Cold Vengeance

by Douglas Preston

  “You’re Robert Grant, correct?”

  “Aye, sir,” the wizened old man replied.

  “How long have you been gamekeeper at Kilchurn?”

  “Going on thirty-five years, sir.”

  At Ainslie’s request, Grant described in detail the trek to the site of the accident and the death of the search dog.

  “How common is it for hunters from your lodge to venture into the Foulmire?”

  “Common? It isnae common. It’s agin the rules.”

  “So Pendergast and Dr. Esterhazy here violated those rules.”

  “That they did.”

  Balfour could see Esterhazy stirring uncomfortably at this.

  “Such behavior signals a lack of judgment. Why did you let them go out on their own?”

  “Because I recalled them from before.”

  “Go on.”

  “The pair of them were here once, some ten, twelve years back. I took them out meself, I did. Bloody good shots, knew exactly what they were doing, especially Dr. Esterhazy here.” Grant nodded in the doctor’s direction. “If I couldna vouch for that myself I’d never have let them out without a guide.”

  Balfour sat up in his seat. He’d known that Pendergast and Esterhazy had hunted at Kilchurn before, of course—Esterhazy had mentioned as much in one of the interrogation sessions—but the fact that Grant had taken them out and could vouch for Esterhazy’s being an excellent shot was news to him. Esterhazy had always played down his skill. Balfour cursed himself for not having discovered this nugget on his own.

  Next, it was his own turn to speak. Balfour described his arrival at the lodge; Esterhazy’s emotional state; the search for the body and the dragging of the pool; and the subsequent fruitless search of the moors and surrounding hamlets for any sign of a body. He spoke slowly and carefully. Ainslie listened intently, interrupting only infrequently with questions.

  When he was done, Ainslie peered about. “And in the ten days since the shooting was reported,” he said, “the police have continued their searches?”

  “That is correct,” Balfour replied. “We dragged the pool not once, but twice, and then a third and fourth time. We also dragged the surrounding pools. We used bloodhounds to try to pick up a trail from the accident scene. They found no trace, although to be sure there had been very heavy rains.”

  “So,” said Ainslie, “you have found no independent evidence Pendergast is dead, nor any evidence he is still alive. Is that correct?”

  “Correct. We did not recover his body or any personal effects, including his rifle.”

  “Inspector,” Ainslie said, “have you found Dr. Esterhazy to be cooperative in this matter?”

  “For the most part, yes. Although he describes his shooting skills rather differently than Mr. Grant.”

  “And how does Dr. Esterhazy describe his shooting abilities?”

  “He calls himself inexperienced.”

  “Have his actions and statements corresponded to those of a person responsible for such an egregious accident?”

  “So far as I have seen, yes.” Balfour, despite all, had not been able to put his finger on a single thing in Esterhazy’s actions that was inconsistent with shame, grief, and self-blame.

  “Would you say he can be considered a reliable and competent witness to these events?”

  Balfour hesitated. “I would say that nothing we’ve found to date has in any way disagreed with his statements.”

  The coroner seemed to consider this a moment. “Thank you, Inspector.”

  Next to speak was Esterhazy himself. In the ten days since the shooting, he had regained a good measure of composure, although a faintly haggard look of anxiety seemed to have deepened about him. His voice was steady, earnest, and low. He spoke of his friendship with Pendergast, which started when his sister married the FBI agent. He briefly mentioned her shocking death in the jaws of a man-eating lion, which elicited audible gasps from the audience. And then—at the gentle prodding of the coroner—he talked about the events leading up to Pendergast’s death: the hunt on the moors; the discussion of which stag to try for; the stalking on the Foulmire; the rising fog; his own disorientation; the sudden, bounding entrance of the stag and his instinctive shooting; the frantic attempt to rescue his former brother-in-law; and the man’s sinking into the quickmire. As Esterhazy spoke of these last events, and of his desperate trek back to Kilchurn Lodge, his veneer of calm broke and he became visibly upset, his voice cracking. The onlookers shook their heads, clearly moved and sympathetic. Ainslie’s face, Balfour noted with approval, remained as mournfully skeptical as always. He had a few questions about minor particulars—the timing of certain events, Esterhazy’s medical opinion of Pendergast’s wound—but beyond that, nothing. Esterhazy’s testimony was over in fifteen minutes. All in all, a remarkable performance.

  Performance. Now, why had he chosen that word?

  Because, despite everything, Balfour continued to find himself deeply suspicious of Esterhazy. It was nothing he could put his finger on. All the evidence added up. But if Balfour had wanted to kill someone, and make it look like an accident, he would have gone about it precisely as Esterhazy had.

  His mind was occupied with these thoughts while a string of minor witnesses cycled through. He glanced at Esterhazy. The man had taken great pains to come across as ingenuous, frank, simple to a fault—the typical bumbling American. But he wasn’t bumbling, and he clearly wasn’t stupid. He had both a medical degree and a doctorate—Balfour had checked.

  Ainslie’s dry voice went on. “As I mentioned earlier, the purpose of this inquest is to establish if there was a death. The evidence is as follows. It is the testimony of Dr. Esterhazy that he accidentally shot Aloysius Pendergast; that in his medical opinion the wound was mortal; and that he witnessed, with his own eyes, Pendergast’s submergence in the mire. It is the testimony of Inspector Balfour and others that the scene of the accident was fully investigated, and that the scant evidence found on the site was consistent with Dr. Esterhazy’s testimony. The inspector also testified that no body or effects were recovered either from the mire or from the surrounding moorlands. It is Inspector Balfour’s further testimony that, despite an exhaustive search of the neighboring villages, no trace of Mr. Pendergast has been found, and no witnesses to either his living or dead person have come to light.”

  He glanced around the common room. “Under the circumstances, there are two possible verdicts that could be delivered consistent with the facts presented: involuntary culpable homicide, or an open verdict. Involuntary culpable homicide is adjudged to be homicide, save for the fact that the mens rea for murder is not present. An open verdict is a verdict in which the cause and circumstances of death, or in this case even the fact of death, cannot be established at the present time.”

  He paused and scoured the courtroom again with a pair of cynical eyes. “Based on the testimony and evidence presented here today, I declare an open verdict in this case.”

  “Excuse me, sir!” Balfour found that he was suddenly on his feet. “I must protest that verdict.”

  Ainslie looked toward him, frowning. “Inspector?”

  “While—” Balfour hesitated, tried to collect himself. “While the act in question may not have been murder, it was nevertheless caused by improper conduct. That argues strongly for a verdict of involuntary culpable homicide. We have Dr. Esterhazy’s own testimony to support that verdict. Negligence was clearly the overwhelming factor in this death. There isn’t a scrap of evidence the victim survived the shooting and overwhelming evidence he did not.”

  “We do have that testimony,” Ainslie said. “But let me remind you, Inspector: we have no body. We have no corroborative evidence. All we have is the statement of a single eyewitness. And thus we have no independent evidence that anyone was actually killed. Therefore, this inquest has no choice but to render an open verdict.”

  Balfour remained standing. “If there’s an open verdict, I have no legal recourse for keeping Dr.
Esterhazy in Scotland.”

  “If there is an objection,” the coroner went on, “you can always request a judicial review in divisional court.”

  A low muttering began to rise from the assembly. Balfour shot another glance at Esterhazy. There was nothing he could do.

  “If that is all,” Ainslie said, looking around sternly, “I declare this inquest to be concluded.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Inverkirkton, Scotland

  THE LONE BICYCLIST PEDALED WITH EVIDENT effort up the narrow, winding road. The black three-speed was fitted with a special rack over the rear fender, and it currently held leather panniers, kept in place with bungee cords. The rider was dressed in a dark gray windcheater and dove-colored corduroy trousers, and together with the black bicycle he formed a curiously monochromatic figure, set against the gorse and heather of the Scottish hills.

  At the top of the hill, where a series of weathered boulders reared fang-like from the green furze, the road divided at a T-intersection. Here the rider stopped, dismounted, and—by all indications grateful for the rest—pulled a map from beneath his jacket, smoothed it over the seat, and began to study it leisurely.

  But inside, Judson Esterhazy felt anything but leisurely. He had lost his appetite; it was an effort to force down food. He constantly had to fight the urge to look over his shoulder. He couldn’t sleep nights: every time he closed his eyes he saw Pendergast, mortally wounded, staring up at him from the mire, eyes glittering with implacable intensity.

  For the thousandth time he bitterly reproached himself for leaving the FBI agent in the Foulmire. He should have waited until the muck had totally consumed him. Why hadn’t he? It was those eyes; he couldn’t bear to look into those narrow silver eyes for one more second, staring back at him with the intensity of a scalpel. A pathetic and inexcusable weakness had overwhelmed him at the very moment of truth. Esterhazy knew that Pendergast was transcendentally resourceful. You have no idea—and I mean no idea—how dangerous this man Pendergast is. Hadn’t those been his very own words half a year earlier? He’s tenacious and clever. This time around he’s motivated— uniquely motivated. All Esterhazy’s careful planning—and still no real closure.

  What a curse it was not knowing.

  As he stood there beside the bicycle, pretending to regard the map, the chill damp breeze tugging at his trouser cuffs, he reminded himself that the wound was fatal—it had to be. Even if Pendergast had somehow managed to extricate himself from the mire, they should have discovered his corpse in their days and nights of careful searching. The most likely reason dragging the mire had failed was because Pendergast had somehow escaped the first mire, only to die in some thicket or get sucked down into another, distant bog.

  But he didn’t know—not for sure, and that was driving him mad. He had to learn the truth. The alternative—a lifetime of fear and paranoia—was simply not acceptable.

  After the inquest he had departed Scotland—in as high-profile a manner as he could manage, being driven to Glasgow by a disgruntled Inspector Balfour himself. Now, a week later, he was back. He’d cut his hair short and dyed it black; he was wearing thick tortoiseshell glasses; he’d purchased a high-quality stage mustache. In the unlikely event that he ran into Balfour or any of his men, the chance of being recognized was virtually nil. He was simply another American tourist, enjoying a late-year bicycle tour of the Highlands.

  Nearly three weeks had passed since the shooting. The trail, if there ever was one, was now cold. But it couldn’t be helped: before the inquest he’d been kept under close observation, prevented from making private inquiries. He’d have to move as quickly as he could now, make sure no time was wasted. He had to prove to his own satisfaction that Pendergast had not survived, had not crawled out of the Mire. If he could do that, then perhaps he could find peace.

  At last he turned his attention to the map. He located his own position; located the peak of Beinn Dearg and the Foulmire; located Cairn Barrow, the largest village of the region. With a fingertip on the spot where he’d shot Pendergast, he examined the surrounding area closely. The nearest village was Inverkirkton, about three miles from the shooting site. Besides Kilchurn Lodge, no other habitation was closer. If Pendergast had survived—if he’d gone anywhere—it would have been Inverkirkton. That’s where he would start.

  Esterhazy folded up the map and glanced down the far side of the hill. From his vantage spot, he could just make out Inverkirkton. He cleared his throat, got back on the bicycle. A moment later he was coasting eastward down the hill, the afternoon sun on his back, taking no notice of the sweet smell of heather drifting in the air.

  Inverkirkton was a clustering of well-tended buildings at a bend in the road, but it had the two things every Scottish settlement seemed to have: a pub and an inn. He wheeled up to the inn, climbed off the bike, leaned it against the whitewashed stone. Then, plucking a handkerchief from his pocket, he stepped inside.

  The small lobby was cheerfully decorated, with framed photos of Inverness and the Mull of Kintyre beside tartans and a local map. It was empty save for a man in his early sixties, evidently the innkeeper, who was standing behind a counter of polished wood, reading a newspaper. He glanced up as Esterhazy stepped in, his bright blue eyes inquisitive. Esterhazy made a show of mopping his face with the handkerchief and blowing hard. Word of the shooting would have been news in this tiny local hamlet, and Esterhazy was relieved that there was no sign of recognition in the man’s gaze.

  “Good afternoon to you,” the man said with a deep burr.

  “Afternoon,” Esterhazy replied after seeming to recover some of his breath.

  The innkeeper glanced over Esterhazy’s shoulder, where the front wheel of the bicycle was just visible through the door. “On holiday, are we?”

  Esterhazy nodded. “I’d like a room, if one’s available.”

  “Aye, one is. What might your name be, sir?”

  “Edmund Draper.” He took another series of shuddering breaths, wiped his face again with the handkerchief.

  The innkeeper hefted down a large ledger from a shelf behind him. “You seem a bit fagged, laddie.”

  Esterhazy nodded again. “Cycled here from Fraserburgh.”

  The innkeeper stopped in the act of opening the ledger. “Fraserburgh? But that’s close to forty miles—a good bit of it over mountains.”

  “I know. I found that out the hard way. It’s only my second day of vacation, and I guess I overdid it. That’s the way I am.”

  The innkeeper shook his head. “Well, all I can say is that you’ll sleep well tonight. You’d best take it easy tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have a choice.” Another pause for breath. “By the way, I saw the pub next door—I assume it serves dinner?”

  “Aye, and a fine one. And if you don’t mind I’d like to suggest the local malt, Glen—”

  The man stopped talking. Esterhazy’s face had assumed a worried, pained expression.

  “Is anything the matter?” the innkeeper asked.

  “I don’t know,” Esterhazy replied. He allowed his voice to become strained. “I’ve got this sudden pressure—pain—in my chest.”

  A look of concern crossed the other man’s face. Bustling out from behind the counter, he led Esterhazy to a small adjoining parlor and eased him into an overstuffed chair.

  “It’s shooting down my arm now… oh, God, it hurts.” Esterhazy gritted his teeth, clutched at his chest with his right hand.

  “Would you like me to get you a drink, then?” the innkeeper said, bending over him solicitously.

  “No… call for a doctor. Quickly…” And then, slumping over, Esterhazy closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 12

  New York City

  THE DRIVE LEADING UP TO THE PORTE COCHERE of 891 Riverside Drive looked a lot better than the first time D’Agosta had seen it. Back then, it had been filled with drifting trash, the surrounding ailanthus and sumac bushes dead or dying; the Beaux-Arts mansion itself had been shut
tered and covered with gang graffiti. Now the property was clean and orderly, the four-story stone structure completely restored, its mansard roof, towers, and widow’s walk returned to period condition. And yet—as D’Agosta stared at it from the carriageway—there was something cold and strangely empty about the place.

  He wasn’t sure why he was here, exactly. More than once he’d told himself to stop being paranoid, to stop acting like an old woman. But something about the visit from Corrie Swanson had stuck with him. And this time, when the impulse to stop by Pendergast’s mansion had risen yet again, he’d decided to act on it.

  He stood for a minute, catching his breath. He’d taken the number 1 train to 137th Street and walked toward the river, but even that short journey had winded him. He hated this long convalescence; hated how the gunshot wound, the pig valve replacement, the subsequent gradual recovery, had sapped him of strength. The only good thing about it was that he’d initially lost weight, but now he was gaining it back, in spades. And unable for the time being to exercise it off.

  After a few moments, he walked down the carriageway and stepped up to the oaken front door. He seized the brass knocker, gave it a stout rap.

  Silence.

  He waited a minute, then two. Nothing. He leaned in toward the door, listening, but the house was too well built for any sound to escape. He knocked a second time. What with Constance Greene in an asylum, maybe the place really was as deserted as it looked. But that made no sense—he knew Pendergast employed help both here and at the Dakota.

  There was a whisper of a key turning in well-oiled tumblers, then the massive door slowly opened. The entranceway was dimly lit, but D’Agosta could make out the features of Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur and sometime butler. Normally expressionless and imperturbable, today Proctor looked dour, almost forbidding.