Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

“I picked you, Mr. Jennings, for a very particular reason. Only you can do this for me — no one else.”

“I’m flattered, I’m sure.” Jennings felt a flush of pleasure at the declaration of confidence. “I suppose we could make an exception. Moving on, then, to the matter of the application fee…”

Once again, the pale, slender hand disappeared into the suit jacket. Once again, it reappeared, this time with a check, dated and signed, made out in the correct amount.

“Well, well,” Jennings said, looking at it. “And then there is the form of consent, naturally, from the management of the cemetery where the remains are currently interred.”

Another form was produced and laid on the desk.

“And the form of consent from the cemetery to which the body is being transferred.”

Still another form was placed, slowly and deliberately, on the polished wood.

Jennings stared at the row of paper in front of him. “Well, aren’t we organized today!” He attempted a smile but was discouraged by the grim look on the man’s face. “I, ah, believe that is everything we need. Oh — except the form from the transport company in charge of moving the remains from the old burial site to the new.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Jennings.”

Jennings blinked in surprise at the apparition on the far side of his desk. “I don’t quite understand.”

“If you take a closer look at the two forms of consent, I think all will become clear.”

Jennings put his glasses back on his nose and peered at the two documents for a moment. Then he looked up quickly. “But these cemeteries are one and the same!”

“That is correct. So as you can see, there will be no need for transportation. Cemetery management will be in charge of transferring the body.”

“Is there something wrong with the current burial spot of the deceased?”

“The current spot is fine. I chose it myself.”

“Is it a question of new construction? Must the body be moved because of changes being done at the cemetery?”

“I selected Saint-Savin Cemetery specifically because nothing will ever change there — and no new families are being accepted for burial.”

Jennings leaned forward slightly. “Then may I ask why are you moving the body?”

“Because, Mr. Jennings, moving the body is the only way I can get temporary access to it.”

Jennings licked his lips. “Access?”

“A medical examiner will be standing by, fully licensed and accredited by the State of Louisiana, during the exhumation. An examination of the remains will be performed in a mobile forensic lab, parked on cemetery grounds. Then the body will be reburied — in a grave directly adjoining the one in which it had previously lain, within the Pendergast family plot. It is all spelled out in the application.”

“Examination?” Jennings said. “Is this related to some sort of… question of inheritance?”

“No. It’s strictly a private matter.”

“This is irregular, Mr. Pendergast — most irregular. I can’t say I’ve ever had such a request before. I’m sorry, but this is not something I can approve. You’ll have to go through the courts.”

Pendergast regarded him for a moment. “Is that your final word on the subject?”

“The guidelines on exhumations are quite clear. I can do nothing.” Jennings spread his hands.

“I see.” Pendergast picked up the shield and replaced it in his suit jacket. He left the paperwork where it was. “Would you mind coming with me for a moment?”

“But where—?”

“It will only take a minute.”

Reluctantly, Jennings rose out of his seat.

“I wish to show you,” Pendergast said, “why I chose you in particular for this request.”

They walked through the outer office, down the main corridor of the public building, and out the main entrance. Pendergast stopped on the wide front steps.

Jennings looked around at the bustling thoroughfare. “Like I said, pleasant day,” he observed with excessive cheer, trying to make small talk.

“Pleasant day indeed,” came the reply.

“That’s what I love about this part of Louisiana. The sun just seems to shine more brightly than anywhere else.”

“Yes. It lends a curious gilding effect to everything it touches. Take that plaque, for instance.” And Pendergast gestured toward an old brass plaque that had been set into the brick façade of the building.

Jennings peered at the plaque. He passed it every morning, of course, on the way to his office, but it had been many years since he had bothered to examine it.

THIS CITY HALL OF PLANKWOOD, LOUISIANA, WAS

ERECTED WITH FUNDS GENEROUSLY DONATED BY

COMSTOCK ERASMUS PENDERGAST IN THE YEAR OF OUR

LORD 1892

“Comstock Pendergast,” Jennings murmured under his breath. No wonder the name seemed vaguely familiar.

“My great-grand-uncle. The Pendergast family, you see, has long had a tradition of supporting certain towns in the parishes of both New Orleans and St. Charles, places where various branches of our family lived these past centuries. While we may no longer be around in many of these towns, our legacy lives on.”

“Of course,” Jennings said, still staring at the plaque. He began to conceive a rather unpleasant notion as to why Pendergast had been so particular in selecting his office for the request.

“We don’t advertise it. But the fact is, the various Pendergast trusts and charities continue to make benefactions to several towns — including Plankwood.”

Jennings looked from the plaque to Pendergast. “Plankwood?”

Pendergast nodded. “Our trusts provide scholarships to graduating seniors, help maintain the police auxiliary fund, buy books for the library — and support the good work of your very own public health office. It would be a shame to see this support falter… or, perhaps, cease entirely.”

“Cease?” Jennings repeated.

“Programs might be cut.” Pendergast’s gaunt features assumed a sorrowful cast. “Salaries reduced. Jobs lost.” He placed a certain emphasis on this last phrase as his gray eyes affixed Jennings.

Jennings raised a hand to his chin, rubbed it thoughtfully. “On second thought, Mr. Pendergast, I feel certain your request might be reviewed favorably — if you can assure me that it is of great importance.”

“I can, Mr. Jennings.”

“In that case, I’ll get the application process started.” He glanced back at the plaque. “I could even go so far as to promise you that the paperwork will be put through in a rush. In ten days, perhaps as little as a week, we can have this order approved—”

“I’ll stop by for it tomorrow afternoon, thank you,” Pendergast said.

“What?” Jennings removed his glasses, blinked in the sunlight. “Oh, of course. Tomorrow afternoon.”

Boston, Massachusetts

THE MAN WITH THE SUNKEN EYES AND FIVE O’CLOCK shadow shuffled across Copley Square, in the shadow of the John Hancock Tower. Except for brief glances at the passing traffic, his head hung dejectedly; his hands were deep in the pockets of his grimy raincoat.

He walked down Dartmouth Street and entered the Copley subway station. Passing the line of people buying CharlieCards, he slouched down the cement staircase and stopped, looking around. A row of benches was set against the tiled wall to his right, and he made his way toward them, sitting down at the far end. There he lounged, unmoving, hands still buried in the pockets of his raincoat, staring at nothing.

A few minutes later, another man strolled up. He could not have looked more different. He was thin and tall, dressed in a well-tailored suit and a Burberry trench coat. In one hand he held a copy of The Boston Globe , neatly folded; in the other was a crisply rolled black umbrella. A large gray fedora kept his face in shadow. The only distinguishing mark was an odd-looking mole underneath his right eye. Sitting down beside the derelict, he opened the paper wide and began perusing the inside stories.