“My God, that’s him. Poole.”
Ostrom nodded his miserable agreement.
“The man’s real name is Esterhazy,” said Pendergast, tossing the photograph on the empty table with disgust. He sat down beside the table, tenting his fingers, his gaze turned inward. “I was a damned fool, Vincent. I thought I’d run him deep into the bush. I didn’t anticipate he’d double back on the trail and come up behind me, like a Cape buffalo.”
The lieutenant did not reply. An uncomfortable silence began to grow in the room.
“In the note,” Felder said, “she claims her child is still alive. How is that possible? The whole reason she’s in here is because she admitted killing it.”
Pendergast shot him a withering glance. “Before we bring an infant back from the dead, Doctor, shall we first recover the mother?”
A pause. Then Pendergast turned to Ostrom. “Did this so-called Poole discuss, in specific psychological terms, Constance’s condition?”
“He did.”
“And was his analysis consistent? Believable?”
“It seemed surprising, given what I knew of Ms. Greene. However, its internal logic was sound and so I assumed it was correct. He claimed she’d been his patient. There seemed no reason to doubt him.”
Pendergast’s spidery fingers drummed on the wooden arm of the chair. “And you say that, at his first visit with Constance, Dr. Poole asked for a moment alone with her?”
“Yes.”
Pendergast glanced at D’Agosta. “I think the situation is clear enough. Crystal clear, in fact.”
It wasn’t at all clear to Felder, but he said nothing.
Pendergast turned back to Ostrom. “And it was this same Poole, naturally, who first suggested Constance be given an outing — off the grounds?”
“That’s correct,” said Ostrom.
“Who took care of the paperwork?”
“Dr. Felder.”
Pendergast shot Felder a hooded glance. He cringed.
The FBI agent took a long, searching look around the room. Then he turned once again to Lieutenant D’Agosta. “Vincent, this room — and this place — hold no further interest. We must focus on the note. Can you bring it out again, please?”
D’Agosta reached into his suit pocket and took out the photocopy Ostrom had made. Pendergast seized it and read it over, once, twice.
“The woman who delivered this,” he said. “There was no luck tracking her taxi?”
“Nope.” D’Agosta nodded at the note. “Not much to go on there.”
“Not much,” Pendergast said. “But perhaps, just enough.”
“I don’t understand,” the lieutenant said.
“There are two voices speaking in this note. One of them knows Constance’s ultimate destination — the other does not.”
“You’re saying that first voice is Poole’s. I mean Esterhazy’s.”
“Exactly. And you will note that, perhaps inadvertently, he allowed a certain phrase to escape, which Constance quotes. ‘Vengeance is where it will end.’ ”
“And?”
“Esterhazy was always overly pleased with his own wit. ‘ Vengeanceis where it will end.’ Isn’t that rather an odd construction, Vincent?”
“I’m not so sure, really. That’s the whole point of it: vengeance.”
Pendergast waved his hand impatiently. “What if he’s speaking not of an act, but an object?”
This was followed by a long silence.
“Esterhazy is taking Constance to some placenamed Vengeance. Maybe it’s an old family mansion. An estate. A business of some kind. That’s precisely the kind of pun Esterhazy would employ — especially in a moment of triumph, as no doubt he viewed this to be.”
D’Agosta shook his head. “That’s pretty thin. Who would name something Vengeance?”
Pendergast turned his silvery eyes on the skeptical policeman. “Do we have anything else to go on?”
D’Agosta paused. “No, I guess we don’t.”
“And would a hundred NYPD officers, beating bushes and knocking down doors, have any greater chance of success than I, following up this possible lead?”
“It’s a needle in a haystack. How can you possibly track such a thing down?”
“I know somebody who is exceptionally skilled in just this sort of thing. Let us go — time is short.”
He turned toward Felder and Ostrom. “We are ready to leave, gentlemen.”
As they departed, Pendergast walking so fast that Felder and Ostrom almost had to jog to keep up, the agent removed his cell phone and dialed.
“Mime?” he spoke into the phone. “It’s Pendergast. I have another job for you — another very difficult one, I’m afraid…” He spoke rapidly and softly all the way to the entrance hall, before shutting the phone with a slap. He turned toward Felder and Ostrom, and in a voice laced with irony said, “Thank you very much, Doctors, but we shall find our own way out.”
CHAPTER 63
SLOWLY, CONSTANCE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS. It was very dark. She was aware of both nausea and a splitting headache. She stood still a moment, slumped forward, confused, as her head cleared. And then, quite suddenly, she recalled what had happened.
She tried to move, but found that her hands were handcuffed to a chain around her waist and her legs were bound to something behind her — this time, very firmly. Her mouth was covered by duct tape. The pitch-black air was damp and smelled of diesel fuel, oil, and mold. She could feel the gentle rocking and the sound of water slapping against a hull — she was on a boat.
She listened intently. There were people on board — she could hear muffled voices above. She stood quite still, trying to collect her thoughts, her heartbeat slow and steady. Her limbs were stiff and sore: she must have been unconscious for hours, perhaps many hours.
Time passed. And then she heard footsteps coming closer. A sudden crack of light appeared, and a moment later a bulb went on. She stared. Standing in the doorway was the man who called himself both Esterhazy and Dr. Poole. He stared back at her, his handsome face scored both by nervousness and the scratches she herself had inflicted. Behind him, in a tight hallway, she could see a second, shadowy figure.
He moved toward her. “We’re going to move you. For your own sake, please don’t try anything.”
She merely stared. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
Taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the layers of duct tape that affixed her legs to a vertical structural post in what was now clearly a hold. In another moment she was free.
“Come on.” He reached over and hooked his hand in one of her cuffed arms. She stumbled forward, feet numb, legs cramped, little sparks of pain shooting through them with each movement. He helped her get in front of him and eased her toward the tiny door. She stooped to go through it, Esterhazy following.
The shadowy figure stood outside — a woman. Constance recognized her: the red-haired woman from the adjoining garden. The woman returned her stare, coolly, a faint smile on her lips.
So Pendergast had not gotten the note. It had been futile. Indeed, it had apparently been some sort of ruse.
“Take the other arm,” Esterhazy told the woman. “She’s extremely unpredictable.”
The woman took her other arm, and together they escorted her down a passageway toward another, even smaller hatch. Constance did not resist, allowing herself to be pulled along, her head hanging down. As Esterhazy leaned forward to undog the hatch, Constance braced herself; then she turned quickly, ramming the woman violently in the stomach with her head. With a loud oofthe woman fell back, crashing into a bulkhead. Esterhazy swung around and she tried to butt him as well, but he seized her in a powerful embrace and pinned her arms. The woman scrambled to her feet, leaned over Constance, pulled her head back by the hair, and slapped her hard across the face, once, twice.