Cold Vengeance p-11

by Douglas Preston

  He moved toward her. “We’re going to move you. For your own sake, please don’t try anything.”

  She merely stared. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

  Taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the layers of duct tape that affixed her legs to a vertical structural post in what was now clearly a hold. In another moment she was free.

  “Come on.” He reached over and hooked his hand in one of her cuffed arms. She stumbled forward, feet numb, legs cramped, little sparks of pain shooting through them with each movement. He helped her get in front of him and eased her toward the tiny door. She stooped to go through it, Esterhazy following.

  The shadowy figure stood outside — a woman. Constance recognized her: the red-haired woman from the adjoining garden. The woman returned her stare, coolly, a faint smile on her lips.

  So Pendergast had not gotten the note. It had been futile. Indeed, it had apparently been some sort of ruse.

  “Take the other arm,” Esterhazy told the woman. “She’s extremely unpredictable.”

  The woman took her other arm, and together they escorted her down a passageway toward another, even smaller hatch. Constance did not resist, allowing herself to be pulled along, her head hanging down. As Esterhazy leaned forward to undog the hatch, Constance braced herself; then she turned quickly, ramming the woman violently in the stomach with her head. With a loud oof the woman fell back, crashing into a bulkhead. Esterhazy swung around and she tried to butt him as well, but he seized her in a powerful embrace and pinned her arms. The woman scrambled to her feet, leaned over Constance, pulled her head back by the hair, and slapped her hard across the face, once, twice.

  “No need for that,” Esterhazy said sharply. He hauled Constance around. “You do what we say or these people will really hurt you. Understand?”

  She stared back, unable to speak, still fighting to catch her breath.

  He pushed her into the dark space beyond the hatch, then followed behind with the red-haired woman. They were in another hold, and in the floor was another hatch. Esterhazy loosened the hatch and opened it, revealing a dark, stagnant space. In the dim light, she could see that it was the lowest part of the bilge, where the hull came together in a V — no doubt in the bow area of the vessel.

  Esterhazy merely pointed toward the dark, yawning mouth of the hatch.

  Constance balked.

  She felt a smack across the side of her head as the woman struck her hard with the flat of her palm. “Get down there,” the woman said.

  “Let me handle this,” said Esterhazy angrily.

  Constance sat down, placed her feet in the hole, and lowered herself slowly in. It was a bigger space than it looked. She glanced up to see the woman preparing to strike her again, this time with her fist. Esterhazy placed a less-than-gentle restraining hand on the woman’s arm. “That isn’t necessary,” he said. “I’m not going to say it again.”

  A single tear welled up into Constance’s eye and she shook it away. She had not wept in more years than she could remember, and she would not let these people see her weep now. It must have been the shock of seeing the woman — she realized just how much she’d been clinging to the slender thread of hope her note had offered.

  She sat down and leaned against the bulkhead. The hatch shut behind her, followed by a squeak of metal as it was dogged down.

  It was pitch black in the space — even darker than the hold had been. The sound of waves lapping the hull filled the bilge, making her feel like she was underwater.

  She felt ill, as if she might be sick. But if she was, the duct tape over her mouth would cause her to aspirate, to drown. She could not allow that to happen.

  She shifted, trying to get comfortable and focus her thoughts on something else. She was, after all, used to dark, small spaces. This was nothing new, she told herself. Nothing new at all.

  CHAPTER 64

  AT TWO THIRTY IN THE AFTERNOON — THAT IS, just after rising — Corrie Swanson left her dorm room, hit the street, and headed for her cubby in the Sealy Library on Tenth Avenue. Along the way, she stopped at the local Greek coffee shop. It felt like winter all of a sudden, a cold wind blowing trash down the sidewalk. But the coffee shop was a warm oasis of dish clatter and shouted activity. She put down her money and slid out a copy of the Times from the middle of the pile on the counter, then bought a cup of coffee, black. She was turning to leave when her eye caught the headline in the Post:

  Grisly Beheading in Riverside Park

  With a sense of embarrassment she also took a Post. She had always looked on the Post as a paper for cretins, but it often covered the really gruesome crimes the Times primly shied away from, and it was her secret vice.

  When she got to her cubby at the library, she sat down, looked around to make sure nobody was watching, and with a vague feeling of shame opened the Post first.

  Almost immediately she straightened up, horrified. The victim was one Edward Betterton, on vacation in the city from Mississippi, whose body had been found in an isolated section of Riverside Park, behind a statue of Joan of Arc. His throat had been slashed so savagely, the head had almost been separated from the body. There was other, unspecified mutilation that might be signs of a gangland slaying, the Post said, although there were also indications it could have been a vicious mugging, with the pockets of the victim turned inside out and his watch, money, and valuables missing.

  Corrie read the article a second time, more slowly. Betterton. This was awful. He didn’t seem like a bad guy — just off base. In retrospect she’d felt sorry about the way she had reamed him out.

  But this brutal killing couldn’t be a coincidence. He’d been on to something — a drug operation, he’d said — even if he’d gotten the Pendergast angle all screwed up. What was the address of the house he’d told her about? She concentrated, feeling a sudden panic she wouldn’t remember — and then it came: 428 East End Avenue.

  She put down the tabloid thoughtfully. Pendergast. How was he involved, exactly? Did he know about Betterton? Was he really working on his own, with no backup? Had he actually blown up a bar?

  She had made a promise not to interfere. But checking something out — just checking it out — even Pendergast couldn’t call that “interference.”

  CHAPTER 65

  SPECIAL AGENT PENDERGAST WAITED IN A RENTED CAR on the circular drive above the Seventy-Ninth Street marina on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, examining through binoculars the yacht moored a few hundred feet offshore. It was the largest in the marina, close to one hundred and thirty feet, sleek and well appointed. As the afternoon wind shifted, the yacht swung on its mooring, revealing the name and hailing port painted on the stern.

  Vergeltung

  Orchid Island, Florida

  A cold wind blew from the water, buffeting the car and raising whitecaps on the broad Hudson.

  A cell phone, sitting on the passenger seat, began to ring. Pendergast lowered the binoculars to answer it. “Yes?”

  “Is this my main Secret Agent Man?” came the whispery voice on the other end of the line.

  “Mime,” Pendergast replied. “How are you faring?”

  “Did you find the yacht okay?”

  “I’m staring at it now.”

  A pleased, raspy giggle sounded over the phone. “Ideal. Ideal. And do you think we, um, have a ringer?”

  “Indeed I do, Mime — thanks to you.”

  “Vergeltung. German for ‘vengeance.’ It was rather a challenge. But then again, that ghostnet of zombified PCs I’ve appropriated all over Cleveland has been rather idle of late. It was high time I put them to work on something useful.”

  “I’d prefer not to know the details. But you have my thanks.”

  “Glad I was able to be of more help this time around. Hang loose, homeboy.” There was a click as the line went dead.

  Pendergast put the phone in his pocket and eased the car forward, heading down toward the entrance of the marina and up to the gate that led to the main pier. A
man in a crisp uniform — an ex-cop, without doubt — leaned out of the adjoining guardhouse. “Help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Lowe, the general manager.”

  “And you are?”

  Pendergast removed his shield and let it dangle for a moment. “Special Agent Pendergast.”

  “You got an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “And this is in reference to…?”

  Pendergast simply stared at him. Then he suddenly smiled. “Is there going to be a problem? Because if there is, I’d like to know it now.”

  The man blinked. “Just a moment.” He retreated and spoke into a phone. Then he opened the gate. “You can pull through and park. Mr. Lowe will be out in a moment.”

  It took more than a moment. Finally, a tall, fit, nautical-looking man wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap emerged from the main marina building and came striding over, his breath condensing behind him in puffs. Pendergast stepped out of the car and stood waiting for him.

  “Well, well. FBI?” said the man, extending his hand with a friendly smile, his blue eyes flashing. “What can I do for you?”

  Pendergast nodded toward the moored yacht. “I’d like to know about that yacht.”

  The man paused. “What’s the basis for your interest?” He continued to smile genially.

  “Official,” said Pendergast, smiling in return.

  “Official. Well now, that’s funny,” said the man. “Because I just called the New York field office of the FBI and asked them if a certain Special Agent Pendergrast was working on a case that involved the marina—”

  “Pendergast.”

  “Excuse me. Pendergast. They said you’d taken a temporary leave of absence and assured me you were not on any active case right now. So one must assume you’re moonlighting, flashing your badge under false pretenses. Which has got to be against FBI regulations. Am I right?”

  Pendergast’s smile did not waver. “You’re right on all counts.”

  “So I’m just going to go back to my office, and you’re going to go away, and if I hear any more about this I’m going to call the FBI back and report that one of their special agents is roaming around town, using his badge to intimidate law-abiding citizens.”

  “Intimidate? When I begin to intimidate you, you’ll know it.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “That’s a prediction.” Pendergast nodded toward the water. “I presume you can see that yacht out there? I have reason to believe a serious crime is about to be committed on it. If that crime occurs, then I will be on the case — in the most official of all possible capacities — and you, quite naturally, will be investigated as an accessory.”

  “A hollow threat. I’m no accessory and you know it. If a crime is about to be committed, I suggest you call the police, Mr. Prendergast.”

  “Pendergast.” His voice remained reasonable. “All I want from you, Mr. Lowe, is some information about that yacht, the crew, their comings and goings. To be kept specifically between ourselves. Because I can see you’re a friendly man who likes to assist law enforcement.”

  “If this is what you call intimidation, it isn’t working. My job is to protect the privacy of the clients who patronize this marina, and that’s what I intend to do. If you want to come back with a warrant, fine. If the NYPD comes, fine. Then I’ll cooperate. But not with an FBI agent waving some tin on his off hours. Now get lost.”

  “When we do investigate this crime, my colleagues — and NYPD homicide — will want to know why you took money from the people on that yacht.”

  A flicker passed across the man’s face. “A gratuity is a normal part of this business. I’m like a cabbie — tips are standard here. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Naturally — until the ‘tip’ reaches a certain size. Then it becomes a payment. Perhaps even a bribe. And when said bribe is made for the purposes of buying pushback should law enforcement come by asking questions, well, Mr. Lowe, that does in fact make you an accessory. Especially when it becomes known that you not only threatened to kill me if I did not leave the premises, but also insulted New York’s finest with vulgar language.”

  “What the hell? I never threatened you or the cops.”

  “Your exact words were: I’ve got friends who’ll put a bullet in your brain if you don’t get the hell out of here. And that goes for the NYPD pigs, too.”

  “I said nothing of the sort, you lying bastard!”

  “That is correct. But only you and I know that. Everyone else will think I’m telling the truth.”

  “You’d never get away with that! You’re bluffing!”

  “I am a desperate man, Mr. Lowe, and I am operating beyond the rules. I will do anything — lie, coerce, and deceive — to force you to cooperate.” He removed his cell. “Now: I’m about to dial an emergency FBI number to report your threats and request backup. When I do that, your life will change — forever. Or…?” He raised one eyebrow along with the phone.

  Lowe stared at him, quivering with rage. “You son of a bitch.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Shall we retire to your office? There’s rather a nasty wind coming off the Hudson.”

  CHAPTER 66

  THE BUILDING ON EAST END AVENUE could not be dignified by the name brownstone. It was brick, not stone; it was narrow; and it rose only three stories. A more dismal and down-at-the-heels structure could not be found on the Upper East Side, Corrie decided as she lounged against a ginkgo tree on the opposite side of the street, drinking coffee and pretending once again to read a book.

  The windows had firmly drawn shades that looked like they had been yellowing for decades. The windows themselves were filthy, covered with bars, and sporting lead alarm tape. The stoop was cracked, and trash had collected in the basement entrance. Despite the shabby appearance, however, the building seemed buttoned up pretty tight, with gleaming new locks on the front door. And the bars on the windows didn’t look old, either.

  She finished her coffee, put away her book, and strolled down the street. The neighborhood, once German, had become facetiously known as the “girl ghetto,” the preferred neighborhood for recent college graduates, mostly women, newly arrived in Manhattan and looking for a safe place to live. The neighborhood was quiet, orderly, and undeniably safe. The streets thronged with attractive, preppy young women, most of whom looked like they worked on Wall Street or in one of the Park Avenue law firms.

  Corrie wrinkled her nose and continued to the end of the block. Betterton had said he’d seen someone leave the building, but it didn’t look like anyone had been there in ages.

  She turned around and strolled back down the block, feeling dissatisfied. The building was part of a long row of real brownstones, and no doubt each one had a small garden or patio in the rear. If she could get a look at the back of the building, she’d be able to check things out a little better. Of course, it might just be part of the overheated imagination of Betterton. Then again, there was something almost believable about his story of Pendergast blowing up a bar, burning down a drug lab, and sinking a bunch of boats. And although Betterton had been wrong, she had to admit he looked both smart and tough. He didn’t strike her as being someone who would be easy to kill. But kill him they had.

  As she neared the center of the block, she eyed the two brownstones adjoining number 428. They were both typical, bustling Upper East Side buildings, with several apartments per floor. Even as she watched, a young woman exited one of the buildings, dressed in a spiffy suit and carrying a briefcase. The woman passed by her with nary a sideways glance, leaving a trail of expensive perfume. Other young women of the neighborhood were coming and going, and they all seemed to be of the same type: young professionals in business suits or jogging outfits. Corrie realized that her own Goth look — the streaked spiky hair, dangling metal, multiple earrings, and tattoos — made her stick out like a sore thumb.

  What to do? She went into a bagel shop, ordered a bialy with lox spread, and sat by the window where
she had a view down the street. If she could manage to make friends with someone on a ground-floor apartment on either side of the building, she might just talk her way into seeing the backyard. But you just didn’t walk up and say hello to people in New York City. She wasn’t in Kansas anymore…

  … And then, coming out of the brownstone to the right of 428, she saw a girl with long black hair, wearing a leather miniskirt and tall leather boots.

  Dropping a few dollar bills on the table, she bolted from the bagel shop and went walking down the street, swinging her bag and looking up at the sky, on a collision course with the fellow Goth coming the other way.

  It had been so easy. Now the sun was setting and Corrie was relaxing in the tiny kitchen of the ground-floor apartment, drinking green tea and listening to her newfound friend complaining about all the yuppies in the neighborhood. Her name was Maggie and she worked as a waitress at a jazz club while trying to break into theater. She was bright, funny, and clearly starved for company.

  “I’d love to move out to Long Island City or Brooklyn,” she said, cupping her tea, “but my dad thinks any place in New York outside of the Upper East Side is populated by rapists and murderers.”

  Corrie laughed. “Maybe he’s right. That building next door looks pretty creepy.” She felt horribly guilty manipulating a girl she would actually like to have as a friend.

  “I think it’s abandoned. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone go in or out. Weird — it’s probably worth five million bucks. Prime real estate just going to waste.”

  Corrie nursed her tea and wondered, now that she was here, how she was going to get outside into the patio behind the brownstone, get over the eight-foot wall into the backyard of the creepy house next door — and then break in.