Cold Vengeance (12 page)

He turned toward her, bottle held forward, at hip level. June stared at the sharp edges of the broken neck, the glass glinting in the lamplight.

“But I’ve told you everything,” she whispered.

“I understand,” he said, nodding sympathetically. “Yet one must be sure.”

C
HAPTER 23

Inverkirkton

A
FTERNOON
, M
R
. D
RAPER
. And a fine afternoon it is, too.”

“Indeed it is, Robbie.”

“Did you have a good morning’s ride, then?”

“I did. Cycled as far as Fenkirk and back.”

“That’s a wee distance.”

“I wanted to take advantage of the good weather. I’ll be off in the morning.”

“I’ll hate to lose your trade, Mr. Draper. But I figured you’d be on your way soon. Lucky to have had you this long.”

“If you would just prepare the bill for me, I’ll square accounts.”

“Right away, sir.”

“You’ve been very hospitable. I think I’ll go up to my room and wash up, then pop over to the Half Moon for one last bite of steak-and-kidney pudding.”

“Very good, sir.”

Upstairs, Esterhazy washed his hands in the sink and dried them on a towel. For the first time in weeks, he felt a tremendous relief. All this time, he’d been unable to convince himself that Pendergast was dead. His search for Pendergast had developed into an obsession, consuming his waking thoughts, tormenting his dreams. But somehow, the visit to Glims Holm had—at long last—convinced him that Pendergast was dead. If the FBI agent were still alive, he’d have found some trace of him in his long, exhaustive search. If he were alive, Roscommon would have let slip some morsel of information during Esterhazy’s three visits to his clinic. If he were alive, Esterhazy would have found him at the stone cottage that morning. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He could go home and pick up his life from the point it had been upended when Pendergast and D’Agosta had first shown up on his doorstep.

Whistling, he closed the door to his room and descended the stairs. He was not concerned the old lady would venture into town to announce the assault, and even if she did the village so clearly thought her touched that her story would never be believed. The bicycle ride, and the eight-mile hike across the moors and back, had sharpened his appetite, and for the first time in weeks that appetite was not dulled by anxiety.

He entered the dark and fragrant confines of the Half Moon and settled onto a bar stool with satisfaction. Jennie Prothero and MacFlecknoe, the barkeep, were there in their usual positions: one before the bar, one behind.

“Afternoon, Mr. Draper, sir,” said MacFlecknoe as he drew a pint of the usual for Esterhazy.

“Afternoon, Paulie. Jennie.” Numerous rounds purchased by Esterhazy over the last week had earned him the considerable right of calling them by their Christian names.

Mrs. Prothero nodded and smiled. “Hello, luv.”

MacFlecknoe set the pint before Esterhazy, then turned back to Jennie Prothero. “Odd we haven’t seen him around before,” he said.

“Well, he did say he’d been over at the Braes of Glenlivet.” The old woman sipped her bitter. “Think he ever went to the constable about it?”

“Nae. What’s to tell? Besides, last thing he’d want would be to get mixed up in something, on vacation and all.”

Esterhazy pricked up his ears. “Have I missed something?”

MacFlecknoe and the shopkeeper-
cum
-laundress exchanged glances. “Clergyman,” the barkeep said. “You just missed him. Stopped in for a dram.”

“Several drams,” said Jennie, with a knowing wink.

“Nice old fellow, he was,” said MacFlecknoe. “For a Welshman. Has a little church down in Anglesey. He’s been up here in the Highlands the last month.”

“Gravestone rubbing,” said Jennie Prothero, shaking her head.

“Now, Jennie,” said the barkeep. “It’s a respectable pastime enough, especially for a man of the cloth.”

“Perhaps,” the old woman replied. “Said he was an aquarium, he did.”

“Antiquarian,” MacFlecknoe corrected.

Esterhazy gently interrupted. “I’ll have the steak-and-kidney pudding, please, Paulie.” He added, in his most disinterested tone: “What’s this about the constable?”

MacFlecknoe hesitated. “Well, now, Mr. Draper, sir, I don’t know as I should say. He’d already had three whiskies by the time he told us the tale, you know.”

“Oh, don’t be daft, Paulie!” Jennie Prothero scolded. “Mr. Draper here’s a good sort. He’s not going to go making any trouble for the old fellow.”

The barkeep considered this. “Right, then. It was some weeks back. The priest had just come into the area and was on his way to Auchindown. He spotted the churchyard of Ballbridge chapel—it’s a bit of a ruin, hard by the Inish Marshes—and stopped to examine the gravestones. Well, no sooner was he inside the churchyard when a man came out of the mists. Drunk and sick he was, shivering, blood and muck all over.”

“The poor cleric felt sure he was a fugitive,” said the shopkeeper, putting one finger to her nose. “Running from the law.”

Esterhazy knew of the ruined chapel—it was situated between the Foulmire and Inverkirkton. “What did the man look like?” he asked, his heart suddenly rattling in his chest like a rat caught in a tin can.

MacFlecknoe thought a moment. “Well, now, he didn’t say. He was desperate, though, raving about something. The cleric thought the man wanted to make a confession, and so he listened. He said the chap was nearly out of his wits. Trembling all over, teeth chattering. He told the man some sort of story and needed to know the way around the marshes. The vicar drew him a bit of a map. Made the vicar promise not to whisper anything about the encounter to a soul. The poor old priest went back to his car to get a spare blanket from the boot. But by the time he got back to the churchyard, the fellow had vanished again.”

“I’ll be locking my door tonight, and all,” said Jennie Prothero.

“What story did the man tell the priest, exactly?” Esterhazy asked.

“Now, Mr. Draper, you know how the clergy are,” the barkeep said. “Sanctity of the confessional, and all.”

“And you said his parish was in Anglesey,” Esterhazy said. “Was he on his way back?”

“No. He still had a few days left of his holidays. Said he was going to stop over at Lochmoray.”

“A wee bit of a village over west,” said MacFlecknoe, his tone implying that Inverkirkton was a metropolis by comparison.

“Plenty of old gravestones to rub at St. Muns,” Jennie Prothero added, with another shake of her head.

“St. Muns,” Esterhazy repeated, slowly, as if to himself.

C
HAPTER 24

Lochmoray, Scotland

J
UDSON
E
STERHAZY BICYCLED UPHILL
, leaving the little town far behind. As the road wound back into the granite hills, all signs of civilization dropped away, and in another ninety minutes a gray stone steeple appeared in the distance, just poking above the folded landscape.

That could only be the chapel of St. Muns, with its historic churchyard, where—with any luck—he would find the priest.

He stared at the long, winding road, caught his breath, and began the ascent.

The road went up through pines and firs before curving around the shoulder of the hill, dropping into a glen, and then climbing one last leg toward the isolated chapel. A cold wind blew and clouds scudded across the sky as he paused at the shoulder to examine the approach.

Sure enough: the priest was in the churchyard, all alone, dressed not in black but tweeds, with only a clerical collar to mark his calling. The man’s bicycle was propped against a gravestone, and the cleric himself was bent over a table-type tomb, involved in making a rubbing. Although he felt a little foolish, Esterhazy probed the reassuring lump of his pistol, assuring himself it was readily accessible, and then he remounted his bicycle and coasted down.

It was amazing. The bastard Pendergast was still making trouble for him, even from beyond the grave. It must have been Pendergast this priest bumped into, out there on the moors. He would have been weak from loss of blood, half mad with pain, just minutes from death. What had he told the man? Esterhazy could not leave Scotland without knowing.

The churchman rose awkwardly as Esterhazy approached, brushing twigs and grass off his knees. A large sheet of rice paper lay on the tomb; the rubbing was half complete. A portfolio of other rubbings lay nearby, spread out on a piece of canvas with crayons, pastels, and charcoal.

“
Ouf!
” muttered the priest, adjusting his clothes and patting himself back into order. “Afternoon to you.” He had a picturesque Welsh accent, and his face was red and veined.

Esterhazy’s habitual caution evaporated as the priest extended his hand. His grasp was unpleasantly damp and not altogether clean.

“You must be the priest up from Anglesey,” Esterhazy said.

“That’s right.” The man’s smile gave way to a look of confusion. “And how might you be knowing that?”

“I’ve just come from the pub at Inverkirkton. They mentioned you were in the neighborhood. Making rubbings of gravestones.” Esterhazy nodded toward the tomb.

The old man beamed. “Quite right! Quite right!”

“What a coincidence running into you like this. My name’s Wickham.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

They stood a moment in amiable silence.

“They also mentioned you told them quite a story,” Esterhazy went on. “About a rather desperate fellow you encountered on the moor.”

“And so I did!” The eagerness in the priest’s face told Esterhazy he was one of those men who avidly sought to give advice on any and all subjects.

Esterhazy glanced around, feigning disinterest. “I’d be curious to hear about it.”

An eager nod. “Yes, indeed. Indeed. It was… let’s see… early October.”

Esterhazy waited impatiently, trying not to press the priest too hard.

“I ran into a man. Lurching across the moors.”

“His appearance?”

“Dreadful. He was sick, or at least that’s what he said… I think he might have been drunk, or more likely on the run from the law. Must have fallen on the rocks, too—his face was bloody. He was very pale, muddy… soaked to the bone. It had rained heavily that afternoon, as I recall. Yes, I do recall that rain. Fortunately, I had brought along my double waterproof—”

“But his exact appearance? Hair color?”

The clergyman paused, as if thinking of something for the first time. “What’s your interest in this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I—I write mysteries. I’m always looking for ideas.”

“Oh. Well, in
that
case, let me see: pale hair, pale face, tall. Dressed in hunting tweeds.” The priest shook his head and gave a bird-like cluck. “The poor fellow was in a state, and no mistake.”

“And did he say anything?”

“Well, yes. But I can’t really talk about that, you understand. A man’s confessions to God are a sacred secret.”

The priest was speaking so slowly, so deliberately, that Esterhazy felt he might go mad. “What a fascinating story. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“He asked me the way around the marshes. I told him it was several miles.” The priest puckered his lips. “But he insisted, so I drew him a little map.”

“A map?”

“Well, yes, it was the least I could do. I had to draw him the route. It’s terribly treacherous, bogs everywhere.”

“But you’re up from Anglesey. How do you know this area?”

The priest chuckled. “I’ve been coming here for years. Decades! I’ve wandered all over these moors. I’ve visited every kirkyard between here and Loch Linnhe! This is a very historic area, you see. I’ve rubbed hundreds of tombstones, including those of the lairds of—”

“Yes, yes. But tell me about the map you drew. Can you draw the same map for me?”

“Of course! Delighted! You see, I sent him around the marshes because the way by Kilchurn Lodge is even more dangerous. I honestly don’t know how he got out there in the first place.” He clucked again as he drew a crude map, with atrocious draftsmanship, cramped and small. “Here is where we were,” he said, poking at an
X
.

Esterhazy was forced to bend down to see better. “Where?”

“
Here
.”

Even before Esterhazy could comprehend what was happening, he felt a ferocious jerk. Then he was forced to the ground and pinned, his arm twisted behind his back, his face pressed into the turf—and the cold barrel of a pistol was jammed so hard into his ear canal that it cut his flesh, drawing blood.

“Talk,” said the clergyman.

The voice was that of Pendergast.

Esterhazy struggled, his mind wild, but the barrel jammed in relentlessly. He felt a wave of horror and terror. Just when he was sure the devil was dead and gone, he reappeared. This was the end. Pendergast had finally won. The enormity of it sank in like poison.

“You said Helen was alive,” came the voice, almost a whisper. “Now tell me the rest. All of it.”

Esterhazy struggled to bring his mind into order, to overcome his shock, to consider what he would say and how he would say it. The smell of turf filled his nostrils, gagging him. “Just a moment,” he gasped. “Let me explain from the beginning. Please, let me up.”

“No. Stay down. We have plenty of time. And I have no compunctions about forcing you to talk. You
will
talk. But if you lie to me, even once, I’ll kill you. No warning.”

Esterhazy grappled with an almost overwhelming fear. “But then… then you’ll never know.”

“Wrong. Now that I know she’s alive, I’ll find her regardless. But you could spare me a lot of time and trouble. I repeat: truth or die.”

Esterhazy heard the soft click of the safety being thumbed off.

“Yes, I understand…” He tried once again to collect his thoughts, calm himself down. “You have no idea,” he gasped, “no idea what’s involved here. It goes back, before Longitude.” He heaved, struggling for air in the dew-laden grass. “It goes back even before we were born.”

“I’m listening.”

Esterhazy took a heaving breath. This was harder than he ever imagined. The truth was so very, very awful…

“Start at the beginning.”

“That would be April 1945…”

The pressure of the gun abruptly vanished. “My dear fellow, that was a nasty fall! Let me help you up.” Pendergast’s voice had changed, and the Welsh accent was back in force.

For a moment Esterhazy was utterly confused.

“You’ve cut your ear! Oh, dear!” Pendergast dabbed at the ear and Esterhazy felt the gun, now in Pendergast’s pocket, pressing into his side. At the same time he heard a car door slam, then voices—a chorus of voices. He looked up from the earth, blinking. A jolly group of men and women approached, with walking sticks, waterproofs, notebooks, cameras, and pens. The van in which they had arrived was parked just beyond the old stone wall enclosing the kirkyard. Neither of them had heard it come, so intense was their confrontation.

“Hallo!” said their leader, a short, fat, vigorous man, who came stumping toward them waving a furled umbrella. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little fall,” said Pendergast, helping Esterhazy to his feet but at the same time gripping him with a hand of steel, the gun barrel rammed like a pike into his kidneys.

“Fancy meeting other people in this forgotten corner of Scotland! And you here by bicycle, no less! What brings you to these wild climes?”

“Tomb iconography,” said Pendergast, with remarkable calmness. His eyes, however, were anything but calm.

Esterhazy made a huge effort to pull himself together. Pendergast was temporarily stymied, but he could be sure the agent wouldn’t miss even the slightest opportunity to finish what he’d started.

“We on the other hand are genealogists!” said the man. “And our interest is in names.” He stuck out his hand. “Rory Monckton, Scottish Genealogical Society.”

Esterhazy saw his chance. As the man pumped Pendergast’s unwilling hand, thus temporarily occupying it, Pendergast was forced to release Esterhazy’s arm for a moment.

“Nice to make your acquaintance,” Pendergast began, “but I fear we really must be on our way—”

Esterhazy slammed his arm back against the lump of the gun and twisted away from it with sudden violence, dropping down; Pendergast fired but was a millisecond too late, and by then Esterhazy had his own weapon out.

“Mother of God!” The portly man threw himself down on the grass.

The group, which had started to deploy about the headstones, now fell into hysteria, some taking cover, others scattering like partridge in the direction of the hills.

A second shot tore through the flap of Esterhazy’s coat while he simultaneously got off a shot at Pendergast. Tumbling behind a tombstone, Pendergast fired again, and missed; he was not in good form, obviously still weakened by his injury.

Esterhazy fired twice, forcing Pendergast back behind the tombstone, and then ran like hell for the van, going around the far side and leaping in, keeping low.

The keys were in the ignition.

A bullet slammed through the side windows, showering him with glass. He returned fire.

Starting the van, Esterhazy continued firing with one hand out the now-shattered window, over the heads of the genealogists and between the gravestones, preventing Pendergast from getting in a good shot. Screams pealed from the churchyard as Esterhazy threw the van into reverse, scattering pebbles like shotgun pellets. He heard bullets striking the rear of the van as he slewed about, jamming his foot on the accelerator and taking off.

Another round struck the van before he sped over the shoulder of the hill and was out of range. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He considered that the chapel of St. Muns was twelve miles from Lochmoray. There was no cell coverage. And no car, only two old bicycles.

He had two hours, perhaps a little less, to get to an airport.