Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

“They’re saying you’re dead!” Corrie gasped, chagrined at feeling tears spring into her eyes. “They—”

“The reports of my death,” came the droll voice, “are greatly exaggerated. I’ve just emerged from deep cover. This ruckus you’re causing is rather inconvenient.”

“Jesus, you could have told me. I’ve been worried sick.” Her flood of relief began to turn to anger.

“Perhaps I should have. I’d forgotten how resourceful you are. Poor Proctor, he had no idea what he was up against. You’ll have a very difficult time getting back into his good graces, I fear. Did you have to break the windscreen on my Rolls to get his attention?”

“Sorry. It was the only way.” She felt her face flush. “You let me think you were dead ! How could you?”

“Corrie, I’m under no obligation to account to you for my whereabouts.”

“So what’s this case?”

“I can’t speak of it. It’s strictly private, unofficial, and — if you’ll pardon the jargon— freelance . I’m alive, I’ve just returned to the United States, but I’m operating on my own and I need no help. None whatsoever. You can rest assured I will make good on our lunch, but it may not be for some time. Until then, please continue with your studies. This is an exceedingly dangerous case and you must not become involved in any way. Do you understand?”

“But—”

“Thank you. By the way, I was touched by what you wrote on your website. A rather nice eulogy, I thought. Like Alfred Nobel, I have had the curious experience of reading my own obituary. Now: do I have a solemn promise from you to do absolutely nothing?”

Corrie hesitated. “Yes. But are you supposed to be dead? What should I say?”

“The need for that fiction has recently passed. I’m back in circulation — although I’m maintaining a low profile. Once again, my apologies for any discomfort you’ve experienced.”

The phone went dead even as she was saying good-bye. She stared at it for a moment and then handed it back to Proctor, who pocketed it, eyeing her coolly.

“I hope,” he said, his voice edging below freezing, “that we won’t be seeing you around here again.”

“No problem,” said Corrie, putting the hammer back into the bag. “But if I were you, I’d ease off on the bench-pressing. You’ve got a rack that would do Dolly Parton proud.” She turned on her heel and walked back toward the park. The obituary was rather nice, she thought. Maybe she’d leave it up on the website for a while longer, just for fun.

Plankwood, Louisiana

MARCELLUS JENNINGS, DIRECTOR OF THE OFFICE of Public Health for the parish of St. Charles, sat in tranquil contemplation behind his commodious desk. Everything was in order, as he liked it. Not a single memorandum was out of place in the old-fashioned inbox; not a speck of dust or stray paper clip was to be seen. Four pencils, freshly sharpened, lay in a neat line beside the leather-cornered blotter. A computer sat on the right side of the desk, powered down. Three official commendations hung on the wall, lined up with a straightedge and carpenter’s level: all for perfect attendance at Louisiana state conferences. A small bookshelf behind him held a collection of regulatory manuals and guidebooks, carefully dusted and only rarely opened.

There was a light rap on the office door.

“Come in,” Jennings said.

The door opened and Midge, his secretary, poked her head in. “A Mr. Pendergast to see you, sir.”

Even though it was his only official appointment of the morning, Jennings opened a drawer of his desk, pulled out his calendar, and consulted it. Punctual, very punctual. Jennings admired punctuality. “You may show him in,” he said, putting the calendar away.

A moment later, the visitor entered. Jennings rose to greet him, then froze in surprise. The man looked as if he were at death’s door. Gaunt, unsmiling, pale as a waxwork dummy. Dressed in a suit of unrelieved black, he reminded Jennings of nothing so much as the grim reaper. All that was missing was the scythe. He had begun to put out his hand for a shake but quickly diverted it into a wave toward the row of chairs before his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Jennings watched as the man stepped forward and slowly, painfully sat down. Pendergast, Pendergast… The name rang a bell — he wasn’t sure why. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk and crossing his capacious forearms. “Pleasant day,” he observed.

The man named Pendergast did not directly acknowledge this pleasantry.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Now, just what can I do for you, Mr. Pendergast?”

In reply, Pendergast plucked a small leather wallet from his suit jacket, opened it, and placed it on the desk.

Jennings peered at it. “FBI. Is this, ah, official business of some sort?”

“No.” The voice was faint, yet melodious, with mellow accents of New Orleans gentry. “It is a personal matter.” And yet the FBI shield lay there on the desk, like some charm or totem.

“I see.” Jennings waited.

“I’m here about an exhumation.”

“I see,” Jennings repeated. “Is this in reference to an exhumation that has already been completed or a request in process?”

“A new exhumation order.”

Jennings removed his elbows from the desk, sat back, took off his glasses, and began to polish them with the fat end of his polyester tie. “Just who is it you would like exhumed?”

“My wife. Helen Esterhazy Pendergast.”

The polishing stopped for a moment. Then it resumed at a slower pace. “And you say this is not a question of a court order? A police request to determine cause of death?”

Pendergast shook his head. “As I said, it’s personal.”

Jennings raised a hand to his mouth and coughed politely. “You must understand, Mr. Pendergast, that these things have to be done through proper channels. There are rules in place, and they have been enacted with good reason. Exhumation of interred remains is not an act to be taken lightly.”

When Pendergast said nothing, Jennings, encouraged by the sound of his own voice, went on. “If we’re not dealing with a court order or some other officially sanctioned request — such as a forensic autopsy due to suspicions about cause of death — there is really only one circumstance under which an application for exhumation can be approved—”

“If the family of the deceased wishes to move the remains to another burial spot,” Pendergast finished.

“Well, ah, yes, that is it precisely,” Jennings said. The interjection had caught him off guard, and he struggled for a moment to find his rhythm again. “Is that the case?”

“It is.”

“Well then, I think we can get the application process started.” He turned to a filing cabinet that stood beside the bookcase, opened a drawer, pulled out a form, and placed it on his desk blotter. He examined it for a moment. “You realize there are certain, ah, prerequisites. For example, we would need a copy of the death certificate of… of your late wife.”

Reaching into his jacket again, Pendergast produced a folded piece of paper, unfolded it, and placed it on the desk beside his shield.

Leaning forward, Jennings examined it. “Ah. Very good. But what is this? I see the originating cemetery is Saint-Savin. That’s clear on the other side of the parish. I’m afraid you’ll have to take this request over to the west parish office.”

He found the silvery eyes staring into his. “You also have jurisdiction — technically speaking.”

“Yes, but as a matter of protocol, Saint-Savin is handled only through the west parish branch.”