They stepped into, not a stateroom, but a spartan-looking storage area. “Oh, I’m not really all that nautical,” Betterton said, with a chuckle and a wave of his hand. “I leave all that to my captain and staff.”
“Funny,” Falkoner replied as he raised the cover of a sail locker. “I myself prefer to leave nothing to others.” He pulled a large sailcloth tarp from the locker and unrolled it over the floor.
“This is a stateroom?” Betterton asked.
“No,” Falkoner replied, closing the door. He glanced at Esterhazy, and there was something chilling in his look.
Betterton glanced at his watch. “Well, thanks for the tour. I think I’d better be getting back—”
He paused when he saw the double-edged combat knife in Falkoner’s hand.
“Who are you?” Falkoner said in a low voice. “And what do you want?”
Betterton swallowed. He looked from Falkoner to the knife and back again. “I told you. My yacht is moored just down from—”
As quickly as a striking snake, Falkoner grabbed one of Betterton’s hands and jabbed the point of his knife into the webbing between the index and middle fingers.
Betterton cried out in pain, tried to jerk his hand free. But Falkoner just took a tighter hold, pulling the man forward so that he stood on the sailcloth.
“We’re wasting time,” he said. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Judson, cover me.”
Esterhazy removed his pistol and stepped back. He felt sick. This seemed unnecessary. And Falkoner’s obvious eagerness made it worse.
“You’re making a serious mistake,” Betterton began, his voice suddenly low, threatening. But before he could continue Falkoner took a fresh grip on the knife and then pushed it even deeper, this time into the flesh between the middle and ring fingers.
“I’ll kill you,” Betterton gasped.
As Esterhazy looked on with growing horror, Falkoner held the stranger’s wrist in a grip of iron while he dug with the knife, twisting and probing.
Betterton staggered over the tarp, grunting but not saying anything.
“Tell me why you’re here.” And Falkoner twisted the knife deeper.
“I’m a thief,” Betterton gasped.
“Interesting story,” said Falkoner. “But I don’t believe it.”
“I—” Betterton began, but with a sudden explosion of violence Falkoner kneed him in the groin, then head-butted the man as he doubled over. Betterton toppled back onto the tarp, groaning, blood streaming from a broken nose.
Falkoner pulled one corner of the tarp over Betterton, like a sheet, then knelt on it, pinning Betterton’s chest. He took the knife and let it trace a line up the soft underside of the man’s chin. Betterton, unable to rise and half stunned, rocked his head from side to side, moaning incoherently.
Falkoner sighed, whether with regret or impatience Esterhazy couldn’t guess, and then stuck the knife into the soft flesh just above the neck, below the chin, sinking it an inch into the man’s palate.
Now Betterton finally screamed and struggled wildly. After a moment, Falkoner removed the blade.
Betterton coughed, spat blood. “Reporter,” he said after a moment. The voice was a wet gargle, hard to understand.
“A reporter? Investigating what?”
“Death… June and Carlton Brodie.”
“How did you find me?” Falkoner asked.
“Locals… Car rental… Airline.”
“That sounds more credible,” Falkoner said. “Have you told anyone about me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You have to let me go… Man waiting for me… in the boat—”
With a brutal slashing motion, Falkoner drew the knife hard across the reporter’s throat, simultaneously leaping backward to avoid the jet of blood.
“Oh, my God!” Esterhazy cried, stepping back in shock and dismay.
Betterton raised his hands toward the wound, but it was an involuntary movement. As dark crimson flooded between the man’s fingers, Falkoner drew the tarp around limbs that were already jerking spastically.
Esterhazy stared, transfixed with shock. Falkoner stood, wiped the knife on the tarp, straightened his clothes, wiped off his hands, looking down at the dying reporter with something very much like satisfaction. He turned to Esterhazy. “Little strong for you, Judson?”
Esterhazy did not respond.
They climbed back up two flights, Esterhazy feeling unnerved by the brutality and Falkoner’s evident enjoyment. He followed Falkoner through the saloon and out onto the rear deck. In the shadow of the yacht, the motor launch was still waiting.
Falkoner leaned over the railing, speaking to the blond man in the launch, the one who had brought Betterton out to the yacht. “Vic, the body’s downstairs in the forward cargo hold. Come back after dark and dispose of it. Discreetly.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man in the launch.
“You’ll need an adequate story as for why your passenger isn’t returning to the dock. He’s a capital fellow, we’ve invited him on a short cruise.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I might suggest leaving the body in Riverside Park. Up in the low hundreds — that’s still a sketchy area. Make it look like a mugging. I’d drop it out to sea but that would eventually be harder to explain.”
“Yes, Mr. Falkoner.” The man fired up the motor and turned back toward the Boat Basin.
Falkoner watched for a minute as the dinghy moved away. Then he glanced at Esterhazy. His face was tense. “A bloody clueless reporter and he found me. Found the Vergeltung.” His eyes narrowed. “I can only think of one way: he followed you.”
“Not possible. I’ve been exceedingly careful. Besides, I’ve been nowhere near Malfourche.”
A long, slitted look followed this, and then Falkoner seemed to relax. He breathed out. “I suppose we can call that a successful dry run, ja?”
Esterhazy didn’t answer.
“We’re ready for this man Pendergast. As long as you baited the hook properly and are sure he will come.”
“Nothing about Pendergast is sure,” Esterhazy said at last.
CHAPTER 62
FELDER STOOD IN A FAR CORNER OF CONSTANCE GREENE’S room at Mount Mercy Hospital. Dr. Ostrom was there, along with Agent Pendergast and an NYPD lieutenant named D’Agosta. The previous afternoon, the police had taken away all of Constance’s books, her private writings, various personal possessions, and even the paintings on the walls. That morning they had learned conclusively that Poole was a fake, a fraud, and Felder had had to endure a dressing-down by the real Poole, who savaged him for not checking the man’s credentials.
Pendergast did not bother to hide his steely contempt for the way in which they had allowed Constance to leave Mount Mercy. Some of his displeasure had been directed against Ostrom, but Felder had endured the brunt of the man’s icy wrath.
“Well, Doctors,” Pendergast was saying, “allow me to congratulate you on the first escape from Mount Mercy in a hundred and twenty years. Where shall we mount the plaque?”
Silence.
Pendergast plucked a photograph from his suit pocket and showed it first to Ostrom, then to Felder. “Do you recognize this man?”
Felder looked at it closely. It was a slightly blurry shot of a handsome, middle-aged man.
“He looks rather like Poole,” said Felder, “but I’m pretty sure it’s not the same man. Brother, perhaps?”
“And you, Dr. Ostrom?”
“Hard to say.”
Pendergast slipped a thin, felt-tipped pen from his pocket, bent over the photograph, and briefly worked on it. He followed with a touch of a white pen. At last he turned back to the two doctors and showed them the photograph without comment.
Felder stared at the photograph again — this time with a shock of recognition. Pendergast had added a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke beard.