Cold Vengeance (4 page)

C
HAPTER 7

E
STERHAZY WAITED BEHIND THE YELLOW TAPE
laid on the ground as the forensic team, bent over like crones, finished combing the area for evidence under a battery of harsh lights that cast a ghastly illumination over the stark landscape.

He had followed the evidence gathering with growing satisfaction. All was in order. They had found the one brass casing he’d deliberately left behind, and despite the heavy rains they managed to find some faint tracks of the stag, as well as to map some of the crushed marks in the heather made by himself and Pendergast. In addition, they had managed to confirm where the stag had burst through the reeds. Everything was consistent with the story he’d told.

“All right, men,” Balfour called. “Pack away your kits and let’s drag the pool.”

Esterhazy felt a shiver of both anticipation and revulsion. Gruesome as it was, it would be a relief to see his adversary’s corpse dragged up from the muck; it would provide that final act of closure, an epilogue to a titanic struggle.

On a piece of graph paper, Balfour had sketched out the dimensions of the pool—a small area twelve feet by eighteen—and drawn a scheme of how it would be dragged. In the glare of the lights, the team clipped a claw-like grapnel to a rope, the long steel tines gleaming evilly, and then fixed a lead weight to the eye. Two men stood back, holding the coil of rope, while a third balanced himself on the pool’s edge. With Balfour consulting his drawing and murmuring directions, the third man gave the hook a toss over the shivering bog. It landed in the muck on the far side, the weight carrying it down. When it finally came to rest on the bottom, the other two behind began hauling it back in. As the grapnel inched through the bog, the rope straining and tightening, Esterhazy tensed involuntarily.

A minute later the grapnel surfaced, trailing muck and weeds. Balfour, clipboard in hand, examined the tines with a latex-gloved hand, then shook his head.

They moved eighteen inches along the shore and gave another toss, another pull. More weeds. They moved again, repeated the process.

Esterhazy watched every emergence of the muck-coated grapnel, a knot of tension growing in the pit of his stomach. He ached all over, and his bitten hand throbbed. The men were approaching the spot where Pendergast had gone down. Finally the grapnel was tossed over the very spot, and the team began to retract it.

It halted, arrested by a submerged object.

“Got something,” one of the men said.

Esterhazy held his breath.

“Easy, now,” said Balfour, leaning forward, his body tense as bowed steel. “Slow and steady.”

Another man joined the rope-line and they began to haul it in, hand over hand, with Balfour hovering over them and urging them not to rush things.

“It’s coming,” grunted one.

The surface of the bog swelled, the muck running to the sides as a long, log-like object emerged—mud-coated, misshapen.

“Take it slow,” Balfour warned.

As if they were landing a huge fish, the men held the corpse at the surface while they ran nylon straps and webbing under it.

“All right. Bring it in.”

With additional effort, they eased the corpse up, sliding it onto a plastic tarp laid on the ground. Mud drained away in thick rivers from it and a hideous stench of rotting meat suddenly washed over Esterhazy, propelling him a step back.

“What in blazes?” murmured Balfour. He bent over the corpse, felt it with his gloved hand. Then he gestured at one of the team members. “Rinse this off.”

One of the forensic team came over. Together they bent over the misshapen head of the carcass, the man washing the quicksand off with a squeeze bottle.

The stench was hideous, and Esterhazy felt the bile rise in his throat. Several of the men were hastily lighting cigars or pipes.

Balfour abruptly straightened up. “It’s a sheep,” he said matter-of-factly. “Drag it off to the side, rinse this area down, and let’s continue.”

The men worked in silence, and soon the grappling hook was back in the water. Again and again they dragged the pool; again and again the claws of the hook emerged from the muck with nothing more than weeds. The reek of the suppurating sheep, lying behind them, covered the scene like a pall. Esterhazy found the tension becoming unbearable. Why weren’t they finding the body?

They reached the far end of the pool. Balfour called a discussion, the team conferring at one side in low tones. Then Balfour approached Esterhazy. “Are you sure this is where your brother-in-law went down?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Esterhazy said, trying to control his voice, which was on the edge of breaking.

“We don’t seem to be finding anything.”

“He’s down there!” Esterhazy raised his voice. “You yourself found the shell from my shot, found the marks in the grass—you
know
this is the right place.”

Balfour looked at him curiously. “It certainly seems so, but…” His voice trailed off.

“You’ve got to find him! Drag it again, for God’s sake!”

“We intend to, but you saw how thorough a job we made of it. If a body was down there…”

“The currents,” said Esterhazy. “Maybe the currents took him away.”

“There are no currents.”

Esterhazy took a deep breath, desperately trying to master himself. He tried to speak calmly, but could not quite get the tremor out of his voice. “Look, Mr. Balfour. I know the body’s there.
I saw him go down.
”

A sharp nod and Balfour turned to the men. “Drag it again—at right angles this time.”

A murmur of protests. But soon the process began all over again, the grappling hook being tossed in from another side of the pool, while Esterhazy watched, the bile cooking in his throat. As the last of the light drained from the sky, the mists thickened, the sodium lamps casting ghastly bars of white in which shadowy figures moved about, indistinct, throwing bizarre shadows, like the damned milling about in the lowest circle of hell. It was impossible, Esterhazy thought. There was absolutely no way Pendergast could have survived and gotten away. No way.

He should have stayed. He should have waited to the bitter end… He turned to Balfour. “Look, is it at all possible someone could manage to get out—extract themselves from this kind of mire?”

The man’s blade-like face turned to him. “But you saw him go down. Am I correct?”

“Yes, yes! But I was so upset, and the fogs were so thick… Maybe he could have gotten out.”

“Highly doubtful,” said Balfour, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “Unless, of course, you left him while he was still struggling.”

“No, no, I tried to rescue him, just as I said. But the thing is, my brother-in-law’s incredibly resourceful. Just maybe—” He tried to inject a hopeful tone into his voice, to cover up his panic. “Just maybe he got out. I
want
to think he got out.”

“Dr. Esterhazy,” said Balfour, not unsympathetically, “I’m afraid there isn’t much hope. But you’re right, we need to give that possibility serious consideration. Unfortunately the remaining bloodhound is too traumatized to work, but we have two experts who can help.” He turned. “Mr. Grant? Mr. Chase?”

The gamekeeper came over, with another man whom Esterhazy recognized as the head of the forensic team. “Yes, sir?”

“I’d like you both to examine the larger area around the bog here. I want you to look for any evidence—any at all—that the victim might have extracted himself and gone off. Search everywhere and cut for sign.”

“Yes, sir.” They disappeared into the darkness, just the beams of their flashlights remaining visible, stabbing about in the murk.

Esterhazy waited in silence, the mists congealing into fog. Finally, the two men returned. “There’s no sign, sir,” Chase said. “Of course, we’ve had very heavy rains that would have destroyed anything subtle. But a wounded man, shot, perhaps crawling, bleeding profusely, covered with mud—he would have left some evidence. It’s not possible the man escaped the Mire.”

Balfour turned to Esterhazy. “There you have your answer.” Then he added: “I think we’ll be winding up here. Dr. Esterhazy, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to remain in the area until the inquest.” He removed a handkerchief, dabbed at his running nose, put it away. “Do you understand?”

“Don’t worry,” said Esterhazy fervently. “I fully intend to remain here until I learn
exactly
what happened to my… my dear brother-in-law.”

C
HAPTER 8

New York City

D
R.
J
OHN
F
ELDER FOLLOWED THE POLICE VAN
as it jounced its way down the one-lane road that traversed Little Governor’s Island. It was warm for an evening in early October, and the swampy marshland on either side was dotted with pools of mist. The trip south from Bedford Hills had taken just under an hour, and their destination now lay directly ahead.

The van turned into a lane of long-dead chestnut trees, and Felder followed. Through the trees, he could see the East River and the numberless silhouetted buildings of Manhattan’s East Side. So near, and yet so very, very far.

The van slowed, then stopped outside a tall wrought-iron gate. A guard stepped out of the security booth beside it and walked up to the driver. He glanced at a clipboard the driver handed him, then nodded, returned to his booth, and opened the gate with the press of a button. As the two vehicles entered the compound, Felder glanced at a bronze plaque on the gate: M
OUNT
M
ERCY
H
OSPITAL FOR THE
C
RIMINALLY
I
NSANE
. There had been some effort recently to change the name to something more modern, less stigmatizing, but the massive plaque looked like it was there to stay.

The van pulled into a small, cobbled parking area, and Felder stopped his Volvo beside it. He got out and stared up at the vast gothic pile, its grand old windows now covered by bars. It had to be the most picturesque—not to mention unusual—asylum in all America. It had taken him a great deal of time and paperwork to arrange for the transfer, and he was not a little irritated that the man who had promised to “reveal all” about the prisoner in return for this favor seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.

His gaze quickly shifted from the building to the police van. A prison guard had gotten out of the passenger seat and walked to the rear doors, unlocking them with a key on a large key ring. A moment later, the doors opened and a police officer, uniformed and armed with a shotgun, stepped out. While he waited, gun at the ready, the prison guard reached into the van to help out the other occupant.

As Felder watched, a young woman in her early twenties stepped out into the evening air. She had dark hair, cut in a short, stylish bob, and her voice—when she thanked the orderly for his assistance—was low and even, its cadence reserved and antique. She was dressed in a prison uniform, and her wrists were handcuffed before her, but as she was led toward the entrance her head was held high, and she walked with grace and dignity, her carriage erect.

Felder joined the little group as they walked by.

“Dr. Felder,” she said, nodding gravely at him. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise, Constance,” he replied.

As they approached the front door, it was unlocked from within and opened by a fastidious-looking man wearing a white medical jacket over an expensive suit. “Good evening, Miss Greene,” he said in a calm, quiet voice, as if speaking to a child. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Constance gave a faint curtsy.

“I’m Dr. Ostrom, and I’ll be your attending physician here at Mount Mercy.”

The young woman inclined her head. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor. Please call me Constance.”

They stepped into the waiting area. The air was warm and smelled faintly of disinfectant. “I know your, ah, guardian, Aloysius Pendergast,” Dr. Ostrom went on. “I’m very sorry we couldn’t have brought you here sooner, but it took longer than expected to get the necessary paperwork cleared.”

As Ostrom said this, his gaze briefly met Felder’s. Felder knew that the room Constance was assigned at Mount Mercy had—after a thorough search—been very carefully cleaned, first with bleach, then antiseptic, and then repainted with three coats of oil-based paint. These measures were deemed necessary because the room’s prior occupant had been notorious in her fondness for poisons.

“I’m most grateful for your attentions, Doctor,” Constance said primly.

There was a brief wait while Dr. Ostrom signed the forms handed him by the prison guard. “You can remove the handcuffs now,” Ostrom said as he returned the clipboard.

The guard complied. An orderly let the guard and police officer out and locked the front door carefully behind them. “Very good,” Ostrom said, rubbing his hands together lightly as if pleased by the transaction. “Now Dr. Felder and I will show you to your room. I think you’ll find it quite nice.”

“I have no doubt that I will, Dr. Ostrom,” Constance replied. “You’re very kind.”

They made their way down a long, echoing corridor, Dr. Ostrom explaining the rules at Mount Mercy and expressing hope that Constance would find herself comfortable with them. Felder shot a private glance at Constance. Anyone would find her an unusual woman, of course: the old-fashioned diction, the unreadable eyes that seemed somehow older than the face they were set in. And yet there was nothing about her looks or her manner that could prepare one for the truth: that Constance Greene was deeply insane. Her presentation was unique in Felder’s experience. She claimed to have been born in the 1870s, to a family long gone and forgotten, save for scattered traces in public records. Most recently, she had returned by ship from England. During the voyage, she had—by her own admission—thrown her infant son overboard because, she’d insisted, he was the embodiment of evil.

In the two months since he’d become involved with her case, Felder had—first at Bellevue, then at the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility—continued his analysis of Constance. And while his fascination with the case had only sharpened, he had to admit that he’d made no progress at understanding either her or her illness.

They waited while an orderly unlocked a heavy metal door, then they turned down another echoing passage, at last stopping before an unmarked door. The orderly unlocked this in turn, and Dr. Ostrom ushered them into a small room, windowless and sparsely furnished. All the furniture—bed, table, single chair—was bolted securely to the floor. A bookcase was fixed to one wall, containing half a dozen volumes. A small plastic flowerpot with daffodils from the hospital’s garden sat on the table.

“Well?” Ostrom asked. “What do you think, Constance?”

The young woman looked around, taking in everything. “Perfectly satisfactory, thank you.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. Dr. Felder and I will give you some time to settle in. I’ll send a matron by with more appropriate attire.”

“I’m much obliged to you.” Constance’s gaze settled on the bookcase. “My goodness. Cotton Mather’s
Magnalia Christi Americana
. Benjamin Franklin’s
Autobiography
. Richardson’s
Clarissa
. Aren’t these Great-Aunt Cornelia’s books?”

Dr. Ostrom nodded. “New copies of them. This used to be her room, you see, and your guardian asked us to purchase the books for you.”

“Ah.” For a moment, Constance flushed with what appeared to be pleasure. “It’s almost like coming home.” She turned to Felder. “So nice to carry on the family tradition here.”

Despite the warmth of the room, Felder felt a cold thrill of dismay course down his spine.