Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

CONSTANCE SAT IN THE REAR OF THE PRIVATE CAR speeding up Madison Avenue. She had been mildly surprised by an exchange in German between Dr. Poole and the driver of the vehicle, but Poole had given her no explanation of the plans he and Pendergast had put together for their reunion. She felt an almost overwhelming eagerness to see Pendergast and the inside of the Riverside Drive mansion again.

Judson Esterhazy, aka Dr. Poole, sat beside her, his tall, aristocratic frame and finely chiseled features set into sharp relief by the noontime sun. The escape had gone without a hitch, exactly as planned. She felt badly for Dr. Felder, of course, and realized this would be a blot on his career, but Pendergast’s safety overshadowed all else.

She glanced at Esterhazy. Despite the family connection, there was something she didn’t like about him. It was his body language, the arrogant look of triumph on his face. If the truth be told, she hadn’t liked him from the start — there was some quality in his manner, his way of speaking, that aroused her instinctual suspicion.

No matter. She folded her hands, determined to help Pendergast in any way she could.

The car slowed. Through the smoked windows, she noticed them turning east on Ninety-Second Street.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Just a temporary stop while preparations for your, ah, final destination are completed.”

Constance did not at all like his turn of phrase. “My final destination?”

“Yes.” Esterhazy’s arrogant smile widened. “Vengeance, you see, is where it will end.”

“Excuse me?”

“I quite like the sound of that,” Esterhazy said. “Yes: vengeance is where it will end.”

She stiffened. “And Pendergast?”

“Never mind about Pendergast.”

His brusqueness, the way he almost spat out the name, sent a prickle of alarm through Constance. “What are you talking about?”

Esterhazy laughed harshly. “Don’t you realize it yet? You haven’t been rescued — you’ve been kidnapped.”

He turned to her in one smooth motion and, before she could react, she felt a hand clamp around her mouth and smelled the sudden, sweetish stench of chloroform.

Slowly, consciousness returned out of a drowsy fog. Constance waited while she recovered her wits. She was tied to a chair, blindfolded and gagged. Her ankles were bound, as well. Gradually, she became aware of her surroundings: the musty smell of the room, the faint sounds in the house. It was a small room, bare except for an empty bookshelf, a dusty table, a bed frame, and the chair she was tied to. Someone was moving around below — Esterhazy, no doubt — and she could hear traffic noises from outside.

The first thing she felt was a flood of self-recrimination. Foolishly, stupidly, and unforgivably, she’d allowed herself to be duped. She had cooperated in her own abduction.

Careful to keep her breathing under control, she began to take stock. She was tied — no, taped — to a chair. But when she wiggled her hands, she realized the tape wasn’t particularly tight or secure. It was a hasty job, temporary. Esterhazy had even indicated as much. Just a temporary stop while preparations for your final destination are completed.

Your final destination…

She began to flex her arms and wrists, stretching and pulling at the tape. Slowly but steadily it began to loosen. She could hear Esterhazy moving around downstairs; at any moment he might come back up to retrieve her.

With a final burst of effort she managed to rip the tape free. Next, she pulled away the blindfold and gag and freed her ankles. She stood up and, as quietly as she could, went over to the door, tried to open it. Locked, of course — and very stout.

She went to the lone window in the room, which looked out onto a desolate garden. The window was locked and barred. She glanced out through the grimy glass. It was a typical Upper East Side backyard, the common rear gardens of the surrounding brownstones separated from one another by tall brick walls. The yard of her own prison-house was overgrown and empty, but in the next garden over she could see a red-haired woman in a yellow sweater, reading a book.

Constance tried waving, then knocked quietly on the window — but the woman was absorbed in her book.

She made a quick search of the room, pulling open drawers in the empty desk and cupboards — and found a carpenter’s pencil in the back of one drawer.

An old book lay on the top bookshelf. She grabbed it, ripped out the flyleaf, and hurriedly scribbled a note on it. Then she folded it up and wrote a second note on the outside:

Please take this note immediately to

Dr. Felder, care of Mount Mercy Hospital,

Little Governor’s Island. Please — IT’S A

MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH.

After a moment, she added:

Felder will give you a monetary reward.

She went to the window. The woman was still reading. She rapped on the glass, but the woman didn’t notice. Finally, feeling a rising desperation, she took up the book and rammed it into the window, edge first. The glass shattered and the woman in the next garden glanced up.

Immediately Constance could hear Esterhazy bounding up the stairs.

She placed the note inside the book to help weigh it down and then tossed it toward the next garden. “Take the note!” she called down. “And go — please!” The woman stared at her as the book landed near her feet, and the last thing Constance saw was her bending down — she walked with a cane — and taking up the book.

Constance turned from the window just as Esterhazy burst in with a curse of surprise and rushed toward her. She raised a hand to claw at his eyes; he tried to bat it away but she managed to scratch two deep stripes down one cheek. He gasped in pain, but quickly recovered and tackled her. He fell atop her and they struggled, Esterhazy finally pinning her arms and pressing another chloroformed cloth over her mouth and nose. She felt consciousness slide away and blackness claim her once again.

Camden, Maine

THE SITE OF THE FORMER NURSING HOME had been razed and condos erected in its place, a forlorn row of empty town houses with flapping banners advertising price reductions and incentives.

Strolling into the little sales office, Pendergast found it empty and rang a bell on the counter. A haggard-looking young woman appeared from a back room, seemingly almost startled to see him. She greeted him with a professional smile.

Pendergast sloughed off the bulky jacket and smoothed down his black suit, restoring it to linear perfection. “Good morning,” he said.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, you may. I’ve been looking at real estate in the area.”

This seemed like a new idea to the saleslady. Her eyebrows rose. “Are you interested in our condominiums?”

“Yes.” Pendergast dumped the loathsome coat on a chair and settled himself down. “I’m from the South but looking for a cooler clime for my early retirement. The heat, you know.”

“I don’t know how they stand it down there,” said the woman.

“Indeed, indeed. Now, tell me what you have available.”

The woman bustled through a folder and brought out some brochures, fanning them out on the table and launching into an earnest sales pitch. “We’ve got one-, two-, and three-bedroom units, all with marble baths and top-of-the-line appliances: Sub-Zero refrigerators, Bosch dishwashers, Wolf stoves…”

As she droned on, Pendergast encouraged her with nods and approving murmurs. When she was done, he allowed her a brilliant smile. “Lovely. Only two hundred thousand for the two-bedroom? With a view of the sea?”