Constance gazed into the dark. She was tied up and gagged. Still, she felt kind of comfortable. Her hands were not tied together with a rope or some handcuffs, rather with a tape of silk. So was her mouth. She noticed she wasn't lying on the floor or another hard surface, but on something that felt soft and comfortable. After quite a while she realized that it was a couch.

Diogenes, after all, a gentleman?

Stop it, she told herself. He is nothing like a gentleman.

All of the memories, emotions and pain flowed up to the surface again.

"He almost made me kill myself. He made me believe that Aloysius, apart from Leng one of the very few persons that had truly loved me, was a liar, that Aloysius didn't think I was trustworthy. That he didn't love me at all. The only person that had betrayed me like no one else is Diogenes himself. He made me believe that I wasn't loved by anyone, misunderstood and locked up at home, never meant to see the world out there and that he was the only man who saw me the way I actually was… who loved me the way I was. But he had lied. I never had been important to him. He has only used me to hurt Aloysius. He has killed him tonight.

Riverside Drive, 5 am

Vincent D'Agosta looked down onto his mobile phone. He read the message again. Sent from an unknown number.

Pendergast might be needing your help. Better hurry up. Riverside Drive. Adonis.

He had gripped his gun immediately and jumped out of bed as he had received the text. If Pendergast really was needing his help and this wasn't just a bad joke, then it was a serious situation. Pendergast almost never needed help. He was standing in front of Riverside Drive 891, looking up the façade. The old mansion was making a pleasant black contrast to the sky that was enchanted with the light of the sunrise over East River. D'Agosta rang the doorbell. No response. Usually, the door opened within seconds. Also, there were no sounds to be heard from inside.

"Pendergast?", D'Agosta yelled. "Can you hear me?"

Pendergast never was sleeping at this time, he should be awake to hear him.

D'Agosta sneaked around the house, realizing it hadn't been that bit of a good idea to shout into an empty house without even knowing who was in there. Except Pendergast and Constance of course. As he got to the rear entrance, he tried to open the door, but it was locked from inside. With a heavy kick he made it fly open and crash against the wall behind.

Oh, stupid, stupid! He really had to be more quiet. D'Agosta sneaked up the stairway, trying to be as silent as possible. Just the creaking of the stairs under his weight. He was breathing slowly, trying to hold his breath as long as possible and releasing it quietly. Another step. Breathing in. He almost started coughing.

Damn that dust, he thought.

"Pendergast?", he whispered. No response. Again. "Pendergast!", louder this time. Still, no one answered.

He took a look into the seating and living room. Nothing. He checked the library. Nobody. After a few minutes there was nothing left except Pendergast's bedroom. The only room Pendergast had told D'Agosta not to enter. What should he do? Respect Pendergast's privacy or make sure he was alright? D'Agosta went for the last option. He pushed the door open and entered the room. The walls were almost blank, only a few things to be spotted. Two incredibly beautiful paintings, one of them showing a hunting scene, the other one a bridge over a river, dark clouds on the sky. The paintings were matching each other in a strange kind of way. In a bookshelf there were standing a few books like Hamlet, William Tell and other boring stuff D'Agosta didn't even know about. To his vast surprise, he spotted Smithback's Relic. The very first edition, released 1995. And – all of D'Agosta's books. All of them. Not just one or two, but all eight titles he had published throughout two years as he had stopped working for the police.

On the shelf, there was an old, blemished photograph, showing a very much younger Pendergast as he kissed a beautiful, red-brown haired woman. Both of them had their eyes closed and D'Agosta even fancied a soft smile on Pendergast's face. Helen.

Near that photograph, D'Agosta noticed something he had no idea about what it could be. A carefully carved, wooden crucifix. D'Agosta would have had considered it as beautiful, if there wouldn't have been this little detail that made him shudder. The crucifix was stained with blood. Very old blood, at least twenty years. Above the crucifix, there was a note, written on a yellow piece of paper, old and almost falling apart. D'Agosta could barely read it. It wasn't Pendergast's handwriting, it was too rush to be his.

Long live Incitatus.

D'Agosta turned to his right. The large bed was blocking most of his view. He took one, two careful steps, hand on his gun.

Oh my god.

"Pendergast!". A soft moan. So quiet that D'Agosta wasn't even sure he had actually heard it.

"Vince – ". Coughing. "Vincent?"

Pendergast was lying on the floor, in his usual white shirt that now seemed to be rather crimson. His hair was soaked with blood, a small trickle of blood running out of his mouth angle.

"Shit, Pendergast!", D'Agosta shouted. "What happened? Who – "

Pendergast just shook his head. "Lethal poison, appearing in a few minutes", he gasped.

"No…"

"Diogenes."

D'Agosta couldn't believe it.

"I thought he was dead?", he asked.

"Started sending me messages a few weeks ago. Vincent, we are wasting time. I need you to find Constance, since I – ". He coughed again. This time, blood spattered on the floor.

D'Agosta shook his head. This couldn't be. "He must have left a note how to – he wouldn't – "

"He definitely would. Actually I thought he never wanted me to die. Something changed. He doesn't want to take revenge only on me, but also on Constance. So he lets me die with the awareness that I will never see her again and keeps her alive with the conviction that I am dead.

He's filled with rage; he wants to destroy everyone that ever caused him any pain. Which would be mainly Constance and me – ". He coughed again and had to stop talking for a moment. As he continued, his voice was constrained from pain. "He isn't just poking anymore. He doesn't want me to suffer. He wants me to die".

D'Agosta shook his head. "He sent me a message on my phone… well, at least I think that it was him… It said: Pendergast might be needing your help. Better hurry up. Riverside drive. Adonis. Adonis, Pendergast… what does he mean with that? Is it a hint?".

Pendergast was starting to become unconscious, but as he heard the last words, D'Agosta saw a bit of strength appearing in Pendergast's eyes again. And it was obviously enough to put Pendergast up to his feet. The agent supported on the wooden nightstand and moved over to a drawer besides the door.

He pulled out a syringe and without hesitating, injected the content into his left arm. Pendergast stood still for a moment, then swayed and was about to collapse on the floor. D'Agosta rushed over and reached for Pendergast's arm to support him. Pendergast kept his eyes closed, saying noting, not making a single noise. After a few seconds, his face relaxed and his eyes opened.

"What the actual- ".

"I'm alright… It worked".