Crooked River

by Douglas Preston

  Ahead of him, a rude brick-lined declivity descended into the ground, stopping abruptly at the foundation wall of the house about six feet ahead. The walls of bricks were heavily covered by verdure and old spiderwebs, and the ground beneath him—actually steps, roughed out but never finished—was a combination of clay, sand, and brackish water seeping in from the improvised covering above. It was a messy, nasty-smelling tunnel, but he’d been here many times before and no longer noticed. It had originally been intended as a stairway up from a basement exit, but the door had never been cut in the stem walls of the house and the project had been abandoned decades before.

  The soft hush of the surf was more a sensation than a sound down here. Slowly he relaxed, heart returning to its normal rhythm.

  He made his way down the unfinished stone stairs until he smelled, more than saw, the foundation of the house an inch or two before him. On the far side of this wall was the basement.

  He let the canvas bag slip to the damp ground, then eased it open and removed the tools of his trade: a small chisel; a rubber mallet; an ice pick; and a large filleting knife: long, cruel, and very sharp. There were others, such as a pair of brake spring pliers: normally reserved for automotive work, whose curved jaw tips resembled the fangs of a rattlesnake. Many of these tools had served him well in the hours leading up to this.

  Others would be of use to him once he was inside.

  After arraying his tools on the lowest step, he straightened up. Turning his attention again to the foundation wall of the house, he stretched out his fingers and ran them along the lower edge of the mucky surface until he found what he was looking for: the cake of mud that concealed his painstaking efforts. With his nails, he plucked the fragments away, catching them in his other hand and letting them drop soundlessly at his feet.

  Mud removed, he took a tiny penlight from his equipment, turned it to its lowest setting, and let it travel along the newly exposed brickwork. It revealed a course of old blocks of a curious blue color, stretchers alternating with headers in the ancient masonry pattern known as Flemish bond. The mortar between the bricks had been almost completely removed along the length of three feet over a total of six courses, each directly above another. He had done this work with a chisel over many nights. Working as silently as possible had of course made the work take longer. But what awaited him on the far side of that wall—on the inside of the house—would make it all worthwhile.

  The bricks above and below the section he’d worked on were the regular deep reddish color. He had intentionally chosen to work on the courses of Staffordshire blue brick—used to contain rising damp—because they were not load bearing. Nevertheless, he’d removed the mortar from between so many bricks that he’d decided to insert wooden shims to keep the wall from sagging. He’d cut the shims short so they would not show through his layer of mud, and the pliers would be necessary to pull them out. With the penlight, he carefully scrutinized the wall, wiping off mud here and there, using the edge of the chisel to pick out bits of remaining mortar, making sure everything was in readiness. Then he turned, put down the chisel, and picked up the pliers. He’d been waiting for this moment a long, long time.

  Carefully, quietly, he used the pliers to pull out every other shim between the lowest two courses of bricks. Then, moving up a course, he pulled out alternating shims once again, even more carefully this time, making sure not to remove two shims from the same vertical section of brick face. Finally, he stepped back to survey his work. No sign of settling or movement. More quickly now, he removed alternating shims from the upper courses until he’d reached the sixth.

  By his calculations, he had, over his nights of cautious toil, removed all but the final eighth inch of mortar from between the bricks. What remained deep within the courses—what would look, from inside the basement, like a normal brick wall—was, in reality, just an illusion of solidity. Only the night before, he’d removed the mortar from between the last few bricks, stealing away with it in the predawn hours and mixing it with beach sand, as usual, so it would not be noticed. Now that he’d removed the shims from between the damp-proofing bricks, all that remained was to knock out the remaining skin of mortar.

  Using a tool he’d designed himself—a thin shaft of iron about two feet long with an angled rectangle of steel, sharpened on all sides, welded to its end—he pushed his way into the spaces between the bricks and, when he encountered resistance, gently prodded the last thin crust of mortar out through the crack formed on the far side. A faint sound echoed back through the opening—bits of old mortar falling to the basement floor—but it was barely louder than sand streaming through an hourglass. Now he moved the instrument along the lowest course of unsecured bricks, steadily pushing out the thin section of mortar at the other end as he went. It would be making a mess on the basement floor, of course, but the mortar was dry and he could deal with that later.

  Once he’d finished with the first course, he used a prybar to pull the bricks away from the low foundation row beneath them. Carefully, silently, he stacked the bricks to one side of the unfinished stairway.

  The second course went faster, and the third faster still. He put each brick aside until at last all the courses had been removed and six piles of bricks lay around him, outside the foundation, hidden—as he was—beneath the rain diffuser. Quickly, just in case the brickwork above the newly made opening began to sag, he removed a pair of portable steel load bars from his canvas bag, set them securely on bricks at either side of the base, then ratcheted them quietly up until they supported the upper edge of the hole.

  The warm air of the basement, smelling of dust and old paper, washed over him. It was as if the house were slowly exhaling.

  For a minute he crouched, motionless. At long last—after so many nights of secretive labor, unexpected delays, endless surveillance—his work was complete.

  Almost complete. The most important part, the part he’d worked so hard for, lay ahead.

  As he crouched, he listened. The house had remained completely still, oblivious to his labors. Now he exchanged the tools he’d been using for others: the ice pick; the rubber mallet; piano wire; a long, clear piece of tube. He pulled a 9-millimeter handgun out of the pack and stuffed it into his belt. He turned off his penlight, and the basement was plunged into almost complete darkness. He removed a Fenix 850 nm infrared flashlight. Lastly, he placed a third-generation white phosphor night-vision monocular on his head and adjusted the straps. And then, taking a deep breath, he switched on the flashlight, picked up his tools, and ducked inside.

  He stepped carefully over the ragged line of mortar debris, then rose to his full height and looked around—slowly, slowly. It was now dark outside and the cellar was, of course, unlit. As he took in the features of the basement, he involuntarily expelled a deep, husky breath. There they were, repainted but unmistakable: the workbench; the storage alcove; the boiler…and the stairs leading up to the inhabited part of the house.

  He realized that his heartbeat had accelerated during this penetration of the basement, and he waited another moment, allowing it to slow. As it did so, he looked around again—this time, with a single purpose. A tall, wide column, wavering slightly in the greenish shadows of the monocular, stood like a sentinel before him. Taking a firm grip on his tools, he took a step forward.

  …And it was then that he felt a sylphlike limb slide up from behind his right shoulder, with a movement that was so smooth, so unexpected, he wondered briefly if he was dreaming. But there was nothing dreamlike about the way the arm suddenly tightened, viselike, beneath his jaw, or how a second arm darted in with snakelike rapidity, a short and terribly sharp blade in its hand, gleaming in his IR goggles for just an instant before pricking its point in the soft tissue above his Adam’s apple.

  Just when he was most confused and terrified, uncertain what was real and what was nightmare, the voice came: unmistakably feminine, but deep and strange, with an undertone of feral yet somehow courtly menace.

&nbs
p; “Good evening, Mr. Wilkinson. Before you react in any way, allow me to offer you a choice. If you drop the gun, and then follow it with your flashlight and that ridiculous helmet, I will take my knife from your neck. If you resist, I will sever the four extrinsic muscles of your tongue, in preparation for piercing your carotid artery. It’s your choice, but in your situation I would recommend the former option. You will find it much easier to explain all of this to me with your hyoglossus intact.”

  47

  CONSTANCE CAME LIGHTLY up the basement steps, then quietly but firmly shut and locked the heavy door behind her. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was dim, the lights off. This was as Constance had left it hours before, setting the trap—but now the gloomy emptiness made her fretful. A part of her had hoped Pendergast would have returned—she felt not so different from a cat, eager to display the prize evidence of her hunting skills to her owner.

  She walked over to the sink, ran the water, took the soap from its porcelain dish, and washed her hands and forearms with great care. She took the stiletto from her hidden pocket, slid it open, and gingerly washed its razor-sharp blade with equal attention. Then, drying hands and weapon alike, she took off the black mourning cloak she’d worn during her long vigils in the basement, folded it with a few expert strokes, and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. Beneath she wore an Arc’teryx covert sweater of thin gray fleece with matching leggings: not her usual choice of apparel, but the combination allowed for quick, unrestricted movement while providing excellent concealment—and the basement had been damp and surprisingly chilly.

  She paused to listen for a moment. The only sounds were the rain, the police radio—random bursts of low squawking—and the muffled cries emerging from the basement. Giving those as little attention as she’d given the radio, she stepped into the butler’s pantry, filled a small cut-glass tumbler with ice, poured in a generous splash of Lillet, quartered a key lime, and dropped a segment into the glass, then wiped her hands on the nearby bar towel. She moved back into the kitchen and pushed the door open onto the back porch. She was curious to see the point of ingress the man had used and wondered how she’d managed to miss it earlier. But first, she would relax for a few moments, in the calming dark.

  The cool, humid breeze coming off the gulf and the sound of the rain on the porch roof were as welcoming as they were relaxing. The beach was empty, and the large houses to her right were dark and asleep. The police scanner sat on a round table of white-painted wicker, and she moved down to a rocking chair at the far end of the porch so as to be away from it.

  Now that she had caught the “ghost,” her thoughts turned to her absent guardian—and to the unresolved and never-discussed nature of their relationship. His suggestion that they spend a week on a luxurious island with no name, in the wake of wrapping up the Brokenhearts case, had awakened hopes that she had long since suppressed. But then ADC Pickett, like a cruel Mercury, had appeared—just long enough to take Pendergast away, leaving her to her own devices, consumed with memories of what had been, and what might have been.

  Can you love me the way I need you to? Then you’ve answered your own question.

  She had quickly followed him here to Sanibel, eager to help—until the grisly details of the case, sharpening as they did her own dreadful memories, forced her to beg off. She had found another mystery to occupy her time, and had kept herself away from the details of Pendergast’s case—especially avoiding that blond female oceanographer with whom he spent so much time. For the same reason she disliked even the scanner. It, like Coldmoon, reminded her of the case that had torn Pendergast away from their island. And so, perversely, she refused to turn it off.

  She put down her glass, untouched. This was petulance. It was beneath her. The fact was, the time she’d spent in recent days, living so near the shore—nearer even than the time she and Pendergast had spent at Exmouth, Massachusetts—had dulled her fierce childhood aversion to the sound of salt water. Her own little case, the mystery of the Mortlach House, was solved. Perhaps her place should have been at Pendergast’s side: helping move his case forward, suggesting ideas, doing more of the research she was so good at…and watching his back. Allowing her own feelings to obscure this duty was weak.

  Her train of thought was interrupted by the scanner. Normally, she had no difficulty ignoring it. But now it had grown unusually active.

  …burned remains of a late-model Range Rover…Route 41, along a swampy preserve on the outskirts of Estero Bay…one unidentified male, young, in the rear seat, shot multiple times and burned…no other individuals in the immediate area…evidence of struggle…

  Instantly, Constance leapt to her feet. Range Rover? Aloysius had recently acquired just such a vehicle. The oceanographer’s assistant—Lam—was about twenty-four. Was this Pendergast’s car? She listened intently as the dispatcher went on to say the license plate had melted in the fire and no identification papers could be found in the car.

  …Reported by airboat fisherman…heard automatic weapons fire, helicopters…distant flames…possible abduction…all units please report, all units…

  She pulled out her phone and dialed Pendergast’s number, but it rolled over immediately to voice mail. She tried a second number with the same result.

  Crossing the porch, she grabbed the radio scanner and studied its controls, wishing she’d paid more attention when Coldmoon had first shown her the damn thing. How did one transmit? Could one even transmit? She turned a dial, then another, succeeding only in changing the frequency and cutting off the babel of voices. In a panic, she spun the dial back and listened, but it was the same information: nothing new, no ID on car or victim. In sudden fury, she threw the radio from the porch, where it shattered upon the stone walkway below.

  Coldmoon was, she believed, on his way back from Mexico. Pendergast’s location was unknown. Possible abduction…

  She had to do something.

  She checked: the stiletto was already in her pocket. She needed nothing else for the moment—except an Uber.

  Just as she had ordered a ride, her cell phone rang. The number was blocked—was it Pendergast? Her heart turned over in her breast.

  She answered it. “Hello?”

  “Who is this?” a voice demanded.

  “I was contemplating the same question.”

  “I’m Roger Smithback. Reporter for the Miami Herald. I’m trying to reach Agent Pendergast.”

  Roger Smithback—Constance recalled Aloysius mentioning his role in the Brokenhearts investigation more than once. “How did you get this number?”

  “Don’t ask me. I just kept calling Pendergast’s private line—the one he gave me. I have information for him.”

  Pendergast had several cell numbers. There was one number in particular, used only when they were working together, that would roll over to her phone on the second repeated call.

  She almost hung up—she had no time to talk. But this reporter might know something.

  “This is Constance Greene,” she said. “What’s your information?”

  “Constance Greene,” Smithback repeated. “Oh, sure, you’re the—” Abruptly, he stopped. “Listen. You work closely with Pendergast, right? That’s as much as he ever told me. You’re part of his inner circle.”

  “Get to the point, please.”

  “I’ve been, like, locked up for days, about to have my ass…about to be killed at any moment. I need to talk to him: you see, the gang, the tattoo—”

  “Mr. Smithback, if you have information, give it to me without the circumlocutions.”

  “Okay. Right.” Smithback was panting slightly, as if winded. “I was looking for a story on those feet washing ashore. I got my hands on a tattoo from one of them. It looked gang related. So I started asking around. Ended up asking the wrong person—and got kidnapped by the local gang honcho, Bighead. Jesus, what a piece of work—”

  “Keep to the point.” She looked at her watch. Where was that bloody driver?

 
“Okay. So these drug dealers were all pissed off about some big drug shipment that had gone missing. A reward was being offered, heads were going to roll if the shipment wasn’t recovered. It was being brought in by some smugglers hidden with a group of migrants coming over the border. They all got picked up unexpectedly and taken away in trucks. Government trucks, identical, numbers painted over…like military.”

  “Go on.” Constance continued listening as she pulled back the curtain and glanced out the window. A pair of headlights was approaching along Captiva Drive.

  “Some old rummy told them this story about a convoy seen going into Tate’s Hole, or Tate’s Hall, I didn’t quite catch it…”

  Constance watched, listened. The headlights slowed.

  “…West, past Johnson’s Fork, he said. Ten-wheelers, payloads covered in canvas. With these weird drumlike things bolted in front of the driver. Sounded like they matched the trucks carrying the migrants. Pendergast needs to know all this, okay? You’ll tell him? And be sure to remind him he owes me. You got that?”

  The headlights stopped in front of the Mortlach House.

  “I have to go.” She had no idea what the significance of this information was, but nevertheless filed it away in her head.

  “Where is he, by the way?” Smithback asked.

  Constance hung up and ran out to the waiting car. The muffled complaints from the basement, which had died down somewhat, increased again at the sound of her footsteps.

  He’ll survive, Constance thought as she climbed into the idling SUV.