Judson Esterhazy. He was going by
the name of Poole. I am being kept in a
house somewhere on the Upper East Side
but I’m to be moved shortly, I don’t
know where. I fear he means to harm me.
There is something he’s told me with
peculiar emphasis more than once:
Vengeance is where it will end.
Please forgive my foolishness and
gullibility. Whatever happens, remember
that I’m entrusting my child’s ultimate
well-being to your care.
Constance
Felder looked up, suddenly brimming with questions, but the woman was nowhere to be seen.
He ducked outside, but she had disappeared. He went back inside and returned to where Dr. Ostrom and the homicide detective were waiting.
“Well?” Dr. Ostrom asked. “What did she want?”
Wordlessly, Felder handed him the document. He watched Ostrom start visibly as he read first the outside, then the interior message.
“Where is the woman?” Ostrom asked sharply.
“She disappeared.”
“Good Lord.” Ostrom walked over to a wall telephone, picked it up. “This is Dr. Ostrom,” he said. “Get me the gatehouse.”
It took only a brief exchange to discover that the woman’s taxi had already left the grounds. Ostrom made a photocopy of the document, then gave the original to the detective. “We’ve got to stop that woman. Call your people. Catch up to her. Understand?”
The detective hustled off, unhitching his radio and speaking into it.
Felder turned to Ostrom as the director hung up the phone. “She’s claiming her child is alive. What could this mean?”
Ostrom merely shook his head.
CHAPTER 61
ESTERHAZY WATCHED THE SUDDEN FLURRY of activity on the deck of the Vergeltungas the motorized dinghy approached unexpectedly from the marina complex. Using a pair of binoculars, he peered intently at it through the smoked windows of the main salon. At first — unlikely as such a direct approach would be — he wondered if it could possibly be Pendergast. But no: it was somebody he’d never seen before, perched somewhat precariously in the bow of the little vessel.
Falkoner came up. “Is that him?”
Esterhazy shook his head. “No. I don’t know who this person is.”
“We shall find out.” Falkoner stepped out onto the rear deck.
“Ahoy, the yacht!” said the man perched in the bow. He was dressed, overdressed even, in nautical fashion: navy blazer, cap, ascot.
“Hello,” Falkoner called out in a friendly voice.
“I’m a neighbor,” the man said. “I was admiring your yacht. Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all. Care to come aboard?”
“Delighted.” The man turned back to the Boat Basin employee manning the outboard. “Be sure to wait.”
The man nodded.
The yachtsman stepped onto the boarding platform at the rear of the yacht while Falkoner opened the stern transom to let him come aboard. Gaining the deck, the man smoothed down his blazer and extended his hand. “Name’s Betterton,” he said. “Ned Betterton.”
“I’m Falkoner.”
Esterhazy shook Betterton’s hand in turn, smiling but not offering his name. As he smiled, the scratches on his face stung. There wouldn’t be a repeat of that: Constance was locked in the hold, handcuffed, her mouth gagged and taped. And yet a chill ran through him as he recalled the expression on her face in the Upper East Side safe house. He’d noticed two things in that expression, as clear as he was alive: hatred — and mental clarity. This woman wasn’t the basket case he’d assumed. And her hatred of him was unsettling in its intensity and murderousness. He found himself not a little unnerved.
“I’m moored over there—” Betterton jerked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder—“and I thought I’d just stop over to wish you a pleasant evening. And — to be honest — I’m captivated by your yacht.”
“Very glad that you did,” replied Falkoner, with a brief glance at Esterhazy. “Would you care for a tour?”
Betterton nodded eagerly. “Thank you, yes.”
Esterhazy noticed his eyes were darting everywhere, taking everything in. He was surprised Falkoner had offered the man a tour — there was something vaguely phony about him. He didn’t look like a yachtsman, the blue blazer was of a cheap cut, and the man was wearing ersatz deck shoes of the landlubber kind.
They stepped into the beautifully appointed saloon, Falkoner launching into a description of the Vergeltung’s characteristics and notable features. Betterton listened with an almost child-like eagerness, still looking around as if committing everything to memory.
“How many people on board?” Betterton asked.
“We have a crew of eight. Then there’s me and my friend, here, who’s just visiting for a few days.” Falkoner smiled. “How about on your vessel?”
Betterton waved a hand. “A staff of three. Have you taken her out on any trips recently?”
“No. We’ve been moored here for several weeks.”
“And you’ve been on board the whole time? Seems a shame, even on such a beautiful vessel, with all of New York spread out before you!”
“Unfortunately, I’ve had no time for trips.”
They passed through the dining room and into the galley, where Falkoner brought out a copy of the evening’s dinner menu, praising the yacht’s chef as he did. Esterhazy followed silently, wondering where this was leading.
“Dover sole with truffle butter and a mousse of root vegetables,” Betterton said, looking at the menu. “You eat well.”
“Perhaps you’d care to share our dinner?” Falkoner asked.
“Thank you, but I’ve got another engagement.”
They continued down a corridor paneled in tamo ash. “Care to see the bridge?”
“Absolutely.”
They climbed a stairway to the upper deck and into the wheelhouse.
“This is Captain Joachim,” Falkoner said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Betterton said, peering around. “Very impressive.”
“I’m happy enough with it,” Falkoner replied. “You can’t beat the feeling of independence a yacht like this provides — as you must know yourself. The loran system on board is second to none.”
“I would imagine.”
“You have loran on your boat?”
“Naturally.”
“Marvelous invention.”
Esterhazy glanced at Falkoner. Loran? That old technology had long ago been superseded by GPS. All at once, Esterhazy understood what Falkoner was up to.
“And what kind of vessel do you have?” Falkoner asked.
“It’s, ah, it’s a Chris-Craft. Eighty feet.”
“An eighty-foot Chris-Craft. Does it have decent range?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Such as?”
“Eight hundred nautical miles.”
Falkoner seemed to consider this. Then he took Betterton by the arm. “Come on. We’ll show you one of the staterooms.”
They left the bridge and descended two levels to the living quarters on the lower deck. But Falkoner did not stop here, instead descending another staircase to the mechanical region of the vessel. He led the way down a hallway to an unmarked door. “I’m curious,” he said as he opened the door. “What kind of engine does your yacht have? And what’s your hailing port?”