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He appeared again a moment later, his face ashen. “She’s gone! And the back window’s open!”

“Oh, my God,” Felder said.

“She can’t have gone far,” said Poole, the words tumbling out in a rush. “We’ve got to find her. Let’s go outside — you go left, I’ll go to the right, we’ll circle the building… and for God’s sake, keep your eyes open!”

Felder sprinted toward the exit, burst out the door, and turned left, circling the building at a run and looking in all directions for the figure of Constance. Nothing.

He reached the rear of the building, where the restrooms were located. There was the bathroom window, standing open. But it was barred.

Barred?

He looked wildly around for Poole coming the other way, arriving from the opposite direction. But Poole didn’t come. With a curse, Felder continued on around the building at a run, reaching the entrance sixty seconds later.

No Poole.

Felder forced his brain to slow down, to think through the problem logically. How could she have gotten out a barred window? And where the hell was Poole? Was he in pursuit of her? That must be it. He recalled that the entire zoo was walled. There were only two exits: one at Sixty-Fourth and Fifth, the other at the south end of the zoo. He sprinted toward the southern exit, pushed through the turnstile, and stared out across the park — bare-branched trees, long promenades. There were few people walking around; given the time of day, the park seemed oddly deserted.

The striking figure of Constance was nowhere to be seen. Or that of Dr. Poole, either.

Clearly she was back in the zoo. Or maybe she had left by the other exit. Felder was suddenly seized with the direness of the situation: Constance was a murderer who had been judged insane. He had arranged for this outing himself, through his official position with the city. If she escaped while under his care, his career would be finished.

Should he call the police? Not yet. His head reeled as he imagined the headlines in the Times…

Get a grip.Poole must have found Constance. He must have. All Felder had to do was locate Poole.

He jogged around to the Sixty-Fourth Street entrance, reentered the zoo, and made his way back to the Tropic Zone. He searched the area thoroughly, inside and out, looking for Poole or Constance. Poole had her under control, he told himself. He’d caught up to her and was restraining her, somewhere nearby. He might need assistance.

Felder fumbled out his cell phone and dialed Poole’s number, but it immediately rolled over to voice mail.

He went back to the ladies’ room and barged inside. The window was still open, but it was clearly and visibly barred. Felder paused, staring at it, the full implications of that barred window suddenly sinking in.

He could swear he’d heard Poole opening and closing the stalls and calling out her name. But why would he do that if the window was barred, and there was no possibility of escape? He looked around the small, empty bathroom, but there was literally no place to hide.

And then — with a sudden, terrible clarity — Felder realized there could be only one explanation. Poole must have been in on the escape.

CHAPTER 54

CORRIE SWANSON HEARD THE FAINT RINGING of her cell phone, through her earpieces, as she lay on the bed in her dorm room listening to Nine Inch Nails. She scrambled up, plucked out the earbuds, sorted through the two-foot layer of clothes on her floor, and pulled out the phone.

A number she didn’t recognize. “Yeah?”

“Hello?” came a voice. “Is this Corinne Swanson?”

“Corinne?” The man had an accent of the Deep South, not as refined and melodious as Pendergast’s but not all that different, either. It instantly put her on alert. “Yeah, this is Corinne.”

“Corinne, my name is Ned Betterton.”

She waited.

“I’m a reporter.”

“For who?”

A hesitation. “The Ezerville Bee.”

At this, Corrie had to laugh. “Okay, who is this really and what’s the joke? You a friend of Pendergast’s?”

There was a silence on the other end. “This is no joke, but it happens that he’s the reason I’m calling.”

Corrie waited.

“My apologies for contacting you like this, but I understand you’re the one who maintains the website on Special Agent Pendergast.”

“Right,” said Corrie warily.

“That’s where I got your name,” said the man. “I didn’t realize you were in town until just today. I’m doing a story about a double murder that occurred down in Mississippi. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Talk.”

“Not on the phone. In person.”

Corrie hesitated. Her instincts were to put him off, but she was curious about the Pendergast connection. “Where?”

“I don’t really know New York well. How about, um, the Carnegie Deli?”

“I don’t do pastrami.”

“I heard they’ve got great cheesecake. How about in an hour? I’ll be wearing a red scarf.”

“Whatever.”

There were about ten people in red scarves packing the deli, and by the time Corrie found Betterton she was in a foul mood. He rose as she approached and pulled out a chair for her.

“I can seat myself, thank you, I’m not some fainting southern belle,” she said, pulling the chair from his solicitous grasp and sitting down.

He was in his late twenties, small but tough looking, ripped, old acne scars on an otherwise handsome face. He was dressed in a tacky sports jacket, with a Scotch Pad of brown hair and a nose that looked like it had once been broken. Intriguing.

He ordered a slice of truffle torte cheesecake, and Corrie settled on a BLT. As the waitress walked away, Corrie crossed her arms and stared at Betterton. “Okay, so what’s this all about?”

“Almost two weeks ago a couple, Carlton and June Brodie, were brutally murdered in Malfourche, Mississippi. Tortured and then killed, to be exact.”

He was temporarily drowned out by the clattering of dishes and a waiter shouting an order.

“Go on,” Corrie said.

“The crime’s unsolved. But I’ve stumbled across some information that I’m following up on. Nothing definitive, you understand, but suggestive.”

“Where does Pendergast come in?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment. Here’s the story. About ten years back, the Brodies disappeared. The wife faked suicide, then the husband vanished. A few months ago, they reappeared as if nothing had happened, moved back to Malfourche, and resumed life. She ascribed her fake suicide to marital and job difficulties, and they told everyone they’d been running a B and B in Mexico. Except that they hadn’t been. It was a lie.”

Corrie leaned forward. This was more interesting than she’d expected.

“Not long before their reappearance, Pendergast arrived in Malfourche with an NYPD captain — a woman — in tow.”

Corrie nodded. That would be Hayward.

“No one can tell me what they were doing there, or why. It seems he was curious about a place deep in the adjoining swamp — a place called Spanish Island.” He proceeded to tell Corrie about all he had learned and his suspicions that it involved a major drug refining and smuggling operation.

Corrie nodded. So this was what Pendergast was working on so secretively.

“Just short of two weeks ago, a man with a German accent showed up in Malfourche. The Brodies were brutally murdered. I traced the man back here to New York. He was using a fake address, but I managed to link him to a small brownstone at Four Twenty-eight East End Avenue. I did a little poking around. The building is in the heart of the old German-speaking area of Yorkville, and it’s been owned by the same company since 1940. A real estate holding company. And it appears he’s got a yacht moored at the Boat Basin — a huge one. I followed him from the brownstone to the yacht.”