Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

Augusta, Maine

ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST SAT IN THE BASEMENT of the Maine State Archives building, surrounded by the defunct files of the Bay Manor Nursing Home. He was frowning at the whitewashed cinder-block wall, and one manicured fingernail was tapping the top of a deal table with evident irritation.

A diligent search for the medical records of Emma Grolier had turned up only a single file card. It indicated the complete records had been transferred by medical order to the care of one Dr. Judson Esterhazy, at his clinic in Savannah, Georgia. The date of the transfer was six months after Helen’s alleged death in Africa. The card was signed by Esterhazy, and the signature was genuine.

What had Esterhazy done with those papers? They hadn’t been in the safe of his Savannah house. It seemed almost certain he had destroyed them — that is, if Pendergast’s theory, still taking shape in his mind, was correct. Chances were the existence of the nursing home bills was an oversight. Emma Grolier. Was it possible…? He stood up slowly, thoughtfully, pushing the chair back with great deliberation.

As he ascended from the basement and once again emerged into the subzero afternoon cold, his cell phone rang. It was D’Agosta.

“Constance has escaped,” he said without preamble.

Pendergast stopped dead. For a moment, he did not speak. Then he quickly opened the door of his rental car and slid in. “Impossible. She has no motive to escape.”

“Nevertheless, she escaped. And let me tell you, I hope you’ve got a raincoat handy, because the shit is about to hit the fan.”

“When did it happen? How?”

“Lunchtime. It’s bizarre. She was on a field trip.”

“Outside the hospital?”

“Central Park Zoo. Seems one of the doctors helped her escape.”

“Dr. Ostrom? Dr. Felder? Impossible.”

“No. Apparently his name was Poole. Ernest Poole.”

“Who the devil is Poole?” Pendergast started the engine. “And what in the name of heaven was a self-confessed baby-killer doing outside the walls of Mount Mercy?”

“That’s the million-dollar question. You can bet the press will have a field day if they find out — which they probably will.”

“Keep this from the press at all costs.”

“I’m doing my best. Naturally, homicide is all over it.”

“Call them off. I can’t have a lot of detectives blundering about.”

“No dice. An investigation’s obligatory. SOP.”

For perhaps ten seconds, Pendergast stood motionless, thinking. Then he spoke again. “Have you looked into the background of this Dr. Poole?”

“Not yet.”

“If homicide must occupy themselves with something, have them do that. They’ll discover he’s a fraud.”

“You know who he is?”

“I’d rather not speculate at the moment.” Pendergast paused again. “I was a fool not to anticipate something like this. I believed Constance to be perfectly safe at Mount Mercy. A dreadful oversight— another dreadful oversight.”

“Well, she’s probably not in any real danger. Maybe she got infatuated with the doctor, escaped for some sort of dalliance…” D’Agosta’s voice trailed off awkwardly.

“Vincent, I’ve already told you she didn’t escape. She was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Yes. No doubt by this ersatz Dr. Poole. Keep it from the press and stop homicide from muddying the waters.”

“I’ll do everything I can.”

“Thank you.” And Pendergast accelerated onto the icy street, the rented car fishtailing and spraying snow, heading for the airport and New York City.

New York City

NED BETTERTON STOOD BY THE ENTRANCE to the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin, staring out at the confusion of yachts, sailboats, and assorted pleasure craft, all rocking gently back and forth in the calm waters of the Hudson. He was wearing the only suit jacket he’d brought along — a blue blazer — and he’d purchased a gaudy ascot that he’d tucked into his collar, along with a white cap placed rakishly on his head. It was not quite six PM, and the sun was rapidly sinking behind the ramparts of New Jersey.

Hands in his pockets, he glanced out at the vessel he’d seen the German motor out to the day before, moored some distance from the docks. It was quite a yacht, gleaming white with three tiers of smoked windows — well over a hundred feet in length. There did not appear to be any activity on board.

Betterton’s leave was up, and the calls from Kranston at the Bee had turned threatening. The man was furious that he himself had to cover the church meetings and other crap. Good — the hell with him. This was a hot lead, this yacht. It just might be his ticket out.

You call yourself a reporter? You couldn’t report your way out of a douche bag! Betterton flushed at the dressing-down Corinne Swanson had given him. That was another reason he was back at the Boat Basin. He knew, somehow or other, Pendergast was involved… and not as an investigator.

It had been the blue blazer, actually, that gave him the idea. He knew it was a common courtesy for yachtsmen anchored in proximity of one another to exchange visits, share drinks, or otherwise pay a courtesy call. He’d pose as a yachtsman, go on board, and see what there was to see. But these were bad guys, drug smugglers — he’d have to play it very, very carefully.

He soon discovered it wouldn’t be as simple as just strolling into the marina. The place was surrounded by a chain-link fence and sported a staffed guardhouse by a closed gate. A big sign read GUESTS BY INVITATION ONLY. The place reeked of money, sealed off from the hoi polloi.

He studied the chain-link fence, which ran along the shore, back from the water, and disappeared into some brush. Making sure no one was watching, he followed the fence into the brush, pushing his way into the growth along the riverbank. And there he found what he was looking for: a low gap.

He squeezed through, rose, brushed himself off, replaced the cap on his head, tugged his jacket smooth, and went walking along the shore, keeping to the brush. After fifty yards he could make out a boathouse ahead, and the beginning of the piers and docks. With another quick adjustment to his attire, he stepped out into the open and quickly scrambled down to the walkway above the pier, then began ambling along it as if he were just another yachtsman taking the air. A marina employee was working on the dock past the boathouse, where several dozen tenders were tied up at numbered spots.

“Good evening,” Betterton said.

The man looked up, greeted him, went back to work.

“I wonder,” Betterton said, “if you’d be willing to take me out to the yacht over there.” He pulled a twenty from his pocket and nodded at the white vessel moored about five hundred yards off.

The man rose. He peered at the twenty, then at Betterton. “The Vergeltung ?”

“Right. And please wait there to take me back. I won’t be on board more than five minutes, maybe ten, tops.”

“What’s your business?”

“A courtesy call. One yachtsman to another. I’ve been admiring the boat and thinking of upgrading to something similar, myself. My yacht is over there.” He waved vaguely at the anchorage.

“Well…”

There was a movement within the darkness of the boathouse and another man appeared, maybe thirty-five years old, with faded brown hair and a dark tan despite it being November. “I’ll take him over, Brad,” the new arrival said, scrutinizing Betterton.

“Right, Vic. He’s all yours.”

“And you’ll wait for me while I’m on board?” Betterton asked.

The man nodded, then pointed to one of the marina’s tenders. “Hop in.”