Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Marjorie hung up. “Agent Pendergast?”

His pale eyes slowly connected with her own.

“Mr. Boot will see you now.”

Pendergast rose, bowed slightly, and without a word passed through the inner door.

Marjorie heaved a sigh of relief.

Kenneth Boot stood over the drafting table that served as his desk—he worked standing up—and only gradually became aware that the FBI agent had entered his office and seated himself. He finished typing a memo on his laptop, transmitted it to his secretary, and turned to face the man.

He was startled. This FBI agent didn’t look at all like Efrem Zimbalist Jr., one of his boyhood heroes. In fact, he couldn’t have been more different. Beautifully cut black suit, handmade English shoes, custom shirt—not to mention the white skin and slender hands. Five, six thousand dollars’ worth of clothes on the man, not counting his underwear. Kenneth Boot knew good clothes when he saw them, just as he made it a point to know fine wine, cigars, and women—as every male CEO in America had to do if he wanted to get ahead in business. Boot didn’t like the way the agent had made himself so very comfortable. The man’s eyes were roaming around in a way that offended Boot—it was almost as if he were undressing the office.

“Mr. Pendergast?”

The man did not look at him or answer. His eyes continued to roam, examine, scrutinize. Who was he to act so casual around the chief executive officer of ABX, seventeenth largest corporation listed on the New York Stock Exchange?

“You’ve got five minutes and one has passed,” said Boot quietly, going back to his drawing table and rapping out another memo on his computer. He waited for the man to speak, but no words were forthcoming. Boot finished the document, checked his watch. Three minutes left.

Really, this was quite annoying: this man sitting in his office, more comfortable than ever, looking at the paneling on the far wall. Staring, in fact, at the far wall. What was he looking at?

“Mr. Pendergast, you’ve got two minutes left,” he murmured.

The man waved his hand and spoke at last. “Don’t mind me. When you’ve finished your work and can offer me your undivided attention, we’ll chat.”

Boot glanced over his shoulder. “You’d better say what you have to say, Agent Pendergast,” he said as unconcernedly as possible. “Because you’ve got exactly one minute left.”

Suddenly the man looked at him, and the look was so intense Boot almost jumped.

“The vault lies behind that wall, correct?” Pendergast said.

With a huge effort of will, Boot remained motionless. The man knew where the corporate vault was—something only three officers and the chairman of the board knew. Was there some sign of it on the paneling? But in ten years no one had ever suspected. Was he under FBI surveillance? This was outrageous. All these thoughts occurred deep within Boot’s mind and did not surface on his face.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Pendergast smiled, but it was a faintly supercilious smile, that of an adult humoring a child. “You’re in a business, Mr. Boot, in which certain documents must be kept highly confidential. These documents would be the crown jewels of your company. I am referring, of course, to your seismic survey maps of the Anadarko formation. These maps show the location of oil and gas deposits, compiled by you at great cost. Therefore, your having a vault is a given. Since you are a person who trusts nobody, it makes sense the vault would be in your office, where you could keep an eye on it. Now, on three walls of your office you have expensive Old Master paintings. On that portion of the fourth wall, there, you have inexpensive prints. Prints that can be moved, taken down, without fear of a ding or scratch. It is therefore behind the paneling of that wall that your vault lies.”

Boot began to laugh. “You fancy yourself a real Sherlock Holmes, don’t you?”

Pendergast joined in the laughter. “I would respectfully ask you, Mr. Boot—and, of course, this is strictly a voluntary request—to open that vault and give me your seismic exploration survey of Cry County, Kansas. The last one, completed in 1999.”

Boot found he had to make an effort to control himself. As usual, he was successful. Boot had learned a long time ago that a quiet voice was menacing, and the tone he now spoke in was barely audible. “Mr. Pendergast, as you yourself said, those surveys—wherever their location may be—are the crown jewels of ABX. That geological information alone represents thirty years of seismic exploration and wildcatting, at a cost of perhaps half a billion dollars. And you want me to just give it to you?” He smiled coldly.

“As I said, the request was strictly voluntary. I could never obtain a warrant for information like that.”

The man had nothing to go on, no cards to play, as he himself openly admitted. It was a joke—or a trick. There was something about the entire business that made Kenneth Boot distinctly uncomfortable. He managed a pleasant smile. “I’m sorry I can’t satisfy you, Mr. Pendergast. If there is nothing else, I wish you good day.”

He went back to working on his memo. But the black figure in the corner of his eye did not move.

Boot spoke without looking up from his work. “Mr. Pendergast, in ten seconds you will become a trespasser in this office, at which point I will call security.”

He paused, waited the ten seconds, then pressed the intercom to his secretary. “Kathy, get a security detail up here to show Mr. Pendergast out ASAP.” Boot resumed his work, typing a memo to his VP for finance. But he couldn’t help but notice that the son of a bitch was still sitting, one finger tapping the arm of the chair, looking around in that same breezy way as if he were in a doctor’s waiting room. Insolent bastard.

The intercom buzzed. “Security is here, Mr. Boot.”

Before Boot could respond, the man rose with an elegant swiftness and glided toward the drafting table. Boot stared at him, retort dying in his throat as he noticed the expression on the agent’s pale face.

Pendergast leaned over and murmured a number into his ear:

“2300576700.”

For a moment Boot was confused, but the number rang familiar, and as it dawned on him just what it was he felt his scalp begin to tingle. A knock came at the door and then three security guards entered. They paused, hands on their weapons. “Mr. Boot, is this the man?”

Boot looked at them, his mind blank with panic.

Pendergast smiled and waved dismissively at them. “Mr. Boot won’t be needing your help, gentlemen. He wishes to apologize for the inconvenience.”

They looked at Boot. After a pause the CEO nodded stiffly. “Right. Won’t be needing you.”

“If you would be so kind as to lock the door on your way out,” said Pendergast, “and please tell the secretary to hold all calls and visitors for the next ten minutes. We need a little privacy here.”

Again the guards looked toward Boot for confirmation.

“Yes,” said Boot. “We need a little privacy here.”

The men retreated, the lock turned, and the office fell silent. Pendergast turned to the chief executive officer of ABX and said cheerily, “And now, my dear Mr. Boot, shall we return to our discussion of the crown jewels?”

Pendergast strolled out to his Rolls-Royce, the long mailing tube under one arm. He unlocked the door, placed the tube on the passenger seat, and slid into the hot interior. Starting the engine, he let the compartment cool off while he slipped the survey out of the tube and gave it a quick overview, just to make sure it was what he needed.

It was all that and more. This tied everything together: the Mounds, the legend of the Ghost Warriors, the massacre of the Forty-Fives—and the inexplicable movements of the serial killer. It even explained Medicine Creek’s excellent water, which had proven to be the connection he had needed. As he’d hoped, it was all here on the oil exploration survey, printed in crisp blue and white.