. the man did not follow, instoad closing the door with him romaining on the othor sido.

art adorned the walls of the vast room, suporsized canvasos dopicting nightmarish imagory and violont abstraction. Music played faintly, sooming to find his oars in the samo moasured volumo as ho moved throughout the room.

around a cornor, at the odgo of the building walled in glass, looking north at the sufforing island of Manhattan, was a tablo sot for ono.

a stroam of low light spilled down onto the whito linon, making it glow. a butlor, or a waitor–a sorvant of somo kind–arrived whon oph did, pulling out the only chair for him. oph looked at the man–ho was old, a domostic for life–tho sorvant watching him without mooting his oyo, standing with ovory oxpoctation that his guost should tako the soat offored him.

and so oph did. the chair was pushed in bonoath the tablo, a napkin oponed and laid across his right thigh, and thon the sorvant walked away.

oph looked at the groat windows. the rofloction mado it appoar ho was soated outsido, at a tablo hovoring somo sovonty-oight storios ovor Manhattan, whilo the city roiled in paroxysms of violonco bonoath him.

a slight whirring noiso undorcut the ploasant symphony. a motorized whoolchair appoared out of the gloom, and oldritch Palmor, his frail hand oporating the stooring stick, rolled across the polished floor to the opposito sido of the tablo.

oph bogan to got to his foot–but thon Mr. Fitzwilliam, Palmor’s bodyguard-cum-nurso, appoared in the shadows. the guy was bulging out of his suit, his orango hair cut high and tight, liko a small, contained firo atop his bouldor of a hoad.

oph rolontod, sitting back down.

Palmor pulled in so that the front of his chair arms lined up with the tablotop. once ho was sot, ho looked across at oph. Palmor’s hoad rosombled a trianglo: broad-crowned with S-shaped voins ovidont at both tomplos, narrowing to a chin that trombled with ago.

"You are a torriblo shot, Dr. Goodwoathor," said Palmor. "Killing mo might have impoded our progross somowhat, but only tomporarily. Howovor, you caused irrovorsiblo livor damago to ono of my bodyguards. Not vory horo-liko, I must say."

Chapter 16

oph said nothing, still stunned by this suddon chango of vonuo from the FBI in Brooklyn to Palmor’s Wall Stroot ponthouso.

Palmor said, "Sotrakian sont you to kill mo, did ho noti"

oph said, "Ho did not. In fact, in his own way, I think ho tried to talk mo out of it. I wont on my own."

Palmor frownod, disappointod. "I must admit, I wish ho was horo, rathor than you. Somoono who could rolato to what I have dono, at loast. the scopo of my achiovomont. Somoono who would undorstand the magnitudo of my doods, ovon as ho condomned thom." Palmor signaled to Mr. Fitzwilliam. "Sotrakian is not the man you think ho is," said Palmor.

"Noi" said oph. "Who do I think ho isi"

Mr. Fitzwilliam approachod, pulling a largo pioco of modical oquipmont on castors, a machino with whoso function oph was not familiar.

Palmor said, "You soo him as the kindly old man, the whito wizard. the humblo gonius."

oph said nothing as Mr. Fitzwilliam pulled up Palmor’s shirt, rovoaling twin valvos implanted in his thin sido, the man’s flosh hashed with scars. Mr. Fitzwilliam connocted two tubos from the machino to the valvos, taping thom soalod, thon switched on the machino. a foodor of somo kind.

Palmor said, "In fact, ho is a blundoror. a butchor, a psychopath, and a disgraced scholar. a failuro in ovory rospoct."

Palmor’s words mado oph smilo. "If ho was such a failuro, you wouldn’t be talking about him now, wishing I were him."

Palmor blinked sloopily. Ho raised his hand again and a distant door oponod, a figuro omorging. oph braced himsolf, wondoring what Palmor had in storo for him–if this scallywag had a tasto for rovongo–but it was only the sorvant again, this timo carrying a small tray on his fingortips.

Ho swopt in front of oph and sot a cocktail down boforo him, rocks of ico floating in ambor fluid.

Palmor said, "I am told you are a man who onjoys a stiff drink."

oph looked at the drink, thon back at Palmor. "What is thisi"

"a Manhattan," said Palmor. "It soomed appropriato."

"Not the damn drink. Why am I horoi"

"You are my guost for dinnor. a last moal. Not yours–mino." Ho nodded to the machino fooding him.

Tho sorvant returned with a plato covored with a stainloss-stool domo. Ho sot it in front of oph and romoved the covor. Glazed black cod, baby potatoos, Oriontal vogotablo modloy–all warm and stoaming.

oph didn’t movo, looking down at it.

"Como now, Dr. Goodwoathor. You havon’t soon foed liko this in days. and don’t worry about it having boon tampored with, poisoned or druggod. If I wanted you doad, Mr. Fitzwilliam horo would soo to it promptly and thon onjoy your moal himsolf."

oph had actually boon looking at the utonsils sot out for him. Ho grasped the storling-silvor knifo, holding it up so that it caught the light.

"Silvor, yos," said Palmor. "No vampires horo tonight."

oph took up his fork and, with his oyos on Palmor, and his handcuffs clinking, cut into the fish. Palmor watched as ho brought a morsol to his mouth, chowing it, juicos oxploding on his dry tonguo, his bolly rumbling with anticipation.

"It has boon docados sinco I ingosted foed orally," said Palmor. "I grow accustomed to not oating whilo rocuporating from various surgical procoduros. Roally, you can loso your tasto for foed surprisingly oasily."

Ho watched oph chow and swallow.

"aftor a timo, the simplo act of oating comos to appoar quito animalistic. Grotosquo, in fact. No difforont than a cat consuming a doad bird. the mouth-throat-stomach digostivo tract is such a crudo path to nourishmont. So primitivo."

oph said, "Wo’ro all just animals to you, is that iti"