Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

“I think that FBI feller killed ’em,” one old, almost toothless man slurred, already drunk. “That sumbitch was crazy.”

“FBI?” Betterton asked immediately. This was new.

“The one come down here with that New York City policewoman.”

“What did they want?” Betterton realized he sounded way too interested. He covered it up by taking another slug of beer.

“Wanted directions to Spanish Island,” the toothless man answered.

“Spanish Island?” Betterton had never heard of the place.

“Yeah. Kinda coincidental that…” The voice trailed off.

“Coincidental? What’s coincidental?”

A round of uneasy glances. No one said anything. Holy mackerel , thought Betterton: his digging had almost reached the mother lode.

“You shut up,” the skinny one snapped, glaring at the old drunk.

“Why, hell, Larry, I ain’t said nothing.”

This was so easy. He could tell right away they were hiding something big. The whole damn brainless group. And he was going to know it in a moment.

At that moment, a large shadow fell over him. A huge man had emerged from the gloom of the unfinished building. His pink head was shaven, and a ring of fat the size of a small life preserver bulged around the rear of his neck, bristling with little blond hairs. One cheek bulged with what appeared to be a cud of chewing tobacco. He folded one hamhock arm over the other and stared, first at the seated group, then at Betterton.

Betterton realized this could only be Tiny himself. The man was a local legend, a bayou warlord. And suddenly he wondered if that mother lode was a little farther off than he’d anticipated.

“Fuck you want?” Tiny asked in a pleasant tone.

Instinctively, Betterton took a stab. “I’m here about the FBI agent.”

The look that came over Tiny’s face wasn’t so pleasant. “Pendergast?”

Pendergast . So that was his name. And it was familiar — wasn’t it? — the name of one of those wealthy, decaying antebellum families down New Orleans way.

Tiny’s little pig eyes grew smaller still. “You a friend of that peckerwood?”

“I’m with the Bee . Looking into the Brodie killings.”

“A reporter.” Tiny’s face grew dark. For the first time, Betterton noticed an inflamed scar on one side of the man’s neck. It bulged in time to the pulsing of a vein beneath.

Tiny looked around the group. “What you talking to a reporter for?” He spat out a ropy brown stream of tobacco. The audience stood up, one by one, and several started to shuffle off — but not before scooping out additional beers.

“A reporter,” Tiny repeated.

Betterton saw the explosion coming but wasn’t quick enough to get away. Tiny lashed out and grabbed Betterton’s collar, twisting it roughly. “You can tell that mother for me,” he said, “that if I ever catch his skinny, black-suited, albino ass around these parts again, I’m gonna bust him up so bad he’ll be shitting teeth for a week.”

As he spoke, he twisted Betterton’s collar tighter and tighter until the reporter could no longer breathe. Then, with a rough jerk of his arm, he threw Betterton to the ground.

Betterton sprawled in the dust. Waited a moment. Stood up.

Tiny stood there, his hands balled, waiting for a fight.

Betterton was small. When he was young, bigger kids had often felt free to knock him around, figuring the risk was nil. It started in kindergarten and didn’t end until his first year of high school.

“Hey,” said Betterton, his voice high and whiny. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving! For chrissakes, you don’t have to hurt me!”

Tiny relaxed.

Betterton put on his best cowering, cringing face and, scrambling a little closer to Tiny, ducked his head as if to grovel. “I’m not looking for a fight. Really.”

“That’s what I like to hear—”

Betterton rose abruptly and used his upward momentum to propel an uppercut directly into Tiny’s jaw. The man went down like a hopper of soft butter dropped on cement.

The lesson Ned learned as a high-school freshman was that, whoever it was, no matter how big, you responded. Or it would just happen again, and worse. Tiny rolled in the dirt, cursing, but he was too stunned to get up and pursue. Betterton walked quickly to his car, passing the men who were still standing around, their mouths agape.

“Enjoy the rest of the beer, gents.”

As he drove off, his hand throbbing, he remembered he was supposed to be covering the Women’s Auxiliary Bake-Off in half an hour. Hell with it. No more bake-offs for him.

St. Charles Parish, Louisiana

DR. PETER LEE BEAUFORT FOLLOWED THE MOBILE forensic lab — painted a discreet gray — as it turned in at the side gate of Saint-Savin Cemetery. A groundskeeper swung the gate shut behind them, locking it securely. The two vehicles, his own station wagon and the mobile lab, moved slowly down the narrow graveled lane, flanked by graceful dogwoods and magnolia trees. Saint-Savin was one of the oldest incorporated cemeteries in Louisiana, its plots and glades impeccably manicured. Over the last two hundred years, some of New Orleans’s most illustrious names had been buried here.

They would be most surprised, Beaufort mused, if they knew the nature of the procedure the cemetery was about to host.

The lane forked, then forked again. Now, ahead of the mobile lab, Beaufort could see a small cluster of cars: official vehicles, a vintage Rolls-Royce, a Saint-Savin van. The lab pulled into a narrow shoulder behind them and Beaufort followed suit, glancing at his watch as he did so.

It was ten minutes after six and the sun was just climbing the horizon, casting a golden hue over the greensward and marble. To ensure maximum privacy, exhumations were always done as early in the morning as possible.

Beaufort got out of the car. As he approached the family plot, he could see workers in protective clothing erecting screens around one of the graves. It was an unusually cool day, even for early November, and for that he was profoundly thankful. Hot-day exhumations were invariably unpleasant.

Considering the wealth and long history of the Pendergast family, the actual plot had very few graves. Beaufort, who had known the family for decades, was well aware that most members had preferred to be buried in the family plot at Penumbra Plantation. But some had a curious aversion to that mist-shrouded, overgrown burial ground — or the vaults beneath — and preferred a more traditional interment.

He stepped around the privacy screens and over the low cast-iron fencing surrounding the plot. Besides the technicians, he saw the gravediggers, Saint-Savin’s funeral director, the manager of Saint-Savin, and a portly, nervous-looking fellow whom Beaufort assumed was Jennings, the health officer. At the far end stood Aloysius Pendergast himself, unmoving and silent, black and white, a monochromatic specter. Beaufort looked at him with curiosity. He had not seen the FBI agent since he was a young man. Although his face had changed little, he was gaunter than ever. Over his black suit he wore a long, cream-colored coat that looked like camel’s hair, but — given its silky sheen — Beaufort decided was more likely vicuña.

Beaufort had first encountered the Pendergast family as a young pathologist in St. Charles Parish, when he was called to Penumbra Plantation after a serial poisoning by the mad old aunt — what was her name, Cordelia? No, Cornelia. He shuddered at the memory. Aloysius had been a boy then, spending his summers at Penumbra. Despite the awful circumstances of Beaufort’s visit, the young Aloysius had latched onto him like a limpet, following him around, fascinated with forensic pathology. For several summers after, he haunted Beaufort’s laboratory in the basement of the hospital. The boy was an exceptionally quick study and possessed of a rare and powerful curiosity. Too powerful, and disturbingly morbid. Of course, the boy’s morbidity had paled in comparison with his brother’s… But this reflection was too distressing and Beaufort forced it away.