Cold Vengeance

by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

  “I can seat myself, thank you, I’m not some fainting southern belle,” she said, pulling the chair from his solicitous grasp and sitting down.

  He was in his late twenties, small but tough looking, ripped, old acne scars on an otherwise handsome face. He was dressed in a tacky sports jacket, with a Scotch Pad of brown hair and a nose that looked like it had once been broken. Intriguing.

  He ordered a slice of truffle torte cheesecake, and Corrie settled on a BLT. As the waitress walked away, Corrie crossed her arms and stared at Betterton. “Okay, so what’s this all about?”

  “Almost two weeks ago a couple, Carlton and June Brodie, were brutally murdered in Malfourche, Mississippi. Tortured and then killed, to be exact.”

  He was temporarily drowned out by the clattering of dishes and a waiter shouting an order.

  “Go on,” Corrie said.

  “The crime’s unsolved. But I’ve stumbled across some information that I’m following up on. Nothing definitive, you understand, but suggestive.”

  “Where does Pendergast come in?”

  “I’ll get to that in a moment. Here’s the story. About ten years back, the Brodies disappeared. The wife faked suicide, then the husband vanished. A few months ago, they reappeared as if nothing had happened, moved back to Malfourche, and resumed life. She ascribed her fake suicide to marital and job difficulties, and they told everyone they’d been running a B and B in Mexico. Except that they hadn’t been. It was a lie.”

  Corrie leaned forward. This was more interesting than she’d expected.

  “Not long before their reappearance, Pendergast arrived in Malfourche with an NYPD captain—a woman—in tow.”

  Corrie nodded. That would be Hayward.

  “No one can tell me what they were doing there, or why. It seems he was curious about a place deep in the adjoining swamp—a place called Spanish Island.” He proceeded to tell Corrie about all he had learned and his suspicions that it involved a major drug refining and smuggling operation.

  Corrie nodded. So this was what Pendergast was working on so secretively.

  “Just short of two weeks ago, a man with a German accent showed up in Malfourche. The Brodies were brutally murdered. I traced the man back here to New York. He was using a fake address, but I managed to link him to a small brownstone at Four Twenty-eight East End Avenue. I did a little poking around. The building is in the heart of the old German-speaking area of Yorkville, and it’s been owned by the same company since 1940. A real estate holding company. And it appears he’s got a yacht moored at the Boat Basin—a huge one. I followed him from the brownstone to the yacht.”

  Another nod from Corrie. She wondered when he was going to want some information from her in return. “So?” she said.

  “So I believe this Pendergast, whom you seem to know so much about, is the key to the whole thing.”

  “No doubt. This is the big case he’s been working on.”

  An awkward pause. “That doesn’t seem likely to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An FBI agent working a case doesn’t blow up a bar and sink a bunch of boats, not to mention burn down a drug lab in the swamp. No—this is extracurricular.”

  “That’s possible. He often investigates on a… freelance basis.”

  “This was not an investigation. This was… retribution. Reckoning. This man Pendergast, I believe he’s the mastermind behind the whole operation.”

  She stared at him. “Mastermind of what?”

  “The Brodie killings. The drug smuggling operation—if that’s what it is. Something big and highly illegal is going on here—that much is obvious.”

  “Now, hold on. You’re calling Pendergast a drug lord, or maybe even a murderer?”

  “Let us say I strongly suspect his involvement. Everything that’s happened looks to me like drugs, and this FBI agent is up to his neck in it—”

  Corrie stood up abruptly, her chair clattering to the floor. “Are you some kind of nutcase?” she said in a loud voice.

  “Sit down, please—”

  “I will not sit down! Pendergast, selling drugs?” Her tone of disgust and disbelief was turning heads in the crowded restaurant. She didn’t care.

  Betterton cringed under this outburst. “Will you be quiet—”

  “Pendergast is one of the most honest men you’ll ever meet. You aren’t even fit to lick his shoes!”

  She saw Betterton flushing with mortification. Now she had the riveted attention of the entire restaurant. Several waiters and waitresses were hurrying over. There was something almost gratifying about it.

  Her long frustration at Pendergast’s disappearance, her anger at being led to believe he was dead, seemed to coalesce and find a target in Betterton. “You call yourself a reporter?” she cried. “You couldn’t report your way out of a douche bag! Pendergast saved my life! He’s been putting me through college, for your information—and don’t think there’s anything between us, either, because he’s the most decent man alive, you asswipe.”

  “Excuse me, miss!” A waiter was flapping his hands in a panic as if to wave her away by magic.

  “Don’t ‘miss’ me, I’m on my way out.” She turned and looked at the horrified crowd in the restaurant. “What, you don’t like foul language? Go back to Dubuque.”

  She flounced out of the restaurant, exited onto Seventh Avenue, and there, amid the lunchtime crowds, managed to regain her breath and her equilibrium.

  This was serious. It seemed Pendergast was in some kind of trouble—maybe deep trouble. But he’d always handled trouble before, she knew. She had made him a promise—a promise to leave this alone—and she intended to keep it.

  CHAPTER 55

  CONSTANCE SAT IN THE REAR OF THE PRIVATE CAR speeding up Madison Avenue. She had been mildly surprised by an exchange in German between Dr. Poole and the driver of the vehicle, but Poole had given her no explanation of the plans he and Pendergast had put together for their reunion. She felt an almost overwhelming eagerness to see Pendergast and the inside of the Riverside Drive mansion again.

  Judson Esterhazy, aka Dr. Poole, sat beside her, his tall, aristocratic frame and finely chiseled features set into sharp relief by the noontime sun. The escape had gone without a hitch, exactly as planned. She felt badly for Dr. Felder, of course, and realized this would be a blot on his career, but Pendergast’s safety overshadowed all else.

  She glanced at Esterhazy. Despite the family connection, there was something she didn’t like about him. It was his body language, the arrogant look of triumph on his face. If the truth be told, she hadn’t liked him from the start—there was some quality in his manner, his way of speaking, that aroused her instinctual suspicion.

  No matter. She folded her hands, determined to help Pendergast in any way she could.

  The car slowed. Through the smoked windows, she noticed them turning east on Ninety-Second Street.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Just a temporary stop while preparations for your, ah, final destination are completed.”

  Constance did not at all like his turn of phrase. “My final destination?”

  “Yes.” Esterhazy’s arrogant smile widened. “Vengeance, you see, is where it will end.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I quite like the sound of that,” Esterhazy said. “Yes: vengeance is where it will end.”

  She stiffened. “And Pendergast?”

  “Never mind about Pendergast.”

  His brusqueness, the way he almost spat out the name, sent a prickle of alarm through Constance. “What are you talking about?”

  Esterhazy laughed harshly. “Don’t you realize it yet? You haven’t been rescued—you’ve been kidnapped.”

  He turned to her in one smooth motion and, before she could react, she felt a hand clamp around her mouth and smelled the sudden, sweetish stench of chloroform.

  Slowly, consciousness returned out of a drowsy fog. Constance waited while she recovered her
wits. She was tied to a chair, blindfolded and gagged. Her ankles were bound, as well. Gradually, she became aware of her surroundings: the musty smell of the room, the faint sounds in the house. It was a small room, bare except for an empty bookshelf, a dusty table, a bed frame, and the chair she was tied to. Someone was moving around below—Esterhazy, no doubt—and she could hear traffic noises from outside.

  The first thing she felt was a flood of self-recrimination. Foolishly, stupidly, and unforgivably, she’d allowed herself to be duped. She had cooperated in her own abduction.

  Careful to keep her breathing under control, she began to take stock. She was tied—no, taped—to a chair. But when she wiggled her hands, she realized the tape wasn’t particularly tight or secure. It was a hasty job, temporary. Esterhazy had even indicated as much. Just a temporary stop while preparations for your final destination are completed.

  Your final destination…

  She began to flex her arms and wrists, stretching and pulling at the tape. Slowly but steadily it began to loosen. She could hear Esterhazy moving around downstairs; at any moment he might come back up to retrieve her.

  With a final burst of effort she managed to rip the tape free. Next, she pulled away the blindfold and gag and freed her ankles. She stood up and, as quietly as she could, went over to the door, tried to open it. Locked, of course—and very stout.

  She went to the lone window in the room, which looked out onto a desolate garden. The window was locked and barred. She glanced out through the grimy glass. It was a typical Upper East Side backyard, the common rear gardens of the surrounding brownstones separated from one another by tall brick walls. The yard of her own prison-house was overgrown and empty, but in the next garden over she could see a red-haired woman in a yellow sweater, reading a book.

  Constance tried waving, then knocked quietly on the window—but the woman was absorbed in her book.

  She made a quick search of the room, pulling open drawers in the empty desk and cupboards—and found a carpenter’s pencil in the back of one drawer.

  An old book lay on the top bookshelf. She grabbed it, ripped out the flyleaf, and hurriedly scribbled a note on it. Then she folded it up and wrote a second note on the outside:

  Please take this note immediately to

  Dr. Felder, care of Mount Mercy Hospital,

  Little Governor’s Island. Please—IT’S A

  MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH.

  After a moment, she added:

  Felder will give you a monetary reward.

  She went to the window. The woman was still reading. She rapped on the glass, but the woman didn’t notice. Finally, feeling a rising desperation, she took up the book and rammed it into the window, edge first. The glass shattered and the woman in the next garden glanced up.

  Immediately Constance could hear Esterhazy bounding up the stairs.

  She placed the note inside the book to help weigh it down and then tossed it toward the next garden. “Take the note!” she called down. “And go—please!” The woman stared at her as the book landed near her feet, and the last thing Constance saw was her bending down—she walked with a cane—and taking up the book.

  Constance turned from the window just as Esterhazy burst in with a curse of surprise and rushed toward her. She raised a hand to claw at his eyes; he tried to bat it away but she managed to scratch two deep stripes down one cheek. He gasped in pain, but quickly recovered and tackled her. He fell atop her and they struggled, Esterhazy finally pinning her arms and pressing another chloroformed cloth over her mouth and nose. She felt consciousness slide away and blackness claim her once again.

  CHAPTER 56

  Camden, Maine

  THE SITE OF THE FORMER NURSING HOME had been razed and condos erected in its place, a forlorn row of empty town houses with flapping banners advertising price reductions and incentives.

  Strolling into the little sales office, Pendergast found it empty and rang a bell on the counter. A haggard-looking young woman appeared from a back room, seemingly almost startled to see him. She greeted him with a professional smile.

  Pendergast sloughed off the bulky jacket and smoothed down his black suit, restoring it to linear perfection. “Good morning,” he said.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, you may. I’ve been looking at real estate in the area.”

  This seemed like a new idea to the saleslady. Her eyebrows rose. “Are you interested in our condominiums?”

  “Yes.” Pendergast dumped the loathsome coat on a chair and settled himself down. “I’m from the South but looking for a cooler clime for my early retirement. The heat, you know.”

  “I don’t know how they stand it down there,” said the woman.

  “Indeed, indeed. Now, tell me what you have available.”

  The woman bustled through a folder and brought out some brochures, fanning them out on the table and launching into an earnest sales pitch. “We’ve got one-, two-, and three-bedroom units, all with marble baths and top-of-the-line appliances: Sub-Zero refrigerators, Bosch dishwashers, Wolf stoves…”

  As she droned on, Pendergast encouraged her with nods and approving murmurs. When she was done, he allowed her a brilliant smile. “Lovely. Only two hundred thousand for the two-bedroom? With a view of the sea?”

  This elicited more talk, and Pendergast again waited for her to reach the end. Then he settled back in the chair and clasped his hands. “It somehow seems right for me to live here,” he said. “After all, my mother was a resident some years ago.”

  At this the woman seemed confused. “How nice, but… well, we’ve only just opened—”

  “Of course. I mean in the nursing home that was here before. The Bay Manor.”

  “Oh, that,” she said. “Yes, the Bay Manor.”

  “Do you recall it?”

  “Sure. I grew up here. It closed down when… well, that would have been about seven, eight years ago.”

  “There was a very nice aide who used to take care of my mother.” Pendergast pursed his lips. “Did you know any of the people who worked there?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Pity. She was such a lovely person. I was hoping to look her up while I was in town.” He gave the woman a rather penetrating stare. “If I could see her name, I’m sure I’d recognize it. Can you help me?”

  She practically jumped at the chance. “I can certainly try. Let me make a call or two.”

  “How kind of you. Meanwhile, I’ll peruse these brochures.” He flipped one open, reading assiduously and nodding with approval as she began working the phone.

  Pendergast noted calls to her mother, an old teacher, and finally to a boyfriend’s mother. “Well,” the saleslady said, hanging up the phone with finality, “I did get some information. The Bay Manor was torn down years ago but I got the name of three people who worked there.” She placed a piece of paper in front of him with a smile of triumph.

  “Are any of them still around?”

  “The first one, Maybelle Payson. She’s still living in the area. The other two have passed away.”

  “Maybelle Payson… Why, I believe that is the very person who was so kind to my mother!” Pendergast beamed at her, taking up the paper.

  “And now, if you like, I’d be happy to show you the model units—”

  “Delighted! When I return with my wife we shall be glad to get a tour. You’ve been most kind.” He scooped up the brochures, slipped them into his jacket, put on the puffy coat, and exited into the barbaric cold.

  CHAPTER 57

  MAYBELLE PAYSON LIVED IN A RUN-DOWN fourplex back from the water in a working-class part of town. This working class consisted almost entirely of lobstermen, their boats parked on their lawns, chocked, blocked, and braced, draped in plastic tarps, some even bigger than the trailers the owners lived in.

  Trudging up the walk, Pendergast climbed up on the creaky porch, rang the bell, and waited. After a second ring, he could hear someone moving about, and eventually an owlish, wizene
d face appeared in the door pane, haloed in fine blue hair. The old woman looked at him with wide, almost child-like eyes.

  “Mrs. Payson?” Pendergast said.

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Payson? May I come in?”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “My name is Pendergast. I’d like to speak to you.”

  “What about?” The watery eyes stared at him suspiciously.

  Pendergast shouted into the door. “About the Bay Manor. A relative of mine used to live there. She spoke highly of you, Mrs. Payson.”

  He heard the turnings of various locks, latches, and bolts. The door opened, and he followed the diminutive woman into a tiny parlor. The place was a mess and smelled of cats. She swept a cat off a chair and seated herself on the sofa. “Please sit down.”

  Pendergast eased himself into the chair, which was almost completely covered with white cat hair. It seemed to leap up onto his black suit, as if magnetized.

  “Would you care for tea?”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” said Pendergast hastily. He removed a notebook. “I’m compiling a little family history and I wanted to speak to you about a relative of mine who was a resident at Bay Manor some years back.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Emma Grolier.”

  A long silence.

  “Do you remember her?”

  Another long pause. The teakettle began to whistle in the kitchen, but the woman didn’t seem to hear.

  “Allow me,” Pendergast said, rising to fetch the kettle. “What kind of tea, Mrs. Payson?”

  “What?”

  “Tea. What kind would you like?”

  “Earl Grey. Black.”

  In the kitchen, Pendergast opened a tea box that sat on the counter, took out a bag, placed it in a mug, and poured in the boiling water. He brought it out with a smile and set it on the table next to the old woman.

  “How very kind,” she said, looking at him now with a much warmer expression. “You’ll have to come more often.”