Douglas Preston - Two Graves

Pendergast frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I don’t fully understand it myself. But I feel he has some power, like an additional sense—one that in normal human beings is undeveloped or absent.”

“Sense? As in a sixth sense? Clairvoyance or ESP?”

“Nothing as obvious as that. Something subtler—but perhaps even more powerful.”

Pendergast thought for a moment. “I obtained some old papers, taken from a Nazi safe house on the Upper East Side. They pertain to the Esterhazy family, and they make mention of something called the Kopenhagener Fenster .”

“The Copenhagen Window,” Constance translated.

“Yes. The documents reference it frequently, but never explain it. It seems to have to do with genetic manipulation, or quantum mechanics, or perhaps some combination of the two. But it’s clear that the scientists working on the Copenhagen Window believed it held vast promise for the future of the master race. Perhaps it is related to the power you mention.”

Constance did not answer. In the silence, Pendergast clenched, then unclenched, his fingers. “I’ll follow your advice.” He glanced at his watch. “I can be in Brazil by dinnertime. I’ll finish this, one way or another.”

“Take extreme care. And remember what I said: sometimes violence is the only answer.”

He bowed, and then raised his head again, fixing her with glittering, silvery eyes. “You should know this: if I cannot bring Tristram back with me, safe and sound, I will not return. You will be on your own.”

The detached, almost oracular expression faded from her face, and a faint flush rose in its place. For a long moment the two simply looked at each other across the table. Then, at last, Constance raised one hand and caressed Pendergast’s cheek.

“In that case, I wish you a tentative good-bye,” she said.

Pendergast took the hand, squeezed it gently. Then he rose to leave.

“Wait,” Constance murmured.

Pendergast turned back. The flush on her face deepened, and she looked down, not meeting his eyes.

“Dearest guardian,” she said in a tone almost too low to be heard. “I hope… I hope that you find peace.”

48

CORRIE STOOD OUTSIDE THE DEALERSHIP. IT WAS THREE o’clock in the morning, on a night as dark as sin, the air ten degrees below freezing. The ugly sodium lights blasted the rows of parked cars with a sickly yellow glow, glittering on the frost that rimed the windshields. They hadn’t given Corrie any keys to the dealership, but she had managed to swipe Miller’s when he left them around—which he did all the time, sending him into a fit of rage, searching and searching, cursing, kicking trash cans, and generally displaying his assholery in full bloom.

Corrie had expended a lot of research—and thinking—on the scam the salesmen were all so proud of. It turned out to actually be pretty common, known as a credit cozen. Miller had been right in saying it was widespread among dealerships, and rarely prosecuted. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that the only people at the dealership who would be threatened by such exposure would be the owners, not the salesmen. That meant the Riccos, Senior and Junior. If her dad had made good on his threat to blow the whistle, they were the ones with the most to lose.

Corrie decided to focus her attention on father and son.

Keeping well outside of the gaudy pool of illumination, she circled the dealership and came up to the building from behind, where the service and repair operations were located. There were still some area lights here, but the spot was hidden from the road; behind the dealership were only large cornfields, now rows of dry winter stubble.

She darted past the area lights and came up to the back of the building. There she slipped on a pair of latex gloves and waited. The place was empty, with no evidence of a night watchman or private security.

Or at least, none that was visible.

She crept around to the side entrance to the showroom. She tried the keys, found the right one, and entered.

Now—to keep the alarm from going off.

Earlier in the day, she had scoped the place out, noting the alarm keypads next to each door. That afternoon she had “accidentally” leaned on the keypad, pressing the red alarm button, setting it off and causing Miller to rush over and punch in the reset code. Which she had carefully noted. Now, as the warning light blinked on the pad and the LCD screen counted down, she pressed in the code. The light turned green.

The plate-glass windows of the showroom let in plenty of light from the lot—almost too much. Keeping to the shadows, she crept over to the Riccos’ small suite of offices—where the two men, offices side by side, shared a secretary in an anteroom.

The door wasn’t even locked.

She slipped inside and moved to Ricco Senior’s office. A row of fake wood filing cabinets lined the back wall. She took out the small pry bar she had brought, inserted it into the edge of the top drawer, and applied pressure. The drawer opened with a jerk and a snap of cheap metal.

The drawer rolled out to reveal a deep row of files—hundreds, it seemed. And this was one drawer out of twenty. Now that she thought about it, she had no targeted idea of what she was looking for. Proof of the credit-cozen scam? She already had that. What she would start with, she decided, would be her father’s personnel file. Beyond that, she would simply look through the files on a fishing expedition.

The first drawer contained only sales files. She flipped through them, forced open another drawer, then another. God, what a lot of paperwork.

After thirty minutes she finally arrived at the personnel files. They were in their own unmarked drawer, with nothing else. Flipping through them, she almost immediately came to SWANSON.

She hesitated, thinking. Even though it would be obvious the place had been broken into, she couldn’t steal just his file—that would direct attention to him. No—what she’d do was steal a whole bunch of personnel files, along with some other random files. That way they wouldn’t be able to pinpoint which file she was interested in.

She stuffed the SWANSON file into her shoulder bag and was starting to pull out other files at random when she suddenly heard a noise. The soft shutting of a door. Unmistakable.

She froze. She couldn’t leave the little suite of offices by a back door—there was none. The only way out was through the big glassed-in showroom, bathed in light from the lot. Even as she waited, she heard another door shut and the click of footfalls on the polished granite floor of the showroom.

She silently closed all the file drawers, hoping they weren’t too obviously mangled, slipped the pry bar into her shoulder bag, and retreated toward the back of the suite. Where?

The bathroom.

Easing open the door, she slipped in, bolted it behind her, and went into the stall, shutting and locking that as well. She climbed onto the toilet.

All was silent. Whoever was in the showroom wasn’t likely to come into Ricco’s office. And even if they did, they wouldn’t come into the bathroom. Or would they? Too late, she realized she shouldn’t have shut and locked the damn bathroom door. That would look suspicious, especially if they tried it and found it locked. She should have left the door partway open.

She started to sweat, the stupidity of her B&E sinking in. She had committed a serious crime—yet again. What was wrong with her? Was she a criminal at heart? Why did she take these crazy risks?

The click of footsteps came closer, and she heard the outer office door open. They were coming in. The footsteps now fell more softly on the plush carpeting of the outer office. She strained to hear.