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  “Excuse me,” said the surgeon, a faint hurry in his voice, “but I have to go now.”

  44

  THE PA SYSTEM CHIMED, THEN FELL SILENT. Hayward sat where she was, suddenly frozen. Her mind reeled. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Pendergast, at the nurses, anywhere but at the floor. All she could think of was the look in the surgeon’s eyes as he had hurried away.

  A few minutes later a priest arrived carrying a black bag, looking almost like a doctor himself, a small man with white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked from her to Pendergast with bright bird-like eyes.

  “I’m Father Bell.” He set his bag down and extended a small hand. Hayward took it but instead of shaking her hand, he held it comfortingly. “And you are—?”

  “Captain Hayward. Laura Hayward. I’m a… a close friend of Lieutenant D’Agosta.”

  His eyebrows rose slightly. “You’re a police officer, then?”

  “NYPD.”

  “Was this a line-of-duty injury?”

  Hayward hesitated, and Pendergast smoothly picked up the flow. “In a way. I’m Special Agent Pendergast, FBI, the lieutenant’s associate.”

  A crisp nod and a handshake. “I’m here to administer the sacraments to Lieutenant D’Agosta, specifically one that we call Anointing the Sick.”

  “Anointing the Sick,” Hayward repeated.

  “We used to call it the Last Rites, but that was always an awkward and inaccurate term. You see, it’s a sacrament for the living, not the dying, and it’s a healing sacrament.” His voice was light and musical.

  Hayward inclined her head, swallowed.

  “I hope you don’t mind me explaining these things in detail. My presence can sometimes be alarming. People think I’m only called in when someone’s expected to die, which is not the case.”

  Even though she wasn’t a Catholic, Hayward found his directness steadying. “That code we just heard.” She paused. “Does that mean…?”

  “There’s a fine team of doctors working on the lieutenant. If there’s a way to pull him out of this, they will find it. If not, then God’s will be done. Now, does either of you think the lieutenant might have any reason to wish that I not administer the sacraments?”

  “To tell you the truth, he was never a very observant Catholic…” Hayward hesitated. She couldn’t remember the last time Vinnie had gone to church. But something about the idea of having the priest there seemed comforting, and she sensed that he’d appreciate it. “I would say yes. I think Vincent would approve.”

  “Very well.” The priest squeezed her hand. “Is there anything I can do for either of you? Arrangements? Phone calls?” He paused. “Confession? We have a chapel here in the hospital.”

  “No thank you,” said Hayward. She glanced at Pendergast, but he said nothing.

  Father Bell nodded at them in turn, then picked up his black bag and walked down the corridor toward the operating suites at a brisk and confident pace, perhaps even with a slight hurry in his step.

  She put her face in her hands. Five percent… or less. One chance in twenty. The brief sense of comfort the priest had brought with him dissolved. She’d better get used to the idea that Vinnie wasn’t going to make it. It was so useless, such a waste of a life. He wasn’t even forty-five. Memories welled up in her mind, fragmented, torturous, the bad memories lacerating, the good memories even worse.

  Somewhere in the background, she heard Pendergast speaking. “I want you to know, if things go badly, that Vincent did not throw his life away.”

  She stared through her fingers down the empty corridor where the priest had vanished, not responding.

  “Captain. A police officer puts his life on the line every day. You can be killed anytime, anywhere, for anything. Breaking up a domestic quarrel, thwarting a terrorist attack. Any death in the line is honorable. And Vincent was engaged in the most honorable job there is: helping right a wrong. His effort has been vital, absolutely crucial to solving this murder.”

  Hayward said nothing. Her mind went back to the code. That had been a quarter hour ago. Perhaps, she thought, the priest was already too late.

  45

  South Mountain, Georgia

  THE TRAIL BROKE FREE OF THE WOODS AND came out atop the mountain. Judson Esterhazy halted at the edge of the open meadow just in time to see the sun set over the pine-clad hills, suffusing the misty evening with a ruddy glow, a distant lake shimmering white-gold in the dying light.

  He paused, breathing lightly. The so-called mountain was one in name only, being more of a bump than anything else. The summit itself was long and narrow and ridge-like, covered with tall grass, with a granite bald spot on which stood the remains of a fire tower.

  Esterhazy glanced around. The summit was empty. He made his way out of the yellow pines and walked along an overgrown fire road toward the tower, finally coming up beneath its looming form. He leaned on one of the rusted metal struts, fumbled in his pocket, removed his pipe and a tobacco pouch. Inserting the pipe into the pouch, he slowly packed it with tobacco, using his thumb, the scent of Latakia rising to his nostrils. When it was filled to his liking he removed it, cleaned a few stray bits from the rim, gave it a final pack, removed a lighter from the same pocket, flicked it on, and sucked flame into the bowl in a series of slow, even movements.

  The blue smoke drifted off into the twilight. As he smoked, Esterhazy saw a figure emerge from the far end of the field at the top of the south trail. There were several trails to the top of South Mountain, each arriving from a different road in a different direction.

  The fragrance of the expensive tobacco, the soothing effects of the nicotine, the comforting ritual, steadied his nerves. He did not watch the figure approach, but instead kept his eyes focused on the west, at the orange diffusion above the hills where the sun had been moments before. He kept his eyes there until he heard the sweep of boots through grass, the faint rasp of breathing. Then he turned toward the man—a man he hadn’t seen in a decade. The man looked little different than he remembered: slightly jowlier, hair somewhat receded, but he was still strongly built and sinewy. He wore an expensive pair of swamp boots and a chambray shirt.

  “Evening,” the man said.

  Esterhazy removed his pipe and gave it a lift by way of greeting. “Hello, Mike,” he replied.

  The man stood against the afterglow, and his features were indistinct. “So,” he began, “sounds like you took it upon yourself to clean up a little mess, and instead it turned into a rather bigger mess.”

  Esterhazy wasn’t going to be talked to like that—not by Michael Ventura. “Nothing involving this man Pendergast is a ‘little mess,’ ” he said harshly. “This is precisely what I’ve been dreading all these years. Something had to be done and I did it. Nominally, the job belonged to you. But you would undoubtedly have made a bigger hash of it.”

  “Not likely. That’s the kind of job I do best.”

  A long silence. Esterhazy took in a thin stream of smoke, let it leak out, trying to regain his equilibrium.

  “It’s been a long time,” Ventura said. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot.”

  Esterhazy nodded. “It’s just that… Well, I thought it was all long past. Buried.”

  “It’ll never be long past. Not as long as there’s Spanish Island to deal with.”

  A look of concern crossed Esterhazy’s face. “Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “As well as could be expected.”

  Another silence.

  “Look,” Ventura said in a milder tone. “I know this can’t be easy for you. You made the ultimate sacrifice; we’re very grateful to you for that.”

  Esterhazy drew on his pipe. “Let’s get down to it,” he said.

  “Okay. So just let me understand. Instead of killing Pendergast, you killed his partner.”

  “D’Agosta. A happy accident. He was a loose end. I also took care of a couple of other loose ends—Blast and Blackletter. Two people who should have been removed
from circulation a long time ago.”

  Ventura spat into the grass by way of answer. “I don’t agree, and I never have. Blackletter was well paid for his silence. And Blast is only indirectly connected.”

  “Nevertheless, he was a loose end.”

  Ventura just shook his head.

  “Now D’Agosta’s girlfriend is down here. A girlfriend who just happens to be the youngest homicide captain in the NYPD.”

  “So?”

  Esterhazy took the pipe from his mouth and spoke coldly. “Mike, you have no idea—and I mean no idea—how dangerous this man Pendergast is. I know him well. I needed to act immediately. Unfortunately, I failed to kill him on the first attempt. Which will make the second all that much more difficult. You do understand, don’t you, that it’s either him or us?”

  “How much could he possibly know?”

  “He’s found the Black Frame, he knows about Audubon’s illness, and somehow he knows about the Doane family.”

  A sharp intake of breath. “You’re shitting me. How much about the Doane family?”

  “Hard to say. He was in Sunflower. He visited the house. He’s tenacious and clever. You can assume he knows—or will know—everything.”

  “Son of a bitch. How in the world did they find out?”

  “No idea. Not only is Pendergast a brilliant investigator, but this time around he’s motivated—uniquely motivated.”

  Ventura shook his head.

  “And I’ve little doubt he’s busy filling the ear of this homicide captain with his suspicions, just as he did with that partner of his, D’Agosta. I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before they pay our mutual friend a visit.”

  A pause. “You think this investigation’s official?”

  “It doesn’t seem so. I think they’re working ex cathedra. I doubt others are involved.”

  Ventura thought for a moment before speaking again. “So now we finish the job.”

  “Exactly. Take out Pendergast and that captain. Do it now. Kill them all.”

  “The cop you hit, D’Agosta—are you sure he’s dead?”

  “I think so. He took a .308 round in the back.” Judson frowned. “If he doesn’t die of his own accord, we’ll have to extend a helping hand. Leave that to me.”

  Ventura nodded. “I’ll keep the rest in line.”

  “You do that. Need any help? Money?”

  “Money’s the last of our worries. You know that.” And Ventura walked away across the field, toward the pink sky of evening, until his dark silhouette disappeared into the pines at the far end.

  Judson Esterhazy spent the next fifteen minutes leaning against the fire tower, smoking his pipe and thinking. Finally he reamed it out and knocked the dottle onto the iron strut. Then he stuck the pipe back into his pocket, took one last look at the light dying away in the west, then turned and made his way down the trail toward the road on the other side of the hill.

  46

  Baton Rouge

  EXACTLY HOW MUCH TIME HAD PASSED—FIVE hours or fifty—Laura Hayward wasn’t sure. The slow succession of minutes blended with a strange fugue of loudspeaker announcements, rapid hushed voices, the bleating of instrumentation. At times, Pendergast was at her side. Other times she would find him gone. At first she willed the time to pass as quickly as possible. Then—as the wait grew longer—she only wanted time to slow down. Because the longer Vincent D’Agosta lay on that surgical table, she knew, the more his chances of survival dwindled.

  Then—quite abruptly—the surgeon was standing before them. His scrub blues were creased and wrinkled, and his face looked pale and drawn. Behind him stood Father Bell.

  At the sight of the priest, Hayward’s heart gave a dreadful lurch. She had known this moment would come. And yet—now that it was here—she did not think that she could bear it. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no… She felt Pendergast take her hand.

  The surgeon cleared his throat. “I’ve come to let you know the operation was successful. We closed forty-five minutes ago and we’ve been monitoring closely since. The signs are promising.”

  “I’ll take you to see him now,” said Father Bell.

  “Only for a moment,” the surgeon added. “He’s barely conscious and very weak.”

  For a moment, Hayward sat motionless, stunned, trying to take it in. Pendergast was speaking but she couldn’t understand the words. Then she felt herself being raised—the FBI agent on one side, the priest on the other—and she was walking down the corridor. They turned left, then right, past closed doors and halls full of stretchers and empty wheelchairs. Through an open doorway they came to a small area enclosed by movable privacy screens. A nurse pulled one of the screens away and there was Vinnie. A dozen machines were attached to him, and his eyes were closed. Tubes snaked beneath the sheets: one containing plasma, another saline. Despite D’Agosta’s hefty build, he looked fragile, papery almost.

  She caught her breath. As she did so, his eyes fluttered open; closed; then opened again. He looked up at them silently in turn, his eyes at last looking into hers.

  As Hayward stared down at him, she felt the last vestiges of her self-control—that commanding presence of mind she so prided herself on—crumble and fall away. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Vinnie,” she sobbed.

  D’Agosta’s own eyes filled. And then he slowly closed them.

  Pendergast put a steadying arm around her, and for a moment she turned her face to the fabric of his shirt, yielding to the emotion, letting sobs rack her frame. Only now—when she saw Vinnie alive—did she realize just how close she had come to losing him.

  “I’m afraid you’ll need to leave now,” the surgeon said in a low voice.

  She straightened up, dried her eyes, and took a long, shuddering, cleansing breath.

  “He’s not out of the woods yet. As it is, his heart has been severely damaged by the trauma. He’s going to need an aortic valve replacement at the earliest opportunity.”

  Hayward nodded. She detached herself from Pendergast’s arm, took one more look down at D’Agosta, then turned away.

  “Laura,” she heard him croak.

  She glanced back. He was still lying there on the bed, eyes closed. Had it been her imagination?

  Then he moved faintly and his eyes fluttered open again. His jaw worked but no sound came.

  She stepped forward and bent over the bed.

  “Make my work here count,” he said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

  47

  Penumbra Plantation

  A FIRE HAD BEEN KINDLED IN THE GREAT fireplace of the library, and Hayward watched the old manservant, Maurice, serving after-dinner coffee. He threaded his way between the furniture, an ancient figure with a curiously blank expression on his lined face. She noticed that he had been careful not to stare at the bruise on Pendergast’s jaw. Perhaps, Hayward mused, over the years the old fellow had grown used to seeing his employer a little dinged up.

  The mansion and grounds were exactly as she pictured they would be: ancient oaks draped with Spanish moss, white columned portico, faded antebellum furnishings. There was even an old family ghost, the ancient manservant had assured her, who haunted the nearby swamps—another predictable cliché. The only surprise, in fact, was Penumbra’s general state of external disrepair. This was a little odd—Pendergast, she assumed, had plenty of money. She put these musings aside, telling herself she was completely uninterested in Pendergast and his family.

  Before leaving the hospital the night before, Pendergast had asked her—in some detail—about her visit with Constance Greene. Following that, he offered her lodging at Penumbra. Hayward had refused, opting instead to stay at a hotel near the medical center. But another visit to D’Agosta the following morning had served to underline what the surgeon told her: his recovery would be slow and long. She could take time off from the job—that wasn’t a problem, she’d accrued too much vacation time as it was—but the idea of cooling her heels in a depressing hotel room for
days on end was unendurable. Especially because, at Pendergast’s insistence, Vinnie was going to be moved to a secure location just as soon as medically possible, and—for the sake of security—she would be forbidden to visit. That morning, in a brief interlude of consciousness, Vinnie had once again implored her to pick up the case where he’d left off—to help see it through to the bitter end.

  And so, when Pendergast sent his car round to pick her up after lunch, she’d checked out of the hotel and accepted his invitation to stay at Penumbra. She hadn’t agreed to help, but she’d decided to hear the details. Some of it she knew already from Vinnie’s phone calls. It had sounded like a typical Pendergast investigation, all hunches and blind alleys and conflicting evidence, strung together by highly questionable police work.

  But back at Penumbra, as Pendergast had explained the case—starting at dinner, and then continuing over coffee—Hayward realized that the bizarre story had an internal logic. Pendergast explained his late wife’s obsession with Audubon; how they had traced her interest in the Carolina Parakeet, the Black Frame, the lost parrot, and the strange fate of the Doane family. He read her passages from the Doane girl’s diary: a chilling descent into madness. He described their encounter with Blast, another seeker of the Black Frame, himself recently murdered—as had been Helen Pendergast’s former employer at Doctors With Wings, Morris Blackletter. And finally, he explained the series of deductions and discoveries that led to the unearthing of the Black Frame itself.

  When Pendergast at last fell silent, Hayward leaned back in her chair, sipping her coffee, running over the bizarre information in her mind, looking for threads, logical connections, and finding precious little. A great deal more work would be necessary to fill in the blanks.

  She glanced over at the painting known as the Black Frame. It was lit indirectly by the firelight, but she could nevertheless make out details: the woman on the bed, the stark room, the cold white nakedness of her body. Disturbing, to put it mildly.