Cold Vengeance

by Douglas Preston

  June Brodie stared at him. Her heart was now beating painfully in her breast. On the love seat, her husband moaned and shivered, clutching his ruined knee.

  “Not too long ago—shortly before you reappeared—a man named Michael Ventura was found dead in the swamp, shot, not far from Spanish Island. He was once chief of security for Longitude Pharmaceuticals. He is a person of interest to us. Would you know anything about that?”

  We know, he’d said. Of interest to us. June Brodie thought of the words the invalid Slade used to whisper, so often, with such apparent urgency: Stay secret. They can’t know we’re alive. They would come for us. Was it possible—was it remotely possible—that those weren’t, after all, the ravings of a paranoid, half-lunatic man?

  She swallowed. “No, we don’t,” she said aloud. “Spanish Island went bankrupt decades ago, it’s been shuttered and vacant since—”

  The man raised the handgun again and casually shot Carlton Brodie in the groin. Blood, matter, and body fluids gushed over the love seat. Brodie howled in agony, doubled over again, fell out of his chair and writhed on the ground.

  “All right!” June cried. “All right, all right, for the love of God stop it, please!” The words tumbled out.

  “Shut him up,” the man said, “or I’ll have to.”

  June rose and rushed over to her husband, doubled up and crying out in pain. She put a hand over his shoulder. Blood was running freely from his knee, between his legs. With an ugly gushing noise he vomited all over his trousers and shoes.

  “Talk,” said the man, still casual.

  “We were out there,” she said, almost spitting the words in her fright. “Out in the swamp. At Spanish Island.”

  “For how long?”

  “Since the fire.”

  The man frowned. “The fire at Longitude?”

  She nodded almost eagerly.

  “What were you doing out there in the swamp?”

  “Taking care of him.”

  “Him?”

  “Charles. Charles Slade.”

  For the first time, the man’s mask of calm unconcern fell away. Surprise and disbelief bloomed on his fine features. “Impossible. Slade died in the fire…” He stopped talking and his eyes widened slightly, gleaming as if in comprehension.

  “No. That fire was a setup.”

  The man looked at her and spoke sharply. “Why? To destroy evidence of the lab?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know why. Most of the lab work was done at Spanish Island.”

  Another look of surprise. June stared at her husband, who was moaning and shivering uncontrollably. He seemed to be passing out. Maybe dying. She sobbed, choked, tried to control herself. “Please…”

  “Why were you hiding there?” the man asked. His tone was disinterested, but the gleam had not left his eyes.

  “Charles got sick. He caught the avian flu. It…changed him.”

  The man nodded. “And he kept you and your husband on to look after him?”

  “Yes. Out in the swamp. Where he wouldn’t be found. Where he could work and then—when his disease got worse—where he could be taken care of.” She was almost choking with terror. The man was brutal—but if she told him everything, everything, maybe he would let them go. And she could get her husband to the hospital.

  “Who else knew about Spanish Island?”

  “Just Mike. Mike Ventura. He brought supplies, made sure we had everything we needed.”

  The man hesitated. “But Ventura is dead.”

  “He killed him,” June Brodie said.

  “Who? Who killed him?”

  “Agent Pendergast. FBI.”

  “The FBI?” For the first time, the man raised his voice perceptibly.

  “Yes. Along with a captain in the NYPD. A woman. Hayward.”

  “What did they want?”

  “The FBI agent was looking for the person who killed his wife. It had something to do with Project Aves—the secret avian flu team at Longitude… Slade had her killed. Years ago.”

  “Ah,” the man said, as if understanding something new. He paused to inspect the fingernails of his left hand. “Did the FBI agent know about Slade’s still being alive?”

  “No. Not until… Not until he got to Spanish Island and Slade revealed himself.”

  “And then what? Did this FBI agent kill Slade, as well?”

  “In a way. Slade died.”

  “Why wasn’t any of this in the news?”

  “The FBI agent wanted to let the whole thing die in the swamp.”

  “When was this?”

  “More than six months ago. March.”

  The man thought for a moment. “What else?”

  “That’s all I know. Please. I’ve told you everything. I need to help my husband. Please let us go!”

  “Everything?” the man said, the slightest tinge of skepticism in his voice.

  “Everything.” What else could there be? She’d told him about Slade, about Spanish Island, about Project Aves. There was nothing else.

  “I see.” The man looked at her for a moment. Then he lifted his gun and shot Carlton Brodie between the eyes.

  “God, no!” June felt the body jump in her arms. She screamed.

  The man slowly lowered the gun.

  “Oh, no!” June said, weeping. “Carlton!” She could feel her husband’s body slowly relaxing in her arms, a low, bellows-like sigh escaping his lungs. Blood was now coursing in regular rivulets from the back of his head, blackening the fabric of the love seat.

  “Think very carefully,” the man said. “Are you sure you’ve told me everything?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed, still cradling the body. “Everything.”

  “Very well.” The man sat still for a moment. He chuckled to himself. “Moon pie. How vile.” Then he rose, and—still moving slowly—walked toward the chair where June had been working on the nursing forms. He hovered over it, glanced down at the paperwork for a moment as he snugged the gun into his waistband. Then he picked up her half-finished bottle of Coke, poured the contents into a nearby flowerpot, and—with a sharp rap to the side of the table—broke off its mouth.

  He turned toward her, bottle held forward, at hip level. June stared at the sharp edges of the broken neck, the glass glinting in the lamplight.

  “But I’ve told you everything,” she whispered.

  “I understand,” he said, nodding sympathetically. “Yet one must be sure.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Inverkirkton

  AFTERNOON, MR. DRAPER. And a fine afternoon it is, too.”

  “Indeed it is, Robbie.”

  “Did you have a good morning’s ride, then?”

  “I did. Cycled as far as Fenkirk and back.”

  “That’s a wee distance.”

  “I wanted to take advantage of the good weather. I’ll be off in the morning.”

  “I’ll hate to lose your trade, Mr. Draper. But I figured you’d be on your way soon. Lucky to have had you this long.”

  “If you would just prepare the bill for me, I’ll square accounts.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “You’ve been very hospitable. I think I’ll go up to my room and wash up, then pop over to the Half Moon for one last bite of steak-and-kidney pudding.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Upstairs, Esterhazy washed his hands in the sink and dried them on a towel. For the first time in weeks, he felt a tremendous relief. All this time, he’d been unable to convince himself that Pendergast was dead. His search for Pendergast had developed into an obsession, consuming his waking thoughts, tormenting his dreams. But somehow, the visit to Glims Holm had—at long last—convinced him that Pendergast was dead. If the FBI agent were still alive, he’d have found some trace of him in his long, exhaustive search. If he were alive, Roscommon would have let slip some morsel of information during Esterhazy’s three visits to his clinic. If he were alive, Esterhazy would have found him at the stone cottage that morning. He felt as if a hu
ge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He could go home and pick up his life from the point it had been upended when Pendergast and D’Agosta had first shown up on his doorstep.

  Whistling, he closed the door to his room and descended the stairs. He was not concerned the old lady would venture into town to announce the assault, and even if she did the village so clearly thought her touched that her story would never be believed. The bicycle ride, and the eight-mile hike across the moors and back, had sharpened his appetite, and for the first time in weeks that appetite was not dulled by anxiety.

  He entered the dark and fragrant confines of the Half Moon and settled onto a bar stool with satisfaction. Jennie Prothero and MacFlecknoe, the barkeep, were there in their usual positions: one before the bar, one behind.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Draper, sir,” said MacFlecknoe as he drew a pint of the usual for Esterhazy.

  “Afternoon, Paulie. Jennie.” Numerous rounds purchased by Esterhazy over the last week had earned him the considerable right of calling them by their Christian names.

  Mrs. Prothero nodded and smiled. “Hello, luv.”

  MacFlecknoe set the pint before Esterhazy, then turned back to Jennie Prothero. “Odd we haven’t seen him around before,” he said.

  “Well, he did say he’d been over at the Braes of Glenlivet.” The old woman sipped her bitter. “Think he ever went to the constable about it?”

  “Nae. What’s to tell? Besides, last thing he’d want would be to get mixed up in something, on vacation and all.”

  Esterhazy pricked up his ears. “Have I missed something?”

  MacFlecknoe and the shopkeeper-cum-laundress exchanged glances. “Clergyman,” the barkeep said. “You just missed him. Stopped in for a dram.”

  “Several drams,” said Jennie, with a knowing wink.

  “Nice old fellow, he was,” said MacFlecknoe. “For a Welshman. Has a little church down in Anglesey. He’s been up here in the Highlands the last month.”

  “Gravestone rubbing,” said Jennie Prothero, shaking her head.

  “Now, Jennie,” said the barkeep. “It’s a respectable pastime enough, especially for a man of the cloth.”

  “Perhaps,” the old woman replied. “Said he was an aquarium, he did.”

  “Antiquarian,” MacFlecknoe corrected.

  Esterhazy gently interrupted. “I’ll have the steak-and-kidney pudding, please, Paulie.” He added, in his most disinterested tone: “What’s this about the constable?”

  MacFlecknoe hesitated. “Well, now, Mr. Draper, sir, I don’t know as I should say. He’d already had three whiskies by the time he told us the tale, you know.”

  “Oh, don’t be daft, Paulie!” Jennie Prothero scolded. “Mr. Draper here’s a good sort. He’s not going to go making any trouble for the old fellow.”

  The barkeep considered this. “Right, then. It was some weeks back. The priest had just come into the area and was on his way to Auchindown. He spotted the churchyard of Ballbridge chapel—it’s a bit of a ruin, hard by the Inish Marshes—and stopped to examine the gravestones. Well, no sooner was he inside the churchyard when a man came out of the mists. Drunk and sick he was, shivering, blood and muck all over.”

  “The poor cleric felt sure he was a fugitive,” said the shopkeeper, putting one finger to her nose. “Running from the law.”

  Esterhazy knew of the ruined chapel—it was situated between the Foulmire and Inverkirkton. “What did the man look like?” he asked, his heart suddenly rattling in his chest like a rat caught in a tin can.

  MacFlecknoe thought a moment. “Well, now, he didn’t say. He was desperate, though, raving about something. The cleric thought the man wanted to make a confession, and so he listened. He said the chap was nearly out of his wits. Trembling all over, teeth chattering. He told the man some sort of story and needed to know the way around the marshes. The vicar drew him a bit of a map. Made the vicar promise not to whisper anything about the encounter to a soul. The poor old priest went back to his car to get a spare blanket from the boot. But by the time he got back to the churchyard, the fellow had vanished again.”

  “I’ll be locking my door tonight, and all,” said Jennie Prothero.

  “What story did the man tell the priest, exactly?” Esterhazy asked.

  “Now, Mr. Draper, you know how the clergy are,” the barkeep said. “Sanctity of the confessional, and all.”

  “And you said his parish was in Anglesey,” Esterhazy said. “Was he on his way back?”

  “No. He still had a few days left of his holidays. Said he was going to stop over at Lochmoray.”

  “A wee bit of a village over west,” said MacFlecknoe, his tone implying that Inverkirkton was a metropolis by comparison.

  “Plenty of old gravestones to rub at St. Muns,” Jennie Prothero added, with another shake of her head.

  “St. Muns,” Esterhazy repeated, slowly, as if to himself.

  CHAPTER 24

  Lochmoray, Scotland

  JUDSON ESTERHAZY BICYCLED UPHILL, leaving the little town far behind. As the road wound back into the granite hills, all signs of civilization dropped away, and in another ninety minutes a gray stone steeple appeared in the distance, just poking above the folded landscape.

  That could only be the chapel of St. Muns, with its historic churchyard, where—with any luck—he would find the priest.

  He stared at the long, winding road, caught his breath, and began the ascent.

  The road went up through pines and firs before curving around the shoulder of the hill, dropping into a glen, and then climbing one last leg toward the isolated chapel. A cold wind blew and clouds scudded across the sky as he paused at the shoulder to examine the approach.

  Sure enough: the priest was in the churchyard, all alone, dressed not in black but tweeds, with only a clerical collar to mark his calling. The man’s bicycle was propped against a gravestone, and the cleric himself was bent over a table-type tomb, involved in making a rubbing. Although he felt a little foolish, Esterhazy probed the reassuring lump of his pistol, assuring himself it was readily accessible, and then he remounted his bicycle and coasted down.

  It was amazing. The bastard Pendergast was still making trouble for him, even from beyond the grave. It must have been Pendergast this priest bumped into, out there on the moors. He would have been weak from loss of blood, half mad with pain, just minutes from death. What had he told the man? Esterhazy could not leave Scotland without knowing.

  The churchman rose awkwardly as Esterhazy approached, brushing twigs and grass off his knees. A large sheet of rice paper lay on the tomb; the rubbing was half complete. A portfolio of other rubbings lay nearby, spread out on a piece of canvas with crayons, pastels, and charcoal.

  “Ouf!” muttered the priest, adjusting his clothes and patting himself back into order. “Afternoon to you.” He had a picturesque Welsh accent, and his face was red and veined.

  Esterhazy’s habitual caution evaporated as the priest extended his hand. His grasp was unpleasantly damp and not altogether clean.

  “You must be the priest up from Anglesey,” Esterhazy said.

  “That’s right.” The man’s smile gave way to a look of confusion. “And how might you be knowing that?”

  “I’ve just come from the pub at Inverkirkton. They mentioned you were in the neighborhood. Making rubbings of gravestones.” Esterhazy nodded toward the tomb.

  The old man beamed. “Quite right! Quite right!”

  “What a coincidence running into you like this. My name’s Wickham.”

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  They stood a moment in amiable silence.

  “They also mentioned you told them quite a story,” Esterhazy went on. “About a rather desperate fellow you encountered on the moor.”

  “And so I did!” The eagerness in the priest’s face told Esterhazy he was one of those men who avidly sought to give advice on any and all subjects.

  Esterhazy glanced around, feigning disinterest. �
�I’d be curious to hear about it.”

  An eager nod. “Yes, indeed. Indeed. It was… let’s see… early October.”

  Esterhazy waited impatiently, trying not to press the priest too hard.

  “I ran into a man. Lurching across the moors.”

  “His appearance?”

  “Dreadful. He was sick, or at least that’s what he said… I think he might have been drunk, or more likely on the run from the law. Must have fallen on the rocks, too—his face was bloody. He was very pale, muddy… soaked to the bone. It had rained heavily that afternoon, as I recall. Yes, I do recall that rain. Fortunately, I had brought along my double waterproof—”

  “But his exact appearance? Hair color?”

  The clergyman paused, as if thinking of something for the first time. “What’s your interest in this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I—I write mysteries. I’m always looking for ideas.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case, let me see: pale hair, pale face, tall. Dressed in hunting tweeds.” The priest shook his head and gave a bird-like cluck. “The poor fellow was in a state, and no mistake.”

  “And did he say anything?”

  “Well, yes. But I can’t really talk about that, you understand. A man’s confessions to God are a sacred secret.”

  The priest was speaking so slowly, so deliberately, that Esterhazy felt he might go mad. “What a fascinating story. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “He asked me the way around the marshes. I told him it was several miles.” The priest puckered his lips. “But he insisted, so I drew him a little map.”

  “A map?”

  “Well, yes, it was the least I could do. I had to draw him the route. It’s terribly treacherous, bogs everywhere.”

  “But you’re up from Anglesey. How do you know this area?”

  The priest chuckled. “I’ve been coming here for years. Decades! I’ve wandered all over these moors. I’ve visited every kirkyard between here and Loch Linnhe! This is a very historic area, you see. I’ve rubbed hundreds of tombstones, including those of the lairds of—”