Two Graves

by Douglas Preston

  Now Helen’s hands were trembling.

  “Judson, your own brother, was tasked with the job. But he couldn’t do it—and the very assignment was, no doubt, what made him secretly break with the Covenant. Instead he devised a way, an elaborate way, to keep you alive. He knew that your damaged twin sister had a terminal illness—I’ve just today been able to glean that much of her medical history from the public record. So he arranged for that hunting accident with the Red Lion—planning to substitute your twin sister’s body for yourself. He told his minders about the blank cartridges in your gun; told them you’d be taking lead on the hunt. Der Bund was satisfied by that. He’d found a lion that would drag you away without harming you, but would also maul your sister’s body on command. And Judson kept the plan from you until the night before—didn’t he? That’s why you seemed out of sorts that final evening in Africa—he was there near the camp, along with the lion’s handlers and Emma’s recently deceased corpse. He called you out and explained the whole scheme. Only it didn’t go quite as expected; the lion didn’t exactly stick to the plan, and you lost a hand as it dragged you away. Good thing your sister’s body was, right afterward, sufficiently devoured as to allow Judson to leave your own hand—and the ring—behind as even more evidence proving your death. My word—the presence of mind he must have had.”

  Pendergast shook his head bitterly. “What a fiendishly complex arrangement—but it had to be complex, to keep from arousing my suspicions. If what happened had not seemed absolutely, utterly an act of nature, I would not have rested until learning the truth—just as I am not resting now.”

  A moment of terrible silence.

  “But again—why didn’t you simply come to me, that night in the hunting camp? Why didn’t you let me help you? Why, why did you shut me out?”

  He paused. “And there’s something else—something I have to know. Do you love me, Helen? Did you ever love me? I always felt in my heart that you did. But now, learning all this—now I can’t be certain. I’d like to believe you first met me simply for access to the Audubon records, but that you then, unexpectedly, fell in love with me. I’d like to believe that your pregnancy was a mistake. But am I wrong in so thinking? Was our marriage just a contrivance? Was I an unwitting pawn in some grand design I don’t yet understand the full extent of? Helen, please tell me. It is… it is a kind of agony for me, not knowing.”

  Helen remained stock-still. A single tear welled up in one eye, then trickled down her cheek. It was an answer of a kind.

  Pendergast looked at her, waiting, for a long time. Then, with a barely perceptible sigh, he closed his eyes. When he next opened them, the room was once again occupied only by himself.

  And then faintly, from somewhere in the front of the apartment, he heard a deeply muffled scream.

  28

  JUMPING TO HIS FEET, PENDERGAST EXITED THE READING room and sprinted down the hall toward the reception area, following the sound of the scream. As he approached, he could hear a growing commotion, several loud voices mingling with Miss Ishimura’s unintelligible, high-pitched expostulations—and the sound of someone groaning and babbling.

  He swept through the flush door into the reception room and was greeted by an extraordinary sight. A doorman and the head of Dakota security—a man named Franklin—were holding up between them a skinny young man, hardly more than a boy, dressed in jeans and a torn work shirt. His hair was matted, his entire body was covered with soot, and he smelled. One ear was wrapped in a bloody bandage, and there were grimy bandages on a hand and a foot. The boy was clearly half out of his mind, hardly able to stand, his eyes rolling in his head, murmuring incoherently.

  Pendergast turned to the head security officer. “What the devil?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pendergast, but the boy, he’s been hurt, he’s in trouble.”

  “I can see that. But why have you brought him here?”

  The security officer looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

  “Mr. Franklin, why have you brought this boy here, to my apartment, of all places? He needs to go to a hospital.”

  “I know that, sir, but since he’s your son—”

  “My son?” Pendergast stared at the bedraggled boy in total amazement.

  The head of security stopped, then restarted, all in a panic. “I just assumed, given what he said…” He again hesitated: “I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, bringing him up here.”

  Pendergast continued to stare. All mental functions had ceased and he was overwhelmed by a feeling of unreality, as if the world had suddenly become flat, cartoonish. As he took in the boy’s features—the hair, light blond beneath its mantle of soot; the silvery blue eyes; the narrow, patrician face—his sense of paralyzing astonishment only deepened. He could not move, speak, or think. And yet everyone in the room was waiting for him to say something, to act, to confirm or reject.

  A groan from the boy filled the empty silence.

  This seemed to jolt Franklin. “Forgive me, Mr. Pendergast, but we’ll take care of it if you’d prefer, call the police or an ambulance. If he is your son, I thought you might wish to handle it yourself… not involve the authorities….” His voice trailed off in confusion.

  Pendergast’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “Mr. Pendergast?” The head of security stood there with the doorman, each still holding the boy by one arm.

  Another long silence seemed to solidify in the room as everyone waited, the whispering sound of the waterfall sliding down the marble becoming unnaturally loud.

  Finally, it was the diminutive Miss Ishimura who reacted. She stepped up to Franklin and gestured vigorously at him. Her gestures were very clear: the security personnel were to lay the boy down on the leather sofa in the middle of the room. They did so, easing him into a supine position, while Miss Ishimura fetched a pillow and put it under his head. The movement seem to rouse the boy from his stupor. As he lay there, his eyes focused, roamed the room—and then fixed on Pendergast.

  He raised his head, the pale eyes glittering, staring. “Father…” he gasped in strongly accented English. “Hide me…” Even this small exertion seemed to exhaust the boy and his head fell back, the eyes unfocusing, the lips moving in an unintelligible murmur.

  Pendergast blinked. His vision cleared somewhat and his eyes, now very dark, traveled once again over the boy, his observant mind coming alive to many small details: the location of the bandages; the youth’s height, frame, carriage, and facial features. As the mental lock slowly released itself, the full dimension of what he was seeing seeped into his consciousness: the resemblance to Diogenes; the even stronger one to himself and Helen. And, unbidden, the security videotapes that he had watched endlessly began to loop through his mind.

  A sentence formed in his head. This is my son—the Hotel Killer.

  “Mr. Pendergast,” said Franklin, “what should we do? Should we call the police? This boy needs medical attention.”

  My son—the Hotel Killer.

  Reality returned in a blinding flash. Pendergast was suddenly all action, springing to the side of the boy, kneeling. He grasped the boy’s hand—it was burning hot—and felt for a pulse. Rapid and thready. He had a high fever and was delirious. The self-amputations were probably becoming infected.

  Pendergast rose, turned. “Thank you, Mr. Franklin,” he said quickly. “There is no need to call the police. You have done well. I’ll get him a doctor right away.”

  “Yes, sir.” Franklin and the doorman exited the apartment.

  Pendergast turned to his housekeeper, who watched his lips attentively. “Miss Ishimura, please get me bandages, a basin of hot water, antibiotic cream, washcloths, and scissors, and bring them into the Red Room.”

  Miss Ishimura went off. Pendergast slipped his arms under the boy and lifted him up—he was shockingly thin—carried him into the inner apartment, and laid him on a bed in a cool, disused bedroom that faced the inner courtyard of the Dakota. The boy began babbling, shivering v
iolently. Pendergast pulled off and, where necessary, cut away his filthy clothes, then inspected his wounds, starting with the ear. The earlobe was gone, in a way that all too clearly matched the piece left with the first corpse. It was an ugly-looking wound, with an incipient infection. The missing finger was in still-worse shape, the bone end exposed, and the amputated toe had opened up and was bleeding badly. The boy appeared to have walked a long way on the injured foot.

  Miss Ishimura arrived with the basin and washcloth, and Pendergast wiped the boy’s face. The gesture brought the boy once more back into reality. “Father…” the boy said, “help…”

  “I’m here,” said Pendergast. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.” His voice came out as a croak. He rinsed the washcloth and patted the face dry. Now Miss Ishimura returned with a tray of bandages, antibiotics, and other medical supplies.

  “Not my fault… bitte, mein Gott, bitte, do not give me up…”

  Pendergast gently washed the injured finger, cleaning the wound and applying antibiotic ointment and a fresh bandage. He next worked on the toe, which was in the worst shape, continuing to ooze blood despite all he did, but he washed and bandaged it all the same, wrapping it in a gauze cloth. As he worked, the boy moaned and turned restlessly, murmuring over and over, “Not my fault…”

  When Pendergast was finished, he stood up. For a moment the room spun around, and Miss Ishimura grasped his arm and steadied him. She led him, almost like a child, out of the room into the hallway, signaling to him that she would take over, that he was not to concern himself with the boy any longer, that he was to go into his study and rest.

  Nodding wordlessly, he walked down the hall to his study. He shut the door and leaned against it momentarily to steady himself, to try to bring order to his thoughts. He made his way to his habitual chair, eased himself down, closed his eyes, and fought—with a supreme effort of will—to bring his stampeding emotions under control.

  Gradually, he was able to return his heart rate and respiration to their normal rates.

  This was a problem, like any other. It must be thought of in that way: a problem.

  My son—the Hotel Killer.

  He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. “Dr. Rossiter? Aloysius Pendergast here. I require a house call from you in my apartments at the Dakota. A sick boy, with several open wounds from amputated digits. There is a need for surgery, and, as always, I’ll ask that you perform your services with complete discretion…”

  29

  CAPTAIN LAURA HAYWARD STRODE BRISKLY DOWN THE central corridor of PS Thirty-Two, heading for the school’s auditorium. There had been a rash of hate crimes against homeless people that fall—beatings, robberies, even a case in which a destitute man had been set afire by rowdy teenagers in Riverside Park—and Hayward had been tasked by the commissioner with raising schoolchildren’s awareness of the plight of the homeless and the reality of life on the streets. Homeless people are people, too, was her message. Over the past few weeks she had spoken at half a dozen schools, and the reception had been gratifying. She felt she was making a real difference. It was something she enjoyed doing—and she knew a great deal about it. The subject of her master’s thesis had been the social structure of an underground homeless community in New York City, and she had spent months observing them, experiencing their lives, listening to their problems, trying to understand their histories, motivations, and challenges. In recent years she’d been too busy with standard police work to put her M.A. in sociology to much use, but now it seemed perfect preparation for what she was doing.

  Rounding the corner, she was surprised to run into D’Agosta, walking her way.

  “Vinnie!” she said, refraining from kissing him as they were both on duty. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, actually,” he said. “I was in the neighborhood. There’s something we need to talk about.”

  “Why couldn’t we have talked at breakfast?” she asked. He looked troubled—and a little guilty. There was something on his mind; she’d been aware of it for the last few days. But with things like that, you could never hurry him—you just had to wait until he was ready to open up. And then you had to seize the opportunity before he changed his mind.

  She glanced at her watch. “I’m due to give that presentation in ten minutes. Come on, we can talk in the auditorium.”

  D’Agosta followed her down the hall and through a set of double doors. Beyond was a 1950s-era space, with a balcony and a wide stage, and it reminded Laura of her own high-school auditorium, with its pep rallies and fallout drills and all-school movie events. Already it was half full with students. They took seats in the rear.

  “Okay,” she said, turning to him. “What’s up?”

  For a moment he didn’t speak. “It’s Pendergast,” he finally said.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I’m worried sick about him. He’s gone through about as rough a patch as a person can hit and now he’s acting strange—even for him.”

  “Tell me about it,” Hayward said.

  “After his wife died, he retreated to his apartment and I’m pretty sure was getting into self-medication, if you know what I mean—hitting the hard stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “I don’t know which drugs, exactly, but I had the terrible feeling it was a calculated form of self-destruction—a run-up to suicide. I followed your advice and gave him the Hotel Killer case portfolio to chew over. It—seems to have unhinged him. He went from being totally apathetic to complete obsession with the case. He showed up at the third murder scene, got himself credentialed up, and now he’s become the bane of Agent Gibbs’s existence. I’m telling you, he and Gibbs are headed for a wreck. I’ve got to believe it’s because Pendergast is feeling so devastated that he’s antagonizing Gibbs. I mean, I’ve seen him needle people, get into their faces—but there was always a reason for it before.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Maybe my idea wasn’t so hot after all.”

  “I haven’t gotten to the worst part.”

  “Which is?”

  “His theory of the crime. It’s bizarre, to say the least.”

  Hayward sighed. “Let me hear it.”

  Another hesitation. “He believes the Hotel Killer is his brother, Diogenes.”

  Hayward frowned. “I thought Diogenes was dead.”

  “That’s what everyone thought. The thing is, Pendergast won’t tell me why he thinks his brother is the murderer. It seems so preposterous. I really worry that his wife’s death has scattered his marbles.”

  “What’s his evidence?”

  “None that I know. At least none that he’s shared with me. But I honestly don’t see it in any case. The M.O. is totally different; there’s nothing that links this case to his brother. And a quick-and-dirty search of the databases indicates his brother really did vanish and is presumed dead. This is crazy.”

  “So what does Singleton think of this theory?”

  “That’s the other thing.” Even though they were alone in the back of the auditorium, D’Agosta lowered his voice. “Pendergast doesn’t want me to tell anyone about this theory. I can’t mention it to Gibbs, to Singleton—to anybody.”

  Hayward looked at him, opened her mouth to say, Why haven’t you told me this before? But then she reconsidered. D’Agosta looked so troubled. And the fact was, he had told her—and was now obviously searching for her advice. And, ironically, it had been her idea to bring the case to Pendergast to begin with.

  “The thing of it is, I know that if there is information this might be Diogenes—even if it seems like crazy information—he and I both have an obligation to pass it on. There’s always a chance it might help the case. But… I promised him.” He shook his head. “Christ, I’m really in the weeds about this.”

  Gently, she took his hand. “Vinnie, it’s your duty to turn over all evidence, all information, even the crazy stuff. You’re the squad commander.”

  D’Agosta didn’t reply.
<
br />   “I know Pendergast is your friend. I know he’s been through a terrible ordeal. But this isn’t about friendship. It’s not even about what’s best for your career. This is about catching a dangerous killer who’s likely to kill again. Vinnie, you have to do the right thing on this. If Pendergast really has hard information, you’ve got to get it out of him. And when you do, you have to turn it over. It’s as simple as that.”

  D’Agosta looked down.

  “And as far as he and Gibbs are concerned, that’s FBI business. You let them sort it out. Okay?” She gave his hand a harder squeeze. “I’ve got to give that talk now. We can speak more tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  She stopped herself from kissing him, then stood up. As she gave him one final look before heading to the podium, she was dismayed to find he appeared just as conflicted as before.

  30

  IT WAS NOON. THE DOCTOR HAD COME AND GONE, THE room was silent and dark, the curtains drawn, the boy—bathed and cleaned of soot—was asleep. A shadowy figure sat in a corner of the small, spare room, unmoving, his pale face like a ghostly apparition floating in the dimness.

  The boy stirred, turned, sighed. He had been asleep for eighteen hours. One hand lay on the covers, shackled, with a chain attached to the metal bed frame.

  Another sigh, and then a gleam appeared in the darkness—the gleam of an open eye. The boy turned again, restlessly, and finally raised his head. He looked around and his attention fixed on the figure in the corner.

  For a long time they looked at each other in the darkness, and then the boy spoke in a whisper. “Water?”

  The figure rose silently, left the room, and returned with a glass of water and a straw. The boy reached for it, the movement of his arm stopped by the chain. He looked at it, surprised, but said nothing. Pendergast held the glass for the boy, who drank.