Douglas Preston - Two Graves

Gradually, he was able to return his heart rate and respiration to their normal rates.

This was a problem, like any other. It must be thought of in that way: a problem.

My son—the Hotel Killer.

He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. “Dr. Rossiter? Aloysius Pendergast here. I require a house call from you in my apartments at the Dakota. A sick boy, with several open wounds from amputated digits. There is a need for surgery, and, as always, I’ll ask that you perform your services with complete discretion…”

29

CAPTAIN LAURA HAYWARD STRODE BRISKLY DOWN THE central corridor of PS Thirty-Two, heading for the school’s auditorium. There had been a rash of hate crimes against homeless people that fall—beatings, robberies, even a case in which a destitute man had been set afire by rowdy teenagers in Riverside Park—and Hayward had been tasked by the commissioner with raising schoolchildren’s awareness of the plight of the homeless and the reality of life on the streets. Homeless people are people, too , was her message. Over the past few weeks she had spoken at half a dozen schools, and the reception had been gratifying. She felt she was making a real difference. It was something she enjoyed doing—and she knew a great deal about it. The subject of her master’s thesis had been the social structure of an underground homeless community in New York City, and she had spent months observing them, experiencing their lives, listening to their problems, trying to understand their histories, motivations, and challenges. In recent years she’d been too busy with standard police work to put her M.A. in sociology to much use, but now it seemed perfect preparation for what she was doing.

Rounding the corner, she was surprised to run into D’Agosta, walking her way.

“Vinnie!” she said, refraining from kissing him as they were both on duty. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, actually,” he said. “I was in the neighborhood. There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Why couldn’t we have talked at breakfast?” she asked. He looked troubled—and a little guilty. There was something on his mind; she’d been aware of it for the last few days. But with things like that, you could never hurry him—you just had to wait until he was ready to open up. And then you had to seize the opportunity before he changed his mind.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m due to give that presentation in ten minutes. Come on, we can talk in the auditorium.”

D’Agosta followed her down the hall and through a set of double doors. Beyond was a 1950s-era space, with a balcony and a wide stage, and it reminded Laura of her own high-school auditorium, with its pep rallies and fallout drills and all-school movie events. Already it was half full with students. They took seats in the rear.

“Okay,” she said, turning to him. “What’s up?”

For a moment he didn’t speak. “It’s Pendergast,” he finally said.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m worried sick about him. He’s gone through about as rough a patch as a person can hit and now he’s acting strange—even for him.”

“Tell me about it,” Hayward said.

“After his wife died, he retreated to his apartment and I’m pretty sure was getting into self-medication, if you know what I mean—hitting the hard stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“I don’t know which drugs, exactly, but I had the terrible feeling it was a calculated form of self-destruction—a run-up to suicide. I followed your advice and gave him the Hotel Killer case portfolio to chew over. It—seems to have unhinged him. He went from being totally apathetic to complete obsession with the case. He showed up at the third murder scene, got himself credentialed up, and now he’s become the bane of Agent Gibbs’s existence. I’m telling you, he and Gibbs are headed for a wreck. I’ve got to believe it’s because Pendergast is feeling so devastated that he’s antagonizing Gibbs. I mean, I’ve seen him needle people, get into their faces—but there was always a reason for it before.”

“Oh, Jesus. Maybe my idea wasn’t so hot after all.”

“I haven’t gotten to the worst part.”

“Which is?”

“His theory of the crime. It’s bizarre, to say the least.”

Hayward sighed. “Let me hear it.”

Another hesitation. “He believes the Hotel Killer is his brother, Diogenes.”

Hayward frowned. “I thought Diogenes was dead.”

“That’s what everyone thought. The thing is, Pendergast won’t tell me why he thinks his brother is the murderer. It seems so preposterous. I really worry that his wife’s death has scattered his marbles.”

“What’s his evidence?”

“None that I know. At least none that he’s shared with me. But I honestly don’t see it in any case. The M.O. is totally different; there’s nothing that links this case to his brother. And a quick-and-dirty search of the databases indicates his brother really did vanish and is presumed dead. This is crazy.”

“So what does Singleton think of this theory?”

“That’s the other thing.” Even though they were alone in the back of the auditorium, D’Agosta lowered his voice. “Pendergast doesn’t want me to tell anyone about this theory. I can’t mention it to Gibbs, to Singleton—to anybody.”

Hayward looked at him, opened her mouth to say, Why haven’t you told me this before? But then she reconsidered. D’Agosta looked so troubled. And the fact was, he had told her—and was now obviously searching for her advice. And, ironically, it had been her idea to bring the case to Pendergast to begin with.

“The thing of it is, I know that if there is information this might be Diogenes—even if it seems like crazy information—he and I both have an obligation to pass it on. There’s always a chance it might help the case. But… I promised him.” He shook his head. “Christ, I’m really in the weeds about this.”

Gently, she took his hand. “Vinnie, it’s your duty to turn over all evidence, all information, even the crazy stuff. You’re the squad commander.”

D’Agosta didn’t reply.

“I know Pendergast is your friend. I know he’s been through a terrible ordeal. But this isn’t about friendship. It’s not even about what’s best for your career. This is about catching a dangerous killer who’s likely to kill again. Vinnie, you have to do the right thing on this. If Pendergast really has hard information, you’ve got to get it out of him. And when you do, you have to turn it over. It’s as simple as that.”

D’Agosta looked down.

“And as far as he and Gibbs are concerned, that’s FBI business. You let them sort it out. Okay?” She gave his hand a harder squeeze. “I’ve got to give that talk now. We can speak more tonight.”

“Okay.”

She stopped herself from kissing him, then stood up. As she gave him one final look before heading to the podium, she was dismayed to find he appeared just as conflicted as before.

30

IT WAS NOON. THE DOCTOR HAD COME AND GONE, THE room was silent and dark, the curtains drawn, the boy—bathed and cleaned of soot—was asleep. A shadowy figure sat in a corner of the small, spare room, unmoving, his pale face like a ghostly apparition floating in the dimness.

The boy stirred, turned, sighed. He had been asleep for eighteen hours. One hand lay on the covers, shackled, with a chain attached to the metal bed frame.

Another sigh, and then a gleam appeared in the darkness—the gleam of an open eye. The boy turned again, restlessly, and finally raised his head. He looked around and his attention fixed on the figure in the corner.