Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

And then, coming in through the waves, Pendergast beheld a remarkable sight: a large dory, crammed with women and children. A lifeboat had managed to survive. Captain Libby stood at the bow, holding a lantern and giving orders, two crewmen at the oars. As the group onshore watched, Libby brought the boat expertly through the surf, and the women and children poured out onto the beach even as the captain jumped back into the boat and ordered the men back to the wreck in a heroic effort to save more. The survivors swarmed toward the guttering bonfire, believing themselves saved.

The leader of the mob was enraged at this development. “That’ll be the captain!” he said, pointing with a shaking finger. “That’s the man we want! He knows where the loot is! Get him — now!”

The mob, galvanized, rushed forward with a roar, brandishing guns, knives, and scythes. As the boat returned with more survivors, it was overtaken. The two crew members were quickly dispatched. Libby drew his sword but was overcome by numbers, dragged out, and hauled before the leader.

The captain, his features distorted by gashes across his forehead and left cheek, looked at the leader with anger and disgust. “You did this!” he said. “You lured us in. Murderer!”

In response, the leader put a gun to the captain’s head. “Tell us where the money is.”

The captain remained motionless, saying nothing. The leader cracked his pistol across Libby’s face. The captain sank to his knees, temporarily stunned. At the leader’s order, the captain was hauled roughly back to his feet, blood now streaming from a broken nose. He was searched, but no valuables were found. The leader, further enraged, dealt him a stinging backhanded blow. “Haul him off to the lighthouse,” he ordered the men.

Two of the men grabbed the captain by the upper arms and began half pushing, half dragging him northward along the beach. Rousing himself, the captain cried: “What are you going to do with the women and children?”

In answer, the leader spat into the sand — but not before glancing over his shoulder at the dunes beyond the shingle beach. Then he turned back to his men. “Take that dory out to the ship,” he said. “Search it, starting with the captain’s quarters! Find the loot before the ship breaks up!”

The men, though still in shock, were now united. The utter barbarism of the atrocity they’d committed had bound them together, made them resolved to see it through to the end, no matter what. The mob went lumbering down the beach and launched the dory into the water, manning the double sets of oars and driving it through the surf until they reached the broken back of the ship, wedged on the reef, battered and being driven into pieces by the sea. Converging on a gaping rend in the center of the hull, they disappeared inside, the torches winking out one by one as they were swallowed by the hulk’s interior.

Pendergast watched them from his position at the rear of the beach. Then he turned his attention to the pathetic, bedraggled groups of women, young children, and babies, huddled together in threes and fours, crying and pleading for help.

Another man was staring at them, too: the leader of the mob. In one hand was his pistol; in the other, a heavy, cruel-looking cudgel. And the expression on his face was so harrowing that, in an instant, the memory crossing was cut violently short and Pendergast found himself once again in the present, lying upon the stony beach, Constance Greene nearby, a statue standing guard over the deserted scene.

Carole Hinterwasser stepped up to the front door of her shop, A Taste of Exmouth, and peered out the window through a slit in the gauzy drapes. It was four thirty, half an hour before the regular closing time, but a CLOSED sign had already hung on the door for the past ninety minutes. She looked left, then right. Main Street was quiet, with only a few pedestrians moving purposefully along.

Soft footsteps approached from the rear of the shop, and then she became aware of the presence of Bradley Gavin behind her. She felt his body touch hers, felt his warm breath on her neck as he, too, peered through the window.

“Anything?” he asked.

“No.” She took a step back. “Careful. Somebody might see you.”

“Who’s to say I’m not just browsing?”

“In a closed store?” Even though they were alone, she found herself whispering.

“I meant to ask — where’s that girl, Flavia, been all this time?”

“Down in the basement, doing inventory. She hasn’t heard a thing — I made sure of that.”

“Do you think they suspect?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “We’ve always been discreet, but Exmouth’s a small place.” She walked over to the bank of lights, snapped them all off. Immediately, the room grew dim, illuminated only by the glow of a sunless sky.

There was a brief pause, then Gavin said, “You’re right. And all these recent events — the theft of Lake’s wine, Agent Pendergast snooping around, the murders, and the Tybane markings — it’s never been so bad. It’s like living under a microscope. My grandfather liked to say: ‘If you throw out a big enough net, there’s no telling what you might drag in.’ As you said, it’s a small town. These murders have nothing to do with us, but with all this investigation, someone might find out, anyway... by accident.”

Carole nodded. “So — we’re in agreement. Right?”

“Right. Things can’t go on like this any longer. It’s got to be done, as soon as possible. It’s for the best.”

In the half-light, she took his hand in hers.

Gavin had been looking at the ground as he spoke. Now he raised his head, held her gaze. “It’s not going to be easy for us, you know.”

“I know.”

They stood there, motionless, for a long moment. Then Carole gave his hand a squeeze.

“You go first,” she said. “I’ll wait a few minutes, then go myself. I told Flavia to lock up when she’s finished downstairs.”

He nodded, waited for her to open the door, and then — glancing quickly up and down the street — slipped out.

From behind the gauze curtains, concealed from view, Carole watched him stride down Main Street. Motionless, she let five minutes pass, then ten. And then she, too, exited the shop, closed the door behind her, and began making her way in the direction of the lighthouse.

Constance’s first indication that Pendergast had returned from his memory crossing was the movement of his limbs on the shingle beach. Then his eyes opened. Despite the length of time he had lain motionless, more still than any sleeper, those eyes retained the bright glitter of the most intense concentration.

“What time is it, Constance?” he asked.

“Half past four.”

He got up, brushed the traces of sand from his coat, and picked up the satchel and metal detector. He spent a moment looking around, as if getting his bearings. And then, motioning her to follow him, he began walking inland from the shingle beach, northwestward, tangential to the line of the Skullcrusher Rocks that lay to their right. He moved with quick, purposeful strides. She noticed that he no longer bothered checking the map or GPS.

Together, they continued to a spot where the beach ended at a rise of land covered with grass and the occasional scrub pine. They climbed to the top, where Pendergast paused to look around. Beyond lay a field of dunes, anchored with grass and low bushes, forming a series of broad, sandy hollows, perhaps fifty feet across. In a moment he descended into the closest hollow. At its bottom, he set down the satchel.

“What are we doing here?” Constance asked.

“If someone on the shore wanted to bury something, this would be the place to do it.” Reaching into the satchel, he pulled out a slender, telescoped rod of flexible steel, which he opened to its full, six-foot extent. He began probing the sand at the bottom of the hollow, sinking the steel rod down at various points as he moved in a steady pattern from one side of the depression to the other. After a few minutes, something stopped the probe. Pendergast knelt and probed in a tighter pattern, sinking the steel tip into the sand in half a dozen locations. Then, rising once again, he took from the satchel a small, collapsible shovel.