Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“Not specifically. But if I were trying to escape the law, that’s where I’d go.”

Pendergast took a sip of the bourbon. “Mr. Silas, you mentioned your family had been here two hundred years. You must know a great deal of local history.”

“Well, I’ve never much cared for genealogy and so forth. Back in the day, Dill Town was the so-called Negro end of town, mostly whaling families. But it wasn’t just African American. There was a lot of South Seas blood — Tahitian, Polynesian, Maori. I’m almost half Maori myself. The Maori were the greatest harpooners who ever lived. And then some of these sea captains had South Seas wives and families, you know, brought on board during the long voyages. They’d drop them off in Dill Town before heading into Boston to their white families. When they went back out to sea, they’d just pick them back up.” He shook his head.

“And so you are a descendant, then, of the original inhabitants of Dill Town?”

“Sure am. Like I said, I’m as much Maori as African. My great-granddad had some hellacious tribal tats, or so my grandma told me.”

“I understand most of the African Americans abandoned Dill Town after a lynching that happened there.”

Silas shook his head. “That was a terrible business. Terrible. The man was innocent, of course. But that didn’t matter to the vigilante group that strung him up. After that, folks in Dill Town decided it wasn’t a good place to raise their families. They had the money to get out, thanks to the whaling business, and most of them did. Some just went to New Bedford. Others as far as the Chicago slaughterhouses.”

“But your family stayed.”

“Well, my granddad had lost his throwing arm in a whaling accident and so he’d begun a medicinal herb business. This area’s full of herbs, especially nightshade, which grows all around here. You find it especially down where Oldham used to be. He couldn’t transfer that kind of skill to a big city like New Bedford. So we stayed. We just moved out of town, down the road a piece — and here we are.” He spread his hands.

“You live alone?”

“I had a wife, but she left. Too lonely, she said. The loneliness suits me just fine, most of the time, although I’m always happy to meet someone different. I’m no hermit. I hit the bar at the Inn once a week, drink, eat fried clams, and play dominoes with friends.”

Pendergast stood up, drink in hand, and walked to the window, staring into the darkness, southwestward toward the marshes. “If you could take me into town now, that would be much appreciated. But I do have a final question. These vigilantes you mention — who were they?”

“Nobody knows. Local folks, masked. I’ll tell you this: my granddad said that in the old days, there was a bad element in Exmouth. Not just a bad element — some truly evil people. He said they were like that story of the Gray Reaper: fellows looking to start a hell of their own.”

Are you sure it wasn’t a loon?” Chief Mourdock asked. “They’ve got a call that can sound human.”

Sergeant Gavin, sitting in the stern of the police skiff with his hand on the tiller, guiding it across Exmouth Bay toward the marshes, winced. Mourdock, even in his present smacked-down state, managed to be an ass. But Pendergast, sitting in the bow like some strange black figurehead, rolled-up map in hand, didn’t seem to notice.

Behind them, two more skiffs followed, equipped with radios. Because of the heavy cloud cover, a feeble gray stain of light on the eastern horizon was all that could be seen of sunrise. Mourdock had taken longer to assemble the party than Gavin would have liked — the chief’s skepticism about the whole expedition was quite evident — and it was now approaching seven in the morning as the boat chugged along the main waterway of the Exmouth River. The temperature had plunged overnight into the low forties, and it was even more flesh-chilling out here in the marshes than on land. The tide was high and the water had gone slack twenty minutes before. That didn’t give them much time before it began the ebb, the current flowing out of the tidal marshes at an ever-increasing rate. Gavin had spent time as a teenager earning pocket money by clamming in the marshes, and he had a healthy respect for their remoteness, fearful isolation, and the confusing flow of the tidal currents, which if you weren’t careful could sneak up on you. He vividly recalled being trapped on one of the marshy islands overnight because he’d lost track of the tides.

“Look out!” Pendergast called from the bow.

Gavin swerved around a partly submerged piling, then turned his eyes back forward. A group of red-winged blackbirds, disturbed by their passage, rose up in a flock from a heavy patch of cattails. A few hundred yards ahead he could see the beginning of the salt marsh mazes, where waterways and islands all came together in a confusion of channels and culs-de-sac. The mudflats were now fully covered by the high tide, but that wouldn’t last long.

Pendergast had heard the scream when the tide was incoming, and he’d been able to target the general area on a map. Gavin glanced at his own map — an NOAA chart — and thought again about the currents. If the presumed killer had dumped the body into the water, the incoming tide would have carried it deeper into the marshes, where it probably would have snagged up in some backwater and they might never find it. Then again, if it hadn’t gotten snagged and the tide turned, it would be carried out almost to sea, as the body of the historian had apparently been.

Really, with these crazy currents, the body could be anywhere.

“Okay,” said the chief, speaking loudly into his radio over the sound of the 18-horse Evinrude, “Jack, you take the right channel, we’ll take the middle, and you, Ken, take the left.”

The boats separated and Gavin guided their skiff into the central channel. Soon they had lost sight of the two other boats, separated by banks of salt grass. Damn, it was cold. It was a gray, monochromatic world. He could see a chevron of Canada geese in the sky, making their way southward.

“Slow down, and keep your eyes peeled,” said the chief.

Gavin throttled down the tiller. The channel had narrowed, but now, going every which way, were branching channels.

“Which way?” he asked.

Before the chief could speak, Pendergast extended a skeletal hand, pointing toward a channel, map unrolled. Gavin wondered where Constance was; he found himself wishing, rather perversely, that it was her in the bow instead of Pendergast. The man gave him the creeps.

The chief for once kept his mouth shut as they turned into the designated channel. It was narrower, and here and there tree trunks were snagged into the embankments or sunken into the muck, black branches reaching out of the water as if to impede their progress. There were a million places a body could hang up and get covered by the tide. That was assuming the body was even in the water — if it was lying in the middle of an island of salt grass, it wouldn’t be found until the crows started circling.

Pendergast pointed again, and then again, never saying a word, and Gavin continued up one channel and down another. If there was a method to this madness, it wasn’t evident. The chief simply sat in the middle of the boat with his hammy arms crossed, frowning, his face expressing disgust with the entire effort. He didn’t even make a pretense of looking.

The minutes dragged by in silence. Gavin felt completely lost, but by the way Pendergast kept checking his map and making marks on it with a pencil, he was assured the FBI agent knew where they were.

“Um, Agent Pendergast?” he ventured.

The white face turned to him.