Douglas Preston - Two Graves

Pendergast could feel his moment arriving, a window in which he could act. He prepared himself mentally, choreographing his actions in his head. But then, mere seconds before he made his move, one of Alban’s extended hands jerked into Pendergast’s jacket and—in one astonishing blur of movement—removed his backup sidearm. It happened so quickly that by the time Pendergast reacted, Alban was already in possession of the weapon.

“Oops.” Alban examined it—a Walther PPK .32—and snorted. “Now, this is a side of you I wouldn’t have guessed. A romantic, aren’t we, Father?”

Pendergast took a step back, but even as he did so Alban stepped forward, keeping the distance between them a close five feet. He continued holding the Walther, his thumb on the safety.

“Why this test?” asked Pendergast.

“Ah! That really is the heart of the matter, isn’t it? Why pit me against you? What a strange thing! And yet, so much depends on it—” But suddenly Alban stopped and stepped back, his arrogant self-assurance wavering.

“Is that why you’re—”

“Calling this the beta test? Yes.” After a moment, Alban relaxed, smiled again. Then he removed the magazine from the Walther, slid out the rounds with his thumb, one at a time, leaving just one in the magazine. He slid the mag back into place, racked the final round into the chamber, and thumbed off the safety. He handed the gun back to Pendergast, butt first.

“There. Your handicap. One round in the chamber. Now the advantage is yours. See if you can capture and take me in. With a single round.”

Pendergast aimed the pistol at Alban. He would not— could not—kill him, not at present: his need to know his son’s motive, his relation to Der Bund , was very great. But the boy was so strong and fast that he could escape, even now, simply by running.

A bullet in the knee would be necessary.

With the faintest flickering movement he dropped the muzzle and fired, but Alban moved so fast—even before Pendergast seemed to have started his own move—that the bullet missed, just nicking the cloth.

Alban laughed, reaching down, poking his finger through the hole in his trousers, wiggling it. “Close! Whew. But not good enough. What is the expression? This time, I bested you.”

He took a quick step back, reached down into the weeds, and picked up Pendergast’s .45. “Do you know the Goethe poem ‘Der Erlkönig’?”

“In translation, yes.”

“ Schön! By heart?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn your back, close your eyes, and recite it. The first three stanzas should be sufficient. No—considering we’re in relative darkness, I’ll be even more sporting and make it only the first two stanzas. And then you can come looking for me.”

“And if I cheat?”

“I’ll shoot you.” Alban’s pale eyes twinkled. “Of course, I could just shoot you right now, and that would also be cheating. We Pendergasts do not cheat.” Another pleasant smile. “Do you want to play?”

“I have more—”

“I think I’ve answered enough questions. Now: do you want to play?”

“Why not?”

“If you open your eyes early, it means you’re a cheater; I shoot; you die.”

“You’ll merely outrun me. This is no challenge at all.”

“It is true I could outrun you. But I won’t do that. Instead, during your recitation, which should take no longer than ten seconds, I’m going to hide. And you will have to find me however you can—by intelligence, by stealth, by tracking, by deduction—it’s up to you. So! Turn your back and let’s begin.”

Pendergast heard the soft click of the safety on the Les Baer being thumbed back. He immediately turned around and began to speak in a clear, loud tone:

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?

The father it is, with his infant so dear…

At the end of the second stanza, he quickly turned and scanned the deserted piers.

Alban was gone. The Les Baer lay in the weeds a few yards away.

Three hours later, Pendergast finally gave up searching.

38

DAMN IT TO HELL ,” LIEUTENANT VINCENT D’AGOSTA muttered as he stood in the hallway of the Murray Hill Hotel. Even in the corridor he could hear the shouts and electronic blarings of the press down on the street, along with a chorus of sirens, cars honking, and miscellaneous New York City noise. Hours had passed since the killing, but the media only got thicker. Traffic on Park Avenue was gridlocked from the hotel all the way to the MetLife Building, no doubt the rubbernecking effect at work. The hotel throbbed with the thwap thwap of helicopters above, their spotlights sweeping the building. And Pendergast had disappeared.

What was it about New Yorkers and crime? They loved it, they ate it up. The News and the Post had been running screaming headlines for days on the Hotel Killer. And now this. God forbid the crime rate should drop to zero; most of the papers in the city would go bankrupt.

Brilliant white light poured out into the hall from Room 516, and D’Agosta could see the occasional shadows of the figures still working in there. Gibbs was inside as well. It was complete bullshit that the man had been given access during the evidence-gathering phase—top brass were supposed to be kept out. But this time he’d insisted on going in, despite D’Agosta’s demurral. Christ, he himself, the squad commander, hadn’t been in there since the initial discovery.

“Hey, what’s with the fucking Coke?” he bellowed at a latents specialist passing down the hall. “You know there’s no eating or drinking at the scene!”

The man, immediately cowed, ducked his head in abject submission, turned, and hustled away down the hall, carrying the frosty can, not daring to sip from it.

D’Agosta could see some of the other detectives hovering around the corridor exchanging glances. All right, so he was pissed and showing it. He didn’t give a shit. The whole thing with Pendergast had freaked him out, the way he’d disappeared like that. Just vanished. Along with the perp. And this crazy theory about it being his son… and yet, he’d called it right on the button: date, time, and place.

D’Agosta had been on a lot of strange trips with Pendergast, but this was the strangest of all. He was well and truly shaken up. On top of that, his not-so-old chest wound was giving him a hard time. He felt in his pocket for some Advil, popped a few more.

“Hey, who gave you permission to waltz in here like you owned the place?” he shouted at a white-coated forensic specialist just ducking in under the crime-scene tape. “Log in, for shit’s sake!”

“Yes, Lieutenant, but you see I did log in. I was just visiting the men’s room—”

His attempted smile was cut off by D’Agosta’s shout. “Log in again!”

“Yes, sir.”

D’Agosta turned back and abruptly saw Pendergast. The man’s gaunt figure had materialized at the far end of the hall. As he approached, walking swiftly, D’Agosta’s gut tightened with apprehension. He had to talk to him, find out more about this bizarre business of the alleged son.

He was shocked by the look on Pendergast’s face: it fairly blazed with hard, dazzling intensity. He looked almost mad. And yet the eyes were absolutely clear.

“Where’d you go?” D’Agosta asked.

“I chased the killer to the river. He escaped at the piers.”

“You… chased him?”

“He had just left the room when I arrived, by the fire escape. There was no time. I engaged in pursuit.”