The rheumy eyes of the shack’s resident went from Pendergast’s face to the huge wad. They stayed there as Pendergast peeled off seven $10 bills and proffered them. There was the slightest hesitation, and then the old man’s trembling hand reached up and snatched away the money, as if it might fly off at any moment, and stuffed it into the pockets of his dungarees.
With a big Texas smile Pendergast made himself at home, easing himself down onto a tree trunk. His host, with an uncertain expression on his ancient face, did likewise. The man was short and skinny, with long, tangled white hair and whiskers, stubby hands, and incredibly dirty fingernails. His face and arms were dark from long days in the sun. Suspicion still burned in his eyes, tempered somewhat by the sight of money.
“What’s your name, friend?” Pendergast asked. He kept the bankroll casually gripped in his hand.
“Cayute.”
“Well, Mr. Cayute, allow me to introduce myself. Bill Feathers, at your service. You’ve got some nice little things here. I’m sure we’ll be able to come to terms!” Pendergast picked up an old metal road sign for State Highway 111, propped up on two cinder blocks, being used as a small table. The paint was peeling and its surface was peppered with buckshot. “For example, this. You know, they hang these on the walls of steak houses. Big demand. I’ll bet I can turn this around for—oh, I don’t know—fifty bucks. What do you say?”
The gleam in the eyes grew brighter. After a minute, Cayute gave a quick, ferret-like nod. Pendergast duly peeled off five more bills and handed them over.
Then he beamed. “Mr. Cayute, I can see that you’re a man of business. I calculate this will be a most productive exchange for both of us.”
Within fifteen minutes, Pendergast had purchased five more utterly worthless items for a grand total of $380. This had had the effect of mollifying the highly suspicious Cayute. A pint bottle of Southern Comfort, produced from a back pocket of Pendergast’s jeans and freely offered, had the additional effect of lubricating the old codger’s tongue. He was a squatter, it seemed, who had spent some time in the area as a boy and then, when he’d fallen on hard times, had drifted back to Salton Palms after it had been abandoned. He used the “bungalow” as his base while foraging for things to sell.
With patience and tact, Pendergast inquired into the history of the town and the nearby Salton Fontainebleau, and was rewarded—in fits and starts—with anecdotes of the casino’s triumph and long, sad decline. It seemed Cayute had been a busboy in the Fontainebleau’s poshest restaurant, at the zenith of its glory days.
“My Lord,” said Pendergast, “that must have been a sight to see.”
“More’n you can imagine,” Cayute replied in his gravelly voice, draining the pint bottle and putting it to one side, like a collectible itself. “Everybody came there. All them Hollywood hotshots. Why, Marilyn Monroe signed her autograph on my shirt cuff while I was bussing her table!”
“No!”
“Accidentally laundered,” Cayute said sadly. “Think of what that’d be worth today.”
“Darn shame.” A pause. “How long has it been since the resort was boarded up?”
“Fifty, fifty-five years.”
“Seems a tragedy, such a beautiful building and all.”
“They had everything. Casino. Swimming pool. Promenade. Boat dock. Spa. Animal garden.”
“Animal garden?”
“Yep.” The man picked up the empty bottle of Southern Comfort, eyed it wistfully, replaced it. “Built it up out of a natural hole in the ground beneath the hotel. Just outside the cocktail lounge, it was. All jungle-like. They had real live lions and black panthers and Siberian tigers down there. In the evenings, all the big shots would gather ’round the balcony above with their drinks and watch them animals.”
“How interesting.” Pendergast rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Anything of value still inside? I mean, that is, have you explored the interior?”
“Stripped. Totally.”
Something else caught Pendergast’s eye, peeping out from beneath a tattered Sears, Roebuck catalog at least half a century old that lay on the floor, its spine broken. He picked it up and held it to the improvised window for a better look. It was a raw fragment of turquoise, veined in black.
“What a beautiful stone. Lovely markings. Perhaps we can come to terms on this, as well.” He glanced at Cayute. “I understand there’s an old mine nearby. The Golden Spider, if memory serves. Is that where you got this from?”
The old man shook his grizzled head. “Don’t never go in there.”
“Why not? I should think that would be the perfect place to search for turquoise.”
“ ’Cause of the stories.”
“Stories?”
Cayute’s face screwed up into a strange expression. “Folks said the place was haunted.”
“You don’t say.”
“It ain’t a big mine, but there’s some purty deep shafts. Lot of rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“One I heard was that the mine’s owner hid a fortune in turquoise somewhere inside. He died, the story went, and the location of the fortune died with him. Every now and then somebody would hunt around inside, but they never found nothin’. Then some twenty years back, a treasure hunter went exploring inside. Some floorboards had rotted out and he fell through them, down a shaft. Broke both legs. Nobody heard him bawlin’ for help. Died of the thirst and the heat, down there in the dark.”
“How awful.”
“Folk say that if you go in there now, you can still hear him.”
“Hear him? You mean, footsteps?”
Cayute shook his head. “No. More of a dragging sound, like, and crying out for help.”
“Dragging. Of course, because of the broken legs. What an awful story.”
Cayute said nothing, just looked wistfully again at the empty bottle.
“I guess that legend doesn’t seem to deter everybody,” Pendergast said.
Cayute’s eyes darted toward him. “What’s that?”
“Oh, I was wandering around outside the mine entrance earlier. I saw footprints, tire tracks. Recent.”
As quickly as the eyes had moved toward Pendergast, they moved away again. “Wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Pendergast waited for an elaboration, but none was forthcoming. Finally, he shifted on his improvised chair. “Really? I’m surprised to hear that. You’ve got such a good view of the mine from your residence here.” As he spoke, Pendergast casually removed the thick bankroll from his pocket.
Cayute didn’t respond.
“Yes, I’m surely surprised. The place can’t be more than a mile or so away.” And he slowly flipped through the tens, exposing twenties and fifties beneath.
“Why you so interested?” Cayute asked, suddenly suspicious again.
“Well, turquoise is a specialty of mine. And so is—not to put too fine a point on it—treasure hunting. Just like the fellow in that story of yours.” Pendergast leaned in conspiratorially, put a finger to one side of his nose. “If there’s activity at the Golden Spider, that would be of interest to me.”
The old scavenger looked uncertain. He blinked his bloodshot eyes: once, twice. “They paid me not to say nothin’.”
“I can pay, too.” Pendergast opened the bankroll, drew off a fifty, then another. “You can earn twice—and no one will know.”
Cayute looked hungrily at the money but didn’t say anything. Pendergast drew off two more fifties and proffered them. Another hesitation, and then quickly—before he could think better of it—the old man snatched the bills and stuffed them into his pocket along with the others.
“It was a few weeks back,” he said. “They came in a couple of trucks, all sorts of hustle and bustle. Parked outside the mine entrance and began uncrating equipment. I figured they were reopening the mine, so I walked over and said howdy. Offered to sell ’em an old map of the mine I got.”
“And?”
“Not the most amiable of folks.
Said that they were inspecting the mine for… for structural integrity, I think it was. Didn’t hardly seem like it, though.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t look like no inspectors to me. And because of the equipment they were taking inside. Never seen anything like it before in my life. Hooks, ropes, and something like a… like a…” Cayute gestured with his hands. “Like one of them things a diver gets into.”
“A shark cage?”
“Yeah. Only bigger. They didn’t want my map, said they already had one. Then they told me to mind my own business and gave me a fifty to shut up about it.” The old man plucked at Pendergast’s sleeve. “You ain’t going to tell nobody about what I seen, are you?”
“ ’Course not.”
“Promise?”
“It’ll be our secret.” Pendergast rubbed his chin. “What happened then?”
“They drove off after a couple of hours. Came back again, just yesterday. It was late. One truck this time, two fellers inside. They parked some ways off and got out.”
“Yes?” Pendergast prompted.
“There was a full moon, I could see it real clear. One swept away all the tracks with a rake, and the other broomed the dust all around. They walked backward, like, sweeping up the tracks and everything, all the way back to the truck. Then they got in and drove away again.”
“Could you describe these men any further? What they looked like?”
“They was rough. Didn’t get a good look. I’ve already said more than I should. Remember your promise.”
“Fear not, Mr. Cayute.” Pendergast’s expression seemed to go far away for a moment. “What was that you said about a map of the mine?”
The venal gleam returned to the bleary old eyes, tempering the agitation and perpetual suspicion. “What about it?”
“I might be interested in acquiring it.”
Cayute remained motionless for a time. Then, without getting up from his improvised stool, he rummaged around in the litter at his feet, finally producing a faded, flyspecked roll of paper, torn and badly soiled. Wordlessly, he unrolled the map and showed it to Pendergast without offering it to him.
Pendergast bent in for a close look. Then, equally wordlessly, he peeled off four more fifties and showed them to Cayute.
The transaction was quickly completed. Then, rolling the map up and rising from his seat, Pendergast shook the leathery old hand. “Thanks and good day, Mr. Cayute,” he said, stuffing his purchases into his pockets and tucking the map and road sign beneath one arm. “Pleasure doing business with you. Don’t bother to get up—I’ll find my own way out.”
D’Agosta perched on a desk in the central laboratory of the Osteology Department, Margo Green standing beside him, arms folded, drumming the fingers of one hand restlessly against her elbow. D’Agosta was watching with suppressed irritation as the technician, Sandoval, worked at his terminal, alternately tapping on his keyboard and peering at the screen. Everything in the Museum happened so damn slowly, he wondered how they ever got anything done.
“I threw away the scrap of paper with that accession number,” Sandoval said. “I didn’t think you’d need to see it again.” He seemed put out having to go through the process again—or perhaps it was just the thought of Frisby walking in and seeing the NYPD taking up more of his time.
“I wanted Dr. Green to have a look at the specimen as well,” D’Agosta said, giving the slightest emphasis to the word doctor.
“Got it.” Another few taps and, with a low whine, a piece of paper spooled out from the nearby printer. Sandoval handed it to D’Agosta, who shared it with Margo. She scanned it.
“This is the summary,” she said. “Can I see the details, as well?”
Sandoval blinked at her a minute. Then he turned back to the keyboard, in no hurry, and resumed his tapping. Several more sheets emerged from the printer, and he handed them to Margo. She looked them over.
The room was chilly—like the rest of the Museum—but D’Agosta noticed that a few beads of sweat had sprung out on her forehead and she seemed pale. “Are you feeling all right, Margo?”
Margo gave him a dismissive wave, a fleeting smile. “And this is the only specimen that Vic showed the fake scientist?”
Sandoval nodded as Margo continued to glance through the accession record. “Hottentot, male, approximately thirty-five years of age. Complete. Preparator: Dr. E. N. Padgett.”
At this, Sandoval chuckled. “Oh. Him.”
Margo glanced at him briefly and returned her attention to the sheets.
“See anything interesting?” D’Agosta asked.
“Not really. I see it was acquired in the usual way—the usual way back then, that is.” More flipping of pages. “It seems the Museum contracted with an explorer in South America to supply skeletons for their Osteological collections. The field notes of the explorer—a man named Hutchins—are included here.” Silence while Margo read a little farther. “My guess is this Hutchins was little better than a grave robber. He probably learned about a Hottentot funeral ceremony, spied on it, and then in the dead of night robbed the grave, prepared and shipped the skeleton back to the Museum. This supposed cause of death—dysentery, contracted during the Seventh Frontier War—was likely a ruse to make the transaction palatable to the Museum.”
“You don’t know that,” Sandoval said.
“You’re right. I don’t. But I’ve examined enough anthropological accession records to know how to read between the lines.” She put the paperwork down.
D’Agosta turned to Sandoval. “Would you mind getting the skeleton now?”
Sandoval sighed. “Right.” He got up from the desk, picked up the sheet containing the accession record number, and made for the hallway. Halfway to the open door, he glanced over his shoulder. “You want to come?”
D’Agosta made a move to follow him, but Margo put a restraining hand on his forearm. “We’ll wait in the examination room across the hall.”
Sandoval shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He disappeared around the corner.
D’Agosta followed Margo down the hallway to the room where specimens were examined by visiting scientists. He was beginning to wish that he’d taken Singleton up on his offer of the jogger case. It was damn annoying that Pendergast vanished the way he did, without even saying why he thought the skeleton was important. It hadn’t occurred to D’Agosta until it was too late how much he’d been banking on the FBI agent’s assistance. And to top it off, he was starting to drown in reams of interview transcripts, evidence reports, and logs. All cases were full of useless paperwork, but this one—thanks to the size of the Museum and the number of its employees—was unique. Already, the empty office next to his at police headquarters was piling up with the spillover paperwork.
He watched as Margo put on a pair of latex gloves, glanced at her watch, and proceeded to pace back and forth. She gave every appearance of being agitated.
“Margo,” he said, “if this is a bad time, we can always come back later. I told you, it’s more a hunch than anything else.”
“No,” she replied. “It’s true, I’m due back at the institute soon—but that isn’t the problem.” She paced a moment longer, then—seeming to come to some decision—stopped and turned toward him. Her green eyes, so clear and intent, looked into his, and for a minute D’Agosta felt himself transported back, all those many years, to when he’d first questioned her about the Museum murders.
She held his gaze a long moment. Then she sank into one of the chairs surrounding an examination table. D’Agosta did the same.
Margo cleared her throat, swallowed. “I’d appreciate your not telling anyone this.”
D’Agosta nodded.
“You know what happened to me, back then.”
“Yeah. The Museum killings, the subway murders. It was a bad time.”
Margo looked down. “It’s not that. It’s what… what happened to me… afterward.”
For a moment, D’Agosta didn’t understand. And then it hit
him like a load of bricks. Oh Christ, he thought. He’d totally forgotten about what had happened to Margo when she returned to the Museum to edit their scientific journal, Museology. How she’d been stalked like an animal in the darkened halls, terrorized, ultimately stabbed and nearly killed by a vicious and maniacal serial killer. It had taken her many months in a clinic to regain her health. He hadn’t considered how that might have affected her.
Margo remained silent for a moment. Then she began to speak again, a little haltingly. “Since then, it’s been… difficult for me to be in the Museum. Ironic, isn’t it, since my research can only be done here?” She shook her head. “I was always so brave. Such a tomboy. Remember how I insisted on accompanying you and Pendergast down into the subway tunnels—and beneath? But everything’s different now. There are only a few places I can go inside the Museum… without a panic attack. I can’t go too far into the collection areas. Stuff has to be brought out to me. I’ve memorized all the closest exits, how to get out in a hurry if I have to. I need people around me when I work. And I never stay past closing time—after dark. Just being here, on an upper floor, is difficult.”
As he listened, D’Agosta felt even worse for asking her help—he felt like a complete fool. “What you’re going through is normal.”
“It’s worse. I can’t stand dark places. Or the dark at all. I keep the lights in my apartment burning all night. You should see my electric bill.” She gave a sour laugh. “I’m a mess. I think I’ve got a new syndrome: museumophobia.”
“Listen,” D’Agosta interrupted, taking her hand. “Maybe we should forget about this damn skeleton. I’ll find somebody else who can—”
“No way. I may be psycho, but I’m not a coward. I’ll do this. Just don’t ask me to go down there.” She pointed down the hall, deeper into the collections, where Sandoval had retreated. “And don’t ever ask me—” she tried to keep her voice light, but a quaver of fear underscored it—“to go into the basement.”
Blue Labyrinth Page 9
