Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“The tide’s turned. Just wanted you to know. Got some currents developing.”

“Thank you. Continue, if you please.”

If you please. That accent — he’d never heard one like it. Southern, of course, but different somehow. He wondered if the man was boning Constance.

Up one channel, down another. It only seemed to get colder. A couple of seagulls followed them for a while, crying loudly, and one dropped a jet of waste right beside the boat. Rats with wings, the lobstermen called them. Once in a while the chief would speak to the others on the radio. It seemed they were not having much luck, either, and one of the boats was apparently lost. They were trying to get a GPS reading, but without cell coverage they couldn’t get a good fix.

Pendergast certainly wasn’t lost. Or if he was, he was doing a good job of covering it up.

Now the current was really picking up, the water flowing out. The boat struggled against it, throttled up but not really making good time against the current. Gavin checked his watch.

“Agent Pendergast?” he repeated.

Again the white face turned.

“Tide’s down about two feet. Another half hour and we better be well out of here.”

“Understood.” The black-clad arm pointed again, and they took yet another fork. And now Gavin could see the chief beginning to get nervous.

“Gavin’s right,” Mourdock said. “I think we’d better head back out, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

This was ignored. They continued on.

“Stop!” came a barked order from Pendergast, his hand shooting up like a semaphore. They were passing yet another waterlogged tree, lodged in the now-exposed muck at the upper side of the embankment. Gavin throttled down, but not too much, as the current would sweep them back downstream otherwise.

“Bring the boat in to that snag,” said Pendergast.

“It’s too shallow,” Gavin said. “We’ll ground out.”

“Then ground out.”

“Hold on,” said the chief, alarmed. “What’s so damned important that we have to risk our lives?”

“Look.” And Pendergast pointed.

There, just under the murky surface of the water, wagging back and forth in the current in a grotesque parody of a farewell wave, was a pale hand.

“Oh, shit,” Gavin muttered.

“Toss the rope over that exposed branch and tie us up,” said Pendergast.

Gavin made a loop with the rope and tossed it toward the branch, goosing the throttle to keep the boat steady. He got it on the first try, cut the engine, raised it, and then hauled the boat over to the log, tying it securely. He could feel the resistance of the mud against its bottom, the current thrumming past the hull.

“I don’t think this is a good idea at all,” said the chief.

But Pendergast was leaning out, hanging over the side of the boat. “Give me another rope.”

Gavin passed it to him. The agent reached down, grasped the arm, and pulled it out of the water. The head now appeared, just breaking the surface. Gavin rushed over to help, overcoming his revulsion to grasp the other submerged, lolling arm.

Pendergast tied the rope around the wrist. The body was only lightly caught up on the snag and it suddenly floated free, coming to the surface and heading downstream.

“Pull!” Pendergast ordered.

Gavin pulled the rope, using the skiff’s oarlock as a brake, and they hauled the body against the current and up to the side of the boat.

“For God’s sake, you’re not bringing that into the boat!” cried the chief.

“Move over,” said Pendergast sharply, but the chief needed no urging to scramble aside as they grasped the body, preparing to haul it in. “On three.”

With a great heave the two got it over the gunwale, the body flopping onto the bottom of the boat like a huge dead fish. Its clothes were torn and shredded by its journey through the currents, and it lay facedown, the back exposed. Pendergast, still grasping the lifeless arm, rolled the man over.

Gavin immediately recognized the face. When he next saw the cuts on the body, he was so shocked he was temporarily unable to speak.

Not so the chief. “It’s Dana Dunwoody!” he said. He glanced at Pendergast. “You know, Brad here told me just yesterday that you had your suspicions about him. If this is what happens to your suspects, I hope you don’t start suspecting me .”

Neither Gavin nor Pendergast paid any attention. They were too busy looking at the body.

“Cut up just like that historian,” Gavin finally managed to say.

“Indeed,” murmured Pendergast. “The Tybane inscriptions, once again.” He leaned over the body, his face so close to the gray, rubbery, glistening skin it was positively disgusting. “Curious. The cuts on Mr. McCool were done with confidence and vigor. These, or at least certain of these, appear to be different.”

“Fine, fine, let the M.E. sort it out,” said Mourdock. “Let’s call the others and get the hell out of here.”

Sister, come in!”

Constance hesitated at the threshold of the shopfront in the seedy mall on the outskirts of Salem. A woman in a Victorian dress not unlike her own had risen with alacrity and swept out toward her. “Welcome to the Coven of Salem! From whence do you hail?”

Constance moved into the spacious room, which had once been some sort of store, but was now repurposed into a reception area and meeting place. There was nothing strange or sinister about it; it was, rather, a sunny, cheerful space with thick carpeting and yellow-painted walls. A dark green curtain closed off the rear of the space. She had the feeling this was the woman’s residence as well as her coven.

She took another step inside.

“Shoes off!” the woman said sharply.

“I beg your pardon.” Constance removed her flats.

“Come in and sit down, please.”

Constance put down her bag and eased herself into a chair. It was uncomfortable and a little grimy, and she once again reflected on how much she’d rather be back at 891 Riverside Drive, playing the harpsichord or reading a book, instead of rising at the crack of dawn to take a hired car from Exmouth to Salem at Pendergast’s request. The agent had returned to the Inn at four in the morning, stopping only long enough to change his clothes before running out again to rendezvous with the police. He’d looked in on her before leaving, mentioned something about an incident in the swamps, promised to give her all the details at dinner, and exhorted her to make all possible haste to Salem. Your analysis, and your recommendations, are most necessary. More than once, his words of praise the previous morning had echoed in her mind. He had entrusted her with this assignment; he considered it to be important — and as a result, whatever her private thoughts might be, she would do everything she could to see it through successfully.

The woman sat down opposite her. She was a solid, firm-looking figure in her forties, with a prominent bust and a pugnacious chin, thrust forward. She eyed Constance with a faintly suspicious air and spoke with stilted formality. “I am Shadow Raven, of the Salem Coven, the largest of its kind in New England.” She made a strange, old-fashioned gesture with her hand, a medieval flourish of some sort.

“I am Constance Greene.”

“How nice to meet you.” The woman looked her up and down. “What a beautiful dress. Princess-line with a hint of mutton-leg sleeves. Where did you get it?”

“I’ve had it for a while.”

“And what coven are you from, sister? I thought I knew all the Wiccan practitioners in New England, but I have not seen you before.”

“I’m not from any coven. I’m not Wiccan.”

A look of surprise. And then the woman relaxed her guard. “I see. You have an interest in Wicca, however? Perhaps you are looking for a teacher?”