Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

With a brutal slashing motion, Falkoner drew the knife hard across the reporter’s throat, simultaneously leaping backward to avoid the jet of blood.

“Oh, my God!” Esterhazy cried, stepping back in shock and dismay.

Betterton raised his hands toward the wound, but it was an involuntary movement. As dark crimson flooded between the man’s fingers, Falkoner drew the tarp around limbs that were already jerking spastically.

Esterhazy stared, transfixed with shock. Falkoner stood, wiped the knife on the tarp, straightened his clothes, wiped off his hands, looking down at the dying reporter with something very much like satisfaction. He turned to Esterhazy. “Little strong for you, Judson?”

Esterhazy did not respond.

They climbed back up two flights, Esterhazy feeling unnerved by the brutality and Falkoner’s evident enjoyment. He followed Falkoner through the saloon and out onto the rear deck. In the shadow of the yacht, the motor launch was still waiting.

Falkoner leaned over the railing, speaking to the blond man in the launch, the one who had brought Betterton out to the yacht. “Vic, the body’s downstairs in the forward cargo hold. Come back after dark and dispose of it. Discreetly.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man in the launch.

“You’ll need an adequate story as for why your passenger isn’t returning to the dock. He’s a capital fellow, we’ve invited him on a short cruise.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I might suggest leaving the body in Riverside Park. Up in the low hundreds — that’s still a sketchy area. Make it look like a mugging. I’d drop it out to sea but that would eventually be harder to explain.”

“Yes, Mr. Falkoner.” The man fired up the motor and turned back toward the Boat Basin.

Falkoner watched for a minute as the dinghy moved away. Then he glanced at Esterhazy. His face was tense. “A bloody clueless reporter and he found me. Found the Vergeltung .” His eyes narrowed. “I can only think of one way: he followed you .”

“Not possible. I’ve been exceedingly careful. Besides, I’ve been nowhere near Malfourche.”

A long, slitted look followed this, and then Falkoner seemed to relax. He breathed out. “I suppose we can call that a successful dry run, ja ?”

Esterhazy didn’t answer.

“We’re ready for this man Pendergast. As long as you baited the hook properly and are sure he will come.”

“Nothing about Pendergast is sure,” Esterhazy said at last.

FELDER STOOD IN A FAR CORNER OF CONSTANCE GREENE’S room at Mount Mercy Hospital. Dr. Ostrom was there, along with Agent Pendergast and an NYPD lieutenant named D’Agosta. The previous afternoon, the police had taken away all of Constance’s books, her private writings, various personal possessions, and even the paintings on the walls. That morning they had learned conclusively that Poole was a fake, a fraud, and Felder had had to endure a dressing-down by the real Poole, who savaged him for not checking the man’s credentials.

Pendergast did not bother to hide his steely contempt for the way in which they had allowed Constance to leave Mount Mercy. Some of his displeasure had been directed against Ostrom, but Felder had endured the brunt of the man’s icy wrath.

“Well, Doctors,” Pendergast was saying, “allow me to congratulate you on the first escape from Mount Mercy in a hundred and twenty years. Where shall we mount the plaque?”

Silence.

Pendergast plucked a photograph from his suit pocket and showed it first to Ostrom, then to Felder. “Do you recognize this man?”

Felder looked at it closely. It was a slightly blurry shot of a handsome, middle-aged man.

“He looks rather like Poole,” said Felder, “but I’m pretty sure it’s not the same man. Brother, perhaps?”

“And you, Dr. Ostrom?”

“Hard to say.”

Pendergast slipped a thin, felt-tipped pen from his pocket, bent over the photograph, and briefly worked on it. He followed with a touch of a white pen. At last he turned back to the two doctors and showed them the photograph without comment.

Felder stared at the photograph again — this time with a shock of recognition. Pendergast had added a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke beard.

“My God, that’s him. Poole.”

Ostrom nodded his miserable agreement.

“The man’s real name is Esterhazy,” said Pendergast, tossing the photograph on the empty table with disgust. He sat down beside the table, tenting his fingers, his gaze turned inward. “I was a damned fool, Vincent. I thought I’d run him deep into the bush. I didn’t anticipate he’d double back on the trail and come up behind me, like a Cape buffalo.”

The lieutenant did not reply. An uncomfortable silence began to grow in the room.

“In the note,” Felder said, “she claims her child is still alive. How is that possible? The whole reason she’s in here is because she admitted killing it.”

Pendergast shot him a withering glance. “Before we bring an infant back from the dead, Doctor, shall we first recover the mother?”

A pause. Then Pendergast turned to Ostrom. “Did this so-called Poole discuss, in specific psychological terms, Constance’s condition?”

“He did.”

“And was his analysis consistent? Believable?”

“It seemed surprising, given what I knew of Ms. Greene. However, its internal logic was sound and so I assumed it was correct. He claimed she’d been his patient. There seemed no reason to doubt him.”

Pendergast’s spidery fingers drummed on the wooden arm of the chair. “And you say that, at his first visit with Constance, Dr. Poole asked for a moment alone with her?”

“Yes.”

Pendergast glanced at D’Agosta. “I think the situation is clear enough. Crystal clear, in fact.”

It wasn’t at all clear to Felder, but he said nothing.

Pendergast turned back to Ostrom. “And it was this same Poole, naturally, who first suggested Constance be given an outing — off the grounds?”

“That’s correct,” said Ostrom.

“Who took care of the paperwork?”

“Dr. Felder.”

Pendergast shot Felder a hooded glance. He cringed.

The FBI agent took a long, searching look around the room. Then he turned once again to Lieutenant D’Agosta. “Vincent, this room — and this place — hold no further interest. We must focus on the note. Can you bring it out again, please?”

D’Agosta reached into his suit pocket and took out the photocopy Ostrom had made. Pendergast seized it and read it over, once, twice.

“The woman who delivered this,” he said. “There was no luck tracking her taxi?”

“Nope.” D’Agosta nodded at the note. “Not much to go on there.”

“Not much,” Pendergast said. “But perhaps, just enough.”

“I don’t understand,” the lieutenant said.

“There are two voices speaking in this note. One of them knows Constance’s ultimate destination — the other does not.”

“You’re saying that first voice is Poole’s. I mean Esterhazy’s.”

“Exactly. And you will note that, perhaps inadvertently, he allowed a certain phrase to escape, which Constance quotes. ‘Vengeance is where it will end.’ ”

“And?”

“Esterhazy was always overly pleased with his own wit. ‘ Vengeance is where it will end.’ Isn’t that rather an odd construction, Vincent?”

“I’m not so sure, really. That’s the whole point of it: vengeance.”

Pendergast waved his hand impatiently. “What if he’s speaking not of an act , but an object ?”

This was followed by a long silence.

“Esterhazy is taking Constance to some place named Vengeance. Maybe it’s an old family mansion. An estate. A business of some kind. That’s precisely the kind of pun Esterhazy would employ — especially in a moment of triumph, as no doubt he viewed this to be.”