“Yes. Maurice.”
“You will keep him on here, in the position of wine steward, for as long as he desires to stay.”
“So we’ve agreed.” The developer looked up again at the massive façade. “Our attorneys will be in touch with yours about setting the final date for the closing.”
Pendergast nodded.
“Very good. Now, I’ll leave you and… the lady… to pay your final respects, and please take your time!” Bartlett took a courteous step away from the house. “Or do you need a ride into town? You must have come by taxi—I don’t see a car.”
“A ride won’t be necessary, thank you,” Pendergast told him.
“Ah. I see. In that case, good afternoon.” And Bartlett shook the hands of Pendergast and the young woman in turn. “Thank you again.” And then, with a final dab of his handkerchief, he returned to his car, started up the motor, and drove away.
Pendergast and Constance Greene climbed the ancient boards of the covered porch and stepped inside. Producing a small key ring from his pocket, Pendergast opened the main door of the mansion and ushered Constance in before him. The interior smelled of furniture polish, aged wood, and dust. Silently, they walked through the various first-floor spaces—drawing room, saloon, dining room—gazing here and there at the various accoutrements. Everything in view had been tagged with the names of antiques dealers, estate agents, and auction houses, ready to be picked up.
They paused in the library. Here Constance stopped at a glass-fronted bookcase. It contained a king’s ransom: a Shakespeare First Folio; an early copy of the Duc de Berry’s illuminated Très Riches Heures; a first edition of Don Quixote. But what Constance was most interested in were the four enormous volumes at the far end of the bookcase. Reverently, she drew one out, opened it, and began slowly turning the pages, admiring the incredibly vivid and life-like depictions of birds they contained.
“Audubon’s double elephant folio edition of The Birds of America,” she murmured. “All four volumes. Which your own great-great-great-grandfather subscribed to from Audubon himself.”
“Hezekiah’s father,” said Pendergast, his voice flat. “As such, that is one edition of books I can keep, along with the Gutenberg Bible, which has been in the family since Henri Prendregast de Mousqueton. Both predate Hezekiah’s taint. Everything else here must go.”
They retraced their steps to the reception area and mounted the wide stairs to an upper landing. The upstairs parlor lay directly ahead, and they entered it, passing the pair of elephant tusks that framed the doorway. Inside, along with the zebra rug and the half dozen mounted animal heads, was a gun case full of rare and extremely expensive hunting rifles. As with the downstairs possessions, a sales tag had been fixed to each rifle.
Constance stepped up to the case. “Which one was Helen’s?” she asked.
Pendergast reached into his pocket, withdrawing the keyring again. He unlocked the case and pulled out a double-barreled rifle, its side plates intricately engraved and inlaid with precious metals. “A Krieghoff,” he said. He gazed at it for some time, his eyes growing distant. Then he took a deep breath. “It was my wedding present to her.” He offered it to Constance.
“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” she said.
Pendergast returned the gun and relocked the case. “It is past time I let go of this rifle and all associated with it,” he said quietly, as if to himself.
They took seats at the parlor’s central table. “So you’re really selling it all,” Constance said.
“Everything that was, either directly or indirectly, acquired with money from Hezekiah’s elixir.”
“You’re not saying you believe Barbeaux was right?”
Pendergast hesitated before answering. “Until my, ah, illness, I never faced the question of Hezekiah’s fortune. But Barbeaux or no, it seems that divesting myself of all my Louisiana holdings, purging myself of the fruit of Hezekiah’s work, is the right thing to do. All these possessions are now like poison to me. As you know, I’m putting the funds into a new charitable foundation.”
“Vita Brevis, Inc. An apt name, I assume?”
“It’s quite apt—the foundation has a most unusual, if appropriate, purpose.”
“Which is?”
A ghost of a smile appeared on Pendergast’s lips. “The world shall see.”
Rising, they made a brief tour of the mansion’s second story, Pendergast indicating various points of interest. They lingered a little in the room that had been his as a child. Then they descended again to the first floor.
“There’s still the wine cellar,” Constance said. “You told me it was magnificent—the consolidation of all the cellars from the various family branches, as they died out. Shall we tour it?”
A shadow crossed Pendergast’s face. “I don’t think I’m quite up to that, if you don’t mind.”
A knock came at the front door. Pendergast stepped forward, opened it. In the doorway stood a curious figure: a short, soft man wearing a black cutaway set off by a white carnation. An expensive-looking briefcase was in one hand, and in the other—despite the clear day—a fastidiously rolled umbrella. A bowler hat sat on his head, at an angle just shy of being rakish. He looked like a cross between Hercule Poirot and Charlie Chaplin.
“Ah, Mr. Pendergast!” the man said, beaming. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. Please come in.” Pendergast turned to make the introductions. “Constance, this is Horace Ogilby. His firm looks after the Pendergast legal interests here in the New Orleans area. Mr. Ogilby, this is Constance Greene. My ward.”
“Charmed!” Mr. Ogilby said. He took Constance’s hand and kissed it with a grand gesture.
“I take it all the paperwork is in order?” Pendergast asked.
“Yes.” The lawyer moved to a nearby side table, opened his briefcase, and produced a few documents. “Here’s the paperwork for resituating the family plot.”
“Very good,” said Pendergast.
“Sign here, please.” The lawyer watched as Pendergast signed. “You do realize that—even though the plot is being relocated—the, ah, requirements of your grandfather’s bequest will remain in force.”
“I understand.”
“That means I can anticipate your presence again at the graveside in—” the lawyer paused a moment to calculate—“another three years.”
“I look forward to it.” Pendergast turned toward Constance. “My grandfather stipulated in his will that all his surviving beneficiaries—now sadly reduced in number—must make a pilgrimage to his grave site every five years, upon pain of having their trusts revoked.”
“He was quite an original gentleman,” said Ogilby, shuffling the documents. “Ah, yes. Only one other item of importance for today. It concerns that private parking lot on Dauphine Street you’re selling.”
Pendergast raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
“In particular, those restrictions you added to the listing contract.”
“Yes?”
“Well…” The lawyer briefly hemmed and hawed. “The language you requested is rather, shall we say, unorthodox. Those clauses forbidding any excavation below ground level, for example. That would preclude any development and greatly reduce the price you’ll get for the property. Are you sure this is what you want?”
“I am sure.”
“Very well, then. On the other hand—” he patted his plump hands together—“we got a spectacular price for the Rolls—I’m almost afraid to tell you how much.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” Pendergast read over the sheet the lawyer handed him. “Everything seems to be in order, thank you.”
“In that case, I’ll be on my way—you’d be surprised how much paperwork is generated by the liquidation of assets on such a grand scale.”
“We’ll see you out,” Pendergast said.
They walked down the front steps and stopped beside the lawyer’s car. Ogilby put the briefcase and umbrella in the rear seat, th
en paused to look around. “What’s the name of the development again?” he asked.
“Cypress Wynd Estates. Sixty-five mansionettes and thirty-six holes of golf.”
“Ghastly. I wonder what the old family ghost is going to say about that.”
“Indeed,” said Pendergast.
Ogilby chuckled. Then, as he opened the driver’s door, he looked around. “I’m sorry. Can I give you a lift into town?”
“I’ve made my own arrangements, thank you.”
Pendergast and Constance watched as the lawyer got in, waved, and drove down the lane. And then Pendergast led the way around the side of the house. At the rear was an old stable, painted white, that had been converted into a garage with several bays. To one side, a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, polished to a gem-like brilliance, sat on a flatbed trailer, ready to be taken to its new owner.
Constance looked from Pendergast to the Rolls and back again.
“I really don’t need two, you know,” he said.
“It isn’t that,” Constance replied. “You made a point of telling both Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Ogilby that you’d made arrangements for our transportation back to New Orleans. We’re not going to ride in the tow truck, are we?”
In response, Pendergast stepped toward the garage, unlocked and opened one of the bays, and approached a vehicle covered by a tarp—the only vehicle now remaining in the building. He grasped the tarp, pulled it away.
Beneath lay a red roadster, low to the ground, its top removed. It gleamed faintly in the dim interior.
“Helen bought this before our marriage,” Pendergast explained. “A 1954 Porsche 550 Spyder.”
He opened the passenger door for Constance, then slid into the driver’s seat. He put the key in the ignition, turned it. The vehicle roared to life.
They pulled out of the garage, and Pendergast got out long enough to close and lock the bay behind them.
“Interesting,” Constance said.
“What is?” Pendergast asked as he got back behind the wheel.
“You’ve divested yourself of everything purchased with Hezekiah’s money.”
“As best I can, yes.”
“But you obviously still have a lot left.”
“True. Much of it came independently from my grandfather, the one whose grave I must visit every five years. That will allow me to retain the Dakota apartment and, in general, continue living in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”
“What about the Riverside Drive mansion?”
“I inherited that from my great-uncle Antoine. Your ‘Dr. Enoch.’ Along with his extensive investments, naturally.”
“Naturally. And yet, how curious.”
“I wonder, Constance, where this line of questioning is leading.”
Constance smiled slyly. “You’ve rejected the assets of one serial murderer—Hezekiah—while embracing the assets of another: Enoch Leng. No?”
There was a pause while Pendergast considered this. “I prefer hypocrisy to poverty.”
“Come to think of it, there is a rationale. Leng didn’t make his money from killing. He made it from speculating in railroads, oil, and precious metals.”
Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “I did not know that.”
“There is much you still don’t know about him.”
They waited in silence, the engine rumbling. Pendergast hesitated, and then turned toward her, speaking with a certain amount of awkwardness. “I’m not sure that I’ve thanked you properly—or Dr. Green—for saving my life. And at such terrible risk—”
She stopped him with a finger to his lips. “Please. You know how I feel about you. Don’t embarrass me by making me repeat myself.”
For a moment, Pendergast seemed on the brink of saying something. But then he merely added: “I shall honor your request.”
He nosed the car forward, engine grumbling, onto the white gravel drive. The great mansion slowly fell away behind them.
“It’s a beautiful machine, but not particularly comfortable,” Constance said, glancing around the cockpit. “Are we going to drive to New Orleans in this, or all the way to New York?”
“Shall we leave that for the car to decide?” And, driving down the shadow-knotted lane of graceful oaks and onto the main road, Pendergast accelerated with a roar that reverberated through the bayous and sleepy mangrove swamps of St. Charles Parish.
Acknowledgments
We’d like to thank the following for their ongoing support and assistance: Mitch Hoffman, Lindsey Rose, Jamie Raab, Kallie Shimek, Eric Simonoff, Claudia Rülke, and Nadine Waddell. And to Edmund Kwan, MD, our deepest appreciation for his expertise.
About the Authors
The thrillers of DOUGLAS PRESTON and LINCOLN CHILD “stand head and shoulders above their rivals” (Publishers Weekly). Preston and Child’s Relic and The Cabinet of Curiosities were chosen by readers in a National Public Radio poll as being among the one hundred greatest thrillers ever written, and Relic was made into a number-one box office hit movie. They are coauthors of the famed Pendergast series, and their recent novels include Cold Vengeance, Two Graves, White Fire, and The Lost Island. Preston’s acclaimed nonfiction book, The Monster of Florence, is being made into a movie starring George Clooney. Lincoln Child is a former book editor who has published five novels of his own, including the huge bestseller Deep Storm.
Readers can sign up for The Pendergast File, a monthly “strangely entertaining note” from the authors, at their website, www.PrestonChild.com. The authors welcome visitors to their alarmingly active Facebook page, where they post regularly.
Also by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child
Agent Pendergast Novels
White Fire
Two Graves*
Cold Vengeance*
Fever Dream*
Cemetery Dance
The Wheel of Darkness
The Book of the Dead**
Dance of Death**
Brimstone**
Still Life with Crows
The Cabinet of Curiosities
Reliquary†
Relic†
The Ice Limit
Thunderhead
Riptide
Mount Dragon
Gideon Crew Novels
The Lost Island
Gideon’s Corpse
Gideon’s Sword
By Douglas Preston
The Kraken Project
Impact
The Monster of Florence (with Mario Spezi)
Blasphemy
Tyrannosaur Canyon
The Codex
Ribbons of Time
The Royal Road
Talking to the Ground
Jennie
Cities of Gold
Dinosaurs in the Attic
By Lincoln Child
The Third Gate
Terminal Freeze
Deep Storm
Death Match
Utopia
Tales of the Dark 1–3
Dark Banquet
Dark Company
*The Helen Trilogy
**The Diogenes Trilogy
†Relic and Reliquary are ideally read in sequence
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
7
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Also by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child
Newsletters
Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, corporations, government entities, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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