Douglas Preston - Two Graves

“Oh, Christ,” D’Agosta said. “Christ. He’s got another one.”

“Back up the tape five seconds.” Pendergast pointed at the image of the woman, turning to the concierge. “Do you recognize her? What’s her room number? Quickly, man!”

“She checked in today.” The concierge stepped back to the front desk, tapped the keys of the registration computer. “Room Five Sixteen.”

Pendergast turned back to D’Agosta. “Stay here,” he murmured. “Monitor these feeds. When he comes back into view, follow his every movement. I’m going after him. And remember—tell no one of my son.”

“Whoa,” D’Agosta said. “Hold on just a minute. Tell no one? Pendergast, I hate to say this, but I think you’re way out of line—”

“ Tell no one ,” Pendergast repeated firmly. And then in a flash he was gone.

Pendergast bounded up the five flights of stairs and ran down the hall to Room 516. The door was shut, but a single shot from his .45 blasted off the lock and he kicked the door open.

He was too late. In the small room, the woman he’d seen in the video lay on the floor, obviously dead but not yet dismembered. Pendergast hesitated only a moment, his silvery eyes darting all around, taking everything in. Then, leaping over the still form, he threw open the bathroom door. The window at the end of the narrow bath was shattered, opening on a fire escape. Pendergast vaulted through the window onto the fire escape and looked down, in time to see a young man— Alban —clambering down the last flight of the escape, climbing through the bottom hatch, and dropping to the ground.

Pendergast raced down the fire escape, three steps at a time, following Alban with his eyes as the youth ran down Park Avenue and disappeared around the corner of Thirty-Fifth Street, heading east, toward the river.

Pendergast ran after him. When he rounded the corner of Thirty-Fifth, he could see Alban almost two blocks east, silhouetted in the streetlights, tearing along at a tremendous speed—a phenomenal runner. Pendergast continued, but by the time he reached Lexington the now-tiny figure of Alban had already crossed Second Avenue and was running alongside St. Vartan Park. Realizing he would never catch him, Pendergast nevertheless continued on, at the least hoping to see where his son would go. The fleeing, barely visible figure passed First Avenue and ran toward FDR Drive, leaping a chain-link fence and climbing over a cement barrier and out onto the drive, where he dropped out of sight into the darkness.

Pendergast sprinted past St. Vartan Park, crossing First Avenue against the light. He hit the chain-link fence, clambered over it, vaulted the cement barrier, and ran out onto FDR Drive, dodging cars amid a sudden chorus of horns and screeching brakes. He made it to the far side and stopped, looking both ways, but he could see nothing: Alban had vanished into the night. The East River stretched out in front of him, the Hunter’s Point ferry terminal lay on his right, the Queensboro Bridge on his left, atwinkle with lights. Directly in front of him two vacant, ruined piers stood out in the East River, extending from a decaying, riprapped riverbank below a broken-up quay, much of it reclaimed by a riot of undergrowth, old cattails, cane, dry reeds, and brambles—everything withered and brown in the wintry moonlight.

There were many, many places to disappear into, and Alban was gone. He clearly knew the lay of the land and had worked out his escape ahead of time. It was hopeless.

Pendergast turned and walked along the shoulder of the FDR Drive toward a pedestrian walkway five blocks south to recross the highway. But as he walked, he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye—a man, a young man, standing on the first ruined pier, illuminated from behind by the dim light of the bridge.

It was Alban. His son was looking directly at him. And—as Pendergast stopped and stared—he raised his hand and gave a little wave.

Immediately Pendergast vaulted over the railing of the drive and landed on the embankment below, clawing his way through the overgrowth. He came out on the broken cement quay only to find that Alban had once again vanished.

Sensing he must have headed up the embankment, Pendergast sprinted northward. And in a moment he saw movement ahead—Alban, running out on the second ruined pier, where he stopped halfway, turned, and waited, arms crossed.

As he ran, Pendergast drew his .45. To reach the second pier, he was forced around a row of ruined bollards and through more undergrowth, during which he again temporarily lost sight of Alban. Just as he came to the foot of the pier and emerged from the vegetation, he felt a stunning blow to his leg and was pitched forward, and—even as he was falling—felt a second blow to his hand, which sent the .45 flying. He rolled and tried to rise, but Alban anticipated the maneuver and slammed Pendergast’s head down with his knee, pinning the agent to the cement.

And then, just as quickly as he’d been pinned, he was released. Pendergast leapt to his feet, ready to fight.

But Alban did not come after him. He merely stepped back, arms once again crossed.

Pendergast froze, and they stared at each other, like two animals, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Then Alban suddenly relaxed. “ Endlich ,” he said. “Finally. We can have a heart-to-heart… father to son… something I’ve been looking forward to for a long time.” And he smiled rather pleasantly.

37

THEY LOOKED AT EACH OTHER THROUGH THE SEMIDARKNESS, not moving. Pendergast stood, catching his breath, only now realizing that he had never been quite so thoroughly and rapidly overcome in his life. Alban had entirely surprised him, the way he had stopped as if to wait for Pendergast to catch up, and then—in the space of mere seconds—set up an ambush and followed it through with remarkable success.

Keeping his eyes on his son, he brushed himself off, waiting for Alban to speak, waiting for his opportunity. He still had a backup sidearm and several other weapons on his person. Alban would not escape him now.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said Alban. “Here we are, face-to-face.” His voice was cool, mellifluous. Unlike his brother, he did not have the trace of an accent, yet he spoke with the slight over-preciseness of one to whom English was a second language. “I was destined to meet you. As are all sons to meet their fathers.”

“What about their mothers?” Pendergast asked.

This question did not seem to surprise Alban. He continued. “The test has reached a crucial phase. Allow me to compliment you, by the way, on solving my little riddle. And to think I doubted you would. I apologize.”

“You like to talk,” said Pendergast. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the glint of the .45 in the weeds about ten feet to his left.

Alban laughed. “Yes, I do.” He took a step to his right, then another, effectively blocking Pendergast’s approach to the gun. Although he was only fifteen, he seemed much older—tall, extremely fit, strong, and whippet-fast. Pendergast wondered if the youth had been trained in the martial arts. If so, he did not believe he could best him in a physical contest.

“Why are you—?”

“Killing? Like I said, it’s a test.”

“Tell me—”

“About the test? It’s simple. At least in part, it’s to see who’s the better man: you or me.” He held out his hands toward Pendergast, turned up his palms. “Like you, I’m unarmed. Here we are, evenly matched. It’s not quite fair since you’re old and I’m young. So I’m going to give you a handicap.”