Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“It makes perfect sense to me,” Constance said.

Pendergast looked over at her. “Pray tell, how in the world does it make sense to you?”

“You believe the ship sank off of the Exmouth shore. That explains why the historian came back here — he deduced just what you deduced. Quod erat demonstrandum. ”

“ Cum hoc, ergo propter hoc. ” He shook his head impatiently. “It may explain why the historian focused on this area. It does not, however, take into account a phenomenon known as the stand of the tide.”

“And what, pray tell, is the ‘stand of the tide’?”

“Also known as slack water. There is a period of about half an hour after high tide in which all tidal currents cease. The stand of the tide would mean that a wreck anywhere off the Exmouth shore would have been driven straight into the Exmouth bluffs and beaches.”

“Why?”

“Because of the wind. This was a nor’easter — that is, wind from the northeast. The Exmouth shoreline forms a hook as it trends out toward Cape Ann. That hook is like a net: any debris from that wreck, driven southwest by the wind, could not have escaped it. The bodies and wreckage would have littered that shore.”

“But what if the ship rounded Cape Ann without seeing it? What if it was already so disabled it couldn’t come into Gloucester Harbor, and was eventually carried out to sea on the outgoing tide instead?”

Pendergast paused, considering. “That might appear to be a viable possibility, and I believe the rescue operation must have assumed just that, focusing attention on the very areas where the disabled ship would have been driven. Your registry mentioned that this was an oak-hulled ship. Even if it sank, there would have been a large amount of floating debris, not to mention bodies. But a thorough search found nothing.”

“Then perhaps it was disabled long before reaching the Exmouth shore, wallowing in the storm until the tide turned and carried it out to sea.”

Pendergast began pacing again. “The tide reverses every six hours. A wallowing ship would not go very far. Eventually some debris would have washed ashore.” He waved his hand. “But we’re going in circles. Recall this is not the only mystery here: there is another — the link to witchcraft.”

“Don’t tell me you believe Boyd’s story of the refugee Salem witches!”

“My dear Constance, I ‘believe’ nothing. And I hope you will resist that impulse, as well. Let us only go where the facts take us. And the facts are pointing me into the Exmouth salt marshes and that long-depopulated colony. I will go in search of it tonight.”

“At night?”

“Of course at night. It is to be a stealth reconnaissance.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. I can move far better in the darkness alone. I may have to cross water channels, and you, unfortunately, never learned to swim. And recall the unpleasantness that ensued during our last, ah, field trip.”

“You mean, the ‘field trip’ to the Botanic Gardens? As I recall, that particular excursion saved your life. As our friend Sergeant Gavin would put it, ‘Just saying.’”

Pendergast’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement or a concession of the point. “What I would like you to do, Constance, is to go to Salem tomorrow morning. I understand there are many attractions, including a ‘Witch House,’ a ‘Witch Dungeon Museum,’ and the famous Witch Trials Memorial, not to mention the ‘Witch City Segway Tour.’”

“Segway Tour? Surely you’re joking.”

“More to the point, Salem is also home to the Integrated Wiccan Alliance.” He passed her a card. “A certain Tiffani Brooks, also known as Shadow Raven, is head of the league and the leader of a coven there.”

Constance took the card. “Wicca? White magic? And what am I supposed to find out?”

At this, Pendergast handed her a piece of paper with a drawing on it. Looking at it, she recognized the marks that had been cut into the historian’s body, along with the crudely lettered word TYBANE .

“An Internet search turned this up,” Pendergast said. “Recall what Boyle told us? Of an inscription that, according to legend, was found at the center of the lost witch colony that once existed inland from here?” He nodded at the sheet of paper. “That is the inscription, and those are the marks — at least, according to a long-dead archaeologist of questionable reputation.”

Constance stared at the sheet. “You don’t think that whoever killed the historian, carved these markings into him, was a...”

“I’m not thinking anything. I simply want you to find out if those marks are genuine witchcraft, and, if so, what their meaning is. That mysterious word is also, in fact, what’s at the heart of my own nocturnal journey. My dear Constance, we can’t proceed until we determine whether they are genuine, or simply a killer’s idea for misleading the investigation.”

He stood up. “And now, adieu. I need to speak briefly with Sergeant Gavin. I recall hearing that he grew up in Exmouth.”

“On what subject?”

“Just a question or two about the background of our estimable lawyer, Mr. Dunwoody. And then I’ve asked Mr. Lake for a tour of his sculpture garden.”

She folded the sheet of paper carefully. “I thought you were going to undertake a certain reconnaissance.”

“I am indeed. But for that, I require darkness.”

“I see. And for myself?”

“For this evening’s labor, I would like you to, ah, hang out at the Inn’s bar, engage the natives in conversation, have a beer or two, and collect the gossip.”

She stared at him. “I don’t ‘hang out’ in bars.”

“You will have to adjust your rules of personal conduct, as I do mine, while on an investigation. You can always drink absinthe, which, by a special miracle, they have.” He leaned over, his voice lowering confidentially. “But whatever you do, avoid the clams .”

That,” said Percival Lake, gazing fondly, “was the first piece I made when I moved here with my wife thirty years ago.” He patted the polished gray granite sculpture with affection before returning his arm to its prior position around Carole Hinterwasser’s waist. The sculpture depicted the semiabstract form of a harpooner emerging from the stone, aiming his weapon. “I kept it for sentimental reasons, could’ve sold it a hundred times. It’s titled Queequeg .”

A gust of wind blew up from the sea, ruffling the grass in the sculpture garden along the bluffs. Low clouds the color of zinc pressed in from the sea, bringing with them the smell of winter. Lake had arranged the large granite statues facing the sea, in a sort of homage to the Easter Island moai, which he had seen years ago on a journey with his late wife.

The black-clad figure of Pendergast pulled his coat collar tighter. The evening had turned a little chill, and the FBI agent was quite obviously not a person who enjoyed bracing weather.

Lake continued wandering through the sculptures, arm in arm with Carole, talking about each piece in turn, while Pendergast followed behind them in silence. At the end of the line of statues, Lake paused and turned. “I’m curious to hear how the investigation is going,” he said.

“Not well,” said Pendergast.

“I see. Is it a question of a lack of evidence?”

“Just the opposite.”

“Well, you’ve certainly caused quite a stir in town. You and the murder of that historian are all anyone is talking about.” He paused, carefully choosing his words. “I have to admit, I’m feeling a little out of the loop.”

“How so?”

“Well, you’ve been here three days. I was expecting regular reports on your progress. I heard secondhand, for example, that you’ve been helping the police investigate that murder. It would have been nice to hear it from you.”