Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

Pendergast recognized, to his enormous surprise, the voice of Commander Grove, the external affairs liaison from Miami PD.

“That’s a fancy sidearm you’re packing, but it can’t work miracles.” Grove paused. “Go ahead, anyway. Give it your best shot.” The outline of a figure spread his arms, holding the rifle aside.

Pendergast aimed for the boat’s engine and squeezed off his last two shots, spacing them apart long enough to make a correction on the second. A gout of water popped up a dozen feet to the right; the second, much closer at three feet. But not close enough. He fired again, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber, as he knew it would.

“Impressive shooting, under the circumstances. Still, you’re an optimist, and in this crazy world, optimists die.” The boat engine revved up and the airboat crept toward him. “I saw you lose your backup weapon through the scope, and I’m counting on your not having a third magazine for the 1911. Those seven-shot clips are heavy and I never knew an FBI agent to carry more than one spare. I mean, if you can’t do the job with fifteen rounds, that’s pretty sad. What kind of agent would carry a third magazine?” Grove laughed.

As the man spoke, Pendergast was assembling the missing pieces — the real missing pieces — of the puzzle. The picture they formed was depressing indeed. He briefly contemplated his options — either launch himself into the sea of alligators or wait to be shot. The water was still teeming with the agitated reptiles; another lunged up at him, and Pendergast smacked its snout with the butt of his empty gun. There was no longer any possibility of, or any point in, trying to remain in cover.

“Keep your hands away from your body and in sight at all times,” Grove ordered curtly.

The airboat eased closer. Grove, at the helm, kept one hand on the wheel with the other aiming the rifle. “You FBI assholes come down here like you’re manna from heaven. I wonder if you have any clue as to what’s really going on.”

“I do now,” said Pendergast.

Grove eased the boat within twenty feet and cut the throttle, taking up the rifle in both hands and holding it steady on Pendergast.

“I wonder if you understand,” Pendergast added.

Grove laughed. “I’ve got it about 90 percent figured out — thanks to you and Coldmoon. Anyway, with you two dead I’ll have time to piece together the rest and clean it all up. Unless, of course, you’d like to pass on a few pointers. You know, to help me out.”

“I’d rather you satisfied my own curiosity first,” Pendergast said. “I’m assuming it was you who doctored the Vance file to lure us out here?”

Grove’s upper lip twitched with a note of self-satisfaction. “You should pin a medal on me for figuring out it was John Vance who set all this into motion. It wasn’t until the second note had been placed on a grave that I started to wonder. Of course, as a police ‘liaison’ it was a breeze to insert myself into a case involving the FBI — just as a way of keeping tabs on things. And then, with the third note, I knew all this was more than coincidence. When I did some digging and learned Vance was dead, killed in a car accident, I was surprised as hell. But I quickly realized there was only one other possibility.” He shook his head. “Who’d have expected that hangdog little Vance punk would grow up to become a serial killer?”

“If John Vance was dead, you must have pulled his death notice from the file. And added a fictitious interview with him — one that would lead us directly to Canepatch. Where you’d be waiting.”

“Pretty fast footwork, right — pulling his son from the file so you wouldn’t get suspicious, and adding that fake two-year-old interview report? I figured you’d want to talk to Vance.”

“And he would have wanted to talk to you. After all, you did kill his wife. Correct?”

“You’re smarter than the average bear. But just so you know, it was an accident.”

“I assume you were having an affair with her. The husband was returning from a tour of duty; she threatened to confess to him; and you killed her to silence her and preserve your career. Being a cop, you knew what to do to make it look like a suicide.”

“I said it was an accident .”

“Of course it was. As a self-professed former homicide detective, I’m sure you’ve heard that many times.” Pendergast’s voice suddenly launched into a high-pitched, sniveling whine. “ It was just an accident. ”

The satisfied smirk left Grove’s face. “Fuck you—”

“But Lydia’s husband, being former military police, sensed it was murder. He didn’t have any hard evidence; he just knew . He couldn’t convince the Miami PD of that — thanks no doubt to your behind-the-scenes manipulation of the investigation. Such as substituting her potentially damning X-rays with those of another, unrelated suicide victim.”

Grove just glared at him.

“Clever of you, though, to leave Vance’s hounding of the police — real hounding, by a man convinced his wife had been murdered — in the file. That added to its verisimilitude.”

“I’m glad you’re coming around. Anyway, Vance’s long gone. With you and Coldmoon out of the way, that just leaves Mister Brokenhearts. As soon as I’m finished here, I’m going to do the world a solid by smoking his ass.”

“How good of you — considering you created him in the first place.”

“Bullshit!”

“Hardly. You’re the one responsible for this entire chain of killings. In fact, you’ve been the primum mobile all along. The only difference is that, now, you know it. How many murders, exactly, can be laid at your doorstep? Let’s add them up: Lydia Vance, Jasmine Oriol, Laurie Winters, Mary Adler, Elise Baxter, Agatha Flayley — and that’s not even counting the women slaughtered by Brokenhearts: Felice Montera, Jenny—”

“I keep telling you, no way am I responsible. Lydia was going to shoot off her mouth, and I was just trying to reason with her, but things got physical and, well—”

Again, the shrill, crybaby voice erupted from Pendergast. “ I was just trying to reason with her, but things got physical and, well... I strangled her. ”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Contrary to your pusillanimous rationalizations, these murders are all a direct result of your actions, Commander — and you can’t fool yourself into denying it. Nine cruel, needless, senseless murders.”

“I’ve heard enough.” Grove raised the rifle and took aim. Pendergast noted, with detached resignation, the slow squeeze of the trigger finger. He tensed his muscles, ready to leap into the swirling water, knowing it would be a useless gesture.

Still, any gesture was better than none at all.

As Pendergast steeled himself for the final leap, he heard a noise, a chunk , come from the direction of the boat. Grove’s head snapped forward as if he’d been slapped from behind. His rifle jerked up and went off, the round going wild. Grove’s expression turned to one of pure astonishment. Then he did a pirouette that was almost graceful, his body turning to reveal the handle of a hatchet, blade buried in the back of his skull. He remained still for a moment, then toppled headfirst into the water.

The splash of Grove’s body, and the sudden introduction of fresh blood and brains, generated another frenzied boiling of water. A dozen alligators converged, jaws snapping, tails whipping, seizing the body on all sides and shaking it back and forth.

And now Pendergast saw a battered kayak glide up behind the airboat. A young man was paddling it, lean and muscled, with closely trimmed hair and a grin that seemed permanently stamped on his scarred, crooked face. He wore a T-shirt that said, BECAUSE IT IS BITTER. He raised an arm in a tentative greeting, a very red tongue exposed behind cemetery teeth. “Agent Pendergast? It’s me.”