“Oh, my God,” Patreaux murmured with a shudder of revulsion.
“Before the victim dies, he or she goes blind and suffers considerable agony. There’s no drug powerful enough to kill the parasite without killing the patient, so it can be said there’s no cure. It would be interesting to see how somebody like VanderKlaven and the others who knowingly profit from what he does would like being inoculated with a culture containing a strain of that parasite. After all, it would make their situation somewhat analogous to the men, women, and children with things like diphtheria or cholera who didn’t respond to the watered-down medicine administered to them.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Patreaux said in a cracked voice as he realized that this was precisely what Chant had done—or would do. As had happened so many times in the past, the Swiss found himself at once horrified and thrilled by the acts Chant was capable of. John Sinclair, he thought, might strike terror in the hearts of countless people, but it could never be said that he wasn’t extremely selective when it came to choosing his victims.
Chant rose, extended his hand across the desk. “Now I have to go back to finish up my business with VanderKlaven, Gerard. You know how much I appreciate your letting me know about Harry.”
Patreaux rose, gripped Chant’s hand firmly with both of his. “Thanks for coming, my friend; it’s made me feel better just talking to you. I hope we’ll see each other soon—under better circumstances.”
“Yes,” Chant replied evenly, staring hard into the other man’s face. “In the meantime, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”
“Chant, you know I’d do anything you ask—assuming it’s in my power.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Gerard,” Chant said with just the faintest trace of a smile, “because you’re not going to like this at all.”
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