Douglas Preston - Two Graves

Pendergast noted a hint of pride in the boy’s voice: that of a son impressed with his father. The weird sickness of it made it hard to focus. He felt the sting of the injury to his already-wrenched shoulder, felt the warm blood seeping through his wet shirt. A certain part of him—perhaps the greater part—did not care now whether he lived or died. He only hoped his son would shoot straight and true.

“Yes, it is true I could kill you now,” the voice went on. “And, in fact, you’re in my crosshairs as I speak. But that wouldn’t be right. I’m a man of honor and wouldn’t just shoot you down like a dog. So I’ll give you a choice. I shall count to ten. If you choose to die, do nothing, and on ten I will help you with your assisted suicide. If you wish to flee, to give yourself a sporting chance, you may do so.”

Pendergast dove into the water, but not until the count had reached six.

Keeping underwater, he swam as fast as he could, the heavy rifle dragging him down. He stayed close to the wall, only coming up when he needed to gulp air. He heard several bursts of gunfire—Alban was true to his word and fired on ten—and could hear the bullets zipping underwater all around him. He wasn’t moving fast enough, not nearly fast enough, and with a moment’s regret he released the rifle. He swam with his eyes open but could see nothing. The water was cold and foul and full of dead things that bumped against him, and he felt more than once the slithering brush of a water snake. Ignoring all this, he kept going.

The tunnel made a broad curve and then—slowly, kicking hard under the water—Pendergast began to see the faintest light. He surfaced, noticed a gleam on the slick walls of the tunnel. The shooting had stopped. He continued, swimming on the surface. As he emerged from the tunnels into the lake, the light almost blinded him. It was still afternoon. He looked westward and saw that he was about half a mile from the opposite shore. He paused to glance behind him. Alban was nowhere to be seen, either at the mouth of the tunnel or anywhere on shore.

That, he knew, would not last long. The boy was surely coming after him.

He continued swimming, heading westward, toward the mainland.

77

ALBAN LISTENED FOR A WHILE IN THE DARKNESS WHILE the sounds of his father’s swimming slowly faded. The opening to the lake wasn’t far; he would reach it within a few minutes. His heart was beating strongly and he could feel all his senses at their keenest level of alertness, his mind running smooth and fast. This was the most electrifying thing he had ever done, strangely, unexpectedly thrilling. Now he understood what Fischer had meant about appreciating the finer things. A few years earlier, as a coming-of-age challenge, Fischer had sent him into the forest, armed only with a knife, to kill a jaguar. That had been a remarkable experience. But this—hunting a man, and not any man, but his own father—was the ultimate challenge.

Alban considered what his father would do next. And the answer came easily: He would not remain on the island, where he could do nothing and was completely outgunned and overwhelmed. He would swim for shore. And he would swim due west, toward the defectives’ camp. Because he would be looking for his other son, Forty-Seven. Alban’s twin. The one who now had a name: Tristram.

Tristram . Something about that name—the very existence of the name—deeply angered Alban.

Moving quickly, Alban jogged down the walkway to an obscure metal door in a side alcove. With a quick twist of a key in the well-oiled lock, he moved into a narrow tunnel that he knew led diagonally toward shore. A few moments later he emerged through another door into the light of afternoon, at a crumbling stone platform just above the lakeshore, surrounded by reeds. Pushing his way out of the vegetation, he climbed a few dozen feet up the side of the volcanic hill, his feet crunching on the cinders. Then he paused, turned, and surveyed the lake. Almost immediately his keen eyes spotted the figure of his father, swimming westward toward shore precisely as he had surmised.

He raised his rifle and examined his father through the magnification of the scope. He thought, idly, that despite it being a three-hundred-yard shot, in this windless and pleasant afternoon, given his superb marksmanship, it was an almost certain kill.

He lowered the rifle without firing, complimenting himself again on his strong sense of honor and justice. His father was a great man who would die a good death—not shot in the back from afar. The swim was about half a mile, and at the rate he was going with his wounded shoulder, it would take him at least fifteen minutes to reach the swamp on the far side. There was plenty of time to arrange for a more equal, more interesting contest.

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he hiked along the well-worn path circling the island. Within a few minutes a small landing came into view, to which were tied several outboard launches. Walking up to them, he looked them over, selecting the lightest and most maneuverable: a thirteen-foot fiberglass flat-bottomed skiff with a two-stroke engine. He leapt in, checked the gas, fired up the engine, and headed out into the lake.

The skiff slapped the water as it skimmed away from shore, with Alban standing at the tiller, peering ahead, feeling the lovely, cool air rush past. This close to the water it was hard to see his father, but he knew where he would be. And sure enough, as he approached the middle of the lake, he could see the man’s faint movement in the afternoon light: the regularly moving arms, the splash of the feet, as he swam.

His father glimpsed him and dove. Alban slowed the boat, turning slightly to the south. With the dive and swim underwater, his father would change direction. But no: he wouldn’t. That would be his surprise, to keep going in the same direction.

How long could he hold his breath?

An astonishing two minutes later—Alban could hardly believe it—he reappeared, just where Alban expected, along the same route almost a hundred yards closer to shore. Alban could swim a hundred and fifty yards underwater, but one hundred was still extraordinary, especially for a man his father’s age.

Alban steered the boat toward the swimmer, closing the distance fast. Why not just run him over?

Why not, indeed? That would be sport. His father would dive, of course. And dive again. He goosed the engine to full throttle and aimed at the figure, sweeping toward him. His father dived at the last minute and Alban jammed the tiller around, carring the boat in a tight circle, aiming for where he knew his father would surface.

He didn’t really expect to kill his father this way. But it would wear him out, exhaust him.

Best of all, it would be good sport—for both of them.

78

UNDERWATER, HIS EYES OPEN, PENDERGAST COULD SEE the boat make a tight turn on the surface and head in the very direction he had planned to take. But even as he saw this, and changed his plans yet again—hovering underwater and holding his breath—the boat changed its trajectory, slowing down even more, as if reading his mind.

Reading his mind? It seemed absurd… and yet even the most unusual hypotheses must be considered to explain the most unusual events. Pendergast was at the cusp of a revelation; he could sense it. A number of threads were twining themselves together in his hypoxic brain—the inexplicable nature of the killings in New York; the recent stalk in the fortress tunnels, with its uncanny display of second-guessing; Alban’s pride-filled statement about his father’s abilities; the youth’s supreme self-confidence that Pendergast could not escape him. And then, the odd quotation from Nietzsche.