Текст книги "Two Graves"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

87

D’AGOSTA WAS FEARFUL THE OLD BAR MIGHT HAVE closed up. He hadn’t been there in years. Few of his fellow officers even knew of the place—the ferns in their macramé hangers guaranteed that no self-respecting cop would be caught dead in there. But as he turned the corner from Vesey onto Church Street, feet crunching against the light dusting of snow, he saw—with relief—that the place was still there. The ferns in the window appeared, if anything, deader than ever. He descended the steps and went inside.

Laura Hayward was already there. She was sitting in the back, at the very same table—how was that for a coincidence?—a fresh, foamy Guinness in one hand. She looked up as D’Agosta approached, smiled.

“I didn’t even know this place had a name,” she said as he sat down.

D’Agosta nodded. “Vino Veritas.”

“Maybe the owner’s a wine connoisseur. Or a Harvard graduate. Or both.”

D’Agosta didn’t quite understand this, so instead of replying he nodded to the waiter and pointed at Hayward’s drink.

“It seemed like a good place to meet,” he said as his own Guinness was placed before him. “Just a stone’s throw from Police Plaza.”

He took a sip from the pint glass, then sat back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. In fact he was nervous as hell. The idea had come to him that morning, on his way to work. No big plan this time, no elaborate preparations. Instinct told him that he’d better just go for it.

“Big doings in Captain Singleton’s office,” Laura said, teasingly.

“So the word’s already out?”

She nodded. “Midge Rawley. She’s the last person you’d think. I mean, she’s been Glen’s confidential secretary, known every last bit of his business, for—what?—at least ten years.”

“And I think she was loyal for all of them. Until just recently. At least, that’s when the payments took place—according to the bank records.”

“I’d heard she’d been having some personal problems. Separated from her husband, mother in a nursing home. I suppose that’s why they chose her.”

“Maybe they blackmailed her. Almost makes you feel sorry for her.”

“Almost. Until you remember it was her tip-off that betrayed the location of the Central Park boathouse meet. Which led to the shootout, the deaths of five people, and the kidnapping and murder of Helen Pendergast.” Laura paused. “Did the search warrant uncover anything?”

D’Agosta shook his head. “We’re hoping to learn more from the audio and video surveillance logs. Or maybe from Rawley herself. The Internal Affairs boys have her down in the Tombs right now. Who knows? She might get talkative.” He took another sip of his Guinness. He was getting more nervous by the minute—and this small talk wasn’t helping any.

“Anyway, you did good, Vinnie. This will be a real feather in your cap.”

“Thanks.”

“And it may take Singleton down a notch or two, as well.”

D’Agosta had thought of this. Having a mole discovered in his own private office would make Captain Singleton defensive, to say the least—and that, indirectly, would only help get D’Agosta off the hot seat. Although it was a damn shame—Singleton was a decent man.

“It’s really Pendergast who should get the credit,” he said.

“He just called you, out of the blue, and told you who to finger?”

“Not exactly. Let’s say he pointed me in the right direction.”

“So it was your own good police work that did it. Don’t sell yourself short, Vinnie—you scored, big-time. Take the credit and run.” Laura’s sly smile deepened. “So does this mean you and Agent Pendergast are best buddies again?”

“He called me ‘my dear Vincent,’ if that’s any indication.”

“I see. So Pendergast is back in New York, the Hotel Killer murders have stopped, and the FBI profilers think the killer’s moved on. It’s Christmas Eve. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.” She raised her glass.

D’Agosta took another sip of his Guinness. He barely tasted the brew. It was all he could do to keep from squirming in his chair. This was growing intolerable. He’d have to find some way to introduce the subject, but he was damned if he knew how—

Suddenly he became aware that Laura had put down her glass and was gazing at him intently. For a moment they looked at each other in silence. And then, she spoke.

“Yes,” she said in a low voice.

D’Agosta was confused. “I’m sorry?”

She reached over, took his hand. “You big dope. Let me put you out of your misery. Of course I’ll marry you.”

“You… how…?” D’Agosta fell silent, at a loss for words.

“Do you think I’m a complete idiot? Why would you ask me to meet you for a drink here, of all unlikely places? You made such a big deal out of picking this particular spot—the spot where we first got to know each other. Two years ago, remember?” She squeezed his hand, then laughed. “Vino Veritas, indeed. You know what? Deep down, Lieutenant D’Agosta, you’re just an old softie. A sentimentalist. And that’s one of the things—one of the manythings—I love about you.”

D’Agosta looked down. He was so moved that he could not speak. “I can’t believe you knew. I mean…”

“So where’s the ring?”

D’Agosta stammered, trying to explain it was spontaneous, last minute, until he was interrupted by her laugh. “I’m just teasing you, Vinnie. I like spontaneous. I can wait for the ring—no problem.”

Sheepishly, he reached over and took her hand. “Thanks.”

Still smiling, she cocked her head. “Let’s go someplace else. Some newplace, really nice. As nostalgic as this place is, let’s make a new memory of tonight. We need to celebrate—and not just because it’s Christmas Eve. We’ve got a lot of planning to do.”

She signaled the waiter for the check.

And Last

THE LARGE, ORNATELY PANELED LIBRARY OF 891 RIVERSIDE Drive was lit only by fire and candlelight. It was a late-February evening, and a light freezing rain was falling on the cars passing by on Riverside and the West Side Highway, but no sound of traffic, no tick, tickof ice upon glass panes, penetrated the barred and curtained windows. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, the scratch of Agent Pendergast’s fountain pen on cream laid writing paper, and a low, infrequent conversation that was being carried out between Constance Greene and Tristram.

The two were sitting at a gaming table placed before the fire, and Constance was teaching Tristram how to play ombre, a card game that had gone out of fashion decades, if not centuries, before. Tristram stared at his cards, his young face screwed up in thought. Constance had begun introducing him to games slowly—with whist—and already Tristram’s memory, concentration, and logical abilities showed remarkable improvement. Now he was immersed in the subtleties of spadilles, entradas, and estuches.

Pendergast was sitting at a writing table in the far corner of the library, his back to a wall of leather-bound books. From time to time he glanced up from his writing, his silvery eyes moving around the room, always coming to rest at last on the two persons playing cards.

Now the quiet of the room was broken by the ringing of Pendergast’s cell phone. He slipped it from his pocket, glanced at the number. “Yes?” he spoke into it.

“Pendergast? It’s me. Corrie.”

“Miss Swanson. How are you faring?”

“Fine. I’ve been swamped catching up with my coursework, that’s why I’m calling only now. I’ve got one hell of a story to tell you… and…” Here there was a hesitation.

“Is everything all right?”

“Well, if you mean by that I’m not hearing any goose-stepping coming at me from behind, yeah. But listen: I solved a case, a real, honest-to-God case.”

“Excellent. I want to apologize for having been unable to give you greater assistance when you came to me back in December—but I had great faith in your ability to look after yourself. Faith that, it would seem, was justified. And as it happens, I have a rather interesting story to tell you, as well.”

A pause.

“So,” Corrie went on. “Any chance of renewing that offer for lunch at Le Bernardin?”

“How remiss of me for not suggesting it immediately. We should do it soon, however—because I’m thinking of taking an extended vacation.”

“Name the date.”

Pendergast considered a small appointment book he plucked from his jacket pocket. “Next Thursday, one o’clock.”

“That’ll be great, I don’t have any classes on Thursday afternoons.” Another hesitation. “Hey, Pendergast?”

“Yes?”

“Would it be all right if… if I brought my father along? He’s part of the story.”

“Naturally. I’ll look forward to seeing the two of you next Thursday.”

He put pen and paper aside and stood up. Tristram had left, and Constance was sitting at the table alone, shuffling the cards. Pendergast looked over to her.

“How is his playing coming along?”

“Quite well. Better than I expected, actually. If he continues to learn at such a rapid pace, I may move on to rubicon bezique or skat.”

Pendergast remained silent a moment before speaking again. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Back when I visited you in Mount Mercy, looking for advice. And you were right, of course. I hadto go to Nova Godói. There was no choice. And I had to act—alas, with extreme violence. I’ve rescued Tristram, true. But the other half of the equation—the more complex and difficult part of the equation—remains unsolved.”

For a moment, Constance did not reply. When she did, it was in a low voice. “So there’s been no word.”

“None. I’ve got certain, ah, assets in place, and he’s been put on the watch lists of both the DEA and the local consulate officials—discreetly, of course. But he seems to have vanished into the forest.”

“Do you think he might be dead?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” Pendergast replied. “His injuries were grievous.”

Constance put down the cards. “I’ve been wondering. I don’t mean to offend with the question but… Do you think he could have gone through with it? Killing you, I mean.”

For a moment, Pendergast did not answer, looking into the fire. Then he glanced back at her. “I’ve asked myself that question many times. There were times—when he was shooting at me in the lake, for example—that I felt sure he meant to do so. But then, there were so many other times when he seems to have missed his opportunity.”

Constance picked up the cards again and began dealing fresh hands. “Not knowing his future intentions, not knowing whether he’s dead or alive… rather disquieting.”

“Indeed.”

“What about the rest of the Covenant?” Constance asked. “Do they still pose a threat?”

Pendergast shook his head. “No. Their leaders are dead; their fortress destroyed; all their decades of research findings burned and gone. Their raison d’être—the twins themselves—are almost all alienated from the project. From the reports I’ve received, many have already begun integrating themselves into Brazilian society. Of course, the very latest ‘iterations’ of twins—those leading up to Alban and the beta test—were the Covenant’s greatest successes, and I understand the Brazilian authorities are finding some of them too incorrigible to be rehabilitated. But their number is small, and there is simply no way for Der Bundto achieve a second critical mass, even…” And here his voice sank lower: “Even were Alban to resurface.”

There was a brief silence. Then Constance nodded at Tristram’s empty chair. “Have you decided what to do about him?”

“I was considering one idea.”

“And what might that be?”

“That, in addition to being my amanuensis—and my oracle, it would seem—you might be his…”

Constance glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. “His what? Babysitter?”

“More than babysitter. Less than guardian. More like—older sister.”

“ Olderis the operative word. A hundred and thirty years older. Aloysius, don’t you think I’m a little advanced in age to start acting like a sibling again?”

“It is admittedly a novel idea. Will you at least consider it?”

Constance looked at him for a long moment. Then her gaze returned to Tristram’s empty chair. “There issomething affecting about him,” she said. “So much the opposite of his brother, at least as you’ve described him to me. He’s so young and impatient—and remarkably naive about the world. So innocent.”

“As was someone else we both knew, once.”

“The thing is, I sense in him an incredible, almost boundless empathy, a depth of compassion I haven’t seen since the monastery.”

At this point Tristram stepped back into the library, glass of milk in hand.

“Herr Proctor is coming,” he told them. “He is bringing you—what was the word he used?– refreshments.” He repeated the word as he sat down at the card table, as if to taste it.

Pendergast turned toward the youth. For a moment, he simply looked at him, drinking his milk with evident enjoyment. His wants were so simple, his gratitude for even the slightest kindness so boundless. He rose from his chair and walked over to his son. Tristram put down the milk and looked up at him.

He knelt, bringing himself to the boy’s level, reached into a pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a ring: gold, set with a large, perfect star sapphire. Taking Tristram’s hand, he pressed the ring into it. The youth stared at it, turned it over in his hands, then brought it closer to his eyes, watching the star move on the surface of the sapphire.

“This was your mother’s, Tristram,” he said gently. “I gave it to her on our engagement. When I feel you are ready—not yet, but perhaps in the not-too-distant future—I will tell you all about her. She was a most remarkable woman. Like all of us, she had her faults. And she… had more than her share of secrets. But I cared for her very much. Like you, she was a victim of Der Bund. Like you, she had a twin. It was… very difficult for her. But the years we spent together were some of the most wonderful of my life. It’s those memories in particular I would like to share with you. Perhaps they will help make up, in a small way, for the memories you’ve been deprived of—all these years.”

Tristram looked up from the ring into Pendergast’s face. “I would like very much to learn about her, Father.”

There was a discreet cough. Pendergast looked up to see Proctor standing in the doorway, a silver salver in one upraised hand, two glasses of sherry balanced upon it. As Pendergast rose, the chauffeur stepped forward, offering one of the glasses to the FBI agent and the other to Constance.

“Thank you, Proctor,” Pendergast said. “Most kind.”

“Not at all, sir,” came the measured response. “Mrs. Trask has asked me to tell you that dinner will be laid on at eight o’clock.”

Pendergast inclined his head.

As Proctor began to pass from the library into the great rotunda that served as the mansion’s reception area, the chauffeur paused to look back over his shoulder. Pendergast had returned to his writing table in the far corner, staring rather moodily into the fire. Constance was shuffling a deck of cards and was speaking in low tones to Tristram, who was sitting across from her, listening attentively.

When Constance had been released from Mount Mercy about three weeks earlier, she’d been reserved and distant with the young man, Pendergast’s son. Now, Proctor noticed, she was warming to him—at least somewhat. The fire, the candlelight, threw a mellow light over the rows of old books, the exquisite furnishings, and the three inhabitants. There was a sense of—if not peace exactly—something like equanimity in the room. Calmness and composure. Proctor was not generally given to such reflections, but the sight did, indeed, strike him almost like a family tableau.

An Addams Family tableau, he corrected himself as he exited the library, a faint smile on his lips.

Pendergast watched as the chauffeur vanished. He turned back to the letter and picked up the fountain pen. It scratched over the paper for perhaps another two minutes. Pendergast rested it on the green baize of the writing table and picked up the piece of paper to read from the beginning.

My dear Viola,

I am writing you for several reasons. First, to apologize for the reception I gave you at our last meeting. You went to a great deal of trouble on my behalf, and my behavior toward you at the time was execrable. I make no excuse, save to tell you—which you no doubt already know—that I was not myself.

I would also like to thank you for saving my life. I do not exaggerate. When you showed up on my doorstep nearly two months ago, I was on the very brink of committing that act I so callously described to you at the time. Your presence, and your words, delayed my hand long enough for other developments to take me away. In plain words, you arrived at the Dakota in the nick of time—and for that you have my lasting, most infinite, and deepest gratitude.

It is my intention to take a vacation. For how long, or where, I do not know. If I find myself in Rome, I will certainly contact you—as a friend. This is how it must be, between us, from now on, forever.

There are few things that ground me to this earth, Viola, and even fewer people. Please know that you are one of them.

With great affection,

Aloysius

Pendergast put the letter down, signed it, folded it, and slipped it into an envelope. Then he stared at the card players, Constance and Tristram, engrossed in their game. His gaze drifted to the blazing fire. He gazed into it, motionless, sherry untasted, for a long time—so long, in fact, that he was only roused by Proctor’s returning to inform them that dinner was served. Tristram immediately jumped to his feet and skipped on behind the retreating butler, evidently hungry—a youth for whom each new meal was a novelty. Constance followed at a more dignified pace. Last of all, Special Agent Pendergast rose—let his fingertips drift across the envelope that lay upon the writing desk—and then glided silently out of the room, a dim shape that grew increasingly faint as it made its way through the secret and shadow-haunted spaces of the mansion on Riverside Drive.

Acknowledgments

The authors wish to extend their sincere thanks to the following people for their assistance: Jamie Raab, Jaime Levine, Mitch Hoffman, Nadine Waddell, Jon Couch, Douglas Margini, Eric Simonoff, Claudia Rülke, and the two persons who suggested the book’s title to us—Julia Douglas and Michael Sharp.

About the Authors

DOUGLAS PRESTON and LINCOLN CHILD are coauthors of many bestselling novels, including Relic, which was made into a number one box office hit movie, as well as The Cabinet of Curiosities, Still Life with Crows, Brimstone, The Book of the Dead, Fever Dream, and Gideon’s Sword. Preston’s bestselling nonfiction book, The Monster of Florence, is being made into a motion picture starring George Clooney. His interests include horses, scuba diving, skiing, and exploring the Maine coast in an old lobster boat. Lincoln Child is a former book editor who has published five bestselling novels of his own. He is passionate about motorcycles, exotic parrots, and nineteenth-century English literature. Readers can sign up for The Pendergast File, a monthly “strangely entertaining note” from the authors, at their website, www.prestonchild.com. The authors also welcome visitors to their alarmingly active Facebook page, where they post regularly.

Also by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

Gideon’s Corpse

Cold Vengeance

Gideon’s Sword

Fever Dream

Cemetery Dance

The Wheel of Darkness

The Book of the Dead

Dance of Death

Brimstone

Still Life with Crows

The Cabinet of Curiosities

The Ice Limit

Thunderhead

Riptide

Reliquary

Mount Dragon

Relic

In answer to a frequently asked reader question:

The above titles are listed in descending order of publication, though almost all of them are stand-alone novels that need not be read in order. However, the pairs Relic/Reliquaryand Dance of Death/The Book of the Deadand the trilogy Fever Dream/Cold Vengeance/Two Gravesshould ideally be read in sequence.

By Douglas Preston

Impact

The Monster of Florence(with Mario Spezi)

Blasphemy

Tyrannosaur Canyon

The Codex

Ribbons of Time

The Royal Road

Talking to the Ground

Jennie

Cities of Gold

Dinosaurs in the Attic

By Lincoln Child

The Third Gate

Terminal Freeze

Deep Storm

Death Match

Utopia

Tales of the Dark 1–3

Dark Banquet

Dark Company