Two Graves p-12

by Douglas Preston

  “Naturally, sir.”

  “Let’s not waste any time.” Then his father turned to him. “Finish your brunch, Tristram,” he said in a not-unkind voice.

  Tristram stuffed the rest of the toast into his mouth and gulped down the coffee. He had never eaten such delicious food, and he hoped that wherever they were going it would be as good.

  He followed his father and the other one down many winding passageways, stopping at last at an unmarked wooden door. His toe began hurting, but he worked hard to disguise his limp. If they thought he was too damaged, they might leave him behind. He had seen it before, many times.

  They stepped into a space that contained nothing except a coiled rope and a padlocked trapdoor in the floor. Pendergast unlocked the padlock, opened the door, and shone the flashlight down. Tristram had seen such dark holes before—had been in many of them—and fear suddenly spiked within him. But then, in the light, he was able to make out a small room below, with a dresser and a sofa and a series of strange machines lined up along a table, wires leading away from them.

  His father dropped one end of the ladder down into the room below, then handed the flashlight to the man named Proctor. “Keep the boy close as you make your way through the back passage. When you ultimately emerge from Twenty-Four West Seventy-Second Street, make a careful surveillance. If you can get away without being seen, do so. You’ll find a 1984 Honda Civic from Rent-A-Wreck parked at curbside. I shall meet you at the mansion in a few hours.”

  Pendergast turned to the boy. “Tristram, you’ll go with Proctor.”

  The boy felt another surge of fear. “You not come?”

  “He’ll keep you safe. I’ll join you shortly.”

  The boy hesitated for a moment. Then he turned and followed Proctor down the rope ladder with a feeling of resignation. He needed to do what they said, exactly what they said. Perhaps—as in the past—it would keep him alive.

  Two hours later, Proctor sat with the boy in the large, dimly lit library of 891 Riverside Drive, awaiting Pendergast’s arrival. Proctor had always seen himself as a soldier doing his duty, and that’s how he thought of this assignment—even if it was chauffeuring a strange boy, Pendergast’s son, no less. The boy was the spitting image of his father physically—but in his demeanor and behavior, a polar opposite. Nothing had been explained to Proctor, and he required no explanations. And yet, of all the surprises he had experienced in Pendergast’s employ—and there had been many—this was the greatest.

  The boy had initially been uncommunicative, anxious, and uncertain. But once they were within the mansion, and it was clear he could trust Proctor, Tristram began to open up and—within half an hour—was exhibiting an almost overwhelming curiosity. He asked, in his clumsy, strongly accented English, about everything: the books, the paintings, the rugs, the objets d’art. In so doing, the boy revealed a remarkable, even amazing, ignorance of the world. He had never seen a television set. He did not know what a computer was. He had never listened to the radio, knew nothing about music except for a few Germanic tunes like “The Horst Wessel Song.” Proctor came to understand the boy had never eaten in a restaurant, never gone swimming, never played a game, never been hugged, never had a pet, never tasted ice cream, never met his mother, never ridden a bicycle—and apparently never eaten a hot meal until this morning. It was as if his personality was only just now starting to form, after years and years of dormancy, like a flower being hit by light for the first time. There had been a few flashes of rebelliousness and spunkiness, a dash of bluster, that came and went; but for the most part the boy was full of trepidation—fearful of being captured, anxious about offending, afraid to stand out in any way. He seemed beaten down, passive. Proctor wondered where in the world the boy had come from and under what bizarre circumstances he had been raised.

  The double doors to the library opened, and Pendergast entered quietly.

  Immediately, Tristram stood up. “Father!” he said.

  Pendergast stepped back almost defensively. “It’s fine, Tristram, you may remain seated.” He turned to Proctor. “What news?”

  The boy sat down again quietly.

  “This time I don’t believe we were followed,” Proctor answered. “I’ve activated all the security measures.”

  Pendergast nodded. He turned to Tristram, then sat down in a nearby chair. “I need to know more. More about the place you grew up—Nova Godói.”

  Tristram screwed his face up. “I try.”

  “Describe it to me, please.”

  Tristram looked confused. “Describe?”

  “What is it? A building, a town, a crossroads? What does it look like? How do you get to it?”

  “I understand. But I not know much—they keep us, the bad twins, under guard. We not go anywhere.” A sudden worried look crossed the boy’s face, as if he was afraid of disappointing his father with his lack of knowledge.

  “Just tell me what you know. What you’ve seen.”

  “It is town. Deep, deep in jungle. No road. Only way in is by river, or—” And here he imitated the motion of a plane’s wings with his hand. “Town is on edge of lake.”

  “Lake,” Pendergast repeated.

  “Yes. In middle of lake is… the bad place.”

  “Tell me about the bad place.”

  “No!” Tristram was on his feet again, agitated. “No, no. Bad twins, like me, get taken to the bad place. They do not come out again.”

  He was so agitated that Pendergast said nothing for several minutes, giving the boy time to calm down. “Who lives in the town, Tristram?” he asked at last.

  “The workers. The good twins.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “In the hole,” the boy said simply. “With the others like me. The ones with numbers.”

  “What do you do during the day?”

  “We work. In the fields. And sometimes we are taken. For… tests.” He shook his head violently. “No talking about the tests.”

  “This town,” Pendergast said. “Is it guarded?”

  The boy nodded. “Soldiers. Many soldiers.”

  “Who do the soldiers answer to? How is the town led? Is there a governing council—a group of people in charge?”

  Tristram shook his head. “One man.”

  “What is his name?”

  “F… Fischer.” Tristram barely whispered the word, as if merely to speak it was dangerous.

  “What does he look like?” Pendergast asked.

  “He is tall. Older than you. Stark, kräftig—strong, like him.” Tristram pointed at Proctor. “His hair is white, all white.”

  Proctor was surprised at the effect this description had on Pendergast. The agent shuddered, then turned away.

  “This town,” he said in a strange voice, back still to them. “Does it have any other unique aspects to it?”

  Tristram frowned. “Aspects? What you mean, aspects?”

  Pendergast turned back. “Is there some way it might be different from other towns? A way for someone to recognize it, say, from a distance.”

  “Yes. It has…” And the boy raised both his arms, drawing his hands around in a circle, then tenting them together.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Pendergast said.

  Tristram made the gesture again, then sighed loudly, frustrated at not getting his meaning across.

  Pendergast stood up again. “Thank you, Tristram. You have been most helpful. Now, listen: right now I have to try to prevent your brother from killing any more people.”

  Tristram nodded.

  “As long as I’m doing that, I can’t stay here with you.”

  “No!” The boy rose again.

  “You must remain here. They’re looking for you.”

  “I not afraid of them!”

  Proctor looked at the boy. Brave words, and obviously well intended—but the greater likelihood was that, at the first knock on the door, he’d turn tail and hide behind his father.

  “I know you mean well,�
� Pendergast said gently. “But right now, you need to go to ground.”

  “Go… to ground?” the son repeated.

  “Go into hiding. This house has places for that: where you can hide, safe from any attack, any threat.”

  A flash of anger distorted the boy’s fine features. “Hide? In hole? I will not do such thing! I have been in hole too long!”

  “Tristram. You took a big risk in escaping. You came to me. Now you must trust me.” Pendergast took the boy’s hand. “You won’t be in any hole. Proctor will be with you. And I will visit as often as I can.”

  The youth’s face had flushed red. He hung his head, clearly angry but holding his tongue.

  Pendergast took Proctor aside. “You know where to put him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Proctor? I wonder if I could impose on you to use this time—this enforced, ah, seclusion—to educate Tristram a little.”

  Proctor looked at Pendergast. “Educate him?”

  “Talk with him. Let him practice his English. Be a companion—he’s obviously in desperate need of socialization. He knows nothing of the outside world. Read books with him—novels, histories, whatever interests him. Listen to music, watch movies. Answer his questions. Show him how to use a computer.”

  Proctor stiffened at the thought of babysitting the boy. “Yes, sir,” he said in a tight voice.

  Pendergast turned, addressed Tristram. “I have to go now. You’re in good hands with Proctor. I’ll be back tomorrow. Tristram: I want you to recall everything you can about your childhood, growing up, how you lived, where you lived, what its layout was, who was with you—everything—and be prepared to tell me about it when I come tomorrow. We’re going to have a long talk.”

  For a moment, the boy continued to hang his head. Then, with a sigh, he nodded sullenly.

  “Good-bye, Tristram.” Pendergast gave him a long, penetrating look. Then, nodding to Proctor, he turned and left the room as silently as he had arrived.

  Proctor glanced at the boy. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you to your new room.”

  He led the way toward a row of bookshelves. The boy followed a little unwillingly. He seemed to have lost his eager curiosity.

  Proctor glanced at the rows of books, found the title he wanted, grasped it, and pulled it away from the wall. With a click, the entire bookcase swung away, revealing an elevator beyond.

  “Scheiße,” murmured Tristram.

  They entered the elevator, and Proctor pressed the button for the basement. Once there, Proctor led the way through the maze of dimly lit stone passageways, heavy with verdigris and efflorescence. He kept the pace brisk, not allowing the youth to stop and look into any chambers whose contents he might find unsettling.

  “My father does not like me,” Tristram said in an unhappy tone.

  “He’s just doing what’s best for you,” Proctor replied gruffly.

  They stopped at a small, vaulted room, completely empty except for a shield carved into one wall, depicting a lidless eye over two moons, one crescent, the other full, with a lion couchant beneath—the Pendergast family crest. Proctor approached it, pressed it with both hands. The stone wall behind swung away, revealing a circular stair that sloped down sharply into darkness. Tristram’s eyes widened but he said nothing.

  Snapping on a light, Proctor descended the stairs into the sub-basement, Tristram following. Reaching the bottom, they moved through a short passage leading to a vaulted space that seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see.

  “What is this place?” Tristram asked, looking around in wonder.

  “This building used to be an abbey,” said Proctor. “I believe the monks used this sub-basement as a necropolis.”

  “Necropolis?”

  “Burial ground. Where they buried their dead.”

  “They bury the dead?”

  Proctor refrained from asking what they did with the dead where Tristram came from.

  He led the way past ancient laboratories; past rooms full of glass bottles, stored on row upon row of shelving; past rooms full of tapestries and ancient art. Proctor had never liked these moldering underground spaces, and he moved swiftly. The boy followed, looking left and right, eyes wide. At last Proctor led him down a side passageway to a small but well-furnished bedroom with an adjoining bath. There was a bed, a table and chairs, a row of books, and a dresser with a mirror set atop it. The space was as clean and as pleasant as the subterranean atmosphere—with its faint odor of ammonia and ancient decay—could permit. It sported a stout wooden door with a well-built lock.

  “This is your room,” he told Tristram.

  The boy nodded, looking around. He seemed pleased.

  “Can you… read?” Proctor asked, glancing at the books, the thought suddenly occurring to him.

  “Only the good twins are supposed to read. But I taught myself. Just a little. But only German.”

  “I see. Well, if you will excuse me, I’ll get you some things, be back in half an hour.”

  “What did you say is your name?”

  “Proctor.”

  The boy looked at him, smiled a little shyly. “Thank you, Herr Proctor.”

  33

  ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST BROUGHT THE ROLLS TO A HALT at the corner of Bushwick Avenue and Meserole Street in Brooklyn. This was—according to the cab company’s records—where the taxi had picked up the fleeing boy. It was an old, mostly abandoned industrial neighborhood that had just started to see the invasion of creative pioneers. But it still retained the rawness of graffiti, trash, boarded-up buildings, and the hulks of burned-out cars. The street scene was a mixture of derelicts, hipsters, and sketchy-looking young men.

  Pendergast was conspicuous in his black suit as he stepped out of the Silver Wraith, locking the door behind him. Hands in his pockets, he strolled down Meserole Street. It was midafternoon, a brilliant but warmthless sun blasting the pavement. Several blocks ahead of him rose an old nineteenth-century brewery complex, covering almost an acre of ground. A huge square stack for the hops kiln rose above it, with the name VAN DAM still visible on it, along with the date of its founding: 1858.

  A brewery. Tristram had, without knowing it, described just such a place: the long underground tunnel where the casks were stored; the huge brick kiln where the hops were dried. This, undoubtedly, had been the site of his incarceration and the site that his captors, Alban and no doubt his Nazi handlers, had been using as a base of operations—for whatever it was they were planning.

  Pendergast approached, scrutinizing the building carefully. It was, even in this benighted corner of Brooklyn, a prime piece of real estate, and it had accordingly been securely boarded up with galvanized tin and plywood. Two ancient, massive industrial metal doors blocked what had once been the main entrance. These doors had been bolted shut, and the pedestrian door set into one of them was not only chained and padlocked, but also welded closed with two pieces of rebar.

  Pendergast walked on, examining some of the smaller, secondary entrances set into the crumbling brick façade along the street, all of which were more or less impregnable. As he paused at one door, examining its frozen lock, he heard a voice behind him.

  “Got any money, friend?”

  Pendergast turned to see a rail-thin youth, undoubtedly a heroin addict, staring at him with hollow, hungry eyes.

  “As a matter of fact I do.” Pendergast delved into his suit and brought out a twenty-dollar bill. A spark ignited in the man’s dead eyes, and he reached out with trembling fingers.

  “I want to break into this building,” said Pendergast, twitching the bill out of reach. “How?”

  The man stared at him, his mouth open. “You a thief?”

  “Insurance adjustor.”

  A hesitation as the man tried to think. “Can’t get in there, that I know of.”

  “Yes, but if I were to try to break in—how would I?”

  Another desperate effort to think. “I’d go ’round the back, where the railroad tr
acks are. Climb the fence.”

  Pendergast twitched the bill back toward the man, who snatched it and then set off down the street at a fast wobble. “Don’t get caught,” he called over his shoulder.

  Pendergast walked to the far end of the block and followed the complex around the corner, where it ended in a disused railroad yard, stacked with rotting containers and old machinery, surrounded by a chain-link fence.

  In a single, bat-like motion, Pendergast grasped the fence, vaulted the top, and dropped down onto the far side. He paused a moment to smooth down his suit. Then, moving among the containers and chest-high weeds, he followed a set of railroad tracks to the back of the brewery, where the tracks disappeared into the complex behind another set of industrial metal doors. As he approached, he noted that a number of the weeds had been bruised, broken, or otherwise recently disturbed by the passage of people and objects. The soft ground away from the tracks showed signs of footprints.

  He followed the faint marks of disturbance across the railroad yard, away from the tracks and toward a small door set into the massive brick façade. Reaching the door, he found it as old and massive as the others, but not welded, and with freshly oiled hinges and a new brass lock of a model he did not recognize.

  The lock proved to be a challenge, requiring the full set of his tools and skills. It also, unfortunately, caused quite a bit of noise, as several of the pins had to be sheared off with brute force.

  Finally the lock yielded, but Pendergast did not open the door immediately. He waited, .45 drawn, for almost ten minutes. And then, flattening himself behind the door, he nudged it open with his shoe. It swung silently at first, then stopped with a loud groan of metal.

  Silence.

  Five more minutes passed. Pendergast ducked inside, diving to the floor, rolling, and taking cover behind a brick knee wall.

  More silence. No one had shouted an alarm; no one had opened fire.

  He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He was in a vast space, illuminated by scattered holes and cracks in the roof, which let in brilliant pencil-beams of sunlight. Motes drifted through in slow cadences. The air smelled faintly sweet, earthy.