Cold Vengeance (6 page)

C
HAPTER 11

Inverkirkton, Scotland

T
HE LONE BICYCLIST PEDALED WITH EVIDENT
effort up the narrow, winding road. The black three-speed was fitted with a special rack over the rear fender, and it currently held leather panniers, kept in place with bungee cords. The rider was dressed in a dark gray windcheater and dove-colored corduroy trousers, and together with the black bicycle he formed a curiously monochromatic figure, set against the gorse and heather of the Scottish hills.

At the top of the hill, where a series of weathered boulders reared fang-like from the green furze, the road divided at a T-intersection. Here the rider stopped, dismounted, and—by all indications grateful for the rest—pulled a map from beneath his jacket, smoothed it over the seat, and began to study it leisurely.

But inside, Judson Esterhazy felt anything but leisurely. He had lost his appetite; it was an effort to force down food. He constantly had to fight the urge to look over his shoulder. He couldn’t sleep nights: every time he closed his eyes he saw Pendergast, mortally wounded, staring up at him from the mire, eyes glittering with implacable intensity.

For the thousandth time he bitterly reproached himself for leaving the FBI agent in the Foulmire. He should have waited until the muck had totally consumed him. Why hadn’t he? It was those eyes; he couldn’t bear to look into those narrow silver eyes for one more second, staring back at him with the intensity of a scalpel. A pathetic and inexcusable weakness had overwhelmed him at the very moment of truth. Esterhazy knew that Pendergast was transcendentally resourceful.
You have no idea—and I mean
no
idea—how dangerous this man Pendergast is.
Hadn’t those been his very own words half a year earlier?
He’s tenacious and clever. This time around he’s motivated—
uniquely
motivated.
All Esterhazy’s careful planning—and still no real closure.

What a curse it was not knowing.

As he stood there beside the bicycle, pretending to regard the map, the chill damp breeze tugging at his trouser cuffs, he reminded himself that the wound was fatal—it had to be. Even if Pendergast had somehow managed to extricate himself from the mire, they should have discovered his corpse in their days and nights of careful searching. The most likely reason dragging the mire had failed was because Pendergast had somehow escaped the first mire, only to die in some thicket or get sucked down into another, distant bog.

But he didn’t know—not for sure, and that was driving him mad. He
had
to learn the truth. The alternative—a lifetime of fear and paranoia—was simply not acceptable.

After the inquest he had departed Scotland—in as high-profile a manner as he could manage, being driven to Glasgow by a disgruntled Inspector Balfour himself. Now, a week later, he was back. He’d cut his hair short and dyed it black; he was wearing thick tortoiseshell glasses; he’d purchased a high-quality stage mustache. In the unlikely event that he ran into Balfour or any of his men, the chance of being recognized was virtually nil. He was simply another American tourist, enjoying a late-year bicycle tour of the Highlands.

Nearly three weeks had passed since the shooting. The trail, if there ever was one, was now cold. But it couldn’t be helped: before the inquest he’d been kept under close observation, prevented from making private inquiries. He’d have to move as quickly as he could now, make sure no time was wasted. He had to prove to his own satisfaction that Pendergast had not survived, had not crawled out of the Mire. If he could do that, then perhaps he could find peace.

At last he turned his attention to the map. He located his own position; located the peak of Beinn Dearg and the Foulmire; located Cairn Barrow, the largest village of the region. With a fingertip on the spot where he’d shot Pendergast, he examined the surrounding area closely. The nearest village was Inverkirkton, about three miles from the shooting site. Besides Kilchurn Lodge, no other habitation was closer. If Pendergast had survived—if he’d gone anywhere—it would have been Inverkirkton. That’s where he would start.

Esterhazy folded up the map and glanced down the far side of the hill. From his vantage spot, he could just make out Inverkirkton. He cleared his throat, got back on the bicycle. A moment later he was coasting eastward down the hill, the afternoon sun on his back, taking no notice of the sweet smell of heather drifting in the air.

Inverkirkton was a clustering of well-tended buildings at a bend in the road, but it had the two things every Scottish settlement seemed to have: a pub and an inn. He wheeled up to the inn, climbed off the bike, leaned it against the whitewashed stone. Then, plucking a handkerchief from his pocket, he stepped inside.

The small lobby was cheerfully decorated, with framed photos of Inverness and the Mull of Kintyre beside tartans and a local map. It was empty save for a man in his early sixties, evidently the innkeeper, who was standing behind a counter of polished wood, reading a newspaper. He glanced up as Esterhazy stepped in, his bright blue eyes inquisitive. Esterhazy made a show of mopping his face with the handkerchief and blowing hard. Word of the shooting would have been news in this tiny local hamlet, and Esterhazy was relieved that there was no sign of recognition in the man’s gaze.

“Good afternoon to you,” the man said with a deep burr.

“Afternoon,” Esterhazy replied after seeming to recover some of his breath.

The innkeeper glanced over Esterhazy’s shoulder, where the front wheel of the bicycle was just visible through the door. “On holiday, are we?”

Esterhazy nodded. “I’d like a room, if one’s available.”

“Aye, one is. What might your name be, sir?”

“Edmund Draper.” He took another series of shuddering breaths, wiped his face again with the handkerchief.

The innkeeper hefted down a large ledger from a shelf behind him. “You seem a bit fagged, laddie.”

Esterhazy nodded again. “Cycled here from Fraserburgh.”

The innkeeper stopped in the act of opening the ledger. “Fraserburgh? But that’s close to forty miles—a good bit of it over mountains.”

“I know. I found that out the hard way. It’s only my second day of vacation, and I guess I overdid it. That’s the way I am.”

The innkeeper shook his head. “Well, all I can say is that you’ll sleep well tonight. You’d best take it easy tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I’ll have a choice.” Another pause for breath. “By the way, I saw the pub next door—I assume it serves dinner?”

“Aye, and a fine one. And if you don’t mind I’d like to suggest the local malt, Glen—”

The man stopped talking. Esterhazy’s face had assumed a worried, pained expression.

“Is anything the matter?” the innkeeper asked.

“I don’t know,” Esterhazy replied. He allowed his voice to become strained. “I’ve got this sudden pressure—pain—in my chest.”

A look of concern crossed the other man’s face. Bustling out from behind the counter, he led Esterhazy to a small adjoining parlor and eased him into an overstuffed chair.

“It’s shooting down my arm now… oh, God, it hurts.” Esterhazy gritted his teeth, clutched at his chest with his right hand.

“Would you like me to get you a drink, then?” the innkeeper said, bending over him solicitously.

“No… call for a doctor. Quickly…” And then, slumping over, Esterhazy closed his eyes.

C
HAPTER 12

New York City

T
HE DRIVE LEADING UP TO THE PORTE COCHERE
of 891 Riverside Drive looked a lot better than the first time D’Agosta had seen it. Back then, it had been filled with drifting trash, the surrounding ailanthus and sumac bushes dead or dying; the Beaux-Arts mansion itself had been shuttered and covered with gang graffiti. Now the property was clean and orderly, the four-story stone structure completely restored, its mansard roof, towers, and widow’s walk returned to period condition. And yet—as D’Agosta stared at it from the carriageway—there was something cold and strangely empty about the place.

He wasn’t sure why he was here, exactly. More than once he’d told himself to stop being paranoid, to stop acting like an old woman. But something about the visit from Corrie Swanson had stuck with him. And this time, when the impulse to stop by Pendergast’s mansion had risen yet again, he’d decided to act on it.

He stood for a minute, catching his breath. He’d taken the number 1 train to 137th Street and walked toward the river, but even that short journey had winded him. He hated this long convalescence; hated how the gunshot wound, the pig valve replacement, the subsequent gradual recovery, had sapped him of strength. The only good thing about it was that he’d initially lost weight, but now he was gaining it back, in spades. And unable for the time being to exercise it off.

After a few moments, he walked down the carriageway and stepped up to the oaken front door. He seized the brass knocker, gave it a stout rap.

Silence.

He waited a minute, then two. Nothing. He leaned in toward the door, listening, but the house was too well built for any sound to escape. He knocked a second time. What with Constance Greene in an asylum, maybe the place really was as deserted as it looked. But that made no sense—he knew Pendergast employed help both here and at the Dakota.

There was a whisper of a key turning in well-oiled tumblers, then the massive door slowly opened. The entranceway was dimly lit, but D’Agosta could make out the features of Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur and sometime butler. Normally expressionless and imperturbable, today Proctor looked dour, almost forbidding.

“Mr. D’Agosta, sir,” he said. “Won’t you please come in?”

D’Agosta stepped inside, and Proctor carefully locked the door behind him. “Would you care to step into the library?” the man asked.

D’Agosta had the creepy sensation he had been expected. He followed Proctor down the long, echoing gallery and into the reception hall, its dome of Wedgwood blue soaring overhead, the dim light illuminating the dozens of rippled-glass display cases and their curious contents. “Is Pendergast in?” he asked.

Proctor paused and turned back. “I am very sorry to say he is not, sir.”

“Where is he?”

The chauffeur’s cold look only wavered slightly. “He’s dead, sir.”

D’Agosta felt the room reel. “
Dead?
How?”

“He was on a hunting expedition, to Scotland. With Dr. Esterhazy.”

“Judson Esterhazy? His brother-in-law?”

“There was an accident. Out on the moors, while they were hunting a stag. Dr. Esterhazy shot Mr. Aloysius. He sank in the mire.”

This couldn’t be real. He had misheard. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nearly three weeks ago.”

“So what about the funeral preparations? Where’s Esterhazy? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“There’s no body, sir. And Dr. Esterhazy has disappeared.”

“Oh, my God. You’re telling me Esterhazy accidentally
shot
Pendergast and there’s no body and then Esterhazy just
disappeared
?” He realized he was yelling and didn’t care.

Proctor’s face remained unreadable. “The local constabulary searched for days, dragging the mire, looking everywhere. No body was recovered.”

“Then why do you say he’s dead?”

“Because of Dr. Esterhazy’s own testimony at the inquest. He testified that he shot him in the chest. He saw him sink and disappear into the quicksand.”

D’Agosta felt short of breath. “Esterhazy told you this himself?”

“I learned this from a telephone call from the inspector investigating the shooting. He wanted to ask me a few questions about Mr. Aloysius.”

“And you’ve heard from nobody else?”

“Nobody, sir.”

“Where was this, exactly?”

“At Kilchurn Lodge. In the Scottish Highlands.”

D’Agosta clenched his jaw. “People don’t just disappear. Something about this whole story stinks.”

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s all I know.”

D’Agosta took a few deep, shuddering breaths. “Jesus. Okay. Thank you, Proctor. I’m sorry I’m talking like this. I’m just upset.”

“I understand. Would you care to step into the library for a glass of sherry before you go?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve got to do something about this.”

Proctor looked at him. “And what might that be?”

“I don’t know yet. But you can bet your ass I’m going to do something.”