Cold Vengeance (13 page)

C
HAPTER 25

Edinburgh, Scotland

Y
OU MAY PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON NOW
, Mr. Pendergast.” The elderly doctor replaced his tools in the worn Gladstone bag, one by one, with fussy, precise movements: stethoscope, blood pressure monitor, otoscope, penlight, ophthalmoscope, portable EKG monitor. Closing up the bag, the man looked around the luxurious hotel suite, then fixed his disapproving gaze once more upon Pendergast. “The wound has healed badly.”

“Yes, I know. The recuperative conditions were… less than ideal.”

The doctor hesitated. “That wound was clearly inflicted by a bullet.”

“Indeed.” Pendergast buttoned his white shirt, then slipped into a silk dressing gown of a muted paisley pattern. “A hunting accident.”

“Such accidents have to be reported, you know.”

“Thank you, the authorities know all that is necessary.”

The doctor’s frown deepened. “You are still in a considerably weakened state. Anemia is quite pronounced, and bradycardia is present. I would recommend at least two weeks’ bed rest, preferably in hospital.”

“I appreciate your diagnosis, Doctor, and will take it under advisement. Now if you could please provide me with a report of my vital signs, along with the EKG readout, I will be happy to attend to your bill.”

Five minutes later, the doctor left the suite, closing the door softly behind him. Pendergast washed his hands in the bathroom sink, then went to the telephone.

“Yes, Mr. Pendergast, how can I be of service?”

“Please have a setup delivered to my suite. Old Raj gin and Noilly Prat. Lemon.”

“Very good, sir.”

Pendergast hung up the phone, walked into the living room, opened the set of glass doors, and stepped out onto the small terrace. The hum of the city rose to meet him. It was a cool evening; below, on Princes Street, several cabs were idling at the hotel entrance, and a lorry went trundling past. Travelers were streaming into Waverly Station. Pendergast raised his gaze over the Old Town toward the sprawling, sand-colored bulk of Edinburgh Castle, ablaze with light, framed against the purple glow of sunset.

There was a knock, then the door to the suite opened. A uniformed valet entered with a silver tray containing glasses, ice, a shaker, a small dish of lemon peels, and two bottles.

“Thank you,” Pendergast said, stepping in from the terrace and pressing a bill into his hand.

“My pleasure, sir.”

The valet left. Pendergast filled the shaker with ice, then poured in several fingers of gin and a dash of vermouth. He shook the mixture for sixty seconds, then strained it into one of the glasses and pinched in a zest of lemon. He took the drink back onto the patio, sat down in one of the chairs, and fell into deep thought.

An hour passed. Pendergast refilled the drink, returned to the patio, and sat again—motionless—another hour. Then at last he drained the glass, plucked a cell phone from his pocket, and dialed.

It rang several times before a sleepy voice answered. “D’Agosta.”

“Hello, Vincent.”

“Pendergast?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?” The voice was instantly alert.

“The Balmoral Hotel, Edinburgh.”

“How’s your health?”

“As good as can be expected.”

“And Esterhazy—what’s happened to him?”

“He managed to slip from my grasp.”

“Jesus. How?”

“The details aren’t important. Suffice to say that even the best-laid plans can fall victim to circumstance.”

“Where is he now?”

“In midair. On an international flight.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because a van he stole was found parked on a service road outside the Edinburgh airport.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“Good. So his plane hasn’t landed yet. Tell me where the son of a bitch is headed and I’ll have a welcoming committee waiting for him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not? Don’t tell me you’re just going to let him go.”

“It isn’t that. I’ve already checked with immigration and passport control. There’s no record of a Judson Esterhazy leaving Scotland. Hundreds of other Americans, yes, but no Judson.”

“Well then, that abandoned van was just a ruse. He’s still holed up somewhere over there.”

“No, Vincent—I’ve thought this thing through from every conceivable angle. He has definitely fled the country, probably for the United States.”

“How the hell can he do that without going through passport control?”

“After the inquest, Esterhazy made a big show of leaving Scotland. Passport control has a record of the date and the flight number. But they have no record of him coming
back
into Scotland—although we both know that he did.”

“That isn’t possible—not with airport security the way it is these days.”

“It’s possible if you’re using a false passport.”

“A false passport?”

“He must have procured one back in the States, when he returned after the inquest.”

There was a brief pause. “It’s virtually impossible to fake a U.S. passport these days. There’s got to be another explanation.”

“There isn’t. He has a fake passport—which I find deeply troubling.”

“He can’t hide. We’ll put the dogs on him.”

“He now knows I’m still alive and most eager to catch up with him. Therefore, he’ll go to ground. Searching for him, in the short term, is pointless. He’s clearly had some professional help. And so my investigation must proceed along a different course.”

“Yeah? And what course is that?”

“I must discover the whereabouts of my wife on my own.”

This was greeted by another, longer pause. “Um, Pendergast… I’m sorry, but you know where your wife is. In the family plot.”

“No, Vincent. Helen is alive. I’m as sure about that as I’ve ever been about anything in my life.”

D’Agosta gave an audible sigh. “Don’t let him do this to you. Can’t you see what’s happening? He knows how much she meant to you. He
knows
you’d give anything, do anything, to get her back. He’s messing with you—for his own sadistic reasons.”

When Pendergast did not reply, D’Agosta swore under his breath. “I suppose this means you’re not in hiding anymore.”

“There’s no longer any point. However, I’m still planning to operate under the radar for the foreseeable future. No reason to telegraph my moves.”

“Anything I can do to help? From this end?”

“You can look in on Constance at Mount Mercy Hospital for me. Make sure she wants for nothing.”

“You got it. And you? What’ll you do next?”

“It’s as I told you. I’m going to find my wife.” And with that, Pendergast rang off.

C
HAPTER 26

Bangor, Maine

H
E HAD CLEARED CUSTOMS AND RETRIEVED HIS BAGS
without incident. And yet Judson Esterhazy couldn’t get up the nerve to leave baggage claim. He remained seated in the last seat of a bank of molded plastic chairs, nervously scanning the face of everyone who passed. Bangor, Maine, had the most obscure international airport in the country. And Esterhazy had changed planes twice—first in Shannon, and then in Quebec—in the hope of muddying his trail, frustrating Pendergast’s pursuit.

A man sat down heavily beside him, and Esterhazy turned suspiciously. But the traveler weighed close to three hundred pounds, and not even Pendergast could have duplicated the way the man’s adipose tissue bulged around his waistband. Esterhazy turned back to the faces of the people passing by. Pendergast could easily be among them. Or, with his FBI credentials, he could be in some security office nearby, watching him on a closed-circuit monitor. Or he could be parked outside Esterhazy’s Savannah house. Or even worse, waiting inside, in the den.

The ambush in Scotland had scared the living shit out of him. Once again, he felt blind panic wash over him, mingling with rage. All these years of covering his tracks, of being so very careful… and now Pendergast was undoing it all. The FBI agent had no idea how big a Pandora’s box he was prying open. Once
they
stepped in… He felt mercilessly squeezed between Pendergast on one side, and the Covenant on the other.

Gasping, tugging at his collar, he fought back the panic. He could handle this. He had the intelligence, he had the wherewithal. Pendergast wasn’t invincible. There had to be some way for him to handle this himself. He would hide; he would bury himself deep, give himself time to think.

But what place was too remote, too obscure, for Pendergast to find? And even if he did hunker down in some remote backwater, he couldn’t go on living in fear, year after year, like Slade and the Brodies.

The Brodies.
He’d read in the paper about their ghastly deaths. No doubt they’d been discovered by the Covenant. It was a dreadful shock—but really, he should have expected it. June Brodie hadn’t known the half of what she’d been involved in—what he and Charles Slade had involved her in. If she had, she’d never have emerged from that swamp. Amazing that Slade, even in all his craziness and decline, had never betrayed the one, central, all-important secret.

In that moment of fear and desperation Esterhazy finally realized what he had to do. There was one answer—only one. He couldn’t go it alone. With Pendergast on the rampage, he needed that last resort. He had to contact the Covenant, quickly,
proactively
. It would be far more dangerous if he didn’t tell them, if they found out what was going on in some other way. He had to be seen as cooperative. Trustworthy. Even if it meant putting himself once again fully in their power.

Yes: the more he thought of what he had to do, the more inevitable it became. This way he could control what information they received, withhold the facts they could never be allowed to learn. And if he placed himself under their protection, Pendergast would be powerless to hurt him. In fact, if he could convince them Pendergast was a threat, then even the FBI agent, with all his wiles, would be as good as dead. And his secret would remain safe.

With this decision came a small sense of relief.

He looked around once more, scrutinizing each face. Then, rising and picking up his bags, he strode out of the baggage claim area to the taxi stand. There were several cabs idling: good.

He went to the fourth cab in line, leaned in the open passenger window. “You far into your shift?” he asked.

The cabbie shook his head. “The night’s young, buddy.”

Esterhazy opened the rear door, threw his bags in, and ducked in after them. “Take me to Boston, please.”

The man stared into the rearview mirror. “Boston?”

“Back Bay, Copley Square.” Esterhazy dug into his pocket, dropped a few hundreds in the man’s lap. “That’s a starter. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Whatever you say, mister.” And putting the taxi in gear, the driver nosed out of the waiting line and drove off into the night.

C
HAPTER 27

Ezerville, Mississippi

N
ED
B
ETTERTON LOOKED BOTH WAYS, THEN CROSSED
the wide and dusty expanse of Main Street, a white paper bag in one hand and two cans of diet soda in the other. A beat-up Chevy Impala was idling at the curb outside Della’s Launderette. Walking around its hood, Betterton got into the passenger seat. A short and muscular man sat behind the wheel. He wore dark glasses and a faded baseball cap.

“Hey, Jack,” said Betterton.

“Hey, yourself,” came the reply.

Betterton handed the man a soda, then fished inside the paper bag, bringing out a sandwich wrapped in butcher’s paper. “Crawfish po’boy with rémoulade, hold the lettuce. Just like you ordered.” He passed it over to the driver, then reached into the bag again and brought out his own lunch: a massive meatball Parmesan sandwich.

“Thanks,” said his companion.

“No problem.” Betterton took a bite of his sandwich. He was famished. “What’s the latest with our boys in blue?” he mumbled through the meatballs.

“Pogie’s chewing everybody out again.”

“Again? What’s eating the chief this time?”

“Maybe his midnight ass is acting up.”

Betterton chuckled, took another bite.
Midnight ass
was cop lingo for “hemorrhoids,” an all-too-common complaint among officers who sat in cars for hours at a time.

“So,” Betterton said. “What can you tell me about the Brodie killings?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. I bought you lunch.”

“I
said
, thanks. A free lunch isn’t worth a pink slip.”

“That’s not going to happen. You know I’d never write anything that could come back to haunt you. I just want to know the real dope.”

The man named Jack scowled. “Just because we used to be neighbors, you think you can hit me up for all your leads.”

Betterton tried to look hurt. “Come on, that’s not true. You’re my friend, you want me to turn in a good story.”

“You’re my friend—you should think more of keeping me out of hot water. Besides, I don’t know any more than you do.”

Betterton took another bite. “Bull.”

“It’s basically true. The thing’s too big for us, they’ve brought in the state boys, even a homicide squad all the way from Jackson. We’ve been cut out.”

The journalist thought a moment. “Look, all I know is that the husband and wife—the couple I interviewed not so long ago—were brutally murdered. You’ve got to have more information than that.”

The man behind the wheel sighed. “They know it wasn’t a robbery. Nothing was taken. And they know it wasn’t anybody local.”

“How do they know that?” Betterton mumbled through a huge bite of meatball.

“Because nobody local would do this.” The man reached into a folder at the side of his seat, pulled out an eight-by-ten color glossy, and handed it over. “And I didn’t show this to you.”

Betterton took a look at the scene-of-crime photo. The color drained from his face. His chewing slowed, then stopped. And then, quite deliberately, he opened the car door and spat the mouthful into the gutter.

The driver shook his head. “Nice.”

Betterton handed the photo back without looking at it again. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Oh, my God,” he said huskily.

“Get the idea?”

“Oh, my God,” Betterton repeated. His mighty hunger had vanished.

“Now you know all I know,” the cop said, finishing his po’boy and licking his fingers. “Oh, except one thing—we don’t have anything even remotely like a lead on this. The crime scene was clean. A professional job the likes of which we just don’t see around here.”

Betterton didn’t reply.

The man glanced over, eyed the half-eaten remains of the meatball sandwich. “You going to eat that?”