Perhaps because of the rain, the streets were eerily deserted.
In a few moments they arrived at the town hall, a half-timbered building done in faux-medieval style. The captain led the way into a spartan interior, with benches lined up as if for a town meeting, moving past them into a cluster of offices. Pendergast followed Scheermann into a large office in the rear of the building, its door open, with a broad picture window looking out over the lake. A fire burned in a brick fireplace. A vase of gorgeous red roses stood on a table. Behind a desk sat a roly-poly man in Tyrolean vestments, ruddy-cheeked and cheery-faced. And yet the man’s blue eyes were utterly without expression, like small glass marbles reflecting back only the light that shone into them and nothing more.
“This is Bürgermeister Keller,” said the captain. “Mayor of Nova Godói.”
The mayor rose and extended a small, fat hand. “Looking for the Queen Beatrice butterfly, I understand!” he said genially. He, too, spoke perfect English. “I hope you find it.”
The paperwork was time consuming, yet it was taken care of with great efficiency. Pendergast was given an official document, stamped and embossed, which he was told to keep on his person at all times. As they were concluding the arrangements, a thin man stepped into the office. He was about thirty-five, with a narrow head, a high-domed forehead that seemed to loom over his watery blue eyes, and a thick lower lip that also extended beyond the upper, giving his face a queer, caved-in look.
“And here is your escort,” said the mayor. “His name is Egon.”
“You are free to go anywhere you like, except out on the lake or to its island.” The captain paused significantly. “You did not expect to go to the island, I trust?”
“Oh, no,” said Pendergast. “The last QB was found on the mainland, along the shores of the lake. No need for water trips—I’ve had enough of that coming up the river!”
This little joke elicited a chuckle from the mayor. “Good. Egon will also show you to your evening’s quarters. Egon, please see that the Herr Doktor receives every courtesy.”
Egon nodded.
Pendergast bowed. “Thank you. Most kind, most kind indeed. But I shall not be needing evening quarters: the Queen Beatrice, you see, is best hunted at night.”
They emerged back onto the streets as the sun finally broke free of the clouds, flooding the town with a weak light. Slowly the veil over the lake was drawn back, revealing the central island—a naked cinder cone topped by a grim fortress of ancient lava rock, black in color, its towers partly in ruins, battlements and crenellations broken and crumbling. A single ray of light pierced the gloom and illuminated the structure, and Pendergast could see, briefly—as the fugitive light passed over the old fort—the flash of something metallic hidden behind the massive walls.
The appearance of the sun had an unusual effect on the town. Suddenly, as if summoned, the streets filled with men and women going about their business with a remarkable fixity of purpose. It was almost like a movie set, many of the townsfolk dressed in vintage clothing from the late 1940s, the women with rolled bangs and tailored jackets or dresses, wide shoulders and hips, the men in dark baggy suits and hats, some smoking pipes. Others were dressed in more working-class outfits, jumpsuits and overalls, flat caps and straw boaters. All were handsome, and most sported classic Nordic looks—tall, blond, and blue-eyed, with chiseled cheekbones. They went about their business by bicycle, on foot, some with wheelbarrows and carts. But, Pendergast noted, no cars. The only vehicles were World War II–era jeeps driven by men in olive drab, always with an important-looking personage seated in the back, dressed in a gray uniform. These were the only people who seemed to have guns, and they were well armed indeed, packing high-caliber sidearms and, frequently, an assault rifle with an oversize magazine.
Many inhabitants stopped and stared at him, some gaping in surprise and some eyeing him with evident hostility. For the fact was, Pendergast, aka Dr. Percival Fawcett, stood out like a sore thumb. Which was precisely his intention.
Pendergast set off at a breakneck pace toward the quay, explaining loudly that the Queen Beatrice preferred the littoral zones and that its favored time of day was dawn, not sunset, but that one never knew. Egon seemed not to hear, following him with dogged persistence, never tiring, always keeping up.
The boats along the quay were beautifully maintained, and some were much larger than would normally be necessary for lake fishing. They included two big motorized barges, on which sat heavy machinery and exotic equipment of unknown function—again, far heavier than seemed necessary for a remote farming community. How such large vessels had been transported to this isolated lake could not even be guessed at. It was getting on toward evening, and the quay was a bustle of activity as fishermen began unloading the day’s catch, which was then packed in ice and loaded into heavy handcarts. All was a picture of industry, hard work, and evident self-sufficiency—seemingly, a model society. Pendergast noted that the town did not appear to contain even a single bar or café.
“Egon, tell me: is this a dry town? Is alcohol consumption allowed?”
This question, Pendergast’s first, received no answer from Egon, no acknowledgment that it had been heard.
“Well, then. Let us keep going.”
Pendergast walked briskly along the quays. The poor weather finally lifted completely, giving way to a beautiful, even spectacular sunset, with the great orange globe of the sun dropping through vermilion layers of cloud on the far side of the lake, turning the water to fire, silhouetting the grim ruined fortress on its lonely island out in the middle of the lake.
Just beyond the far end of the quay was an unusual rock formation: three large stones, boulders actually, remarkably identical in size and shape, that rose up several feet above the surface of the water and were arranged in a roughly triangular pattern about ten yards apart. Here, Pendergast stopped and took a moment to look back at the town, sloping gently upward along the flanks of the old volcano. It was the very picture of orderliness, cleanliness, efficiency, and regulation. The buildings were beautifully maintained, freshly stuccoed in white, the shutters gaily painted in green and blue. Many of the buildings sported window boxes bursting with flowers. There was no trash, not even a gum wrapper, to be seen; no graffiti; no stray dogs—or, in fact, any dogs at all: no derelicts, drunks, or loafers; no street arguments, shouting, or excessive noise.
There were other things besides dogs and trash that seemed to be missing. While there were plenty of middle-aged and older people, there were no people infirm with age, no fat people, no one with physical defects. And, to his great interest, no twins.
It was, in short, a perfect little utopia, hidden in the depths of the Brazilian forest.
As night fell, lights came on in the island fortress, bright klieg lights that bathed the stone ramparts a brilliant white. In the quietness of twilight, as he stood on the quay, Pendergast could begin to hear sounds from across the water: the hum of generators, the clanking of machinery, the crackle of electricity, and, very faint, drifting across the dark lake, what might have been the screech of a bird—or, perhaps, a scream of agony.
60
BEYOND THE QUAY LAY A CURVE OF SHORE AND A PEBBLED beach. A quarter mile farther on, the forest began, a dark, spiky, seemingly impenetrable wall. The sky deepened as the sun dipped through the last layer of clouds and winked off in a swirl of light at the horizon.
Pendergast reached into his pack and removed a red light, turning to the imperturbable Egon and speaking in a hushed voice full of suppressed excitement. “My dear fellow, now we are coming to the time of the Queen Beatrice.”
He set off down the beach, Egon following. Some small skiffs had been pulled up on the shingle, their nets draped out to dry. Farther along, the beach gave way to lava rock, and minutes later they arrived at the forest edge. The last of the light was dying against the island fortress, accentuating the brilliant illumination. Another distant cry—bird or human?—drifted over the water.
“Egon, you see that ruin over there?” Pendergast asked, pointing toward the fort. “Why is it all lit up? What’s going on over there?”
Egon stared at him a moment, his eyes returning the reflected glow from the fortress. And he spoke for the first time. “Agricultural research. Animal husbandry.”
“Animal husbandry?” Pendergast shook his head. “Well, it’s none of my business. We’re for the forest.” He delved into his pack and pulled out a flashlight. “Here’s a red light for you. Don’t use a regular flashlight, please—the QB is aversive to light. Follow me, stay close, and make no noise.”
He handed Egon the red light and walked into the forest. The prickly branches of araucaria trees mingled with the thick understory to impede their way, everything still wet from the recent rains. But Pendergast, slender and nimble as a snake, moved with speed through the dark, dripping vegetation, shining his red light here and there, net in one hand, ready to strike.
“Keep up!” he whispered over his shoulder as Egon blundered along.
The ground began to rise. There were no trails in this part of the forest, no sign in fact that any humans ventured beyond the town. It had all the aspect of wilderness. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, it didn’t feel quite right.
“There’s one!” Pendergast suddenly cried out. “Do you see it? Oh, my God! I can’t believe it!” And in a flash he was gone, whipping through the undergrowth, red light flickering, net waving frantically. Egon gave a shout from behind and began to pursue, crashing along.
Ten minutes later—from a heavy tree branch about thirty feet above the ground—Pendergast watched Egon stumble about in the forest, calling Fawcett’s name and shining a powerful flashlight about, his voice strident and panicked.
Pendergast waited half an hour, until his escort had moved his search farther south. Then, as silently and nimbly as a monkey, Pendergast descended from the tree. Placing a special hood on the red light, he moved swiftly northward, following the sloping ascent of land. For an hour he continued his rise until he came out on a narrow rim—the lip of an adjacent crater. Here he turned off the light. The trees had thinned out along the rim, giving him a view down into the broad bottom of the vast crater, illuminated by the light of a crescent moon. It was quite shallow, miles across, encompassing several thousand acres of tightly packed fields and pastures, taking advantage of the rich volcanic soil. This was the breadbasket of Nova Godói, clearly the former location of the old tobacco plantation, the crater forming an almost perfect microclimate for agriculture. At the far end of the crater stood a tight cluster of dead cinder cones, like black cylinders. Nestled up against them were agricultural sheds, greenhouses, barns, and silos. All was quiet among them, not a light to be seen in the velvety darkness.
A faint trail followed the rim, and he walked along it until he came to a second trail switchbacking down into the crater, steep at first, but soon leveling out as it approached the fields. In another moment he had reached the edge of the first field, a great spread of corn, quite still in the pale moonlight. Pendergast entered it and continued on at a swift, silent pace toward the far end of the crater—and the cluster of agricultural buildings.
Past the corn were other fields, bursting with a great variety of produce—tomatoes, beans, squash, wheat, cotton, alfalfa, and timothy, as well as rich pastures for livestock. Swiftly he passed through them all until he came out on the far side, where the buildings were.
He selected the first: a huge, flat-roofed metal warehouse. He found that its door was padlocked. A quick pass of his hand caused the lock to seemingly fall open. He pulled the door ajar and slipped into the interior, fragrant with the scent of machine oil, diesel, and earth. A quick flash of the hooded red light revealed rows of agricultural machinery—farm tractors, cultivators, ploughs, disk harrows, row planters, manure spreaders, harvesters, balers, backhoes, and loaders—all of old vintage but excellently maintained.
He moved through the building and out a door on the far side. To his right rose a barn, in which he could hear the soft lowing of milk cows. To his left stood a row of silos, and straight ahead a grid of greenhouses. It was a remarkable operation, an extraordinarily rich and productive farm, vast in size, impeccably run and maintained. And apparently deserted.
Pendergast scouted the edges of the greenhouses, their glass panes gleaming in the moonlight. Inside could be seen a profusion of flowers—flowers upon flowers. One greenhouse was bursting with exotic roses in every size, color, and shape.
At the far end of the greenhouses stood the dead cinder cones, steep and tall, their flanks covered with sliding volcanic ash. Pendergast skirted the base of the closest, and then stopped: there, built into the bottom of the cone, stood a narrow shed-like building, with no windows, its rear buried in the cinders.
He crept up to the door of the building and pressed his ear to it. At first he could hear nothing, but, over time, he picked up the faintest of sounds: movement, sighing, shuffling, perhaps even a cough.
This door was incongruously strong, of heavy wood banded and riveted with steel. The lock was sophisticated, but nothing that withstood Pendergast’s efforts for more than sixty seconds. The door swung in on oiled hinges, the air exhaling a mephitic, offensive smell. All was dark.
Pendergast advanced, keeping the red light well shielded. The shed now revealed itself as merely an entrance, leading down into something built underneath or perhaps into the cinder cones. Before him was a shallow, broad staircase of well-worn stone. Pendergast paused at the top step, turning the red light off before beginning his descent. He could see a faint light from below—of a reddish hue—and as he proceeded the stench became stronger, the air redolent of unwashed bodies. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he found himself in a long tunnel. In the darkness he could hear the sounds more clearly now. They were the sounds of shuffling, snoring, mumbling—the sounds of people. Many people.
With infinite care Pendergast crept forward in the darkness, keeping close to the nearest wall. The reddish glow came from two barred windows set in a pair of locked double doors at the far end of the tunnel. Keeping low, Pendergast slipped up to the doors, examined the lock, and listened. There was someone on the far side, someone passing back and forth: a guard. He listened, timing the guard’s slow coming and going. At a safe moment, he rose and looked through the barred window.
A vast room greeted his eyes, illuminated in dull red light from strings of bare hanging bulbs. The room consisted of row upon row of crude wooden bunk beds extending into the gloom, stacked three bunks high, each with a single blanket wrapping up the form of a human being, faces sorrowful in restive sleep, while others moved about like ghosts, some going to or from a latrine along one wall of the room. Still others simply paced back and forth aimlessly, unable to sleep, their hopeless eyes reflecting the red light of the bulbs.
Everything Pendergast had not seen in Nova Godói was here: the deformed, the crippled, the ugly and squat, the weak, the aged—and, particularly, the infirm of mind. But what horrified him most of all was that he recognized some of these faces. Only hours before, he had seen some of the same faces in town, belonging to radiant, smiling counterparts—twins. Only these underground doppelgängers carried the strange and disturbing expressions of the mentally ill, the vacant of mind, the despairing and hopeless, their sinewy muscles, brown skin, and rough hands attesting to a lifetime of field labor.
At the far edge of his vision, Pendergast saw the guard turning. He was not of these people, he was one of the others: tall, handsome. His presence seemed unnecessary—these poor souls were in no condition to revolt, escape, or otherwise cause trouble. The look of resignation on their faces was universal and absolute.
Pendergast lowered his gaze from the window and made his way back down the tunnel and up the staircase. A few minutes later, he was breathing deeply—gasping even—the cool, fresh, aboveground air, the grotesque image of human suffering he’d just witnessed burned into his consciousness for all
time.
61
THIS TIME, FELDER HAD STOOD IN THE DARKNESS OUTSIDE the library windows for over an hour, in the freezing night, tense and fearful. The house looked dead: no lights, no movement. And above all, no Dukchuk. Finally, reassured, trying to keep his courage up, he opened the window and climbed in.
Leaving the window open in case he needed a quick escape, he stood motionless in the chill room for a long moment, listening. Nothing. Just as he’d hoped.
He had taken every precaution. For the last few nights, he’d kept watch on the library, surveilling it from the safety of the arborvitae. All had been still. The midnight near-encounter with Dukchuk must have been a freakish coincidence, since the man didn’t seem to be in the habit of roaming the house at night. The previous afternoon, Miss Wintour had asked him in again for tea, and neither she nor her terrifying manservant had given the slightest indication that anything was amiss. Nothing was suspected, it seemed.
But Felder knew he couldn’t wait forever. He had to act tonight—any more time and he’d lose his nerve completely. As it was, Constance and Mount Mercy were beginning to seem far, far away.
He moved along the series of bookcases, feeling his way in the dark by touching the rippled surfaces of the doors’ leaded glass. The W’s would be near the end of the collection, putting Alexander Wintour’s portfolio close to the pocket doors that led out into the main hallway. To his relief, those doors were firmly shut.
Felder paused at the second-to-last bookcase, listening, but the house was as silent as before. He pulled the Maglite from his pocket and, shielding it with care, flashed it over the books ahead of him. Trapp. Traven. Tremaine.
Snapping the light off, he moved on to the next and last bookcase. Once again, he hesitated, listening for even the slightest sound. Then he raised the flashlight, aiming it toward the upper shelves. Voltaire, in seven beautifully bound leather volumes—and beside them, a half dozen bundles of what looked like folded parchment, wrapped in crumbling crimson ribbon.
Two Graves Page 33
