Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

Next came the study. Pendergast walked over to the lone filing cabinet, jimmied the lock with a savage twist of the switchblade, and opened each drawer, removing the folders inside, examining them closely, and then dropping them back in place. It took almost an hour to go through all the bills, tax forms, correspondence, financial ledgers, and other documents — interesting in the light they threw on Esterhazy but of no obvious significance. Next came the heavy shelves of reference books and medical texts. The contents of the desk followed. A laptop sat atop the desk; taking a screwdriver from his pocket, Pendergast opened its base, plucked out the hard disk, and slipped it into his pocket. The walls were covered with framed commendations and awards; these were removed, their backs inspected, then rehung indifferently.

He paused in the doorway before proceeding downstairs. The contents of the study — and indeed the house — remained more or less neat and regular; no one would know that every millimeter had been invaded, scrutinized, violated… except Judson. He would know.

Gliding down the stairs, Pendergast examined the dining room just as thoroughly as he had the upstairs, followed by the den. There he noted a safe in the wall, hidden behind a diploma. This was saved for later exploration. He opened and searched the gun case, finding nothing of note.

He finally moved into the living room, the most exquisite room in the house, with burnished mahogany wainscoting, antique wallpaper, and a number of lovely eighteenth- and nineteenth-century paintings. But the pièce de résistance sat against one wall: a heavy Louis XV breakfront displaying a collection of ancient Greek red-figure pottery.

He searched the room, ending at the breakfront. A quick twist and the lock was broken. He swung open the doors and examined the contents. He had long known of the collection, but once again he was struck by just how extraordinary it was, perhaps the finest small collection of its kind in the world. It consisted of only six pieces, each one a priceless, irreplaceable example of the work of an ancient Greek artist: Exekias; the Brygos Painter; Euphronios; the Meidias Painter; Makron; the Achilles Painter. His eye traveled over the vases, bowls, kylixes, and kraters, each an incomparable masterpiece, a testament to the highest and most rarefied artistic genius. This was not a collection assembled for show or prestige: these pieces had been painstakingly collected at astonishing cost by a person with a faultless eye and a profound appreciation. Only someone who truly and deeply loved the work could have amassed a collection so perfect, the loss of which would impoverish the world.

The sound of ragged breathing gradually filled the room.

With a sudden, violent movement of his arm, Pendergast swept the collection off the shelves, the heavy ceramics tumbling to the oak floor and shattering into hundreds of pieces, the fragments skittering and bouncing everywhere. Gasping with effort, possessed by an explosion of fury, he smashed the pieces underfoot into smaller and smaller ones, eventually grinding them into grit.

And then, except for the sound of heavy breathing, all was silent once more. Pendergast was still weak from his ordeal in Scotland, and it took some time for his breathing to return to normal. After a long while, he brushed some pottery dust off his suit and moved stiffly toward the basement door. Forcing it open, he descended and conducted a careful inspection of the cellar.

It was mostly empty save for a furnace and plumbing. But off in an alcove stood a door that, when forced, revealed a large wine cellar, lined in cork, with temperature and humidity controls mounted on one wall. He stepped inside and examined the bottles. Esterhazy had an exceptional cellar, mostly French, and favoring the Pauillacs. Pendergast ran his eye over the long columns of bottles: Lafite Rothschild, Lynch-Bages, Pichon-Longueville Comtesse de Lalande, Romanée-Conti. He noted that — while his own wine holdings at the Dakota and Penumbra were far more extensive — Esterhazy had a first-class collection of Château Latour, including several bottles from the very greatest vintages that were missing from his own cellars.

Pendergast frowned.

Selecting the best vintages — the 1892, 1923, 1934, the fabled 1945, 1955, 1961, half a dozen others — he pulled them from their niches and placed them carefully on the floor. He chose no wine younger than thirty years. It took four trips to gently carry them all up to the den.

Leaving them on a side table, he fetched a corkscrew, decanter, and oversize wineglass from the kitchen. Back in the den he opened each bottle of wine in turn, letting them air upon the sideboard while he rested from his exertions. It was dark outside now, a pale moon hanging over the palmetto trees of the square. He glanced at the moon for a moment, recalling — almost against his will — that other moon: the first moonrise he and Helen had shared. It had been only two weeks after they’d first met. It was the night on which their love for each other had been so passionately revealed. Fifteen years ago — and yet so vivid was the memory that it could have been yesterday.

Pendergast held the memory briefly, like a precious jewel, then let it fade away. Turning from the window, he let his eye roam around the room, taking in the African sculptures, the beautiful mahogany furniture, the jades, and the bookshelves laden with gold-stamped tomes. He did not know when Esterhazy would return, but he wished he could be there to appreciate the homecoming.

He let the wines rest for half an hour — a longer rest would be risky with the older vintages — and then began his tasting. Starting with the 1892, he poured no more than a mouthful into the decanter and swirled it slowly, examining the color in the light. Then he poured it into the glass, inhaled the aroma, and — eventually — took a generous sip. Placing the bottle on the windowsill, uncorked, he moved on to the next younger.

The entire process took another hour, and by the end his equanimity was fully restored.

At last, he put the decanter and glass aside and rose from the chair. He finally addressed his attention to the small safe he had earlier discovered behind one of the diplomas hanging on the wall. It resisted Pendergast’s advances quite valiantly, yielding only after ten minutes of delicate work.

Just as he was opening its door, Pendergast’s cell phone rang. He examined the incoming number before answering. “Yes?”

“Aloysius? It’s Peter Beaufort. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

A sudden silence, and then Pendergast said, “I was just enjoying a quiet glass of wine.”

“The results are in.”

“And?”

“I think I’d rather tell you in person.”

“I would like to know now.”

“I won’t tell you over the phone. Get here as quickly as you can.”

“I’m in Savannah. I’ll catch a late-night flight and meet you in your office tomorrow morning. At nine.”

Pendergast returned the phone to his pocket and returned his attention to the safe. It contained the usual items: jewelry, some stock certificates, the deed to the house, a last will and testament, and a variety of miscellaneous papers including what appeared to be some old bills from a nursing home in Camden, Maine, concerning a patient named Emma Grolier. Pendergast swept up the documents and put them in his pocket for later examination. Then he sat down at the roll-top desk, took a sheet of blank linen paper, and wrote a short note.

My dear Judson,

I thought you’d be interested in the results of my vertical wine tasting of your Latours. I found the 1918 sadly faded, and the 1949 was to my mind overrated: it ended worse than it started, with tannic overtones. The 1958 was, alas, corked. But the rest were quite delightful. And the ’45 was superlative — still rich and surpassingly elegant, with an aroma of currants and mushrooms and a long, sweet finish. Pity you only had a single bottle.