Crimson Shore

by Douglas Preston

  Turn, pace, turn, pace.

  “But it was not seen rounding the cape and it never made the harbor. The ship must therefore have met its end in the twenty minutes between eleven twenty-five PM and eleven forty-five PM—which would have placed the disaster right off the Exmouth shore.” He shook his head. “It makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense to me,” Constance said.

  Pendergast looked over at her. “Pray tell, how in the world does it make sense to you?”

  “You believe the ship sank off of the Exmouth shore. That explains why the historian came back here—he deduced just what you deduced. Quod erat demonstrandum.”

  “Cum hoc, ergo propter hoc.” He shook his head impatiently. “It may explain why the historian focused on this area. It does not, however, take into account a phenomenon known as the stand of the tide.”

  “And what, pray tell, is the ‘stand of the tide’?”

  “Also known as slack water. There is a period of about half an hour after high tide in which all tidal currents cease. The stand of the tide would mean that a wreck anywhere off the Exmouth shore would have been driven straight into the Exmouth bluffs and beaches.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the wind. This was a nor’easter—that is, wind from the northeast. The Exmouth shoreline forms a hook as it trends out toward Cape Ann. That hook is like a net: any debris from that wreck, driven southwest by the wind, could not have escaped it. The bodies and wreckage would have littered that shore.”

  “But what if the ship rounded Cape Ann without seeing it? What if it was already so disabled it couldn’t come into Gloucester Harbor, and was eventually carried out to sea on the outgoing tide instead?”

  Pendergast paused, considering. “That might appear to be a viable possibility, and I believe the rescue operation must have assumed just that, focusing attention on the very areas where the disabled ship would have been driven. Your registry mentioned that this was an oak-hulled ship. Even if it sank, there would have been a large amount of floating debris, not to mention bodies. But a thorough search found nothing.”

  “Then perhaps it was disabled long before reaching the Exmouth shore, wallowing in the storm until the tide turned and carried it out to sea.”

  Pendergast began pacing again. “The tide reverses every six hours. A wallowing ship would not go very far. Eventually some debris would have washed ashore.” He waved his hand. “But we’re going in circles. Recall this is not the only mystery here: there is another—the link to witchcraft.”

  “Don’t tell me you believe Boyd’s story of the refugee Salem witches!”

  “My dear Constance, I ‘believe’ nothing. And I hope you will resist that impulse, as well. Let us only go where the facts take us. And the facts are pointing me into the Exmouth salt marshes and that long-depopulated colony. I will go in search of it tonight.”

  “At night?”

  “Of course at night. It is to be a stealth reconnaissance.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. I can move far better in the darkness alone. I may have to cross water channels, and you, unfortunately, never learned to swim. And recall the unpleasantness that ensued during our last, ah, field trip.”

  “You mean, the ‘field trip’ to the Botanic Gardens? As I recall, that particular excursion saved your life. As our friend Sergeant Gavin would put it, ‘Just saying.’”

  Pendergast’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement or a concession of the point. “What I would like you to do, Constance, is to go to Salem tomorrow morning. I understand there are many attractions, including a ‘Witch House,’ a ‘Witch Dungeon Museum,’ and the famous Witch Trials Memorial, not to mention the ‘Witch City Segway Tour.’”

  “Segway Tour? Surely you’re joking.”

  “More to the point, Salem is also home to the Integrated Wiccan Alliance.” He passed her a card. “A certain Tiffani Brooks, also known as Shadow Raven, is head of the league and the leader of a coven there.”

  Constance took the card. “Wicca? White magic? And what am I supposed to find out?”

  At this, Pendergast handed her a piece of paper with a drawing on it. Looking at it, she recognized the marks that had been cut into the historian’s body, along with the crudely lettered word TYBANE.

  “An Internet search turned this up,” Pendergast said. “Recall what Boyle told us? Of an inscription that, according to legend, was found at the center of the lost witch colony that once existed inland from here?” He nodded at the sheet of paper. “That is the inscription, and those are the marks—at least, according to a long-dead archaeologist of questionable reputation.”

  Constance stared at the sheet. “You don’t think that whoever killed the historian, carved these markings into him, was a…”

  “I’m not thinking anything. I simply want you to find out if those marks are genuine witchcraft, and, if so, what their meaning is. That mysterious word is also, in fact, what’s at the heart of my own nocturnal journey. My dear Constance, we can’t proceed until we determine whether they are genuine, or simply a killer’s idea for misleading the investigation.”

  He stood up. “And now, adieu. I need to speak briefly with Sergeant Gavin. I recall hearing that he grew up in Exmouth.”

  “On what subject?”

  “Just a question or two about the background of our estimable lawyer, Mr. Dunwoody. And then I’ve asked Mr. Lake for a tour of his sculpture garden.”

  She folded the sheet of paper carefully. “I thought you were going to undertake a certain reconnaissance.”

  “I am indeed. But for that, I require darkness.”

  “I see. And for myself?”

  “For this evening’s labor, I would like you to, ah, hang out at the Inn’s bar, engage the natives in conversation, have a beer or two, and collect the gossip.”

  She stared at him. “I don’t ‘hang out’ in bars.”

  “You will have to adjust your rules of personal conduct, as I do mine, while on an investigation. You can always drink absinthe, which, by a special miracle, they have.” He leaned over, his voice lowering confidentially. “But whatever you do, avoid the clams.”

  18

  That,” said Percival Lake, gazing fondly, “was the first piece I made when I moved here with my wife thirty years ago.” He patted the polished gray granite sculpture with affection before returning his arm to its prior position around Carole Hinterwasser’s waist. The sculpture depicted the semiabstract form of a harpooner emerging from the stone, aiming his weapon. “I kept it for sentimental reasons, could’ve sold it a hundred times. It’s titled Queequeg.”

  A gust of wind blew up from the sea, ruffling the grass in the sculpture garden along the bluffs. Low clouds the color of zinc pressed in from the sea, bringing with them the smell of winter. Lake had arranged the large granite statues facing the sea, in a sort of homage to the Easter Island moai, which he had seen years ago on a journey with his late wife.

  The black-clad figure of Pendergast pulled his coat collar tighter. The evening had turned a little chill, and the FBI agent was quite obviously not a person who enjoyed bracing weather.

  Lake continued wandering through the sculptures, arm in arm with Carole, talking about each piece in turn, while Pendergast followed behind them in silence. At the end of the line of statues, Lake paused and turned. “I’m curious to hear how the investigation is going,” he said.

  “Not well,” said Pendergast.

  “I see. Is it a question of a lack of evidence?”

  “Just the opposite.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly caused quite a stir in town. You and the murder of that historian are all anyone is talking about.” He paused, carefully choosing his words. “I have to admit, I’m feeling a little out of the loop.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, you’ve been here three days. I was expecting regular reports on your progress. I heard secondhand, for example, that you�
��ve been helping the police investigate that murder. It would have been nice to hear it from you.”

  “My apologies.”

  The man was maddeningly opaque.

  “Does this mean you think the historian’s killing and this case are linked?” Carole asked.

  “It does indeed.”

  A silence. Lake waited for elaboration, and when it didn’t come, he asked: “Care to fill us in?”

  “I do not.”

  Lake felt himself growing irritated. “I don’t mean to be blunt, but aren’t you working for me? Shouldn’t I be getting regular reports?”

  “I don’t habitually discuss ongoing investigations with anyone unless absolutely necessary.”

  “So… If you’re not here to tell me how things are going—why are you here? Surely it isn’t just to view my sculpture.”

  Pendergast turned his back to the wind. “I had a few questions.”

  Lake shrugged. “Sure, go ahead. Although I believe I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Is there a reason you didn’t tell me of Ms. Hinterwasser’s previous history?”

  Lake exchanged glances with Carole. “Her history?”

  “Her criminal history. She was caught shoplifting from an expensive antiques store in Cambridge.”

  There was a silence broken only by the wind.

  “I’m not sure where this is going, Pendergast,” Lake said at last, “but I am sure I don’t like it.”

  “Why should he have told you?” Carole asked. “That was fifteen years ago. I returned the piece, made restitution. It was just an ugly little graven idol, anyway, I don’t know what I saw in it. The whole story’s ancient history. It has nothing to do with the burglary of our—of Perce’s—house.”

  “Perhaps not.” Pendergast returned his attention to Lake. “You were in the merchant marine, were you not?”

  Lake paused a moment before answering. “I spent four years in the Navy and then three more as a mate on VLCCs.”

  “And I assume that’s where you received the tattoo?”

  “Tattoo?” Lake asked in surprise. “You mean, the whale on my right shoulder? How did you know about that?”

  “It seems to be much admired in town, known from your rare appearances at the beach.”

  “Of course. Well, I’ve always loved the sea and Moby Dick is my favorite book—I’ve been rereading it every year since I was sixteen. ‘Call me Ishmael’ is the greatest first line in a novel ever written.”

  “I, myself, am not fond of animal stories.”

  Lake rolled his eyes. Pendergast was such an odd duck. “That’s the first time I’ve heard Moby Dick dismissed as an animal story.”

  “Getting back to the subject at hand, Mr. Lake. Your merchant marine background was rather difficult for me to discover. Strange that, in a seaport town like Exmouth, few know of it.”

  “I’m a private man.”

  “Nor did the subject come up in your earlier recitative concerning your past. The one you gave me in the restaurant at the Inn.”

  Lake shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to not telling it. It doesn’t fit in with being an artist, somehow.”

  “I see. I’ve discovered that Dana Dunwoody, before he went to law school, also worked in the merchant marine on VLCCs.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Did you ever happen to work on the same ship?”

  “No, we did not.”

  “How well do you know Mr. Dunwoody?”

  “Not well. He’s not my cup of tea. A small-time, small-town, ethically challenged lawyer.”

  “Did you know he, too, has a tattoo—of an anchor, on the back of one hand?”

  “That’s a common enough tattoo for merchant mariners. You think Dunwoody and I are in some sort of tattoo conspiracy?”

  “The other thing I found curiously hard to discover, and which you also neglected to tell me, is that you have deep roots in Exmouth. Your great-great-grandfather came up from Boston to Exmouth to marry a local woman. He was lost at sea in 1845, leaving a wife with a child. She moved back to Boston and that ended your family’s connection with the town until you moved here thirty years ago.”

  Lake stared at Pendergast. “Is this supposed to be relevant?”

  “Do you know your great-great-grandmother’s maiden name?”

  “No.”

  “Dunwoody.”

  “Jesus. Really? Lord, I had no idea. But there are a lot of Dunwoodys around here. Too many, in fact.”

  “Your last show in Boston, at Gleason Fine Art on Newbury Street, does not appear to have done well.”

  “In a bad economy, art is the first thing to suffer.”

  “And is it true, as local rumor has it, that you are presently short of commissions?”

  “What are you driving at?” But Lake was, in fact, beginning to see just what the man was driving at. He felt himself losing his temper.

  “Just this: Are you having financial difficulties, Mr. Lake?”

  “I’m perfectly comfortable financially! I don’t live the high life and I can weather a downturn in the market.”

  “Was the wine collection insured?”

  “It was a listed asset on my homeowner’s policy.”

  “Have you collected on the policy?”

  “Not yet, but I hope to God you’re not implying insurance fraud!”

  “So you submitted a claim.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “For how much?”

  “One hundred and ninety thousand dollars. It’s all documented. I’d rather have the wine back, thank you very much. That’s your job, by the way—not asking me a bunch of offensive and irrelevant questions. Digging up ancient dirt on my girlfriend, for God’s sake. Are you accusing me of working in cahoots with that jackass lawyer, who happens to be my seventeenth cousin eleven times removed, to steal my own wine? Bringing you into the case just for show? Christ, don’t make me sorry I hired you!”

  Carole squeezed his hand. “Darling, please.” Too late, Lake realized he was shouting.

  Pendergast continued to look at them, his face the color of ice, eyes reflecting the dying light. “In any investigation, ninety-nine percent of the information gathered is irrelevant. In the search for that one percent, many offensive questions must be asked and many people aggravated. Nothing personal. Good day, Mr. Lake. Ms. Hinterwasser.”

  Lake, deflated, stood beside Carole and watched the dark figure of Pendergast walk down the hill toward his car.

  19

  A miasma hung over the marshes as A. X. L. Pendergast moved through the salt grass, a dark shape appearing and disappearing among the thick, swaying blades. At one o’clock in the morning, it was dead low tide and the mudflats were exposed, shining in the occasional patches of moonlight exposed by swift-moving clouds. The flats exhaled a sulfurous, dead-fish odor that combined with the tendrils of mist to form a stench that congealed on hair and skin. Pendergast carried with him a rolled-up map that he had hand-drafted earlier in the day, based on marine charts, USGS maps, NOAA wind and current charts, and his own observations.

  The Exmouth salt marshes covered about twelve thousand acres behind the Crow Island barrier. This was where the Exmouth and the Metacomet Rivers came together on their way to the sea, creating a fantastical maze of marshes, channels, islands, and brackish pools before opening into shallow bays that extended to the sea around the northern end of Crow Island. About half of the marshlands had been designated a wildlife area. The remainder were largely inaccessible and considered wasteland, unbuildable because of environmental restrictions, plagued with greenhead flies in summer, and not interesting enough from a wildlife perspective to be included in the refuge. Their value lay solely in the clamming areas of the mudflats, exposed at low tide, but even a large portion of those were almost inaccessible by boat or on foot.

  Pendergast moved with a feline grace, using the waxing moon as his only source of light. He paused now and then, to test the wind direction or smell the air. On
ce, briefly, he had caught the faint scent of a wood fire; whether this was from the distant houses of Dill Town, five miles northward, or from the homeless man alleged by Boyle to live in the marsh, was hard to say; nevertheless, he paused and, noting his position on the map and the direction of the wind, drew a line upwind.

  Pendergast had chosen as his insertion point a section of marsh about a mile upstream from where the body of the historian had been found. This was along a channel that he guessed, given the movements of the tides and wind, was where the man might have been killed and initially dumped. It was a crude guess, but the best he could manage with the facts he had. He found nothing of interest at the spot. So he turned his attention to his ultimate destination: the isolated marsh islands in the far western reaches of the salt marsh, beyond the boundary of the refuge.

  As he slipped through the grass, he did not think. Stilling the interior voice, he was like an animal, existing in the moment only as a collection of highly tuned sensory organs. Thinking would come later.

  The salt grass was about five feet high and he moved through it in a straight line, parting it with gloved hands as he went along. The ground was spongy underfoot, with occasional sinks, muskrat holes, and potholes excavated by extreme high tides. The grass was sharp, but he was well swaddled in chest waders and a black Filson tin-cloth jacket.

  In a half mile he came across two paths through the grass. Both were too narrow to have been made by human passage, and a minute examination of the ground revealed the hoofprints of deer in one and the paw prints of muskrats in the other.

  Shortly, the salt grass gave way to a mudflat, about a quarter mile wide, through which snaked a small channel of water—all that remained at low tide.