Cold Vengeance (29 page)

C
HAPTER 63

S
LOWLY
, C
ONSTANCE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS
. It was very dark. She was aware of both nausea and a splitting headache. She stood still a moment, slumped forward, confused, as her head cleared. And then, quite suddenly, she recalled what had happened.

She tried to move, but found that her hands were handcuffed to a chain around her waist and her legs were bound to something behind her—this time, very firmly. Her mouth was covered by duct tape. The pitch-black air was damp and smelled of diesel fuel, oil, and mold. She could feel the gentle rocking and the sound of water slapping against a hull—she was on a boat.

She listened intently. There were people on board—she could hear muffled voices above. She stood quite still, trying to collect her thoughts, her heartbeat slow and steady. Her limbs were stiff and sore: she must have been unconscious for hours, perhaps many hours.

Time passed. And then she heard footsteps coming closer. A sudden crack of light appeared, and a moment later a bulb went on. She stared. Standing in the doorway was the man who called himself both Esterhazy and Dr. Poole. He stared back at her, his handsome face scored both by nervousness and the scratches she herself had inflicted. Behind him, in a tight hallway, she could see a second, shadowy figure.

He moved toward her. “We’re going to move you. For your own sake, please don’t try anything.”

She merely stared. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

Taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the layers of duct tape that affixed her legs to a vertical structural post in what was now clearly a hold. In another moment she was free.

“Come on.” He reached over and hooked his hand in one of her cuffed arms. She stumbled forward, feet numb, legs cramped, little sparks of pain shooting through them with each movement. He helped her get in front of him and eased her toward the tiny door. She stooped to go through it, Esterhazy following.

The shadowy figure stood outside—a woman. Constance recognized her: the red-haired woman from the adjoining garden. The woman returned her stare, coolly, a faint smile on her lips.

So Pendergast had not gotten the note. It had been futile. Indeed, it had apparently been some sort of ruse.

“Take the other arm,” Esterhazy told the woman. “She’s extremely unpredictable.”

The woman took her other arm, and together they escorted her down a passageway toward another, even smaller hatch. Constance did not resist, allowing herself to be pulled along, her head hanging down. As Esterhazy leaned forward to undog the hatch, Constance braced herself; then she turned quickly, ramming the woman violently in the stomach with her head. With a loud
oof
the woman fell back, crashing into a bulkhead. Esterhazy swung around and she tried to butt him as well, but he seized her in a powerful embrace and pinned her arms. The woman scrambled to her feet, leaned over Constance, pulled her head back by the hair, and slapped her hard across the face, once, twice.

“No need for that,” Esterhazy said sharply. He hauled Constance around. “You do what we say or these people will really hurt you. Understand?”

She stared back, unable to speak, still fighting to catch her breath.

He pushed her into the dark space beyond the hatch, then followed behind with the red-haired woman. They were in another hold, and in the floor was another hatch. Esterhazy loosened the hatch and opened it, revealing a dark, stagnant space. In the dim light, she could see that it was the lowest part of the bilge, where the hull came together in a V—no doubt in the bow area of the vessel.

Esterhazy merely pointed toward the dark, yawning mouth of the hatch.

Constance balked.

She felt a smack across the side of her head as the woman struck her hard with the flat of her palm. “Get down there,” the woman said.

“Let me handle this,” said Esterhazy angrily.

Constance sat down, placed her feet in the hole, and lowered herself slowly in. It was a bigger space than it looked. She glanced up to see the woman preparing to strike her again, this time with her fist. Esterhazy placed a less-than-gentle restraining hand on the woman’s arm. “That isn’t necessary,” he said. “I’m not going to say it again.”

A single tear welled up into Constance’s eye and she shook it away. She had not wept in more years than she could remember, and she would not let these people see her weep now. It must have been the shock of seeing the woman—she realized just how much she’d been clinging to the slender thread of hope her note had offered.

She sat down and leaned against the bulkhead. The hatch shut behind her, followed by a squeak of metal as it was dogged down.

It was pitch black in the space—even darker than the hold had been. The sound of waves lapping the hull filled the bilge, making her feel like she was underwater.

She felt ill, as if she might be sick. But if she was, the duct tape over her mouth would cause her to aspirate, to drown. She could not allow that to happen.

She shifted, trying to get comfortable and focus her thoughts on something else. She was, after all, used to dark, small spaces. This was nothing new, she told herself. Nothing new at all.

C
HAPTER 64

A
T TWO THIRTY IN THE AFTERNOON—THAT IS,
just after rising—Corrie Swanson left her dorm room, hit the street, and headed for her cubby in the Sealy Library on Tenth Avenue. Along the way, she stopped at the local Greek coffee shop. It felt like winter all of a sudden, a cold wind blowing trash down the sidewalk. But the coffee shop was a warm oasis of dish clatter and shouted activity. She put down her money and slid out a copy of the
Times
from the middle of the pile on the counter, then bought a cup of coffee, black. She was turning to leave when her eye caught the headline in the
Post
:

Grisly Beheading in Riverside Park

With a sense of embarrassment she also took a
Post
. She had always looked on the
Post
as a paper for cretins, but it often covered the really gruesome crimes the
Times
primly shied away from, and it was her secret vice.

When she got to her cubby at the library, she sat down, looked around to make sure nobody was watching, and with a vague feeling of shame opened the
Post
first.

Almost immediately she straightened up, horrified. The victim was one Edward Betterton, on vacation in the city from Mississippi, whose body had been found in an isolated section of Riverside Park, behind a statue of Joan of Arc. His throat had been slashed so savagely, the head had almost been separated from the body. There was other, unspecified mutilation that might be signs of a gangland slaying, the
Post
said, although there were also indications it could have been a vicious mugging, with the pockets of the victim turned inside out and his watch, money, and valuables missing.

Corrie read the article a second time, more slowly. Betterton. This was awful. He didn’t seem like a bad guy—just off base. In retrospect she’d felt sorry about the way she had reamed him out.

But this brutal killing couldn’t be a coincidence. He’d been on to something—a drug operation, he’d said—even if he’d gotten the Pendergast angle all screwed up. What was the address of the house he’d told her about? She concentrated, feeling a sudden panic she wouldn’t remember—and then it came: 428 East End Avenue.

She put down the tabloid thoughtfully. Pendergast. How was he involved, exactly? Did he know about Betterton? Was he really working on his own, with no backup? Had he actually blown up a bar?

She had made a promise not to interfere. But checking something out—just checking it out—even Pendergast couldn’t call that “interference.”

C
HAPTER 65

S
PECIAL
A
GENT
P
ENDERGAST WAITED IN A RENTED CAR
on the circular drive above the Seventy-Ninth Street marina on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, examining through binoculars the yacht moored a few hundred feet offshore. It was the largest in the marina, close to one hundred and thirty feet, sleek and well appointed. As the afternoon wind shifted, the yacht swung on its mooring, revealing the name and hailing port painted on the stern.

Vergeltung

Orchid Island, Florida

A cold wind blew from the water, buffeting the car and raising whitecaps on the broad Hudson.

A cell phone, sitting on the passenger seat, began to ring. Pendergast lowered the binoculars to answer it. “Yes?”

“Is this my main Secret Agent Man?” came the whispery voice on the other end of the line.

“Mime,” Pendergast replied. “How are you faring?”

“Did you find the yacht okay?”

“I’m staring at it now.”

A pleased, raspy giggle sounded over the phone. “Ideal.
Ideal.
And do you think we, um, have a ringer?”

“Indeed I do, Mime—thanks to you.”

“
Vergeltung.
German for ‘vengeance.’ It was rather a challenge. But then again, that ghostnet of zombified PCs I’ve appropriated all over Cleveland has been rather idle of late. It was high time I put them to work on something useful.”

“I’d prefer not to know the details. But you have my thanks.”

“Glad I was able to be of more help this time around. Hang loose, homeboy.” There was a click as the line went dead.

Pendergast put the phone in his pocket and eased the car forward, heading down toward the entrance of the marina and up to the gate that led to the main pier. A man in a crisp uniform—an ex-cop, without doubt—leaned out of the adjoining guardhouse. “Help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Lowe, the general manager.”

“And you are?”

Pendergast removed his shield and let it dangle for a moment. “Special Agent Pendergast.”

“You got an appointment?”

“No.”

“And this is in reference to…?”

Pendergast simply stared at him. Then he suddenly smiled. “Is there going to be a problem? Because if there is, I’d like to know it now.”

The man blinked. “Just a moment.” He retreated and spoke into a phone. Then he opened the gate. “You can pull through and park. Mr. Lowe will be out in a moment.”

It took more than a moment. Finally, a tall, fit, nautical-looking man wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap emerged from the main marina building and came striding over, his breath condensing behind him in puffs. Pendergast stepped out of the car and stood waiting for him.

“Well, well. FBI?” said the man, extending his hand with a friendly smile, his blue eyes flashing. “What can I do for you?”

Pendergast nodded toward the moored yacht. “I’d like to know about that yacht.”

The man paused. “What’s the basis for your interest?” He continued to smile genially.

“Official,” said Pendergast, smiling in return.

“Official. Well now, that’s funny,” said the man. “Because I just called the New York field office of the FBI and asked them if a certain Special Agent Pendergrast was working on a case that involved the marina—”

“Pendergast.”

“Excuse me.
Pendergast
. They said you’d taken a temporary leave of absence and assured me you were not on any active case right now. So one must assume you’re moonlighting, flashing your badge under false pretenses. Which has got to be against FBI regulations. Am I right?”

Pendergast’s smile did not waver. “You’re right on all counts.”

“So I’m just going to go back to my office, and you’re going to go away, and if I hear any more about this I’m going to call the FBI back and report that one of their special agents is roaming around town, using his badge to intimidate law-abiding citizens.”

“Intimidate? When I begin to intimidate you, you’ll know it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“That’s a prediction.” Pendergast nodded toward the water. “I presume you can see that yacht out there? I have reason to believe a serious crime is about to be committed on it. If that crime occurs, then I
will
be on the case—in the most official of all possible capacities—and you, quite naturally, will be investigated as an accessory.”

“A hollow threat. I’m no accessory and you know it. If a crime is about to be committed, I suggest you call the police, Mr. Prendergast.”

“
Pender
gast.” His voice remained reasonable. “All I want from you, Mr. Lowe, is some information about that yacht, the crew, their comings and goings. To be kept specifically between ourselves. Because I can see you’re a friendly man who likes to assist law enforcement.”

“If this is what you call intimidation, it isn’t working. My job is to protect the privacy of the clients who patronize this marina, and that’s what I intend to do. If you want to come back with a warrant, fine. If the NYPD comes, fine. Then I’ll cooperate. But not with an FBI agent waving some tin on his off hours. Now get lost.”

“When we do investigate this crime, my colleagues—and NYPD homicide—will want to know why you took money from the people on that yacht.”

A flicker passed across the man’s face. “A gratuity is a normal part of this business. I’m like a cabbie—tips are standard here. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Naturally—until the ‘tip’ reaches a certain size. Then it becomes a payment. Perhaps even a bribe. And when said bribe is made for the purposes of buying pushback should law enforcement come by asking questions, well, Mr. Lowe, that
does
in fact make you an accessory. Especially when it becomes known that you not only threatened to kill me if I did not leave the premises, but also insulted New York’s finest with vulgar language.”

“What the hell? I never threatened you or the cops.”

“Your exact words were:
I’ve got friends who’ll put a bullet in your brain if you don’t get the hell out of here. And that goes for the NYPD pigs, too.
”

“I said nothing of the sort, you lying bastard!”

“That is correct. But only you and I know that. Everyone else will think I’m telling the truth.”

“You’d never get away with that! You’re bluffing!”

“I am a desperate man, Mr. Lowe, and I am operating beyond the rules. I will do anything—lie, coerce, and deceive—to force you to cooperate.” He removed his cell. “Now: I’m about to dial an emergency FBI number to report your threats and request backup. When I do that, your life will change—forever. Or…?” He raised one eyebrow along with the phone.

Lowe stared at him, quivering with rage. “You son of a bitch.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Shall we retire to your office? There’s rather a nasty wind coming off the Hudson.”