Two Graves p-12

by Douglas Preston

  He was too late. In the small room, the woman he’d seen in the video lay on the floor, obviously dead but not yet dismembered. Pendergast hesitated only a moment, his silvery eyes darting all around, taking everything in. Then, leaping over the still form, he threw open the bathroom door. The window at the end of the narrow bath was shattered, opening on a fire escape. Pendergast vaulted through the window onto the fire escape and looked down, in time to see a young man—Alban—clambering down the last flight of the escape, climbing through the bottom hatch, and dropping to the ground.

  Pendergast raced down the fire escape, three steps at a time, following Alban with his eyes as the youth ran down Park Avenue and disappeared around the corner of Thirty-Fifth Street, heading east, toward the river.

  Pendergast ran after him. When he rounded the corner of Thirty-Fifth, he could see Alban almost two blocks east, silhouetted in the streetlights, tearing along at a tremendous speed—a phenomenal runner. Pendergast continued, but by the time he reached Lexington the now-tiny figure of Alban had already crossed Second Avenue and was running alongside St. Vartan Park. Realizing he would never catch him, Pendergast nevertheless continued on, at the least hoping to see where his son would go. The fleeing, barely visible figure passed First Avenue and ran toward FDR Drive, leaping a chain-link fence and climbing over a cement barrier and out onto the drive, where he dropped out of sight into the darkness.

  Pendergast sprinted past St. Vartan Park, crossing First Avenue against the light. He hit the chain-link fence, clambered over it, vaulted the cement barrier, and ran out onto FDR Drive, dodging cars amid a sudden chorus of horns and screeching brakes. He made it to the far side and stopped, looking both ways, but he could see nothing: Alban had vanished into the night. The East River stretched out in front of him, the Hunter’s Point ferry terminal lay on his right, the Queensboro Bridge on his left, atwinkle with lights. Directly in front of him two vacant, ruined piers stood out in the East River, extending from a decaying, riprapped riverbank below a broken-up quay, much of it reclaimed by a riot of undergrowth, old cattails, cane, dry reeds, and brambles—everything withered and brown in the wintry moonlight.

  There were many, many places to disappear into, and Alban was gone. He clearly knew the lay of the land and had worked out his escape ahead of time. It was hopeless.

  Pendergast turned and walked along the shoulder of the FDR Drive toward a pedestrian walkway five blocks south to recross the highway. But as he walked, he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye—a man, a young man, standing on the first ruined pier, illuminated from behind by the dim light of the bridge.

  It was Alban. His son was looking directly at him. And—as Pendergast stopped and stared—he raised his hand and gave a little wave.

  Immediately Pendergast vaulted over the railing of the drive and landed on the embankment below, clawing his way through the overgrowth. He came out on the broken cement quay only to find that Alban had once again vanished.

  Sensing he must have headed up the embankment, Pendergast sprinted northward. And in a moment he saw movement ahead—Alban, running out on the second ruined pier, where he stopped halfway, turned, and waited, arms crossed.

  As he ran, Pendergast drew his .45. To reach the second pier, he was forced around a row of ruined bollards and through more undergrowth, during which he again temporarily lost sight of Alban. Just as he came to the foot of the pier and emerged from the vegetation, he felt a stunning blow to his leg and was pitched forward, and—even as he was falling—felt a second blow to his hand, which sent the .45 flying. He rolled and tried to rise, but Alban anticipated the maneuver and slammed Pendergast’s head down with his knee, pinning the agent to the cement.

  And then, just as quickly as he’d been pinned, he was released. Pendergast leapt to his feet, ready to fight.

  But Alban did not come after him. He merely stepped back, arms once again crossed.

  Pendergast froze, and they stared at each other, like two animals, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

  Then Alban suddenly relaxed. “Endlich,” he said. “Finally. We can have a heart-to-heart… father to son… something I’ve been looking forward to for a long time.” And he smiled rather pleasantly.

  37

  THEY LOOKED AT EACH OTHER THROUGH THE SEMIDARKNESS, not moving. Pendergast stood, catching his breath, only now realizing that he had never been quite so thoroughly and rapidly overcome in his life. Alban had entirely surprised him, the way he had stopped as if to wait for Pendergast to catch up, and then—in the space of mere seconds—set up an ambush and followed it through with remarkable success.

  Keeping his eyes on his son, he brushed himself off, waiting for Alban to speak, waiting for his opportunity. He still had a backup sidearm and several other weapons on his person. Alban would not escape him now.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” said Alban. “Here we are, face-to-face.” His voice was cool, mellifluous. Unlike his brother, he did not have the trace of an accent, yet he spoke with the slight over-preciseness of one to whom English was a second language. “I was destined to meet you. As are all sons to meet their fathers.”

  “What about their mothers?” Pendergast asked.

  This question did not seem to surprise Alban. He continued. “The test has reached a crucial phase. Allow me to compliment you, by the way, on solving my little riddle. And to think I doubted you would. I apologize.”

  “You like to talk,” said Pendergast. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the glint of the .45 in the weeds about ten feet to his left.

  Alban laughed. “Yes, I do.” He took a step to his right, then another, effectively blocking Pendergast’s approach to the gun. Although he was only fifteen, he seemed much older—tall, extremely fit, strong, and whippet-fast. Pendergast wondered if the youth had been trained in the martial arts. If so, he did not believe he could best him in a physical contest.

  “Why are you—?”

  “Killing? Like I said, it’s a test.”

  “Tell me—”

  “About the test? It’s simple. At least in part, it’s to see who’s the better man: you or me.” He held out his hands toward Pendergast, turned up his palms. “Like you, I’m unarmed. Here we are, evenly matched. It’s not quite fair since you’re old and I’m young. So I’m going to give you a handicap.”

  Pendergast could feel his moment arriving, a window in which he could act. He prepared himself mentally, choreographing his actions in his head. But then, mere seconds before he made his move, one of Alban’s extended hands jerked into Pendergast’s jacket and—in one astonishing blur of movement—removed his backup sidearm. It happened so quickly that by the time Pendergast reacted, Alban was already in possession of the weapon.

  “Oops.” Alban examined it—a Walther PPK .32—and snorted. “Now, this is a side of you I wouldn’t have guessed. A romantic, aren’t we, Father?”

  Pendergast took a step back, but even as he did so Alban stepped forward, keeping the distance between them a close five feet. He continued holding the Walther, his thumb on the safety.

  “Why this test?” asked Pendergast.

  “Ah! That really is the heart of the matter, isn’t it? Why pit me against you? What a strange thing! And yet, so much depends on it—” But suddenly Alban stopped and stepped back, his arrogant self-assurance wavering.

  “Is that why you’re—”

  “Calling this the beta test? Yes.” After a moment, Alban relaxed, smiled again. Then he removed the magazine from the Walther, slid out the rounds with his thumb, one at a time, leaving just one in the magazine. He slid the mag back into place, racked the final round into the chamber, and thumbed off the safety. He handed the gun back to Pendergast, butt first.

  “There. Your handicap. One round in the chamber. Now the advantage is yours. See if you can capture and take me in. With a single round.”

  Pendergast aimed the pistol at Alban. He would not—could not—kill him, not at present: his need to know
his son’s motive, his relation to Der Bund, was very great. But the boy was so strong and fast that he could escape, even now, simply by running.

  A bullet in the knee would be necessary.

  With the faintest flickering movement he dropped the muzzle and fired, but Alban moved so fast—even before Pendergast seemed to have started his own move—that the bullet missed, just nicking the cloth.

  Alban laughed, reaching down, poking his finger through the hole in his trousers, wiggling it. “Close! Whew. But not good enough. What is the expression? This time, I bested you.”

  He took a quick step back, reached down into the weeds, and picked up Pendergast’s .45. “Do you know the Goethe poem ‘Der Erlkönig’?”

  “In translation, yes.”

  “Schön! By heart?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn your back, close your eyes, and recite it. The first three stanzas should be sufficient. No—considering we’re in relative darkness, I’ll be even more sporting and make it only the first two stanzas. And then you can come looking for me.”

  “And if I cheat?”

  “I’ll shoot you.” Alban’s pale eyes twinkled. “Of course, I could just shoot you right now, and that would also be cheating. We Pendergasts do not cheat.” Another pleasant smile. “Do you want to play?”

  “I have more—”

  “I think I’ve answered enough questions. Now: do you want to play?”

  “Why not?”

  “If you open your eyes early, it means you’re a cheater; I shoot; you die.”

  “You’ll merely outrun me. This is no challenge at all.”

  “It is true I could outrun you. But I won’t do that. Instead, during your recitation, which should take no longer than ten seconds, I’m going to hide. And you will have to find me however you can—by intelligence, by stealth, by tracking, by deduction—it’s up to you. So! Turn your back and let’s begin.”

  Pendergast heard the soft click of the safety on the Les Baer being thumbed back. He immediately turned around and began to speak in a clear, loud tone:

  Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?

  The father it is, with his infant so dear…

  At the end of the second stanza, he quickly turned and scanned the deserted piers.

  Alban was gone. The Les Baer lay in the weeds a few yards away.

  Three hours later, Pendergast finally gave up searching.

  38

  DAMN IT TO HELL,” LIEUTENANT VINCENT D’AGOSTA muttered as he stood in the hallway of the Murray Hill Hotel. Even in the corridor he could hear the shouts and electronic blarings of the press down on the street, along with a chorus of sirens, cars honking, and miscellaneous New York City noise. Hours had passed since the killing, but the media only got thicker. Traffic on Park Avenue was gridlocked from the hotel all the way to the MetLife Building, no doubt the rubbernecking effect at work. The hotel throbbed with the thwap thwap of helicopters above, their spotlights sweeping the building. And Pendergast had disappeared.

  What was it about New Yorkers and crime? They loved it, they ate it up. The News and the Post had been running screaming headlines for days on the Hotel Killer. And now this. God forbid the crime rate should drop to zero; most of the papers in the city would go bankrupt.

  Brilliant white light poured out into the hall from Room 516, and D’Agosta could see the occasional shadows of the figures still working in there. Gibbs was inside as well. It was complete bullshit that the man had been given access during the evidence-gathering phase—top brass were supposed to be kept out. But this time he’d insisted on going in, despite D’Agosta’s demurral. Christ, he himself, the squad commander, hadn’t been in there since the initial discovery.

  “Hey, what’s with the fucking Coke?” he bellowed at a latents specialist passing down the hall. “You know there’s no eating or drinking at the scene!”

  The man, immediately cowed, ducked his head in abject submission, turned, and hustled away down the hall, carrying the frosty can, not daring to sip from it.

  D’Agosta could see some of the other detectives hovering around the corridor exchanging glances. All right, so he was pissed and showing it. He didn’t give a shit. The whole thing with Pendergast had freaked him out, the way he’d disappeared like that. Just vanished. Along with the perp. And this crazy theory about it being his son… and yet, he’d called it right on the button: date, time, and place.

  D’Agosta had been on a lot of strange trips with Pendergast, but this was the strangest of all. He was well and truly shaken up. On top of that, his not-so-old chest wound was giving him a hard time. He felt in his pocket for some Advil, popped a few more.

  “Hey, who gave you permission to waltz in here like you owned the place?” he shouted at a white-coated forensic specialist just ducking in under the crime-scene tape. “Log in, for shit’s sake!”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, but you see I did log in. I was just visiting the men’s room—”

  His attempted smile was cut off by D’Agosta’s shout. “Log in again!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  D’Agosta turned back and abruptly saw Pendergast. The man’s gaunt figure had materialized at the far end of the hall. As he approached, walking swiftly, D’Agosta’s gut tightened with apprehension. He had to talk to him, find out more about this bizarre business of the alleged son.

  He was shocked by the look on Pendergast’s face: it fairly blazed with hard, dazzling intensity. He looked almost mad. And yet the eyes were absolutely clear.

  “Where’d you go?” D’Agosta asked.

  “I chased the killer to the river. He escaped at the piers.”

  “You… chased him?”

  “He had just left the room when I arrived, by the fire escape. There was no time. I engaged in pursuit.”

  “And you’re sure he’s… your son?”

  Pendergast stared at him. “As I said earlier, that information remains strictly between us.”

  D’Agosta swallowed. The intensity of Pendergast’s stare unnerved him. “If you’ve got information, I mean, we’ve got to share it…” he began.

  The look on Pendergast’s face became distinctly unfriendly. “Vincent, I am the only person who can catch this killer. Nobody else can. In fact, their attempts would only make things worse. Therefore, we must keep the information to ourselves. At least for now. Do you understand?”

  D’Agosta couldn’t bring himself to answer. He did understand. But withholding information—especially the possible identity of the killer? You couldn’t do that. Then again, it seemed a completely crazy idea that the killer was Pendergast’s son—that he even had a son. The man was cracking up. Maybe they should withhold it.

  He had no idea what to do.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Agent Pendergast.” And here came Gibbs, striding out of the hotel room. He approached, hand extended, the phoniest of smiles on his face. Pendergast took the hand.

  “You look like you’ve been in a rumble,” said Gibbs with a chuckle, looking over Pendergast’s muddied suit.

  “Indeed.”

  “I’m curious,” said Gibbs, “how you and the lieutenant managed to get to the crime scene just, what, minutes after the perp arrived? The lieutenant said it was your idea, something about a number sequence?”

  “Fibonacci,” Pendergast said.

  Gibbs frowned. “Fibonacci? Who’s Fibonacci?”

  “Leonardo Fibonacci,” said Pendergast, “a medieval mathematician. Italian, naturally.”

  “Italian. Right.”

  “I examined the numerical evidence of the killings and discovered that the addresses of the hotels follow a pattern: Five East Forty-Fifth Street, Eight West Fiftieth Street, Thirteen Central Park West. Five, eight, thirteen. That is part of the Fibonacci sequence, each number being the sum of the previous two. The next term in the sequence would be twenty-one. I discovered there was only one Manhattan hotel at a twenty-
one address—the Murray Hill, at Twenty-One Park Avenue.”

  Gibbs listened, head bowed, arms crossed, still frowning.

  “The times of the killings follow a simpler sequence, alternating between seven thirty in the morning and nine in the evening. It’s a sign of arrogance, like showing his face to the security cameras—as if we’re so beneath contempt, he doesn’t even have to try to hide his work.”

  When Pendergast fell silent, Gibbs rolled his eyes. “I can’t argue about the times of death. But all that about the Fib… the Fib… that’s got to be one of the most far-fetched ideas I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yeah, well,” said D’Agosta, “it seems to have worked.”

  Gibbs took out his notebook. “So, Agent Pendergast, when you got here, what happened? The lieutenant tells me you just disappeared.”

  “As I was telling Lieutenant D’Agosta, I went directly to the room, found the bathroom window open. The perpetrator was descending the fire escape. I gave chase and pursued him to the river, where I lost him in the area of the old piers.”

  Gibbs took a few notes. “Get a good look at him?”

  “No better than the security cameras.”

  “You can’t tell me anything else?”

  “I’m afraid not. Except that he’s a fast runner.”

  D’Agosta could hardly believe it: Pendergast really was withholding evidence. It was one thing to talk about doing it; quite another to actively do it. Not only that, but Pendergast was doing so in an investigation D’Agosta himself was in charge of. He was finding it increasingly difficult not to take Pendergast’s flippant attitude toward the rule of law personally.

  Gibbs slapped his notebook shut. “Interesting that he chose a dump like this. It shows his M.O. is evolving. That’s a common trait of this type of serial killer. He first kills in environments where he feels safe, then branches out, gets more daring. Pushes the envelope.”