Crimson Shore Page 20

  Pendergast did not hesitate; stuffing his flashlight into the pocket of his camos, he ran down to the water’s edge and plunged in. The water was as cold as ice, with at least a ten-knot current and a vicious undertow, which threatened to drag him down and carry him away. He swam hard, stroking his way across, fighting against the cold and the tug of the salt water. As his head came up from above the waterline he could again make out Dunkan, now out of the water, upstream from him, struggling through the mud on the far side.

  It was the work of three desperate minutes to get across, while being swept along for at least a hundred yards. At last, Pendergast found his footing on the other side and heaved himself out of the water, nearly frozen, and began to half wade, half crawl through the knee-deep muck of the island. The moon came out from beneath scudding clouds just long enough for him to catch a glimpse of Dunkan. He was standing at the edge of the wall of high grass, a hundred yards away, bayonet in hand. Covered head to toe in mud, only the whites of his eyes showed—and they stared at Pendergast with wild fury.

  And then he turned and disappeared into the grass.

  Pendergast struggled across the expanse of mud until he reached the point where Dunkan had disappeared. He noticed that the dried grass had been mashed and broken into such wild and random tangles it was nearly impossible to tell which broken stalks might have been the work of a passing man and which the result of wind and storms. But Dunkan had left traces of his passage in faint smears of mud.

  As Pendergast forced his way inward, the grass became even thicker. Initially, smears of mud guided him through the dry grass, but soon those traces vanished and he lost the trail. The moon was once again obscured and there was near-zero visibility; even his flashlight was of little use in the dense grass. Dunkan was no longer upwind; he could be anywhere.

  After several more minutes of fighting his way through the grass and dry reeds, Pendergast once again stopped to listen, Les Baer .45 in hand. Silence. Dunkan, it seemed, had the uncanny ability to move with a minimum of sound, without disturbing the grass—a feat that Pendergast knew he could not reproduce.

  As he stood motionless in the dense thicket, Pendergast realized that, in his zeal of pursuit, he had made a serious tactical error. He was, to all effects and purposes, blinded on all sides by the walls of tall grass. Even though he was armed, he was at Dunkan’s mercy. For all he knew, Dunkan was aware of his position and was at that very moment preparing an attack. The wind had picked up and was masking the sound of Dunkan’s movements.

  He became quite sure Dunkan was going to strike at him, sooner rather than later.

  He thought fast, turning in a rapid circle, senses on high alert. It might be just a matter of moments. He tensed, every muscle at the ready.

  And then, with the faintest flicker of grass, the bayonet flashed out from the darkness, gripped by a muddy hand, the cold steel plunging directly toward Pendergast’s heart.

  39

  At the last moment, Pendergast—from long-honed instinct—twisted away from the blade with such speed that he was briefly airborne. As he came crashing down, Dunkan burst from the grass, bayonet in hand, slashing at Pendergast and cutting a long slice across the fabric of his sleeve, sending the flashlight spinning. Flipping over and leaping to his feet, Pendergast got off a shot from his Les Baer. But the feral man had vanished back into the jungle of salt grass. Pendergast fired again in the direction he had disappeared—once, twice—then stopped to listen. He was just wasting ammunition. The man was certainly maneuvering back around for another attack.

  Pendergast knelt to retrieve his flashlight, feeling around in the dark, but found it broken. He was now totally blind, in unfamiliar territory. The next attack could come at any time, from any direction. The tide had now come in to such an extent that he was trapped on this grass island with Dunkan. Neither could escape the other. But despite his firearms, he was the one at a severe disadvantage. With this dense grass and rattling wind, Dunkan could once again literally creep to within a few feet of him unobserved. If he stayed there and waited for the attack, he would lose.

  The question was how to turn the odds in his favor. There was a possible solution. It was extreme—but it might work.

  Even as he worked out the solution, he realized Dunkan must be edging in for the next attack, and this time he might not be so lucky as to avoid it. One thing he was sure of: Dunkan would approach upwind, so as not to betray his presence by his stench.

  Upwind. That was crucial.

  He seized a bunch of dry grass, bundled it together, pulled out his pocket lighter, and lit it on fire. It flared up in the wind, crackling loudly; he thrust the burning bundle into the dense vegetation, sweeping it along, instantly igniting the dry stalks into loud, crackling flames. The gusts drove the fire fast downwind, as Pendergast backed himself upwind, moving diagonally away from the propagating fire. He then thrust the improvised torch into the dry grass again and again, each new fire leaping up and combining with the rest.

  In less than a minute, a veritable wall of fire was advancing across the island, crackling and roaring like mad, sparks and flames leaping upward. Pendergast continued to move upwind, through the unburnt grass, until he reached the point where the mudflats that ringed the island began. The clouds were a little thinner now, and the tide was still rushing in. The whole scene was lit up in the ghastly light of the fire, which reflected off the shiny mudflats, turning them the color of blood.

  Pendergast watched the conflagration carefully. As he had anticipated, the fire—guided by the rising wind—moved in an arc, like a hinge closing in on itself. The blaze now became an inferno, the surrounding air increasingly hot. Minute by minute, the area of unaffected grassland dwindled. Les Baer at the ready, Pendergast began to circle the island, keeping to the very edge of the grass, moving swiftly and silently.

  Finally—over the roar of the flame—Pendergast heard a cry: a howl of rage and desperation. He moved along the edge of the grass in its direction. Soon after, it was followed by the sound of crashing footsteps: Dunkan had been flushed out and was running in a panic from the flames.

  Fast as a striking snake, Pendergast darted into the grass. The terrified figure was running on a path tangential to his own, his retreating shoulders backlit by the flames. Pendergast raced after him, leapt upon his back, stunning him with a blow from the butt of his gun; as they crashed to the ground he ripped the bayonet from Dunkan’s hand and threw it into the oncoming flames. Cuffing Dunkan’s wrists behind him, he rose and half dragged, half carried the semiconscious man away from the oncoming fire and out onto the flats. There, he let him flop down in the mud.

  While waiting for the man to recover his senses, Pendergast cleaned as much soot and dried mud from his own arms and legs as possible. Soon, he saw Dunkan’s eyes flutter open, grotesquely white within their coating of mud. They fastened on him in mute fury.

  “Save your energy,” said Pendergast. “We’re going to have to wait awhile for the turn of the tide. And then I’ll take you to your brother.”

  40

  The storm that had been lingering over Exmouth the past few days had blown away on the previous night’s wind, and the morning had dawned bright and warmer. Now the noon sun shone benevolently over the main street, gilding the shopfronts and window displays, and throwing the large crowd gathered before the police station into sharp relief. Percival Lake stood back from the crowd, Carole at his side, on the doorstep of her shop. He clutched a shopping bag in one hand, and held Carole’s hand with the other.

  It was, he thought, an almost painfully typical New England small-town event. A microphone and podium had been set up on the steps of the police station, and over the last hour almost everybody who was anybody in town had taken their turn before it. It had started with the first selectman, an elderly and reclusive man of ancient New England stock, who, despite his position, rarely appeared in public anymore. He had been followed by the town’s other remaining selectman, Dana Dunwoody of course be
ing unable to attend. Next came notables such as the director of the library and that tiresome ex-thespian, Worley. And now, finally, Chief Mourdock was taking his turn before the microphone, his portly figure angled so that the smattering of press photographers could snap his profile. He’d already cataloged in detail his critical role in cracking the case. Now, he was expressing relief that this “shameful taint”—meaning the Dunwoody clan and their contemporary, as well as ancient, crimes—had at last been scrubbed from the town. To one side stood his deputy, Gavin, looking distinctly uncomfortable at all the attention. On Mourdock’s other side was a sealed glass case, containing the twenty-one blood-red rubies that made up the “Pride of Africa,” dazzling in the sunlight. They were being watched over by a stuffy representative of Lloyd’s of London, who—Lake knew—was not only guarding them, but would shortly take possession. Lloyd’s had, after all, paid out the claim on the gemstones over a century ago and owned them as a result.

  Lake still couldn’t get over the fact that those jewels—and the body that had once contained them—had lain behind the wall of his cellar all these years.

  The last few days had been such a series of shocks—one revelation after another, each more bizarre than the last—that Lake felt quite exhausted. As no doubt did many residents. And yet they had turned out, almost every single one. A sea of heads, hundreds and hundreds, stretched away from the police station steps for at least a block, all sharply defined by the brilliant sun. His gaze roamed over them, picking out familiar faces. Mark and Sarah Lillie—wearing matching outfits; old Ben Boyle; Walt Adderly, proprietor of the Inn. Somehow—despite the inflated words of Mourdock, despite the pompous speechifying and small-town politics—the ritual was, undoubtedly, a benediction. Mourdock, in his own obnoxious way, was right. A horror that had been festering in Exmouth for over a century had been identified, named, and rooted out. Now, after all that had happened, the town could heal.

  The chief finally went into a rousing We-Are-the-Salt-of-the-Earth, America-Is-Great, God-Bless-Us-All finish. There was applause and cheers. And then it was over. Accompanied by the snapping of press photographs, the crowd began to disperse.

  Lake caught sight of Agent Pendergast, standing on a far corner, in his usual black suit. Constance Greene was at his side, a thin, lovely specter in an old-fashioned lace dress. Her only concession to the modern world was a pair of classic Ray-Bans as protection from the sun.

  “What a perfect small-town spectacle,” said Lake.

  Carole laughed. “That’s what I love about this place.”

  Squeezing Carole’s hand, Lake stepped away from the shopfront and made his way across the street, threading through the crowds until he reached Pendergast. The agent, who had been looking this way and that, scrutinizing the crowd with great care, fixed his eyes on him as he approached.

  “You think Mourdock might have mentioned your name, if only once,” Lake said. “After all, it was you, not him, out there in the dark last night.”

  “I dislike publicity,” Pendergast said. “Let the chief have his moment in the sun—literally.”

  “It still seems like a miracle to me—that Dana and Joe had a brother, hiding out in the marshes all these years.”

  “The Dunwoody brothers came from a dysfunctional family, going way back. The youngest brother, Dunkan, was born mentally and emotionally disadvantaged. He was not only unloved—he was his parents’ shame. They kept his birth a secret, never sent him to school. From what I can tell, he returned his parents’ dislike. As soon as he was old enough, he ran away. In time, he returned ‘home’—in a manner of speaking. He had been living in those marshes for many years, grudgingly helped by his brothers…who then ultimately found a use for him—as a killer.”

  “How in the world did you discover his identity?”

  Pendergast shrugged. “A process of elimination. I’d written off every suspect in town—including you.”

  “Me?”

  “It’s not uncommon to stage a crime in your own home and then feign interest in the investigation in order to put yourself above suspicion. But your reactions during our stroll in your sculpture garden—and, more particularly, in our later talk in the lighthouse—convinced me you truly had nothing to do with the theft. Besides, despite your pedigree you’re not an Exmouth native. Only a local could know about the old crimes, and thus have perpetrated the new one. But in looking around the town, all my suspects were eliminated. That left an unknown third party—someone like Dunkan. The Dunwoodys had already attracted my interest. In the days before Dana’s death, I’d noticed a small piece of bright-colored sweater material, similar to the garish outfits he favored, clinging to a shrub far out in the marsh. And when I made a reference to The Hound of the Baskervilles and the food missing from the Inn’s kitchen, his reaction was telling. His murder, of course, was a temporary setback. But then, I noticed his brother Joe’s tense demeanor—although he had an ironclad alibi and didn’t seem capable of fratricide in any case. The Dunwoody family had deep roots in the town, and indeed in the nineteenth century there were many more of them. But again, it was the regularly pilfered food from the Chart Room kitchen that sealed my interest. So I laid a trap for Joe last night at the bar…and he took the bait.”

  “A feral brother. He must have been behind all those local legends of a Gray Reaper.” Lake shook his head. “Well, all I can say is that when I came to see you about the theft of my wine, I never expected it would lead to all this.” He handed over the shopping bag. “By the way, here’s that bottle of the Haut-Braquilanges. I recall saying you could have your pick of the case—and you still can, if you’d like—but this one seemed to be the best-preserved.”

  Pendergast took the bag. “I’m sure it will be more than satisfactory, thank you very much.”

  Lake hesitated just a moment. “Who actually carried out the theft? From my cellar, I mean.”

  “Joe and Dana.”

  “You’ve interrogated Joe, I take it?”

  “Yes. He’s talking quite freely now.”

  Lake was almost afraid to ask the next question. “Do you know what…what he did with all the wine?”

  “I’m afraid he took it out to sea in his boat and dumped it overboard.”

  Lake clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “It took him three trips, late at night, to dispose of it all.”

  “Oh, my God,” Lake said in a strangled voice.

  “I know,” Pendergast replied grimly.

  Now Constance spoke for the first time. “I have observed,” she said in a low and even voice, “that there are some crimes for which the death penalty does not seem a sufficiently severe sentence.”

  41

  In typical New England fashion, the day, which had dawned warm and sunny, soon darkened in the hours following the ceremony, and a fresh storm rolled in. Glancing out the windows of Pendergast’s room at the Inn, Constance could see the branches of nearby trees twisting in the wind. Although it was the night of a full moon, it was hidden behind layers of massive storm clouds that were even now throwing fat droplets against the panes of glass.

  “A classic nor’easter,” said Pendergast.

  Constance turned back toward him. The small crowd of reporters that had come to cover the ghoulish story were gone, and the atmosphere of the town had fallen into a hum of excited relief. Following dinner, Pendergast had invited her up to his room to share the bottle of Haut-Braquilanges. Constance was of two minds: On the one hand, she was flattered that he would share such a princely bottle with her. But she also remembered the effects that the glass of Calvados had had on her the last time she was in his room, and she did not want to lose control like that again.

  “Are you sure you want to drink it now?” she asked.

  “Carpe diem. Who knows what tomorrow might bring? And what a fine setting we have: the storm outside, the fire within, and our own good company.”

  Handling the bottle with care, Pendergast removed the capsule, withdrew the co
rk, set it aside, and, using a candle to see through the wine, decanted it. He immediately poured a tiny taste, swirled, and downed it. The expression on his face, eyes closed, head back, was one Constance had never seen before—pure sensual pleasure.

  “What about me?” she asked after a moment.

  His eyes sprang open. “Ah, Constance, I was just making sure it hadn’t turned to vinegar. To spare you a shock. I’m happy to say it has not.”

  He set his glass down and poured one for her, refilling his. “We must drink it quickly.”

  “Shouldn’t it air?”

  “A wine of this age and complexity turns fast. Apres toi.” He picked up his glass. She took the other.

  “I’m not sure what to do,” said Constance with a nervous laugh. “I’ve drunk wine before, of course, but not one like this.”

  “First, we touch glasses.”

  They touched glasses. Their eyes met. Nothing was said.

  “And now, we drink. Just follow my lead. A great deal of unnecessary pomp surrounds the drinking of wine. All you really need to do is swirl it about, inhale, and then sip—like this.”

  Pendergast swirled, inhaled once, twice, swirled again, then took a sip. He drew a little air in, took another sip.

  Constance did the same. It tasted to her like…wine, nothing more, nothing less. She colored, thinking how he was wasting it on her.

  “Don’t worry, my dear Constance, if you don’t immediately taste what I taste, or enjoy it as deeply as I do. Wine is like many of the finer things in life, which take time and experience to extract their full pleasure and meaning.”

  He described to her again how to swirl, and smell, and then sip, drawing in air.

  “The vocabulary of wine drinking is rather recherché,” he said. “It’s an expression of the inadequacy of words to describe taste and smell.”