Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

When a Green Line train squealed its way into the station, the man in the fedora began to speak. He spoke quietly, under the noise of the train, and he kept his gaze on the newspaper.

“State the nature of the problem,” he said in accented English.

The derelict let his head hang as he replied. “It’s this fellow Pendergast. My brother-in-law. He’s found out the truth.”

“The truth? All of it?”

“Not yet. But he will. He’s an extremely competent and dangerous man.”

“What does he know, exactly?”

“He knows that what happened in Africa, the lion killing, was murder. He knows all about Project Aves. And he knows…” Esterhazy hesitated. “He knows about Slade, and Longitude Pharmaceuticals, the Doane family — and Spanish Island.”

“Ah yes, Spanish Island,” said the man. “This is something we have just learned. We now are aware Charles Slade’s death twelve years ago was an elaborate hoax and that he was still alive until some seven months ago. This is most unfortunate news. Why didn’t you tell us these things?”

“I had no idea, either,” Esterhazy lied as forcefully as he could. “I swear to you, I didn’t know anything about it.” He just had to put the genie back in the bottle, once and for all, or he was as good as dead. He found his voice moving up a notch and brought it back down. “It was Pendergast who figured it all out. And what he doesn’t know yet — he will.”

“Pendergast.” The man in the fedora’s tone became tinged with skepticism. “Why haven’t you killed him? You promised us you would.”

“I’ve tried — on several occasions.”

The man in the fedora did not reply. Instead he turned the page of the newspaper and continued reading.

After several minutes, he spoke again. “We’re disappointed in you, Judson.”

“I’m sorry.” Esterhazy felt the blood infuse his face.

“Don’t ever forget your origins. You owe us everything .”

He nodded mutely, face burning in shame — shame at his fear, his submission, his dependence, his failure.

“Does this Pendergast know of the existence of our organization?”

“Not yet. But he’s like a pit bull. He doesn’t give up. You’ve got to take him out. We can’t afford to leave him on the loose. I’m telling you, we’ve got to kill him.”

“ You can’t afford to leave him on the loose,” the man replied. “ You must deal with him — decisively.”

“God knows, I’ve tried!”

“Not hard enough. How tiresome of you to think you can drop the problem in our lap. Everyone has a weak spot. Find his and attack it.”

Esterhazy felt himself shaking with frustration. “You’re asking the impossible. Please, I need your help.”

“Naturally, you can rely on us for whatever assistance you need. We helped you with that passport — we’ll help you again. Money, weapons, safe houses. And we’ve got the Vergeltung . But you have to deal with this man yourself. In fact, taking care of this — quickly and completely — would go a long way toward restoring yourself to our good graces.”

Esterhazy was silent a moment, letting this sink in. “Where’s the Vergeltung docked?”

“Manhattan. The Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin.” The man paused. “New York… That’s where Agent Pendergast lives, is it not?”

This was enough of a surprise that Esterhazy could not help lifting his eyes to the man for a moment.

The man returned to his newspaper with an air of finality. After a minute, Esterhazy rose to go. As he did so, the man spoke once more. “Did you hear what happened to the Brodies?”

“Yes,” Esterhazy replied in a low voice. He wondered if the question was an implied threat.

“Don’t worry, Judson,” the man went on. “We’ll take good care of you. Just as we always have.”

And as another train came shrieking into the station, he turned back to his paper and did not speak again.

Malfourche

NED BETTERTON DROVE HIS DENTED NISSAN DOWN the main street — the only street, really — of Malfourche. Although it was technically part of his beat, for the most part Betterton avoided the town: too much of that deep-bayou mentality. But the Brodies had lived here. Had… Grudgingly, Kranston was letting him follow up, only because the horrific double murder was so big it would have seemed strange if the Bee pretended it hadn’t happened. “Let’s get it over with,” Kranston had grumbled. “Quickly. Then we move on.”

Though Betterton had nodded agreeably, he’d no intention of getting it over with. Instead, he’d done something he should have done earlier — double-check the story the Brodies told him. Right away it fell apart. A few phone calls revealed that, while there was a B&B in San Miguel named Casa Magnolia, the Brodies had never run it, never owned it. They had only stayed there once, years ago.

It had been a bald-faced lie.

And now they’d been murdered — the biggest killing in the area in a generation — and Betterton was sure it was somehow connected to their strange disappearance and even stranger reappearance. Drugs, industrial espionage, gun-running — it might be anything.

Betterton was convinced that Malfourche was the nexus of this mystery. Malfourche was where the Brodies reappeared — and where they had been brutally killed. Furthermore, he’d heard rumors of strange business in town, some months before the Brodies resurfaced. There’d been an explosion at Tiny’s, the local and somewhat notorious bait-and-bar emporium. A leaking propane tank — that was the official story — but there were whispered hints of something else a lot more interesting.

He passed the Brodies’ little house, where not so long ago he’d interviewed them. Now crime-scene tape covered the front door and a sheriff’s vehicle sat by the curb.

Main Street made a gentle bend to the west and the edge of the Black Brake swamp hove into view, its thick fringe of green and brown like a low dark cloud in an otherwise sunny afternoon. He drove on into the sad business district, sullen-looking shopfronts and peeling signboards. He pulled up beside the docks, killed the engine. Where Tiny’s had been, the skeleton of a new building was beginning to rise from the wreckage of the old. A pile of half-burned two-by-fours and creosote pilings were stacked near the docks. Out in front, adjoining the street, the new front steps of the building had been completed and half a dozen scruffy-looking men were seated on them, loafing around and drinking beer out of paper bags.

Betterton got out of the car and approached them. “Afternoon, all of y’all,” he said.

The men fell silent and watched him approach with suspicion.

“Afternoon,” one finally replied grudgingly.

“Ned Betterton. Ezerville Bee ,” he said. “Hot day. Anybody care for a cold one?”

An uneasy shifting. “In return for what?”

“What else? I’m a reporter. I want information.”

This was greeted by silence.

“Got some frosties in the trunk.” Betterton moseyed back to his car — you didn’t want to move too fast around people like this — popped the trunk, hauled out a large Styrofoam cooler, lugged it over, and set it down on the stairs. He reached in, pulled one out, popped it open, and took a long pull. Soon a number of hands were reaching in, sliding cans out of the melting ice.

Betterton leaned back with a sigh. “I’m doing a story on the Brodie murders. Any idea who killed them?”

“Might be gators,” someone offered, drawing hoots of derisive laughter.

“The po lice done asked us about them already,” said a skinny man in a tank top, his cheeks sporting about five days’ worth of stubble. “We don’t know nothing.”