hand.”
D’Agosta winced. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I’m going to play a hunch.” Opening the glass-stoppered bottles, Pendergast poured a selection of different powders into
the test tubes. Then, using the forceps, he pulled bits of mane from the reddish tuft and dropped a few strands carefully
into each tube in turn. Finally, he pulled a small brown bottle from the bag, its top sealed with a rubber eyedropper. He
unscrewed the eyedropper from the bottle and let several drops of clear liquid fall into each tube. There was no obvious reaction
in the first four test tubes. But in the fifth, the liquid immediately turned a pale green, the color of green tea. Pendergast
stared intently at this tube for a moment. Then, using a pipette, he removed a small sample of the liquid and applied it to
a small strip of paper he took from the bag.
“A pH of three point seven,” he said, examining the strip of paper. “Precisely the kind of mild acid required to release the
lawsone molecules from the leaf.”
“The leaf of what?” D’Agosta asked. “What is it?”
Pendergast glanced from the strip of paper to him and back again. “I could do further tests, but there seems little point.
The mane of the lion that killed my wife had been treated with molecules originally from the plant
Lawsonia inermis
. More commonly known as henna.”
“Henna?” D’Agosta repeated. “You mean the mane was
dyed
red?”
“Precisely.” And Pendergast looked up again. “Proctor will drive you home. I can spare you three hours to make the necessary
arrangements—not a minute more.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Vincent,
we’re headed for Africa
.”
8
D ’AGOSTA STOOD, A LITTLE UNCERTAINLY, IN THE hallway of the tidy two-bedroom he shared with Laura Hayward. It was technically her apartment, but recently he’d finally
begun splitting the rent with her. Just getting her to concede to that had taken months. Now he fervently hoped this sudden
turn of events wouldn’t undo all the hard work he’d put into repairing their relationship.
He stared through the doorway into the master bedroom. Hayward was sitting up in bed, delicious looking despite having been
roused from a sound sleep a quarter of an hour earlier. The clock on the dresser read ten minutes to six. Remarkable, how
his whole life had been turned upside down in just ninety minutes.
She returned his look, her expression unreadable. “So that’s it?” she said. “Pendergast arrives out of nowhere with some crazy
story, and, wham, you’re going to let him spirit you off?”
“Laura, he’s just found out his wife was murdered. He feels I’m the only one who can help him do this.”
“Help? What about helping yourself? You know, you’re still pulling yourself out of the hole you got in over the Diogenes case—a
hole that, by the way, Pendergast dug for you.”
“He’s my friend,” D’Agosta replied. It sounded lame even to his own ears.
“This is unbelievable.” She shook out her long black hair. “When I go to sleep, you’re called out on a routine homicide. Now
I wake up to find you packing for a trip—and you can’t even tell me when you’ll be back?”
“Honey, it won’t be that long. My job here is important to me, too.”
“And me? What about me? The job isn’t the only thing you’re walking out on here.”
D’Agosta stepped into the room, sat down on the edge of the bed. “I swore I’d never lie to you, ever again. That’s why I’m
telling you everything. Look—you’re the most important thing in my life.” He took a breath. “If you tell me to stay, I’ll
stay.”
For a minute, she just stared back at him. Then her expression softened and she shook her head. “You know I can’t do that.
I couldn’t put myself between you and this—this
task
.”
He took her hand. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. And I’ll call you every day.”
With a fingertip she tucked a
D’Agosta winced. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I’m going to play a hunch.” Opening the glass-stoppered bottles, Pendergast poured a selection of different powders into
the test tubes. Then, using the forceps, he pulled bits of mane from the reddish tuft and dropped a few strands carefully
into each tube in turn. Finally, he pulled a small brown bottle from the bag, its top sealed with a rubber eyedropper. He
unscrewed the eyedropper from the bottle and let several drops of clear liquid fall into each tube. There was no obvious reaction
in the first four test tubes. But in the fifth, the liquid immediately turned a pale green, the color of green tea. Pendergast
stared intently at this tube for a moment. Then, using a pipette, he removed a small sample of the liquid and applied it to
a small strip of paper he took from the bag.
“A pH of three point seven,” he said, examining the strip of paper. “Precisely the kind of mild acid required to release the
lawsone molecules from the leaf.”
“The leaf of what?” D’Agosta asked. “What is it?”
Pendergast glanced from the strip of paper to him and back again. “I could do further tests, but there seems little point.
The mane of the lion that killed my wife had been treated with molecules originally from the plant
Lawsonia inermis
. More commonly known as henna.”
“Henna?” D’Agosta repeated. “You mean the mane was
dyed
red?”
“Precisely.” And Pendergast looked up again. “Proctor will drive you home. I can spare you three hours to make the necessary
arrangements—not a minute more.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Vincent,
we’re headed for Africa
.”
8
D ’AGOSTA STOOD, A LITTLE UNCERTAINLY, IN THE hallway of the tidy two-bedroom he shared with Laura Hayward. It was technically her apartment, but recently he’d finally
begun splitting the rent with her. Just getting her to concede to that had taken months. Now he fervently hoped this sudden
turn of events wouldn’t undo all the hard work he’d put into repairing their relationship.
He stared through the doorway into the master bedroom. Hayward was sitting up in bed, delicious looking despite having been
roused from a sound sleep a quarter of an hour earlier. The clock on the dresser read ten minutes to six. Remarkable, how
his whole life had been turned upside down in just ninety minutes.
She returned his look, her expression unreadable. “So that’s it?” she said. “Pendergast arrives out of nowhere with some crazy
story, and, wham, you’re going to let him spirit you off?”
“Laura, he’s just found out his wife was murdered. He feels I’m the only one who can help him do this.”
“Help? What about helping yourself? You know, you’re still pulling yourself out of the hole you got in over the Diogenes case—a
hole that, by the way, Pendergast dug for you.”
“He’s my friend,” D’Agosta replied. It sounded lame even to his own ears.
“This is unbelievable.” She shook out her long black hair. “When I go to sleep, you’re called out on a routine homicide. Now
I wake up to find you packing for a trip—and you can’t even tell me when you’ll be back?”
“Honey, it won’t be that long. My job here is important to me, too.”
“And me? What about me? The job isn’t the only thing you’re walking out on here.”
D’Agosta stepped into the room, sat down on the edge of the bed. “I swore I’d never lie to you, ever again. That’s why I’m
telling you everything. Look—you’re the most important thing in my life.” He took a breath. “If you tell me to stay, I’ll
stay.”
For a minute, she just stared back at him. Then her expression softened and she shook her head. “You know I can’t do that.
I couldn’t put myself between you and this—this
task
.”
He took her hand. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. And I’ll call you every day.”
With a fingertip she tucked a
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