He felt more exhausted than he ever had in his life. Yet it was not a physical kind of exhaustion—it was more emotional than anything else. He’d spent half the previous night, and much of the current day, out at the site of the mass grave. It wasn’t like he had that much to do there—a different kind of expertise than his was required for the job—yet it was his duty to attend. He’d had to watch as, one by one, the bones, some large, many small, were teased out of the sand, cleaned, tagged, photographed, and tucked away in large plastic evidence lockers.
Despite the exhaustion, however, he was curious. Pendergast had left a message at police headquarters, asking Gavin to meet at the Chart Room bar at seven. He had no idea what Pendergast wanted, but he suspected it would be unusual, since everything Pendergast did seemed out of the ordinary.
“Sergeant,” Pendergast said. “Have a seat.” And he waved at the stool beside his own.
Gavin settled onto it.
The bartender, Joe Dunwoody, who was washing glasses nearby, glanced over. “What’ll you have, Brad?”
“Dewar’s on the rocks.” He watched as Dunwoody prepared the drink. The bartender, who’d been at work here when his brother Dana was killed, had—as far as Gavin knew—taken only one day off work as a result of the tragedy. But the brothers had never been close. Joe did look glum; but then he always looked a little glum.
Glum, in fact, was a good word to describe the Chart Room as a whole. Only half of the tables were filled, and the people sitting around them appeared shell-shocked, speaking in hushed tones if at all. News of the mass grave and the intentional sinking of the steamship, apparently by locals—coming as it did on the heels of the two recent murders—had hit Exmouth hard.
The only exception, it seemed, was Pendergast himself. If not exactly cheerful, he radiated a kind of restless energy, even excitement. Gavin watched as the man prepared some kind of ridiculously complex drink: he’d balanced a spoon atop a glass, a sugar cube nestled in the spoon, and he was meticulously dribbling a stream of water over it. As the sugared water hit the pale liquid in the glass, it blossomed into a milky cloud.
“Thank you for coming.” He laid the spoon aside, took a sip of his drink. “I imagine you were out on the beach for much of the day?”
Gavin nodded as he tasted his own drink.
“That can’t have been pleasant.”
“Not at all.”
Pendergast studied the opalescent liquid in his glass. “Sergeant, I’ve asked you here because you’ve been most helpful during my time at Exmouth. You’ve tolerated my presence, worked hard, answered my questions, and volunteered information. You’ve taken me on excursions into the tidal swamps when, no doubt, there were other things you would have preferred to do. It has often been my experience that local law enforcement does not appreciate the presence of federal officers, especially those that appear to be, ah, moonlighting. I found you a welcoming presence rather than a hostile one. I appreciate that. And that is why I’ve chosen you as the first person I’m going to share some interesting news with.”
Gavin nodded for him to continue, trying not to blush from the praise. His curiosity had vastly increased.
“Do you recall how, last night, I told you that only one step remained: to identify the killer or killers?”
“Sure.” Gavin drained his scotch—the drinks they poured in the Chart Room were infamous for being miserly.
“I have now made that identification. There is a single killer: and I know who it is.”
“You—” Gavin began, then stopped. Two thoughts flashed through Gavin’s mind in quick succession. The first was one of overwhelming relief. It’s almost over, he told himself. This nightmare’s about to end. The second was the observation that Pendergast had made a point of telling him first. He hadn’t told Chief Mourdock. This was interesting. Pendergast knew Mourdock was retiring; this was Pendergast’s way of helping Gavin out with his own aspirations. If properly handled, this could be a real feather in his cap and almost guarantee his appointment to chief.
Joe Dunwoody, halfway down the bar, pointed at Gavin’s empty glass. Gavin nodded for a refill.
“Not only have I discovered the identity of the killer,” Pendergast continued, lowering his voice somewhat, “but just today I found the location of his hideout, deep in the swamp.”
“What are we waiting for?” Gavin asked, half sliding off his stool. Forget the damn drink, he thought; eagerness had taken the place of exhaustion. “Let’s go.”
Pendergast shook his head. “Going out there now, in the dark, would be unwise. Our man clearly knows that region of the swamp better than I, and probably better than you. If we aren’t careful, we’ll spook him and cause him to flee. No—we’ll head in at first light, approach with stealth, and surprise him. You, of course, will make the actual arrest.”
This image was most gratifying to Gavin. “What about the chief?” he asked as the fresh drink arrived. “We’re talking about a murderer, after all. We might need backup.” And not telling him would piss him off royally, he thought. Retirement or no retirement, it wouldn’t pay to get on Mourdock’s bad side.
“I fear Chief Mourdock would be a hindrance. However, it’s a prudent suggestion nevertheless, and he should be there—if only for reasons of protocol. Why don’t you brief him over the phone once you get home?”
“I’ll do that.”
“Very good. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire to my room. I have preparations to make for tomorrow. Shall we meet at police headquarters at five AM?”
“We’ll be there.”
“Excellent. Until the morning, then.” And with that, Pendergast drained his glass, shook Gavin’s hand, and slipped out of the Chart Room, heading for the stairway that led to the rooms upstairs.
37
The figure moved quietly through the tall salt grass, barely more than a passing shadow in the near-moonless night. Although the wildlife preserve west of Exmouth was invariably deserted, and the man was in a great hurry, he was nevertheless careful to be as quiet as possible: the only sounds were the swish of the dry grass as he passed and the faint sucking sounds when he traversed one of the frequent mudflats.
The trek was a long one—an hour and a half—but he had made it many times before and was used to the journey. He did not mind the darkness; in fact, he welcomed it.
At the boundary of the wildlife preserve he paused to shift his pack from one shoulder to another and look around. The tide was ebbing fast, and his night-accustomed vision could see that the receding water had exposed a labyrinth of pools, flats, marshy islands, and low swamplands. The land seemed cloaked in a watchful silence, although a steady wind was starting to pick up. He hurried on, more quickly than before—he’d have to be on his way back before the turn of the tide if he didn’t want to be marooned in these wastes.
Deep in the swamps, the tall grass grew denser until it seemed more jungle than marsh. But here, too, the figure knew his way. He was now following the faintest of paths, recognizable as a trail only to the most experienced eye. He’d given nicknames to many of the various landmarks he passed: an irregularly shaped tidal pool was the Oilstain; a heavily twisted clump of salt grass, dried-out and dead, was Hurricane. These landmarks helped him navigate. At Hurricane, he turned sharp left, still following the secret, near-invisible trail. He was almost there. The wind was now driving hard, filling the air with the dry rattle of stalks.
Ahead in the darkness, the grass became a wall he almost had to push his way through. And then, suddenly, he came into a small clearing, less than fifty feet in diameter. In the faint light of the obscured moon, he glanced around. The clearing was a riot of disorder. To one side was a huge trash heap, from which led a trail of garbage: chicken and fish bones, empty food cans, turnip tops. In the middle of the clearing were the smoldering coals of a fire. And across from the trash heap was an ancient canvas tent, torn and filthy with dirt and grease. Utensils and a few provisions were scattered around it: a frying pan, jugs of fresh wat
er. Behind the tent, he could smell, rather than see, a steaming pile of dung. The camp was deserted—by all signs, very recently.
The man glanced around again. Then he called out quietly: “Dunkan? Dunkan?”
For a moment, all was still. And then a man emerged from the wall of salt grass on the far side of the camp. Joe was used to the sight, but even so it always sent an electric tickle of anxiety through him. The man was dressed in tatters: apparently a dozen or so rotting garments, their original use now unguessable, fashioned together and carefully gathered around his limbs almost like a sarong. He had wiry red hair and a monobrow, and a long, greasy beard was twisted into three points with strange fastidiousness. He was all hair and sinew, and he looked at Joe with wild eyes that nevertheless glinted with cunning and intelligence. A flint knife was in one hand; a long, rusted bayonet in the other. Clearly, he had heard Joe’s approach and had taken refuge in the grasses.
“What is it?” the man named Dunkan said in a voice hoarse from little use. “You aren’t supposed to come tonight.”
Joe let the pack drop from his shoulder to the ground. “You have to leave,” he said. “Right now.”
At these words, deep suspicion overcame Dunkan’s expression. “Yeah? Why?”
“That FBI man I told you about. He knows about you, he’s discovered your camp. I don’t know how, but he did. I heard him say so in the bar tonight. He’s coming here in the morning with the police.”
“I don’t believe it,” Dunkan said.
“Goddamn it, Dunkan, you have to believe it! It’s your fault. If you hadn’t killed Dana, none of this would have happened!”
Dunkan took a step forward, and Joe backed away. One of his hands slipped into his pants pocket and closed around the grip of a .22 pistol. Dunkan saw the gesture and stopped.
“Our brother had to die,” he said, eyes flashing. “He was trying to cheat me.”
“No, he wasn’t. How many times do I have to explain it? He put the jewels in a safe-deposit box until we could sell them. Nobody’s going to get cheated. There was no reason to get mad like that and kill him.”
“He’s cheated me all our lives. You have, too. I wanted my share, and he wouldn’t give it to me. I did all the work. I took the risks. I killed that Englishman, didn’t I?”
“You did all the work?” Joe said. He was angry now, too, but also extremely wary of his brother. “How about Dana or me taking turns, coming out here every week with your food and water? And what the hell are you going to do with a packet of gemstones? We’ve got to turn them into money. Then you’ll get your share.”
“I did all the work,” Dunkan insisted. “I wanted my jewels then, and I want them now. You’ve got them. I know you have.” Gun or no gun, he took another step forward. “Give me my share.”
Another spike of anxiety coursed through Joe. He’d seen his brother like this before; he knew his violent temper, what he was capable of. “Okay, listen. You’ll get your share. I promise you. With Dana gone, we can now split it fifty-fifty. But those jewels won’t do you any good. They’re safe in the bank vault at Exmouth. We can’t sell them, not yet. But the main thing is that the FBI agent is going to be here at first light.” Keeping an eye on Dunkan, Joe knelt, reached into the pack, pulled out a thick wad of cash. “Here’s two thousand dollars—my whole stash. Consider it earnest money until we can fence the rubies. And there’s some food and water in the pack, too—enough for another week. But you have to go, now. Otherwise they’ll catch you, send you to prison. They’ll send me to prison, too, as an accessory.”
“It was Dana’s idea to kill that Englishman. Kill him, and mark him up like that. I did what he asked. I’m innocent.”
“Dana’s dead now, and that’s not the way the law works. You did the killings. It’s on you—and on me. Okay? We’re in this together—right?” He tried to modulate his voice, sound reasonable, not further piss off his crazy brother.
It was working. The hostile expression on Dunkan’s face had abated. He took the bundle of cash Joe offered him, flipped through it with a greasy thumb.
“Go to the other place,” Joe said. “You know the one—the old roundhouse at the abandoned switching yard. I’ll meet you there a week from now. Once they find this place is empty, they’ll think you’ve run for good. They’ll watch it for a couple of days, but when they give up, I’ll know. And once it’s safe to come back, I’ll tell you. In a little while, I’ll be able to sell the jewels. Until then, you just hold on to that cash and stay low.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Dunkan nodded. As Joe waited, the man turned back toward the tent and began gathering up his few pathetic things. Collecting them in a ragged sheet, he bundled it up, then turned back toward his brother. As he did so, his gaze went over Joe’s shoulder, and his face abruptly contorted with feral rage.
“Traitor!” he cried, raising the stone knife. “Judas!”
A shot rang out, the round singing past Joe’s ear. Dunkan cried out as the knife was knocked out of his hand with the sound of a ricocheting bullet. With a roar he turned and sprinted toward the wall of dry salt grass, vanishing into it in an instant. As Joe pulled his gun and spun around to confront their attacker, he felt a blow to the side of his head; the gun was torn from his hand; and a knee impacted the small of his back. In a second he was pinned to the ground, his wrists held in an iron grip. They were pulled behind him and the cold steel went on with a click. Next, he felt his legs being securely bound. Writhing on the ground, he finally saw who his attacker was.
“Pendergast!”
The FBI agent was wearing gray-and-black camos.
“I thought you were coming in the morning!” Joe said.
“That’s what you were supposed to think.” Pendergast got up, fetched the .22, shoved it into a pocket, and then vanished into the grass in the direction Dunkan had fled.
38
Pendergast pushed his way through the salt grass. Dunkan, the feral brother, had a head start, and Pendergast could tell from the distant crashing noises that he was moving with the speed and sureness of someone with knowledge of the marshlands. But Pendergast was an expert tracker; he had hunted lion and Cape buffalo in East Africa; and he undertook this pursuit with the same assurance and strategy he would employ in pursuing big game. It was very dark, but he used his flashlight as little as possible, hooding it with one hand to keep its glow from being observed.
He moved along the disturbed trail of grass made by Dunkan’s headlong passage. It was exceedingly hard to follow, but having been in the marshlands several times before, he knew now what to look for. As he ran, he considered his prey’s options. The man’s appearance was too bizarre for him to chance being spotted in daylight. Nor would he make for the “old roundhouse” now. Chances were that, for the time being at least, he would go to ground in the place he knew best: these very marshlands. He could hide out here for a while, formulating a plan, until the search parties and tracker dogs arrived.
Of course, if he managed to kill Pendergast, he might not have to leave at all. That seemed his most likely choice.
Ahead, the sounds of movement had ceased, masked by the wind. The path, too, became more difficult to follow, as it appeared Dunkan had slowed down and was now moving with greater care, following a faint animal trail. The breeze was from the southwest, however, and Pendergast could detect the man’s stink: a mixture of sweat, dirt, and urine. That put him upwind, to Pendergast’s left. The FBI agent corrected course, now moving stealthily as well.
A lion hunt was, in fact, an excellent metaphor. Pendergast could not hope to outsmart or outtrack Dunkan: the man was in his element. Pendergast would have to rely on his instincts and his acute senses.
A few stalks of freshly broken grass showed Pendergast that the man had deserted the animal path. He followed Dunkan’s trail, allowing himself just enough flashes from his light to keep on it. The track burrowed deeper and deeper into the heavy, tall grasses of the marsh. They were on a medium-size mar
sh island and eventually they would reach a mudflat and tidal channel.
After five minutes of silence, save for rattling gusts of the wind, there came a sound to his right—a sharp snap. Immediately, Pendergast stopped in place, sniffing the air. The raw human stink was no longer detectable. That meant only one thing: Dunkan was no longer ahead of him, no longer upwind.
But where was he? In an instant, Pendergast understood that the feral brother, unable to shake Pendergast, had decided to circle back and come up on him from behind.
Allowing himself another brief wink of the light, Pendergast veered southwest and pushed his way through the grass. After making a slow arc of about a hundred yards, he stopped. With any luck, he was either behind Dunkan now or—even better—perpendicular to his path. Keeping intensely still, gun and flashlight at the ready, he listened for any sound—an intake of breath, the faint snap of a twig—that would signal Dunkan’s approach.
Nothing.
Five minutes passed in which Pendergast remained in position, unmoving. And then he noticed it: Dunkan’s stink, drifting toward him once again from the southwest.
What had happened? After brief consideration, he realized that Dunkan had probably heard him and was abandoning his double-back. The stench that briefly reached his nostrils was fainter: Dunkan had used the time to put significant distance between them. Maybe he was trying to escape him, after all.
Rising from his place of concealment, Pendergast moved quickly upwind, in the direction of the odor, using his flashlight more often now in search of signs, more focused on speed than silence. Several minutes of running and pushing through the dense grass brought him to the edge of a mudflat. On the far side of the flat lay a wide tidal channel. The tide was coming in strongly: ripples of black water were moving inland with dangerous rapidity, filling in the labyrinth of tidal islands.
His flashlight made out a set of nearby footprints. They led out of the salt grass and went straight down to the water. Pendergast let his light play out over the channel. And there was Dunkan, head bobbing as he struggled across the water toward the mudflats on the far side.
Crimson Shore Page 19
