Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

“Nowt goes out. Invalid.”

“Maybe you’ve seen someone in the distance, someone moving—”

“Hain’t seen a soul these many weeks now.”

He heard a quavering, irritated voice calling from upstairs, with such a thick brogue he couldn’t quite make out the words. The woman scowled and trudged back up the stairs. He heard the old man’s muffled, complaining voice and her sharp retorts. She came back down, still scowling. “Time for bed. I sleep down by the stove. You’ll have to sleep in the loft with the mister. Blanket’s on the floor.”

“Thank you, I’m grateful for the help.”

“Don’t disturb the mister, he’s poorly.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

A sharp nod. “Well, good night now.”

D’Agosta mounted the creaking staircase, so steep it was almost a ladder. He came into a low room with a peaked ceiling, illuminated by a small kerosene lantern. A wooden bed stood at the far end, under the eaves, and in it he could see the rumpled form of the husband, a scarecrow with a bulbous red nose and bushy white hair. He stared at D’Agosta with a single good eye, which contained a certain malevolence.

“Um, hello,” said D’Agosta, unsure of what to say. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Aye, me too,” came the growled reply. “Dinnae make noise.” The old man turned over roughly, showing D’Agosta his back.

Relieved, D’Agosta took off the borrowed shirt and pants and crawled under a blanket that had been set out on a primitive wooden cot. He blew out the kerosene lantern and lay in the dark. It was wonderfully warm in the loft, and the sounds of the storm outside, the howling wind, were oddly comforting. He fell asleep almost immediately.

An indeterminate time later, he awoke. It was pitch black and he’d been so sound asleep that it took him a moment of fright to remember where he was. When he did, he realized the storm had died down and the cottage was very, very silent. His heart was pounding. He had the distinct impression that someone, or something, was standing over him in the dark.

He lay there in utter darkness, trying to calm himself. It had just been a dream. But he couldn’t shake the sensation that some person was standing, maybe even leaning, over him.

The floor beside his cot creaked softly.

Jesus . Should he shout out? Who could it be? Surely not the old man. Had someone come in the night?

The floor creaked again — and then he felt a hand grasp his arm in a grip of steel.

MY DEAR VINCENT,” CAME THE WHISPERED VOICE. “While I am touched at your concern, I am nevertheless exceedingly displeased to see you here.”

D’Agosta felt almost paralyzed with shock. He was surely dreaming. He heard the whisper of a match, a sudden glow, and the lantern was lit. The old man stood over him, misshapen, clearly ill. D’Agosta stared at the sallow, wrinkled skin; the sparse beard and greasy shoulder-length white hair; the bulbous reddened nose. And yet the voice, faint as it was — and the silvery glint the rheumy eye could not fully conceal — these belonged unmistakably to the man he was searching for.

“Pendergast?” D’Agosta finally managed to choke out.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Pendergast said in the same whispery voice.

“What — how—?”

“Allow me to get back in my bed. I’m not strong enough to stand for long.”

D’Agosta sat up and watched the old man hang the lantern and shuffle painfully back to the bed.

“Pull up a chair, my friend.”

D’Agosta rose, put on the borrowed clothes, and took a chair down from a hook on the wall. He sat next to the old man who bore such remarkably little resemblance to the FBI agent. “God, I’m so glad to find you alive. I thought…” D’Agosta found himself choking up, unable to speak, overwhelmed with emotion.

“Vincent,” said Pendergast. “Your heart is as big as ever. But let us not become maudlin. I have much to say to you.”

“You were shot,” said D’Agosta, finally finding his voice. “What the hell are you doing way out here? You need medical attention, a hospital.”

Pendergast put out a restraining hand. “No, Vincent. I have received excellent medical attention, but I must remain hidden.”

“Why? What the hell’s going on?”

“If I tell you, Vincent, you must promise me you’ll return to New York at your earliest opportunity — and not breathe a word of this to anybody.”

“You need help. I’m not going to leave you. I’m your partner, damn it.”

With obvious effort, Pendergast rose slightly from the bed. “You must . I need to recover. And then I’m going to find my would-be killer.” He sank back slowly onto the pillow.

D’Agosta exhaled. “So the bastard really did try to kill you.”

“And not just me. I believe he was the one who shot you as we were leaving Penumbra. And he was also the one who tried to kill Laura Hayward, on our way to visit you in the hospital at Bastrop. He’s the missing link. The mysterious other person involved in Project Aves.”

“Unbelievable. So he’s your wife’s killer? Her own brother?”

A sudden silence. “No. He didn’t kill Helen.”

“Then who did?”

“Helen’s alive.”

D’Agosta could hardly believe it. In fact, he didn’t believe it. He couldn’t find anything to say.

A hand reached out, the steel fingers gripping him once again. “As I was shot and sinking into the quickmire, Judson told me Helen was still alive.”

“But didn’t you see her die? You took the ring off her severed hand. You showed it to me.”

For a long moment, the little room was silent. Then D’Agosta spoke again. “The scumbag said it to torture you.” He looked at the figure in the bed, the glitter in the man’s silvery eyes. In it, he could see an undeniable desire: to believe .

“So what’s your, ah, plan?”

“I’m going to find him. I’m going to put a gun to his head. And I’m going to make him take me to Helen.”

D’Agosta was filled with dismay. The obsessive timbre of the voice, the desperation of it, was very unlike his old friend.

“And if he doesn’t do as you say?”

“He will, Vincent. Trust me: I will make sure of that.”

D’Agosta decided not to ask Pendergast how. Instead he changed the subject. “When you were shot… how did you get away?”

“When the impact of the bullet knocked me into the bog, I began to sink. After a moment I realized I wasn’t sinking farther — that my feet had come to rest on something only a few feet beneath the surface. Something soft and buoyant, a carcass I believe. It kept me from going down. To give the illusion of sinking, I slowly lowered myself into a crouch. It was my great good fortune that Judson left the scene without waiting until I was fully… immersed.”

“Great good fortune,” D’Agosta muttered.

“I waited four, maybe five minutes,” Pendergast said. “I was bleeding too badly to wait any longer. Then I rose again and — using the carcass as leverage — extricated myself from the mire. I improvised a compression bandage as best I could. I was miles from anywhere — miles from the nearest village or the lodge.”

Pendergast fell silent a minute or two. When he began again, his voice was a little stronger. “Judson and I had hunted here before, a decade ago. On that trip, I made the acquaintance of a local doctor named Roscommon. We had some similar interests. His practice was in the village of Inverkirkton, about three miles away. It happened to be the closest point as the crow flies from where I was shot.”

“How did you do it?” D’Agosta asked after a moment. “Reach him without leaving any tracks?”