Cold Vengeance p-11

by Douglas Preston

  “I’m Falkoner.”

  Esterhazy shook Betterton’s hand in turn, smiling but not offering his name. As he smiled, the scratches on his face stung. There wouldn’t be a repeat of that: Constance was locked in the hold, handcuffed, her mouth gagged and taped. And yet a chill ran through him as he recalled the expression on her face in the Upper East Side safe house. He’d noticed two things in that expression, as clear as he was alive: hatred — and mental clarity. This woman wasn’t the basket case he’d assumed. And her hatred of him was unsettling in its intensity and murderousness. He found himself not a little unnerved.

  “I’m moored over there—” Betterton jerked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder—“and I thought I’d just stop over to wish you a pleasant evening. And — to be honest — I’m captivated by your yacht.”

  “Very glad that you did,” replied Falkoner, with a brief glance at Esterhazy. “Would you care for a tour?”

  Betterton nodded eagerly. “Thank you, yes.”

  Esterhazy noticed his eyes were darting everywhere, taking everything in. He was surprised Falkoner had offered the man a tour — there was something vaguely phony about him. He didn’t look like a yachtsman, the blue blazer was of a cheap cut, and the man was wearing ersatz deck shoes of the landlubber kind.

  They stepped into the beautifully appointed saloon, Falkoner launching into a description of the Vergeltung’s characteristics and notable features. Betterton listened with an almost child-like eagerness, still looking around as if committing everything to memory.

  “How many people on board?” Betterton asked.

  “We have a crew of eight. Then there’s me and my friend, here, who’s just visiting for a few days.” Falkoner smiled. “How about on your vessel?”

  Betterton waved a hand. “A staff of three. Have you taken her out on any trips recently?”

  “No. We’ve been moored here for several weeks.”

  “And you’ve been on board the whole time? Seems a shame, even on such a beautiful vessel, with all of New York spread out before you!”

  “Unfortunately, I’ve had no time for trips.”

  They passed through the dining room and into the galley, where Falkoner brought out a copy of the evening’s dinner menu, praising the yacht’s chef as he did. Esterhazy followed silently, wondering where this was leading.

  “Dover sole with truffle butter and a mousse of root vegetables,” Betterton said, looking at the menu. “You eat well.”

  “Perhaps you’d care to share our dinner?” Falkoner asked.

  “Thank you, but I’ve got another engagement.”

  They continued down a corridor paneled in tamo ash. “Care to see the bridge?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They climbed a stairway to the upper deck and into the wheelhouse.

  “This is Captain Joachim,” Falkoner said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Betterton said, peering around. “Very impressive.”

  “I’m happy enough with it,” Falkoner replied. “You can’t beat the feeling of independence a yacht like this provides — as you must know yourself. The loran system on board is second to none.”

  “I would imagine.”

  “You have loran on your boat?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Marvelous invention.”

  Esterhazy glanced at Falkoner. Loran? That old technology had long ago been superseded by GPS. All at once, Esterhazy understood what Falkoner was up to.

  “And what kind of vessel do you have?” Falkoner asked.

  “It’s, ah, it’s a Chris-Craft. Eighty feet.”

  “An eighty-foot Chris-Craft. Does it have decent range?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Such as?”

  “Eight hundred nautical miles.”

  Falkoner seemed to consider this. Then he took Betterton by the arm. “Come on. We’ll show you one of the staterooms.”

  They left the bridge and descended two levels to the living quarters on the lower deck. But Falkoner did not stop here, instead descending another staircase to the mechanical region of the vessel. He led the way down a hallway to an unmarked door. “I’m curious,” he said as he opened the door. “What kind of engine does your yacht have? And what’s your hailing port?”

  They stepped into, not a stateroom, but a spartan-looking storage area. “Oh, I’m not really all that nautical,” Betterton said, with a chuckle and a wave of his hand. “I leave all that to my captain and staff.”

  “Funny,” Falkoner replied as he raised the cover of a sail locker. “I myself prefer to leave nothing to others.” He pulled a large sailcloth tarp from the locker and unrolled it over the floor.

  “This is a stateroom?” Betterton asked.

  “No,” Falkoner replied, closing the door. He glanced at Esterhazy, and there was something chilling in his look.

  Betterton glanced at his watch. “Well, thanks for the tour. I think I’d better be getting back—”

  He paused when he saw the double-edged combat knife in Falkoner’s hand.

  “Who are you?” Falkoner said in a low voice. “And what do you want?”

  Betterton swallowed. He looked from Falkoner to the knife and back again. “I told you. My yacht is moored just down from—”

  As quickly as a striking snake, Falkoner grabbed one of Betterton’s hands and jabbed the point of his knife into the webbing between the index and middle fingers.

  Betterton cried out in pain, tried to jerk his hand free. But Falkoner just took a tighter hold, pulling the man forward so that he stood on the sailcloth.

  “We’re wasting time,” he said. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Judson, cover me.”

  Esterhazy removed his pistol and stepped back. He felt sick. This seemed unnecessary. And Falkoner’s obvious eagerness made it worse.

  “You’re making a serious mistake,” Betterton began, his voice suddenly low, threatening. But before he could continue Falkoner took a fresh grip on the knife and then pushed it even deeper, this time into the flesh between the middle and ring fingers.

  “I’ll kill you,” Betterton gasped.

  As Esterhazy looked on with growing horror, Falkoner held the stranger’s wrist in a grip of iron while he dug with the knife, twisting and probing.

  Betterton staggered over the tarp, grunting but not saying anything.

  “Tell me why you’re here.” And Falkoner twisted the knife deeper.

  “I’m a thief,” Betterton gasped.

  “Interesting story,” said Falkoner. “But I don’t believe it.”

  “I—” Betterton began, but with a sudden explosion of violence Falkoner kneed him in the groin, then head-butted the man as he doubled over. Betterton toppled back onto the tarp, groaning, blood streaming from a broken nose.

  Falkoner pulled one corner of the tarp over Betterton, like a sheet, then knelt on it, pinning Betterton’s chest. He took the knife and let it trace a line up the soft underside of the man’s chin. Betterton, unable to rise and half stunned, rocked his head from side to side, moaning incoherently.

  Falkoner sighed, whether with regret or impatience Esterhazy couldn’t guess, and then stuck the knife into the soft flesh just above the neck, below the chin, sinking it an inch into the man’s palate.

  Now Betterton finally screamed and struggled wildly. After a moment, Falkoner removed the blade.

  Betterton coughed, spat blood. “Reporter,” he said after a moment. The voice was a wet gargle, hard to understand.

  “A reporter? Investigating what?”

  “Death… June and Carlton Brodie.”

  “How did you find me?” Falkoner asked.

  “Locals… Car rental… Airline.”

  “That sounds more credible,” Falkoner said. “Have you told anyone about me?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “You have to let me go… Man waiting for me… in the boat—”

  With a brutal slashing motion, Falkoner drew the knife hard across the
reporter’s throat, simultaneously leaping backward to avoid the jet of blood.

  “Oh, my God!” Esterhazy cried, stepping back in shock and dismay.

  Betterton raised his hands toward the wound, but it was an involuntary movement. As dark crimson flooded between the man’s fingers, Falkoner drew the tarp around limbs that were already jerking spastically.

  Esterhazy stared, transfixed with shock. Falkoner stood, wiped the knife on the tarp, straightened his clothes, wiped off his hands, looking down at the dying reporter with something very much like satisfaction. He turned to Esterhazy. “Little strong for you, Judson?”

  Esterhazy did not respond.

  They climbed back up two flights, Esterhazy feeling unnerved by the brutality and Falkoner’s evident enjoyment. He followed Falkoner through the saloon and out onto the rear deck. In the shadow of the yacht, the motor launch was still waiting.

  Falkoner leaned over the railing, speaking to the blond man in the launch, the one who had brought Betterton out to the yacht. “Vic, the body’s downstairs in the forward cargo hold. Come back after dark and dispose of it. Discreetly.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the man in the launch.

  “You’ll need an adequate story as for why your passenger isn’t returning to the dock. He’s a capital fellow, we’ve invited him on a short cruise.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I might suggest leaving the body in Riverside Park. Up in the low hundreds — that’s still a sketchy area. Make it look like a mugging. I’d drop it out to sea but that would eventually be harder to explain.”

  “Yes, Mr. Falkoner.” The man fired up the motor and turned back toward the Boat Basin.

  Falkoner watched for a minute as the dinghy moved away. Then he glanced at Esterhazy. His face was tense. “A bloody clueless reporter and he found me. Found the Vergeltung.” His eyes narrowed. “I can only think of one way: he followed you.”

  “Not possible. I’ve been exceedingly careful. Besides, I’ve been nowhere near Malfourche.”

  A long, slitted look followed this, and then Falkoner seemed to relax. He breathed out. “I suppose we can call that a successful dry run, ja?”

  Esterhazy didn’t answer.

  “We’re ready for this man Pendergast. As long as you baited the hook properly and are sure he will come.”

  “Nothing about Pendergast is sure,” Esterhazy said at last.

  CHAPTER 62

  FELDER STOOD IN A FAR CORNER OF CONSTANCE GREENE’S room at Mount Mercy Hospital. Dr. Ostrom was there, along with Agent Pendergast and an NYPD lieutenant named D’Agosta. The previous afternoon, the police had taken away all of Constance’s books, her private writings, various personal possessions, and even the paintings on the walls. That morning they had learned conclusively that Poole was a fake, a fraud, and Felder had had to endure a dressing-down by the real Poole, who savaged him for not checking the man’s credentials.

  Pendergast did not bother to hide his steely contempt for the way in which they had allowed Constance to leave Mount Mercy. Some of his displeasure had been directed against Ostrom, but Felder had endured the brunt of the man’s icy wrath.

  “Well, Doctors,” Pendergast was saying, “allow me to congratulate you on the first escape from Mount Mercy in a hundred and twenty years. Where shall we mount the plaque?”

  Silence.

  Pendergast plucked a photograph from his suit pocket and showed it first to Ostrom, then to Felder. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Felder looked at it closely. It was a slightly blurry shot of a handsome, middle-aged man.

  “He looks rather like Poole,” said Felder, “but I’m pretty sure it’s not the same man. Brother, perhaps?”

  “And you, Dr. Ostrom?”

  “Hard to say.”

  Pendergast slipped a thin, felt-tipped pen from his pocket, bent over the photograph, and briefly worked on it. He followed with a touch of a white pen. At last he turned back to the two doctors and showed them the photograph without comment.

  Felder stared at the photograph again — this time with a shock of recognition. Pendergast had added a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke beard.

  “My God, that’s him. Poole.”

  Ostrom nodded his miserable agreement.

  “The man’s real name is Esterhazy,” said Pendergast, tossing the photograph on the empty table with disgust. He sat down beside the table, tenting his fingers, his gaze turned inward. “I was a damned fool, Vincent. I thought I’d run him deep into the bush. I didn’t anticipate he’d double back on the trail and come up behind me, like a Cape buffalo.”

  The lieutenant did not reply. An uncomfortable silence began to grow in the room.

  “In the note,” Felder said, “she claims her child is still alive. How is that possible? The whole reason she’s in here is because she admitted killing it.”

  Pendergast shot him a withering glance. “Before we bring an infant back from the dead, Doctor, shall we first recover the mother?”

  A pause. Then Pendergast turned to Ostrom. “Did this so-called Poole discuss, in specific psychological terms, Constance’s condition?”

  “He did.”

  “And was his analysis consistent? Believable?”

  “It seemed surprising, given what I knew of Ms. Greene. However, its internal logic was sound and so I assumed it was correct. He claimed she’d been his patient. There seemed no reason to doubt him.”

  Pendergast’s spidery fingers drummed on the wooden arm of the chair. “And you say that, at his first visit with Constance, Dr. Poole asked for a moment alone with her?”

  “Yes.”

  Pendergast glanced at D’Agosta. “I think the situation is clear enough. Crystal clear, in fact.”

  It wasn’t at all clear to Felder, but he said nothing.

  Pendergast turned back to Ostrom. “And it was this same Poole, naturally, who first suggested Constance be given an outing — off the grounds?”

  “That’s correct,” said Ostrom.

  “Who took care of the paperwork?”

  “Dr. Felder.”

  Pendergast shot Felder a hooded glance. He cringed.

  The FBI agent took a long, searching look around the room. Then he turned once again to Lieutenant D’Agosta. “Vincent, this room — and this place — hold no further interest. We must focus on the note. Can you bring it out again, please?”

  D’Agosta reached into his suit pocket and took out the photocopy Ostrom had made. Pendergast seized it and read it over, once, twice.

  “The woman who delivered this,” he said. “There was no luck tracking her taxi?”

  “Nope.” D’Agosta nodded at the note. “Not much to go on there.”

  “Not much,” Pendergast said. “But perhaps, just enough.”

  “I don’t understand,” the lieutenant said.

  “There are two voices speaking in this note. One of them knows Constance’s ultimate destination — the other does not.”

  “You’re saying that first voice is Poole’s. I mean Esterhazy’s.”

  “Exactly. And you will note that, perhaps inadvertently, he allowed a certain phrase to escape, which Constance quotes. ‘Vengeance is where it will end.’ ”

  “And?”

  “Esterhazy was always overly pleased with his own wit. ‘Vengeance is where it will end.’ Isn’t that rather an odd construction, Vincent?”

  “I’m not so sure, really. That’s the whole point of it: vengeance.”

  Pendergast waved his hand impatiently. “What if he’s speaking not of an act, but an object?”

  This was followed by a long silence.

  “Esterhazy is taking Constance to some place named Vengeance. Maybe it’s an old family mansion. An estate. A business of some kind. That’s precisely the kind of pun Esterhazy would employ — especially in a moment of triumph, as no doubt he viewed this to be.”

  D’Agosta shook his head. “That’s pretty thin. Who would name something Vengeance?”

  Pender
gast turned his silvery eyes on the skeptical policeman. “Do we have anything else to go on?”

  D’Agosta paused. “No, I guess we don’t.”

  “And would a hundred NYPD officers, beating bushes and knocking down doors, have any greater chance of success than I, following up this possible lead?”

  “It’s a needle in a haystack. How can you possibly track such a thing down?”

  “I know somebody who is exceptionally skilled in just this sort of thing. Let us go — time is short.”

  He turned toward Felder and Ostrom. “We are ready to leave, gentlemen.”

  As they departed, Pendergast walking so fast that Felder and Ostrom almost had to jog to keep up, the agent removed his cell phone and dialed.

  “Mime?” he spoke into the phone. “It’s Pendergast. I have another job for you — another very difficult one, I’m afraid…” He spoke rapidly and softly all the way to the entrance hall, before shutting the phone with a slap. He turned toward Felder and Ostrom, and in a voice laced with irony said, “Thank you very much, Doctors, but we shall find our own way out.”

  CHAPTER 63

  SLOWLY, CONSTANCE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS. It was very dark. She was aware of both nausea and a splitting headache. She stood still a moment, slumped forward, confused, as her head cleared. And then, quite suddenly, she recalled what had happened.

  She tried to move, but found that her hands were handcuffed to a chain around her waist and her legs were bound to something behind her — this time, very firmly. Her mouth was covered by duct tape. The pitch-black air was damp and smelled of diesel fuel, oil, and mold. She could feel the gentle rocking and the sound of water slapping against a hull — she was on a boat.

  She listened intently. There were people on board — she could hear muffled voices above. She stood quite still, trying to collect her thoughts, her heartbeat slow and steady. Her limbs were stiff and sore: she must have been unconscious for hours, perhaps many hours.

  Time passed. And then she heard footsteps coming closer. A sudden crack of light appeared, and a moment later a bulb went on. She stared. Standing in the doorway was the man who called himself both Esterhazy and Dr. Poole. He stared back at her, his handsome face scored both by nervousness and the scratches she herself had inflicted. Behind him, in a tight hallway, she could see a second, shadowy figure.