Two Graves p-12

by Douglas Preston

  When he was done, his head sank back to the pillow. “Thank… you.”

  His voice was weak, but no longer raving. His mind had returned to rationality. The fever was down, the antibiotics taking effect. The long sleep appeared to have done him good.

  Another long silence ensued. And then the boy held up his wrist, the one with the chain on it. “Why?” he asked.

  “You know why. What I want to know is—why you have come here.”

  “Because… you are Father.”

  “Father,” Pendergast repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. “And how do you know this?”

  “I heard… talk. Of you. Pendergast. My father.”

  Pendergast did not reply. Finally, the boy stirred again in the bed. “Do they… know I am here?” He spoke hesitantly, with a strange accent, part German but softened by the mellifluous roundness of what sounded like Portuguese. His face, now clean, was so pale and delicate that blue veins could be seen within it. Dark circles lay like bruises under his eyes, and his thin hair was plastered to his skull by sweat.

  “If you are speaking of the police,” said Pendergast, voice cold as dry ice, “I have not informed them. Not yet.”

  “Not the police…” said the boy. “Them.”

  “Them?”

  “The others. My… my brother.”

  This was met with another profound silence, and then Pendergast said, in a strange voice: “Your brother?”

  The boy coughed, tried to sit up. “More water, please?”

  Removing his .45 and laying it out of reach, Pendergast went over to the boy, helped prop him up against the headboard with some pillows, and gave him another sip of water. This time the boy drank greedily, finishing the glass.

  “I am hungry,” he said.

  “You will be fed in good time,” said Pendergast, resuming his seat and sliding the .45 back into his suit. “Now: you were speaking of your—brother?”

  “My brother.”

  Pendergast stared at the boy impatiently. “Yes. Tell me about this brother.”

  “He is Alban. We are… twins. Sort of twins. He is the one doing the killing. He has been cutting me. He thinks it lustig. Funny. But I escaped. Did he follow?” Fear had crept into his voice.

  Pendergast rose, his slender figure like a wraith in the dim room. He paced to the curtained window, turned. “Let me understand,” he said, voice low. “You have a twin brother who is killing people in New York City hotels. He’s kept you a prisoner and has been cutting off your body parts—an earlobe, a finger, and a toe—and leaving them at the crime scenes.”

  “Yes.”

  “And why did you come to me?”

  “You are… Father. Are you not? Alban… spoke of it. He talk of you a lot with others. They do not think I listen. Or that I understand.”

  Standing very still, Pendergast did not say anything for a long time. And then he stepped back to the chair and eased himself into it, almost as if he was in pain. “Perhaps,” he said, passing a pale hand across his brow, “you should start at the beginning. Tell me everything you know. Where you were born, under what circumstances, who your brother Alban is, and what he and you are doing here in New York.”

  “I will try. I not know much.”

  “Do your best.”

  “I was born in… Brazil. They call the place Nova Godói.”

  At this, Pendergast froze. “Your mother was—?”

  “I never met Mother. Alban was the good twin. I… bad twin.”

  “And your name?”

  “I have no name. Only good twins get names. I… Forty-Seven.”

  “What are these good twins and bad twins? What does it mean?”

  “Not know how it works. Not exactly. Good twins get all the good stuff, bad stuff go into bad twins. Good twins go to school, have sports, have training. They eat good food. We… work the fields.”

  Pendergast slowly rose from his seat, a shadow growing in silent amazement. “So the town, Nova Godói, is full of twins?”

  The youth nodded.

  “And your twin, this Alban: he’s the one doing the killing?”

  “He… loves it.”

  “Why is he killing?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “And you escaped? How?”

  “They think I am more stupid than I am. I fooled them, got away.” This was followed by a brief hiccuping sob. “I hope they do not follow me.”

  “Where were you held?”

  “It was… under the ground. There was a long tunnel, old, very cool. They kept me in… giant oven, cold, big as a room. Bricks dirty, floor dirty. Big metal door. Last time… they forget to lock it.”

  “And?”

  “I ran, just kept running.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I heard them say you live in fancy place. Dakota place. So I asked. A stranger told me, helped me, put me in yellow car. Gave me those.” And he pointed to a few wadded bills Miss Ishimura had removed from the pocket of his jeans.

  He fell silent. Pendergast slid his hand into his pocket, removed a key, and unlocked the shackle from the boy’s wrist. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I misunderstood.”

  The boy smiled. “I care not. I… used to it.”

  Pendergast pressed a button beside the door, and a moment later Miss Ishimura came in. Pendergast turned to her and spoke briskly. “Could you kindly prepare a full American breakfast for our guest? Eggs, sausage, toast, orange juice. Thank you.”

  He turned back to the boy. “So someone put you in a taxicab? How long was the ride?”

  “Very long. Pass many, many autos.”

  “What do you remember of it? Did you cross any bridges, go through tunnels?”

  “We crossed a big bridge over a river.” He shook his head at the memory. “So many buildings, so tall.”

  Pendergast immediately picked up a house phone. “Charles? The cab that brought the boy. I need its hack number. Go through the building’s security videos and get it to me right away. Thank you.” He hung up, turned back to the boy lying on the bed, looking so lost, so confused, so vulnerable.

  “Let me see if I understand what you’ve told me,” he said. “You and your brother are twins, born and raised in Brazil. You are apparently part of some program. As part of this, he got all the desirable qualities, the good genetic material, somehow leaving the unwanted material to you, in a manner of speaking. Is that it?”

  “They say we are dumping ground. Garbage.”

  “And you each get a number. You’re Forty-Seven.”

  “Forty-Seven.”

  “So there must be a lot of you.”

  The youth nodded. “Could you open curtains? Please? I want to see light.”

  Pendergast went to the window and slid open the curtains, letting in the long yellow light of early winter, coming in low over the slate roofs, dormers, gables, and turrets of the famous apartment building. The boy turned gratefully toward the light, which fell on his pallid face.

  In a gentle voice, Pendergast spoke. “The first thing is that you should have a name. A real name.”

  “I do not know what to call myself.”

  “Then I will name you. How do you like… Tristram?”

  “I like it fine. And shall call you… Father?”

  “Yes,” said Pendergast. “Yes. Please do call me…” He struggled to get the word out. “Father.”

  31

  CORRIE STOOD AT THE FAR END OF THE PARKING LOT OF the Joe Ricco Chevrolet-Cadillac dealership, rows of new cars and trucks glittering in the chilly sunlight. Times were tough, especially in the Allentown area, and she had just been given the bum’s rush, hustled out the door of the dealership as soon as they realized she was a job seeker, not a buyer.

  She was mightily annoyed. She had had her hair done at a local salon. It had been hell getting the purple out, and in the end they’d had to dye it black and cut it shoulder length, with a little flip. It gave her a 1950s retro look that she sort of liked, but it was sti
ll way too conservative for her taste. A tailored gray suit, low pumps, and a touch of makeup completed the transformation of Corrie the Goth into Corrie the Yuppie. It had made quite a dent in Pendergast’s three thousand.

  Fat lot of good it had done her.

  In retrospect, she realized it was unrealistic to think she could get a job selling cars when she had no experience beyond a year of college. She should have applied for a position as a clerk-assistant or janitor or something. Now it was too late. She would have to figure out some other way to get in close to the dealership, find out what was really going on.

  As she was standing there, wondering what to do next, a voice behind her said: “Excuse me?”

  She turned to see an older couple, well dressed, friendly.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you available to help us?”

  She looked around and was about to say that she didn’t work there, but something stopped her. Instead, she said: “Of course.” She bestowed on them a dazzling smile and offered her hand. “I’m Corrie.”

  “Sue and Chuck Hesse,” said the man, shaking her hand.

  She wasn’t sure where this was going, but what the heck?

  “Welcome to Joe Ricco Chevy-Cadillac,” said Corrie.

  “I’ve just retired from the university and we’re looking for something comfortable and elegant,” the man said.

  She could tell right away that the professor was going to do all the talking—but she suspected, looking at the quiet, alert face of the wife, that the decision was going to be hers. They seemed like a nice couple. The man was even wearing a bow tie, which Corrie had always considered a sign of friendliness. She had the stirrings of an idea.

  The only problem was that she knew nothing whatsoever about cars.

  “We’ve been looking at sedans,” said the man, “trying to decide between the CTS Sport and the CTS-V. Could you help us do a comparison?”

  Uh-oh. Corrie offered another smile, and leaned toward them. “Um, I have a confession to make.”

  The man raised his bushy eyebrows.

  “You’re my first customers. And… well, I don’t believe I’m very clear on the differences myself.”

  “Oh, dear…” said the man, looking around. “Is there another salesperson we could work with?”

  “Chuck,” said the wife in a stage whisper, “didn’t you hear her? We’re her first customers. You can’t do that!”

  God bless you, thought Corrie.

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t think of that. No offense intended.” The professor became flustered in an endearing way.

  “I’ll do my best,” said Corrie. “I really need the experience. And I could sure use the sale. I’ve been here three days on trial so far, and…” She let her voice trail off. “I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep me.”

  “I understand,” said the man. “Of course, we’re not going to buy anything today.”

  “Maybe you could show me where the sedans are?” Corrie asked. “We could look at them—and learn—together.”

  “They’re this way.” The ex-professor immediately took charge, leading them across the capacious lot to several rows of gleaming, handsome four-door cars in various colors. He seemed to know the lot quite well. He paused at one in red, laid his hand on it.

  “Do you like that one?” Corrie said. She felt like an idiot but didn’t know what else to say.

  “It’s not bad.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what, ah, do you like about it? I need to learn these things if I’m going to sell them.”

  The man launched into an enthusiastic recounting of its features and handling, mentioning a “laudable” review he’d read in the New York Times, or maybe it was in USA Today. He spoke of the transformation of GM from a dinosaur into an innovative company, competing with Toyota and Honda on their own turf, a real American success story. Their quality was now second to none. As Corrie listened intently, giving him an encouraging smile, he gave her various selling tips, ticking them off on his fingers. Corrie had always looked at Cadillacs as being fuddy-duddy cars for oldsters, but apparently they were now a hot item.

  “So,” Corrie asked, when the man paused, “why’s the V sedan almost twice as much as the Sport? I mean, I don’t see a lot of difference.”

  Oh, but there was a big difference, the man said, his bow tie wagging. And he proceeded to enumerate the differences with professorial clarity, Corrie again hanging on to every word. She was amazed at how much research the man had done. But then again, she thought, he was a professor.

  Twenty minutes later, Corrie led the couple into the main salesroom and looked around for the manager who had interviewed her—or, rather, had declined to interview her. And there he was, Diet Coke in hand, brown suit and all, talking to two other salespeople, laughing salaciously about something. They quieted down as she approached. The manager looked at her with squinty eyes but wisely didn’t say anything.

  “I want to tell you,” boomed the professor, “that your new salesperson did a bang-up job selling us that red CTS-V sedan out there. Now, let’s talk turkey on the price and get this deal done!”

  Corrie stood there, wondering just what the heck was going to happen now, but the manager was a cool customer. Without batting an eye, he gestured to one of the salespeople to get the paperwork started, then shook the couple’s hands, congratulating them on their taste and style, and praising Corrie for her fine work as if she actually were a salesperson.

  He finished up with a pat on Corrie’s back and a friendly, “If you’d care to step into my office, we’ll talk in a moment.”

  Corrie stepped in and waited in trepidation. In half an hour the manager came back, settled behind his desk, sighed, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I sold a car for you, didn’t I?”

  He stared at her. “BFD. I sell half a dozen cars a day.”

  Corrie rose. “I was just trying to show you what I could do. If you don’t like it, fine. Keep the commission and I’ll walk out of here and never bother you again.” She got up in a huff.

  “Sit down, sit down.” The manager seemed to be cooling off. “Okay, I’ll admit, I’m impressed. Mr. and Mrs. Bow Tie have been in here a dozen times, and I was pretty sure they were just tire kickers. In thirty minutes you sold them a seventy-one-thousand-dollar car. How’d you do it?”

  “That’s my secret.”

  He stared at her. He didn’t like that answer at all. “You want a job here? You learn some respect.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got a system, and if your salespeople want to learn it, they can trail me while I work.” She gave him an arrogant smile. The manager was clearly a first-class asshole, but an intelligent and predictable one who knew which side his bread was buttered on. She figured he might appreciate a brash go-getter.

  “Well, well,” he said. “All right. We’ll try you out for a week. We need a girl salesperson, don’t have one. No salary, commissions only, no benefits, you work as an independent contractor, cash under the table. Don’t report your taxes because we sure as hell won’t. And you’ll work with a partner at all times. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  He stuck out his hand. “Joe Ricco Junior.”

  “Corrie Swanson.”

  They shook hands. “You related by any chance to Jack Swanson?” Ricco asked casually.

  “No. Why?”

  “Because it’s his job you’re replacing.”

  “Never heard of him. Swanson’s a common name. You know, like the TV dinners?”

  “You’re not of that family, are you?”

  She blushed. “Well, don’t tell anyone. I like people to think I have to work for a living.”

  Ricco Junior looked impressed. Very impressed.

  32

  THE BOY SAT AT THE TABLE EATING TOAST WITH BUTTER and jam. Never in his entire life had he tasted anything so wonderful. And the sausages the Oriental woman had given hi
m—many times had he watched his brother eat sausages, but he had never enjoyed one himself, only salivated at the aroma, imagining how they must taste. As he chewed, slowly, savoring the incredible sweetness of the jam, he thought of his new name: Tristram. It sounded strange to him, and he repeated it in his head, trying to get used to it. Tristram. Tristram. It seemed almost a miracle, having a name of his own. He never thought it would be possible. And yet now he had one, just like that.

  He took another bite of toast and glanced at his father. He was scared of his father: the man seemed so cool, so remote—almost, in that way, like them. But Tristram also sensed his father was an important man, and a good man, and he felt safe with him. For the first time in his life, he felt safe.

  Another man entered the room. He was powerful, muscular, silent. Like the ones that so often punished him. Tristram watched him warily out of the corner of his eye. He was used to watching, observing, listening—while never seeming to do so. They would correct him if they thought he was listening or looking. Long ago he had learned to hide such habits, along with everything else about himself. The less they noticed him, the better. To be ignored was always his goal. Others had not been as careful as he. Several of those others had died. Caution was the key to survival.

  “Ah, Proctor, have a seat,” his father said to the man. “Coffee?”

  The man remained standing, his movements stiff. “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Proctor, this is my son, Tristram. Tristram, Proctor.”

  Startled, Tristram raised his head. He wasn’t used to being singled out, named, introduced like this to strangers. Such things usually came before a beating—or worse.

  The man gave him the faintest of nods. He seemed uninterested. That suited Tristram fine.

  “Were you followed?” his father asked.

  “I expected as much, sir, and noticed as much.”

  “We need to get Tristram up to the Riverside Drive mansion. That’s the safest place. Use the apartment’s back passage, of course. I’ve arranged a decoy car. I believe you know what to do.”