Pend00 - Extraction Read online

  “I went home as quickly as I could. When I got there, Diogenes was awake and waiting for me. He looked at me, his young face creased with wariness and distrust. In triumph, I told him what I’d done and why. I chastised him again for his ridiculous and childish superstitions. I told him I hoped this would be a lesson to him. I was quite awful, and I’m ashamed even today to think of how I behaved. The tragedy of how Diogenes turned out must partly be laid on my shoulders.”

  Pendergast fell silent for a long moment, and then resumed. “He flew into a fit such as I’d never seen before. ‘Old Dufour’s going to come!’ he cried in terror, the tears springing to his eyes. ‘You stole his tooth, and now he’s going to come—for me!’

  “I was taken aback but still maintained the superior, older-and-wiser-brother attitude. I said Dufour would certainly not come, that he had no idea he was considered the tooth fairy, and that he had seen neither Diogenes nor me and was unaware a tooth had even been left. But Diogenes didn’t believe a word of it; he insisted that Dufour’s entire existence was for teeth, that he waited for them every night, that he treasured them, and that he had surely seen everything both he and I had done that night.

  “The very violence and rawness of emotion—unusual for him—shocked me. This was when I began to realize I had done something wrong—very wrong. I felt guilty and ashamed. I saw that my own behavior had been cruel. Diogenes alternated between juvenile paroxysms of rage and spells of crying—the only time that I can remember ever seeing him cry. And so I apologized. I tried to point out, in my youthful way, how unreasonable his fears were. I promised to protect him. Nothing helped. In the end, I grew frustrated myself with his hysterics and left for my own bedroom.

  “Old Dufour didn’t come for him that night. In the morning, at the breakfast table, Diogenes was silent and morose. I pointed out to him again that his fears were totally unfounded. But even as I was explaining that, I felt uneasy recalling the emptiness of the cuspidor, the absence of other teeth. There were dozens, even hundreds of children in the French Quarter; surely the teeth would have piled up. So where were they? Why weren’t there at least a few others in the cuspidor? But I dismissed such thoughts as best I could.

  “At lunch Diogenes remained the same—agitated, resentful, and upset. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, he vanished. He frequently went away like that—without telling anyone where he was going or, upon returning, where he had been—so, even under the circumstances, I wasn’t particularly concerned. I figured he was off hiding in a closet with one of his forbidden books or indulging in some childish experiment in the vast basement of our home.

  “He had not returned by dinner. Uncle Everett was concerned until I assured him that Diogenes often disappeared like this and that he should not worry. After dinner, over his brandy and cigar, Uncle Everett complained about ‘improper nocturnal perambulations for one so young,’ but I once again reassured him that Diogenes would soon reappear. Satisfied, my uncle went up to bed.

  “Diogenes was still missing in the morning, and now the household grew alarmed. Uncle Everett gave me a serious dressing-down for leading him to think it hadn’t been a problem. I was in agony, wondering if I should tell him what had happened the day before. But I was still fairly sure Diogenes, angry at what I’d done, had gone off sulking and was safe and sound in some hiding place. After a thorough search of the house turned up nothing, Uncle called the police. All attempts at locating my brother proved fruitless. Various unsavory locales in the French Quarter were searched, as well as the tracks along the waterfront, the Canal Street piers, and Woldenberg Park. Finally, around four in the afternoon of August twenty-seventh, when my uncle was agitating to have the waterfront dragged, I broke down and told him what had transpired two days before. At this point I had begun to be afraid, and yet still not quite believing, that maybe Diogenes had been right… and Old Dufour had come for him.

  “My uncle was highly skeptical—to say the least. He certainly could not take such a notion to the police, he said—it was too patently absurd. But he was worried sick and especially frightened of our father, who was an irascible and even violent man and who, on his return, would blame him for losing his son and might thrash him. In the end he sighed, wiped his face, and said, ‘I suppose one must try every avenue. I will go myself to see Monsieur Dufour.’

  “He roused himself and I watched from the front parlor window as he walked down the lane, in the direction of Montegut Street. I expected him to return within the hour. Instead, he was gone almost four hours. But then at last—it was nearly midnight, and I was sitting on the main staircase, unable to sleep—I heard a key fumbling in the lock of the front door. There was my uncle Everett, with Diogenes at his side. My brother was ashen, stone-faced. He immediately and wordlessly went up to his room, closed and locked his door, and did not come out for several days.”

  Pendergast paused. The Riverside Drive mansion had gone very silent. The fire had died down, and the coals were crackling very quietly on the grate. The windows were closed tight and covered with heavy drapes; no sound of the traffic outside filtered in to the hush of the library. After another moment, Pendergast continued.

  “But my uncle looked terrible. Hideous in fact. He was strangely disheveled, very unlike him, and his eyes were deeply bloodshot. His face looked all wrong, somehow: his jaws sunken, his cheeks hollow, his lips trembling as if palsied, but the lower portion grossly swollen, as if he were carrying water in his mouth. And the color of his skin—it was crimson, almost purple, and there was a cut on his cheek. He stared at me with a dreadful expression—his mouth set, a hard glitter to his eyes—I had never seen in him before. I fancied I saw flecks of blood on his collar.

  “He went into the back part of the house and called for the housekeeper. When I heard his voice, I was shocked. It was changed, different—slurred and thick, as if he were drunk. I could only vaguely make out the conversation, but it seemed my uncle was requesting confirmation that my father would be returning the following day. He would be going out again immediately, he continued, and was entrusting myself and Diogenes to her care.

  “Having received the confirmation he desired, he next went into the study. I was still sitting on the staircase, terrified, listening to everything. I heard the scratching of a pen. And then Uncle Everett emerged again. Although it was a sultry night, he had put on a white linen jacket. One hand was sunk into a pocket of the jacket; I could see his white knuckles gripping the handle of a pistol. He didn’t appear to see me as he opened the front door and vanished into the darkness.

  “I waited for him to return, but he did not. Diogenes remained behind his locked door, refusing to answer my knocks and entreaties. The night passed with no Uncle Everett. The next day came and still I waited. Morning gave way to noon, and then afternoon. And still, Diogenes remained holed up in his room; and still, Uncle Everett did not return. I was sick with feelings of dread.

  “My father returned that evening, looking grim. From my room, I could hear murmured conversations from downstairs. Finally, around nine o’clock, my father summoned me to his study. Wordlessly, he handed me a scrawled note. I can still recall its contents, word for word.

  Dear Linnaeus,

  I visited M. Dufour on Montegut Street this evening. I went in ignorance and foolishly without precaution. But I am not returning in the same fashion. I could take this to the police, but—for reasons that may or may not ever become clear—this is something I wish to attend to personally. If you had been inside that house, Linnaeus, you would understand. This abomination who calls himself Maurus Dufour can be suffered to exist no longer.

  You see, Linnaeus, I had no choice. Dufour felt he had been robbed. And so I appeased him. Otherwise he would not have released the child. Terrible offices were performed. The mark of them will remain with me for the rest of my life.

  Should I not return from my errand, young Diogenes and Aloysius can furnish you with all further particulars in this matter.

 
Good-bye, cousin. I remain,

  Yours truly,

  Everett

  “When I handed the letter back, my father looked at me intently. ‘Would you care to explain the meaning of this, Aloysius?’ His tone was mild and yet as coiled as a steel trap.

  “Haltingly—with a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and fear—I told him all that had transpired. He listened intently, never asking a question or interrupting the flow of my narrative. When I was done, he sat back in his chair. He lit a cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully, still in silence; when it was a mere bit of ash between his fingertips, he dropped it into an ashtray, leaned forward, and read my uncle’s note again. Then he drew a deep breath, stood up, smoothed his shirtfront, opened a drawer, pulled out a revolver, checked to satisfy himself it was loaded, and snugged it into the rear of his waistband.

  “ ‘What are you going to do, Father?’ I asked, though I could guess all too clearly.

  “ ‘Going to see what has become of your uncle Everett,’ he replied. He strode out the study, toward the front door.

  “ ‘Let me go,’ I blurted. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly in surprise.

  “ ‘I can’t do that, son,’ he replied.

  “ ‘But it’s my fault. I have to go. Don’t you see?’ I seized his shirt cuff. I pleaded. I insisted. I begged.

  “At last, he nodded slowly. ‘Very well. Perhaps it—whatever it is—will prove a lesson to you.’ Just before opening the door, he turned as if taken by a new thought, took up a kerosene lantern, and then we ventured out into the night.

  “Only several evenings previous I had walked down Dauphine Street and turned onto Montegut, precisely as we were doing now. Back then I’d been thinking about what a fool my brother was, and feeling great irritation at having to be the one to set him straight. Now—as we approached the dark and silent Dufour place—I felt a great weight on my heart. It was a blustery night, far more unsettled than on my previous outing; the trees thrashing and moaning as the wind stirred their branches, the streetlights throwing gyrating shadows on the road. The houses we passed were dark, shuttered up tight against the fury of the coming storm. I looked up to see thin clouds, scudding across a bloated yellow moon. Despite the presence of my father at my side, I was gripped by an anxiety of the soul, mortal terror of a sort I’ve scarcely known before or since.”

  Pendergast fell silent. After several moments, he stood up and paced about the library, in a fashion not unlike that of Monsieur Bertin, forty-five minutes before. He paused to jab a poker into the fire, causing a flare-up of the dying coals that cast a panoply of flickering light across the room. After some more pacing, he made his way to the sideboard and poured himself a large brandy. He gulped it down; refilled his glass; and returned to his chair. Constance waited for him to resume.

  “The house was, as before, utterly dark and silent. I glanced up at the oriel window, but on this night it, too, was black. The wind had sucked a tattered lace curtain out through the broken window frame, and it fluttered above. It seemed to me like a trapped specter, gesticulating desperately for help.

  “We mounted the porch steps, the boards groaning under our weight, and went to the door. I tried not to look, but couldn’t stop myself. The strange pillar or box with the copper vessel was still there, its mouth dark.

  “The door had no bell, no knocker. Handing me the unlit lantern and pulling the revolver from his waistband, my father tried the door. It was unlocked and not even latched, and a small push sent it swinging back into yawning darkness. An odor seemed to roll out upon us from the dark: a clammy smell of dead animals, spoiled meat, rotten eggs.

  “We took a step inside. The interior of the house was pitch black. As my father was feeling along the wall, unsuccessfully, to find the switch of an electric light, a gust of wind grabbed the front door and slammed it behind us. I jumped at the crash, and stood in the darkness, trembling, as the echoes came back at us from the deep interior spaces of the house.

  “ ‘Aloysius,’ I heard my father say out of perfect darkness, ‘hand me up that lantern.’

  “I marveled at the coolness, the levelness, of his tone. I raised the lamp up over my head. It was taken by an unseen hand. For a moment, there was silence. Then the scritch of a match, followed by a flicker of yellow from the lantern. There was a squeaking sound as my father adjusted the wick, and the light brightened until we could… we could see the room around us.”

  Pendergast took a sip of brandy, and another, before placing the glass aside again. “We were standing in the formal entryway of the house. The lantern, though dim, furnished enough light for us to make out—just barely—the details around us. At first it didn’t look like anything much out of the ordinary, a typical antebellum mansion of the Delta style. To the left was an open set of double doors, leading into the main parlor; to the right, another set of open doors gave onto the dining room. Ahead, a large staircase swept up in a gracefully rising curve, and below it a hallway led back out of the range of our vision.”

  Pendergast took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

  “Gradually, the dimly lit room came into focus to my eyes and its shabbiness became more apparent. The floor was covered with a Persian rug, threadbare and chewed by mice. The pictures on the wall were so dark with age as to be indecipherable. A section of banister was gone on the stairway, and several desiccated plants stood in containers on either side of the staircase. But then I began to notice something else—something very odd. The surfaces of the room—the walls, the furniture—did not seem quite as regular and flat as they should. It was as if they had… density and texture. As my father proceeded cautiously into the center of the room, the lantern extended, I noted myriad tiny gleams and sparkles from the wallpaper and elsewhere, which formed elaborate patterns of curlicues and lines. I stared, unable to comprehend what was causing this strange effect.

  “My father realized it before I did. I heard a choked gasp from him, and he stopped dead, extending the lantern toward one particularly complex pattern of wallpaper.

  “That was when I realized the designs were not part of the wallpaper itself. They were from tiny, gleaming things affixed to the wall. As I stared, my father took a single step forward and I realized what these little gleaming things were.

  “They were teeth. Tiny, white, polished teeth. I could not speak, and nor could my father. But with that realization came a second one—these curlicue patterns were everywhere. They ran along the molding, they coiled about the wainscoting, and they looped and spiraled about the door frames. They marched in lines up the banister; they decorated the gilt edges of the paintings hung on the walls. Teeth… everywhere I looked, little incisors and bicuspids looked back at me. Swirls of youthful molars followed the contours of the room in dotted lines, meticulously arranged, achingly regular. Sometimes their biting ends were affixed to the walls, curved roots sticking up in sickening curves; other times they were reversed, the rows of yellow and white bone lined up as if ready to nibble the air. There were whorls and spirals, like the cowrie-shell necklaces of the South Seas, and delicate sprays like bursting fireworks arrested in midair. There were other, denser designs, like leering faces with slit-like eyes and yawning mouths, which seemed to be screaming out at us from the walls.

  “My father said nothing. I believe his silence was more unnerving to me than if he had cried out in disgust. He slowly walked up to the closest wall and held up the lantern, moving it back and forth. The moving light threw countless tiny, sharp shadows across the surfaces, like some nightmarish magic-lantern show. The… the precision, if you will, the fanatical craftsmanship, was diabolical.

  “Despite my shock, and despite being almost dazed with fear, there was still a small part of my brain that—as I stared around, wide-eyed, in the glow of the lantern—could not help but wonder how long this had been going on; how many children over how many years had contributed their teeth to this dreadful work? Old Dufour must have been very, very old indeed to have accumulated so
many teeth.

  “My father, with excruciating slowness, walked the length of the four walls in that room, his lantern extended, peering at the tooth-work. Why he felt the need to see it all, to examine it, I do not know. It was all I could do not to shut my own eyes against the abominable sight.

  “Without conscious thought, I was somehow walking backward in my horror, and I lost my footing; my hand went back instinctively to keep myself upright. It touched the wall… and I received a dreadful sensation of cold, hard unevenness. With a cry, I yanked my hand away from the sharp nubbins of teeth, almost as if I had burned it, and once again stumbled forward, gasping with fear.”

  Pendergast stopped. His breathing, which had accelerated during this last recitation, eventually slowed again. In time, he continued.

  “My father turned to me, and I saw a strange, hollow look in his face. ‘Go outside to the street,’ he said. ‘I must search for Everett.’

  “But I didn’t obey. I was terrified to leave him. As he turned to pass through a doorway in the back of the room, I followed at a sudden run. He ignored me, continuing along a dark passageway, his revolver at the ready. We came to a kitchen, all tile and marble surfaces, but there was nothing here beyond rat droppings and mold. The shabby living room, the sofas and chairs burrowed into by rodents, likewise showed no sign of either my uncle or Maurus Dufour.

  “But in the very back of the house, in a small room that opened to what once was a garden, we found… a workshop. There was a dentist’s chair there, an antique from the late nineteenth century, of darkened wood, cracked leather, and polished brass, the seat gnawed by rats, the stuffing protruding. On an old brass steel tray beside it, we found an array of rusty dental instruments with bone handles.