“ ‘To a Child, Upon Losing His First Tooth,’ ” Pendergast murmured.

“That’s the one. But after the lion attack — zip.” Mime hesitated. “And that usually means only one thing.”

“Yes, Mime,” Pendergast said. “Thank you.” He thought for a moment. “You mentioned school records and medical evaluations. Did you come across anything unusual — anything at all? Something that perhaps struck you as strange or out of place?”

“No. She was the picture of health. But then, you must have known that. And she seems to have been a good student. Decent grades in high school, excellent grades in college. Did well as far back as elementary school, in fact — which is surprising, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Well, that she spoke no English.”

Pendergast rose slowly out of his chair. “What?”

“You didn’t know? It’s right here.” Mime wheeled himself back to the keyboard, typed rapidly. An image came onto the screen: a transcript of some kind, typed on a manual typewriter, with handwritten notations at the bottom.

“The Maine Department of Education digitized all its old records a few years back,” Mime explained. “See the notation here, attached to Helen Esterhazy’s second-grade report card.” He leaned toward the screen, quoted: “ ‘Considering that Helen immigrated to the United States in the middle of last year as a native Portuguese speaker with no English, her progress at school, and her growing command of the language, have been impressive.’ ”

Pendergast came forward, glanced at the scanned image himself, a look of pure astonishment on his face. Then he straightened up, mastering the expression. “Just one other thing.”

“What is it, Secret Agent Man?”

“I’d like you to access the University of Texas database and make a correction to their records. One Frederick Galusha is reported as having left college his senior year, before graduation. The records should show that he graduated, cum laude.”

“Piece of cake. But why cum laude? I’ll make him summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, for just a dollar more.”

“Cum laude will be sufficient.” Pendergast inclined his head. “And make sure he gets all the course credits he needs to make his record consistent. I’ll see myself out.”

“Righteous. Remember: no more surprise visits. And please don’t forget to reset anything you may have disabled on your way in.”

As Pendergast turned to go, the figure calling himself Mime spoke again. “Hey, Pendergast?”

The agent glanced back.

“Just one thing. Esterhazy is a Hungarian name.”

“Indeed.”

He scratched his neck. “So how come her native language was Portuguese?”

But when he looked up he was speaking to an empty doorway. Pendergast had already vanished.

New York City

AS JUDSON ESTERHAZY STEPPED OUT OF THE TAXI, he glanced up at the oppressive stone canyons of Lower Manhattan before retrieving his leather briefcase and paying the cabbie. He walked across the narrow sidewalk, smoothing his tie, his step measured and confident, and disappeared into the low-ceilinged lobby of the New York City Department of Health.

It felt good to be wearing a suit again, even if he was still deep undercover. And it felt even better to be on the offensive, to be doing something other than just running. The fear and uncertainty that had been eating away at him were almost gone, replaced — after an initial period of knee-jerk panic — with a clear and decisive plan. One that would solve his Pendergast problem once and for all. But just as important, his plan satisfied them. They were going to help him. Finally.

You get to a man through his bitch.

Excellent advice, if rather crudely expressed. And finding the “bitch” had been easier than Esterhazy had hoped. The next challenge was to find a way to access said bitch.

Walking over to the building’s directory, he noted that the Division of Mental Hygiene was located on the seventh floor. He stepped up to a bank of elevators, entered a waiting car, and pressed the button marked “7.” The doors slid shut and he began to ascend.

His knowledge of medical databases had proven invaluable. In the end, it had taken only a few hits to get the information he needed, and from that to form the plan of attack. The first hit had been an involuntary commitment proceeding in which Pendergast had been called as an interested person but — perversely — elected not to appear. The second had been a paper by one Dr. Felder, not yet published but submitted to the medical community for peer review, about a most interesting case, temporarily incarcerated in the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women but due for transfer to Mount Mercy Hospital. While the identity of the patient had of course been withheld, given the commitment proceedings it was a trivial matter to determine her identity.

Exiting the elevator, Esterhazy asked directions to the office of Dr. John Felder. The psychiatrist was at work in his neat and diminutive office, and he rose as Esterhazy entered. He was as small as his office, neatly dressed, with short mouse-colored hair and a trim Van Dyke beard.

“Dr. Poole?” he said, extending his hand.

“Dr. Felder,” Esterhazy said, shaking the proffered hand. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said Felder, waving his guest to an empty chair. “To meet someone with prior experience treating Constance is an unexpected boon to my work.”

To my work. It was exactly as Esterhazy had figured. He glanced around the impersonal office, at the textbooks and studiously neutral paintings. From his own observations, it was clear that being a court-appointed psychiatrist must be a pretty thankless job. Half the patients one saw were run-of-the-mill sociopaths; the other half were faking symptoms in order to beat a rap. Esterhazy had gotten a strong whiff of Felder’s aspirations just by reading the peer-review version of his paper: here was a case one could sink one’s teeth into, perhaps even make one’s career on. He was clearly a trusting fellow, eager, open, and, like many intelligent people, a bit naive. A perfect mark.

Even so, he had to plot his course with care. Any hint of his own true ignorance of the patient and the case would immediately arouse suspicion. The trick would be to twist that ignorance to his own advantage.

He waved a hand. “Hers is a unique presentation, at least in my experience. I was delighted to see your paper, because not only is this an interesting case, but I think it could be an important one. Perhaps even a benchmark. Although I myself have no interest in publication — my interests lie elsewhere.”

Felder simply nodded his understanding, yet Esterhazy saw a brief glimmer of relief in the psychiatrist’s eyes. It was important Felder realize his guest was no threat to his ambitions.

“How many times have you spoken with Constance?” Esterhazy asked.

“I’ve had four consultations so far.”

“And has she manifested amnesia yet?”

Felder frowned. “No. Not at all.”

“It was the part of her treatment that I found most challenging. I would complete a session with her, feeling that I had made progress in addressing some of her more dangerous delusions. But when I returned for the next session, I found that she retained absolutely no memory of the previous visit. Indeed, she claimed not to remember me at all.”

Felder tented his fingers. “How odd. In my experience, her memory has been excellent.”

“Interesting. The amnesia is both dissociative and lacunar.”

Felder began taking notes.

“What I find most interesting is that there are strong indications that this may be a rare case of dissociative fugue.”

“Which might explain, for example, the ocean voyage?” Felder was still writing.

“Exactly — as well as the inexplicable outburst of violence. Which is why, Dr. Felder, I termed this case unique. I think we have a chance—you have a chance — to substantially advance medical knowledge here.”