Crimson Shore Page 28

  “No, no!” Kenney protested. “Only I handle the dogs!”

  “Take Kenney back!” Rivera seized the leash. “Let’s go.”

  They set off through the salt grass, Rivera leaving Kenney behind, protesting loudly. Silas, swift and silent, continued at his side. The remaining dog had picked up the trail again and was surging forward with a fresh frenzy of baying, his powerful stride practically eating up the ground as they moved along.

  “Looks like he’s definitely headed for the southern end of Crow Island,” Silas said.

  “Yeah, but what the hell is out there for him?” asked Rivera.

  “Well, if we keep to this bearing, we’ll end up in the ruins of Oldham.”

  “Oldham?”

  “An ancient fishing village that washed away in a hurricane back in the ’30s. Nothing there now but cellar holes and…”

  “And what?”

  Silas gave a snort of derision. “That depends on whether or not you believe the legends.”

  59

  Constance struggled only momentarily, as she felt a warm breath in her ear and the whispered word: “Aloysius.”

  She relaxed and he released her.

  “We must get out,” he whispered into her ear. “We’re no match for the killer on his own ground.”

  “I quite agree,” she said, feeling awkward despite the intense danger of the situation. “However, I’m lost.”

  “As am I, unfortunately.”

  This struck Constance as surprising. “You’re lost?”

  “I was…distracted. Do you know where the killer is?”

  “He went past a few moments ago. Perhaps I can hear him. One moment.” She fell silent. At the very edge of audibility she could hear the faint sounds of the creature, breathing hard and moving about. He was most certainly wounded. The sounds moved back and forth as the thing searched for them. “Do you hear that?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Your ears are keener than mine.”

  More silence as she listened. The sounds were distorted by the tunnels, and eventually they faded away. She waited, but they did not reappear.

  “He seems to have moved away from us.”

  “As I feared.”

  She didn’t ask what he feared; it was exactly the kind of question he would refuse to answer. He finally spoke, his voice remaining a whisper in her ear. “You have more experience in dark tunnels than I. Do you have any ideas on a way out?”

  From this, Constance understood that, due to her many years of wandering the subterranean tunnels and basements of 891 Riverside Drive, the burden of escape was on her shoulders. “One, perhaps. Have you heard of John Pledge of Exeter, England?”

  “No. Make the lesson short.”

  “Pledge was a hedge-maze enthusiast. He devised a way for anyone to get out of the hardest kind of disjoint maze. One starts in an arbitrary direction, keeping a hand on the right wall, and counting the turns. After four turns, if all are right angles, the hand is removed from the wall and one continues in the original direction until another wall—”

  Constance felt Pendergast place his finger to her lips. “Just give me your hand and lead the way.”

  She gave him her hand and he murmured in surprise. “Your hands are shackled.”

  “Yes. And yours are wet. Is that blood?”

  “It’s nothing. Hold up your hands, please.”

  She felt him work on the cuffs. One dropped off, and then the other.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “I repeat: it’s nothing.” He spoke sharply. “Do not mention it again.”

  After a moment, he spoke once more. “Forgive my sharp tone. Constance…you were right and I was wrong. Things were happening here in Exmouth on two levels—one on a far deeper level of evil than the other. It’s nothing I’ve come across in the serial-killer cases I have worked. I simply did not see it.”

  “Never mind,” she replied, the feeling of awkwardness returning.

  He hesitated, as if about to say something more, but instead simply indicated that she should lead the way.

  She started down the passageway, feeling along the wall with one hand, holding Pendergast’s hand with the other, and probing ahead with her feet. The tunnels were silent; the sounds of the demon had disappeared. She continued to follow the Pledge system, counting the turns, the task made much easier by the fact that almost all the corners were right angles.

  Pendergast halted. “The air is fresher here,” he said. “Less foul.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “Listen again, if you please,” he whispered.

  She listened, straining to hear any sound beyond the muffled vibration of surf and the dripping of water. “Nothing.”

  “I feared as much. I’m sure of it now: he’s lying in wait. The logical place would be at the entrance to these tunnels. So here’s what’s going to happen: I will go first. He will attack. When he does, I will divert him while you run past and out. I will mount a rearguard action.”

  “You know quite well I won’t leave you.”

  “If you don’t, we’ll both perish. Please do as I tell you.”

  “I have my knife.”

  “Give it to me.”

  She fumbled it out of the folds of her dress and handed it to him.

  “I want your promise: you will run past and keep running.”

  “Very well,” she lied.

  Then, as she was about to lead onward, he hesitated again.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “This is a damned awkward time to tell you this, but it must be said.”

  She felt her heart accelerate.

  “You must be prepared for a confrontation, Constance.”

  “I’m ready.”

  There was a brief pause. “No. Not this confrontation. Another.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If something should happen to me…assume nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Pendergast paused in the darkness. “Someone’s been here. Someone I fear that I—that we—know only too well.”

  In the dark, Constance felt herself turn cold. “Who?” But from his voice she already had an idea who he meant. The cold abruptly became incendiary.

  “I found the creature’s shackles and the lock to his prison door had been tampered with. Most cleverly. Why? There’s a perverse logic at work here…and I’m all too certain I know what that logic is.”

  “Does this have to do with the figure in the dunes?”

  Pendergast shook away the question. “Yes, but there’s no time to explain. Please listen. I have complete trust in Proctor. If something should happen to me, put yourself in his hands. He’ll be to you all that I am now, your guardian and protector. And I repeat: no matter what happens, no matter how things seem, assume nothing.”

  “But, Aloysius—” she began, but fell silent when she felt his finger on her lips.

  Pendergast then pressed her hand, directing her to continue down the tunnel.

  60

  They continued their circuitous route, turn after turn after turn. It wasn’t long until Constance noticed the air was cooler and appeared to have some movement: they must be very close to the entrance now. While fresher, it still had a foul reek to it—the same foul reek that came from the beast.

  Pendergast, she realized, must have come to the same conclusion, because he stopped and—using touch alone—directed her to take a position behind him.

  Moving slower, in absolute silence, they proceeded. They were now in a long, straight tunnel that, she assumed, led to the outside world. After a minute, she gestured for Pendergast to stop once again so that she could listen.

  She could hear labored breathing. The beast was evidently trying to control it, but he couldn’t quite stop the sound of wheezing. He was just ahead. She indicated his presence to Pendergast with a faint touch of hand pressure. Pressure back told her Pendergast had also heard it.

  He released her hand and, tracing
letters on her palm, spelled out with painstaking slowness:

  ON THREE I RUSH

  YOU FOLLOW

  I ENGAGE

  KEEP RUNNING

  She squeezed her understanding. He held her hand, tapped out 1, 2, and 3—and then in a flash he seemed to disappear, as silent and quick as a bat in a cave. She followed at a run, blind, hands stretched out in front of her.

  A sudden roar split the air right directly before her, followed by the sound of a knife ripping through flesh—a butcher-shop sound—and then the thud and crash of a desperate struggle. She ran past and was about to stop when she heard Pendergast shout: “Keep going, I’m right behind you!”

  They sprinted on in the darkness, still blind, while, a moment later, Constance heard the creature renew its pursuit with high-pitched screams. It sounded as if Pendergast had dealt it a savage blow, but it was clearly far from being down.

  And then Constance saw a glow of light ahead, and the stone stairs materialized. She stopped and turned to see Pendergast running toward her.

  “Keep going!” he cried again, leaping past her, racing up the steps, and ramming open the iron trapdoor with one shoulder. He pivoted and pulled her up and out, slammed the iron door closed, and then hauled her out of the cellar hole and into the ruins of Oldham. As they ran toward the beach, Constance heard the demon burst through the iron door with an unholy screech.

  They had just passed the dunes and reached the level beach when the demon caught up; Pendergast turned to face him with the knife, warning Constance to keep going. But instead she stopped and turned to see Pendergast and the demon come together with a violent clash, locking in a fearful embrace: Pendergast with the knife raised, Morax—missing two fingers now—struggling to disarm him, the whole ghastly scene illuminated in the predawn light of morning. The storm had abated but the surf remained violent; great rollers leapt up with blowing spume, then crashed down and swept their way up the beach. The air was full of atomized seawater.

  She stared, unable for the moment to react. She saw with horror that Pendergast had been badly hurt. His shirtfront was torn, and one side of his face was cut and bleeding. The demon twisted and turned, the two struggling for dominance; but the huge demon prevailed and finally tore the stiletto away from Pendergast, throwing it into the sea. He swung at Pendergast with a great ropy arm; Pendergast dodged the blow but, clearly weakened by his injuries, was thrown off balance. The demon raked him cruelly with a massive hand, tearing through his clothing and reducing it to bloody tatters.

  Pendergast retreated and the two parried and thrust, the fight driving both of them into the swash zone. Pendergast backed into the water, almost as a deliberate strategy, seeking some kind of advantage. But the strategy failed; with a mighty blow, Morax knocked Pendergast down into the surging water. As he struggled to regain his feet, the demon reared above him and raised a massive hand, preparing to deal the deathblow.

  Constance lost her mind. In silent fury, she raced down the wet sand into the swash and sprang onto the demon’s back, grabbing his skull with her fingers and sinking her teeth into his neck. The foul, rubbery taste of flesh filled her mouth. The creature, surprised by the ferocity of her attack, let out a scream and, swinging away from Pendergast, spun around and around, scrabbling at her, ripping at her clothes, trying to free himself. But she hung on tenaciously to his craggy brow; with a twist of her head she ripped the hunk of flesh free and spat it out, then bit down again, trying to reach the carotid artery. The demon, roaring with pain, staggered into the surf zone. A green roller reared up, then fell upon them; in a moment they were both engulfed in fierce, icy water. The shock of the water loosened her grip and tore her free from the demon. Unable to swim, she thrashed frantically in the boiling surf until she felt sand sucking under her feet and realized she was being carried onto the beach by the dying wave. She gripped the sand in the backrush, struggling to prevent herself from being dragged back into the maelstrom. Just as she felt the sand slide out from under her, strong arms gripped her and pulled her to her feet—and there was Pendergast, staring at her, a look of horror on his face. It took her a moment to understand why: in her terror, she had not realized she was still gripping a second gobbet of flesh between her teeth.

  Meanwhile, Morax was struggling up from the surf, coming at them, face distorted in pain and fury. Pendergast rushed to put himself between Constance and the demon and, once again, the two came together with a bone-cracking thud. With a huge effort, Pendergast drove the demon back into the breaking surf, and in an instant both were engulfed in a gigantic, breaking wave.

  The boiling white water swept Constance off her feet; she clawed at the sand to keep from being sucked back in the undertow, and this time managed to hold herself in place as the wave receded. Temporarily freed from the backwash, she crawled up the beach in the lull between waves and managed to get past the surf zone.

  The sun was just breaking over a blood horizon, throwing pallid light onto her face. She blinked her eyes groggily. All she could see were great crimson rollers coming in, one after the other, crashing and thundering up the beach, then withdrawing again with a vast, dreary roar. And there, standing in the surf, was the demon. He had abruptly ceased all struggle and was staring into the rising sun in wonder, a twisted smile appearing on his face, arm outstretched as if to touch it, finger pointing, the swirling water around his legs reddening with arterial blood.

  Where was Pendergast?

  Where was Pendergast?

  Constance rose, screaming: “Aloysius! Aloysius!”

  She strained to look into the blinding orange surface of the sea—and then she saw him, his pale face rising and falling just beyond the break zone. His arms were barely moving.

  “Aloysius!”

  She took a few tentative steps into the water. He was struggling desperately to swim, but he was obviously weakened, gravely wounded, and the currents were now carrying him rapidly away from shore.

  “Aloysius!”

  Somewhere, vaguely, she heard the baying of a dog.

  Morax collapsed into the bloody surf.

  She stumbled down into the onrushing water, wading toward the struggling Pendergast despite her inability to swim, the torn, heavy dress impeding her progress.

  “Stop her!” a voice cried from behind.

  Suddenly there were people on both sides. One burly man seized her around the shoulders; another around the waist. She tried to twist away, but they hauled her out of the surf.

  “Let me go!” she cried.

  A male voice spoke out: “There’s nothing you can do.”

  She fought like a banshee, screaming and twisting. “Can’t you see him? He’s too weak to swim!”

  “We see him. We’re calling a rescue boat.”

  She struggled afresh, but there were too many of them. “He’s drowning! For the love of God, save him!”

  “No one can go into that surf!” said the same male voice.

  “Cowards!”

  She tried to rush back into the water herself, but more men appeared and, despite her wild struggles, they managed to drag her out of the breaking surf and onto the dunes. Four more men in military fatigues appeared. Together, the group managed to hold her fast as she thrashed, spat, and kicked.

  “I’ll kill you! Let me go!”

  “Jesus, what a tomcat! I can’t believe it’s taking half a dozen of us just to hold her down—!”

  “We don’t have time for this. Get the medical kit.”

  They wrestled her to the sand. She found herself pinned, face downward, cuffed and restrained, felt the sting of a cold needle on the back of her thigh…and then everything became far away and strange.

  Epilogue

  November

  Quietly, Proctor eased open the double doors of the library to allow Mrs. Trask to pass through with a silver tray laden with a tea service.

  The room was dim, lit only by the fire that guttered low in the hearth. Before it, in a wing chair, Proctor could see a
motionless figure, indistinct in the faint light. Mrs. Trask walked over to the figure, placed the tray on a side table beside the chair.

  “I thought you might like a cup of tea, Miss Greene,” she said solicitously.

  “No thank you, Mrs. Trask,” came Constance’s low voice.

  “It’s your favorite. Jasmine, first grade. I also brought you some madeleines. I baked them just this afternoon—I know how fond you are of them.”

  “I’m not particularly hungry,” she answered. “Thank you for your trouble.”

  “Well, I’ll just leave them here in case you change your mind.” Mrs. Trask smiled maternally, turned, and headed for the library exit. By the time she reached Proctor, the smile had faded and the look on her face had grown worried once again.

  “I’ll only be gone a few days,” she said to him in a low tone. “My sister should be home from the hospital by next weekend. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  Proctor nodded, then watched her bustle her way back toward the kitchen before returning his gaze to the figure in the wing chair.

  It had been over two weeks since Constance had come back to the mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. She had returned, grim and silent, without Agent Pendergast, and with no explanation of what had happened. It had taken Proctor time, patience, and effort to coax the story out of her. Even now, the story made little sense and he was unsure what really happened. What he did know, however, was that the vast house, lacking Pendergast’s presence, had changed—changed utterly. And so, too, had Constance.

  When she’d first returned from Exmouth, Constance had locked herself in her room for days, taking meals only with the greatest reluctance. When she at last emerged, she seemed a different person: gaunt, spectral. Proctor had always known her to be coolheaded, reserved, and self-possessed. But in the days that followed, she was by turns listless and then suddenly full of restless, aimless energy, pacing about the halls and corridors as if looking for something. She abandoned all interest in the pastimes that had once so possessed her: researching the Pendergast family ancestry, antiquarian studies, reading, playing the harpsichord. After a few anxious visits from Lieutenant D’Agosta, Captain Laura Hayward, and Margo Green, she had refused to see anyone. She had also appeared to be—Proctor could think of no better way to put it—on her guard. The only times she showed a spark of her old self was on the rare occasions when the phone rang, or when Proctor brought the mail back from the post office box. Always, always, he knew, she was hoping for word from Pendergast. But there had been none.