Verses for the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  From the darkness of the sliding doors, something was flung out, landing a second or two later in the water. At first, Pendergast could not make out what it was. But the alligators sprawled along the bank did, and in a flash they were in the water, a sudden boiling around the spot where the thing had landed: thrashing and struggling, with whipping of tails and snapping of jaws.

  They were fighting over a piece of meat.

  Another piece was flung out with a splash, generating another feeding frenzy as more of the brutes spilled into the water. When the third toss came, Pendergast fired into the darkness of the shed, only to draw return fire that drove him back behind another massive cypress stump.

  This was a new strategy. There must be a hundred animals in the water now. The pieces of meat had been consumed and the reptiles were spreading out, aroused from their torpor and eager for more. He could see the ripples and swirls on the surface, the dimpled water indicating movement below. Some of the ripples were coming toward him. He moved behind the stump, a mass of roots ending in a twisted knot of wood. There he hunkered down, hoping the hungry beasts would not notice him or the blood seeping from his bullet wound. If he tried to flee the approaching hordes, his movement in the water would only attract them.

  He ejected the empty magazine and slapped in the spare. And then he pressed himself against the stump, working his legs into the root bundle and remaining perfectly still. He could see the blurry outline of the gators, moving back and forth like giant eels. A head emerged, just the nostrils and eyes, and then another head, until they seemed to be everywhere, peering hungrily about.

  He remained pressed against the trunk, a shooter on the far side and alligators all around.

  46

  PENDERGAST SAW THE swirl of water and felt the thing brush past his legs just seconds before it paused to attack. He grabbed a knob on the cypress root bundle and hauled himself out of the water just as the alligator lunged. It caught the toe of his shoe but, unable to hold on, slipped back into the water. Another brute lunged upward, jaws closing like a steel trap. Pendergast pulled himself farther out of the water, trying to avoid the snapping jaws while still remaining in cover. Yet another gator lunged up and he shot it point-blank in the throat. It fell back, thrashing, eyes still open, black blood spreading in the dark water. Below him, the water swirled as additional alligators jockeyed for position. If he crept any higher up the side of the stump, he would expose himself to the shooter, but by staying put he could not avoid the reach of the alligators. He shot another that erupted from the water to grab his leg, then another: an unavoidable waste of ammunition as well as being a losing strategy, as the shot animals only added more meat to a feeding frenzy. The frantic thrashing spread further as the living gators tore into the dying ones, strewing entrails and body parts in the water. Pendergast, precariously clinging to the tangle of roots, knew he couldn’t shoot them all. He couldn’t climb higher; he couldn’t descend.

  As he considered his situation, he heard a roar, recognizing it a second later as the sound of an airboat engine starting up. Peering around the edge of the tree, he saw the craft emerge from the darkness of a far shed, a figure at the helm. It circled through the trees and he fired at it once, even though it was far out of range and moving fast.

  Pendergast tried to move around the side of the stump, but a gator tore at his damaged shoe, almost ripping it off. As the boat circled he became fully exposed to it, unable to move, unable to take cover.

  The boat slowed and came to rest across the clear patch of water. Its pilot was in shade, two hundred yards out.

  Despite the fact the man was well out of range, Pendergast took careful aim, squeezed the trigger. A jet of water went up ten yards in front, wide of the craft.

  “Agent Pendergast,” a voice came over the water. “All you’re doing is wasting bullets and attracting more alligators.”

  Pendergast recognized, to his enormous surprise, the voice of Commander Grove, the external affairs liaison from Miami PD.

  “That’s a fancy sidearm you’re packing, but it can’t work miracles.” Grove paused. “Go ahead, anyway. Give it your best shot.” The outline of a figure spread his arms, holding the rifle aside.

  Pendergast aimed for the boat’s engine and squeezed off his last two shots, spacing them apart long enough to make a correction on the second. A gout of water popped up a dozen feet to the right; the second, much closer at three feet. But not close enough. He fired again, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber, as he knew it would.

  “Impressive shooting, under the circumstances. Still, you’re an optimist, and in this crazy world, optimists die.” The boat engine revved up and the airboat crept toward him. “I saw you lose your backup weapon through the scope, and I’m counting on your not having a third magazine for the 1911. Those seven-shot clips are heavy and I never knew an FBI agent to carry more than one spare. I mean, if you can’t do the job with fifteen rounds, that’s pretty sad. What kind of agent would carry a third magazine?” Grove laughed.

  As the man spoke, Pendergast was assembling the missing pieces—the real missing pieces—of the puzzle. The picture they formed was depressing indeed. He briefly contemplated his options—either launch himself into the sea of alligators or wait to be shot. The water was still teeming with the agitated reptiles; another lunged up at him, and Pendergast smacked its snout with the butt of his empty gun. There was no longer any possibility of, or any point in, trying to remain in cover.

  “Keep your hands away from your body and in sight at all times,” Grove ordered curtly.

  The airboat eased closer. Grove, at the helm, kept one hand on the wheel with the other aiming the rifle. “You FBI assholes come down here like you’re manna from heaven. I wonder if you have any clue as to what’s really going on.”

  “I do now,” said Pendergast.

  Grove eased the boat within twenty feet and cut the throttle, taking up the rifle in both hands and holding it steady on Pendergast.

  “I wonder if you understand,” Pendergast added.

  Grove laughed. “I’ve got it about 90 percent figured out—thanks to you and Coldmoon. Anyway, with you two dead I’ll have time to piece together the rest and clean it all up. Unless, of course, you’d like to pass on a few pointers. You know, to help me out.”

  “I’d rather you satisfied my own curiosity first,” Pendergast said. “I’m assuming it was you who doctored the Vance file to lure us out here?”

  Grove’s upper lip twitched with a note of self-satisfaction. “You should pin a medal on me for figuring out it was John Vance who set all this into motion. It wasn’t until the second note had been placed on a grave that I started to wonder. Of course, as a police ‘liaison’ it was a breeze to insert myself into a case involving the FBI—just as a way of keeping tabs on things. And then, with the third note, I knew all this was more than coincidence. When I did some digging and learned Vance was dead, killed in a car accident, I was surprised as hell. But I quickly realized there was only one other possibility.” He shook his head. “Who’d have expected that hangdog little Vance punk would grow up to become a serial killer?”

  “If John Vance was dead, you must have pulled his death notice from the file. And added a fictitious interview with him—one that would lead us directly to Canepatch. Where you’d be waiting.”

  “Pretty fast footwork, right—pulling his son from the file so you wouldn’t get suspicious, and adding that fake two-year-old interview report? I figured you’d want to talk to Vance.”

  “And he would have wanted to talk to you. After all, you did kill his wife. Correct?”

  “You’re smarter than the average bear. But just so you know, it was an accident.”

  “I assume you were having an affair with her. The husband was returning from a tour of duty; she threatened to confess to him; and you killed her to silence her and preserve your career. Being a cop, you knew what to do to make it look like a suicide.”

  “I said it was an acci
dent.”

  “Of course it was. As a self-professed former homicide detective, I’m sure you’ve heard that many times.” Pendergast’s voice suddenly launched into a high-pitched, sniveling whine. “It was just an accident.”

  The satisfied smirk left Grove’s face. “Fuck you—”

  “But Lydia’s husband, being former military police, sensed it was murder. He didn’t have any hard evidence; he just knew. He couldn’t convince the Miami PD of that—thanks no doubt to your behind-the-scenes manipulation of the investigation. Such as substituting her potentially damning X-rays with those of another, unrelated suicide victim.”

  Grove just glared at him.

  “Clever of you, though, to leave Vance’s hounding of the police—real hounding, by a man convinced his wife had been murdered—in the file. That added to its verisimilitude.”

  “I’m glad you’re coming around. Anyway, Vance’s long gone. With you and Coldmoon out of the way, that just leaves Mister Brokenhearts. As soon as I’m finished here, I’m going to do the world a solid by smoking his ass.”

  “How good of you—considering you created him in the first place.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Hardly. You’re the one responsible for this entire chain of killings. In fact, you’ve been the primum mobile all along. The only difference is that, now, you know it. How many murders, exactly, can be laid at your doorstep? Let’s add them up: Lydia Vance, Jasmine Oriol, Laurie Winters, Mary Adler, Elise Baxter, Agatha Flayley—and that’s not even counting the women slaughtered by Brokenhearts: Felice Montera, Jenny—”

  “I keep telling you, no way am I responsible. Lydia was going to shoot off her mouth, and I was just trying to reason with her, but things got physical and, well—”

  Again, the shrill, crybaby voice erupted from Pendergast. “I was just trying to reason with her, but things got physical and, well…I strangled her.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth.”

  “Contrary to your pusillanimous rationalizations, these murders are all a direct result of your actions, Commander—and you can’t fool yourself into denying it. Nine cruel, needless, senseless murders.”

  “I’ve heard enough.” Grove raised the rifle and took aim. Pendergast noted, with detached resignation, the slow squeeze of the trigger finger. He tensed his muscles, ready to leap into the swirling water, knowing it would be a useless gesture.

  Still, any gesture was better than none at all.

  47

  AS PENDERGAST STEELED himself for the final leap, he heard a noise, a chunk, come from the direction of the boat. Grove’s head snapped forward as if he’d been slapped from behind. His rifle jerked up and went off, the round going wild. Grove’s expression turned to one of pure astonishment. Then he did a pirouette that was almost graceful, his body turning to reveal the handle of a hatchet, blade buried in the back of his skull. He remained still for a moment, then toppled headfirst into the water.

  The splash of Grove’s body, and the sudden introduction of fresh blood and brains, generated another frenzied boiling of water. A dozen alligators converged, jaws snapping, tails whipping, seizing the body on all sides and shaking it back and forth.

  And now Pendergast saw a battered kayak glide up behind the airboat. A young man was paddling it, lean and muscled, with closely trimmed hair and a grin that seemed permanently stamped on his scarred, crooked face. He wore a T-shirt that said, BECAUSE IT IS BITTER. He raised an arm in a tentative greeting, a very red tongue exposed behind cemetery teeth. “Agent Pendergast? It’s me.”

  “Mister Brokenhearts,” Pendergast said.

  He watched as the young man, trembling slightly, boarded the idling airboat and brought it through the mass of alligators and over to the stump. Pendergast stepped aboard. The youth spat into the water at the pack of tearing, twisting, snapping alligators. A long filleting knife, its razor-sharp blade blackened, was now in one hand.

  “So that’s the man who killed my mother. I should’ve known it was a cop. I’ve been following you, you know, since I saw you on TV—”

  “I know,” Pendergast interrupted, taking the helm. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, we have to go.”

  “No. No, I can’t leave Archy behind.”

  “There’s no time.”

  The grip on the knife grew tighter, the knuckles whitening. “But Archy…not with those gators…!”

  Pendergast turned and fixed the youth with a look. “By stopping that man, you saved a life. My life. Now you have a chance to save a second. My partner’s on that island. He’s been shot. We need to get to him.”

  The youth stared at him, red-rimmed eyes wide. “I don’t care. My mother’s dead. Nothing—none of them—brought her back. ‘Death has a hundred hands and walks by a thousand ways.’”

  “Don’t take refuge in literature. That’s cowardly, and you’re not a coward. This is the real world—where real people live, hurt, and die.”

  “Yes. And violence is the only answer.”

  “Has violence worked for you? Have you atoned yet? Do you feel healed?” He lowered his voice. “Trust me, I know about violence.”

  Brokenhearts stared, his misshapen face twisted with emotion.

  “Did violence bring your mother back—no matter how many times your father tried? And what did violence do to you? Violence is an answer—but it’s the last answer.”

  A keening sound of despair came from the man’s lips.

  “Feel the pain in others you have caused, through violence. Feel the loss—the terror and sorrow. That’s the beginning of atonement.” He lowered his voice. “I sensed you were shadowing me. At least, I hoped you were. And now we’re face-to-face. The rest is up to you.” He held out his hand. “First, the knife.”

  For a moment, the youth was motionless. Then he extended his hand and Pendergast gently took away the knife. Pocketing it, Pendergast turned immediately and pushed the throttle down, the airboat lurching forward with a roar, and he aimed it down the channel toward the landing, running it up onto the mud, then leaping out and crashing through the understory, heading for the sinkhole. Sixty more seconds and he arrived at the yawning pit—and there was Coldmoon at the bottom, weakly holding on to an exposed root, barely conscious and hardly able to keep his head above water. Several agitated water moccasins swam in the bloody, murky water around him.

  “Hold on!” Pendergast seized a root and swung into the pit, scrambling down from handhold to handhold as fast as he could. When he reached the bottom he kicked off, ignoring the snakes, and in two strokes reached Coldmoon. Grasping him around the chest, keeping his head above water, he pushed his way back to the side of the sinkhole. When he looked up, he saw Mister Brokenhearts’s face at the edge of the pit, peering down, expressionless.

  Grasping a root, Pendergast tightened his hold on Coldmoon and began hauling him up the slick, muddy slope, finding fresh hand- and footholds, every muscle straining. Another step, another haul, another clenched root. At the extreme end of exhaustion, he approached the top.

  “Give me a hand,” he gasped.

  Mister Brokenhearts stared down, his face distorted with indecision. He looked to one side, and then the other, as if he might run. The airboat was at the dock. It was a perfect opportunity to escape.

  “You could run,” Pendergast said as he struggled. “But you won’t—at least, not if you truly do want to atone.”

  Brokenhearts reached down and grabbed Coldmoon’s arm with one hand, Pendergast’s with the other, and hauled back, helping drag both up and over the edge. Coldmoon lay on his back among the crushed ferns, unconscious now. Pendergast took his pulse, checked his airway, and gave him a rapid examination. He was shot, possibly snakebitten, suffering respiratory impairment due to water in the lungs. Pendergast rolled him on his side and slapped his back, shaking him hard. Coldmoon coughed, water and blood running out of his mouth. He wheezed loudly; Pendergast guessed a collapsed lung—at the minimum.

  “Help me get him to the boat
.”

  Brokenhearts assisted as Pendergast half dragged, half carried his partner to the airboat. Laying him on the rear seat, he used a life preserver as a pillow and covered him with a boat tarp. Then he grabbed the helm and revved up the engine. “Push us off.”

  Brokenhearts pushed the boat away from the mud and hopped back in, finding a spot in the bow, while Pendergast swung the wheel around and headed back toward Paradise Landing at high speed, weaving frantically through the cypresses and saw grass, throwing up a massive wake and doing his best not to tear out the bottom of the craft on submerged mangrove roots.

  Arriving at the dock, he leapt off and ran to the Mustang, pulled open the door, grabbed the radio mike, and called in an “agent down” message, giving coordinates. This accomplished, he went back to the boat and bent down over Coldmoon, giving him a more thorough examination. The man was barely alive, with a fast, thready heartbeat, but still breathing. His skin was cold and clammy. The bullet wound was bleeding, but not badly—most of the bleeding would be internal. Better not to disturb him further, but rather leave him in place until the paramedics arrived.

  “Can…can I help more?” asked Brokenhearts.

  “Yes.” Pendergast reached for Coldmoon’s belt, unclipped a pair of handcuffs, and tossed them over. “Put those on. You’re under arrest.”

  The young man fumbled with the cuffs for a moment before figuring out how to lock them around his wrists. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words abruptly beginning to spill out. “I know you understand. You said so on that television show, when you told people I wasn’t a monster. But even you can’t fathom the depth of my sorrow. I mean, what you said back there—about violence, about atonement.” The sudden flow stopped for a moment. “I can’t put my grief into words. I’ve tried, but I can’t. Stephen Crane did, though. I could read you—”