“What are we waiting for?” Gavin asked, half sliding off his stool. Forget the damn drink, he thought; eagerness had taken the place of exhaustion. “Let’s go.”
Pendergast shook his head. “Going out there now, in the dark, would be unwise. Our man clearly knows that region of the swamp better than I, and probably better than you. If we aren’t careful, we’ll spook him and cause him to flee. No — we’ll head in at first light, approach with stealth, and surprise him. You, of course, will make the actual arrest.”
This image was most gratifying to Gavin. “What about the chief?” he asked as the fresh drink arrived. “We’re talking about a murderer, after all. We might need backup.” And not telling him would piss him off royally, he thought. Retirement or no retirement, it wouldn’t pay to get on Mourdock’s bad side.
“I fear Chief Mourdock would be a hindrance. However, it’s a prudent suggestion nevertheless, and he should be there — if only for reasons of protocol. Why don’t you brief him over the phone once you get home?”
“I’ll do that.”
“Very good. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire to my room. I have preparations to make for tomorrow. Shall we meet at police headquarters at five AM?”
“We’ll be there.”
“Excellent. Until the morning, then.” And with that, Pendergast drained his glass, shook Gavin’s hand, and slipped out of the Chart Room, heading for the stairway that led to the rooms upstairs.
37
The figure moved quietly through the tall salt grass, barely more than a passing shadow in the near-moonless night. Although the wildlife preserve west of Exmouth was invariably deserted, and the man was in a great hurry, he was nevertheless careful to be as quiet as possible: the only sounds were the swish of the dry grass as he passed and the faint sucking sounds when he traversed one of the frequent mudflats.
The trek was a long one — an hour and a half — but he had made it many times before and was used to the journey. He did not mind the darkness; in fact, he welcomed it.
At the boundary of the wildlife preserve he paused to shift his pack from one shoulder to another and look around. The tide was ebbing fast, and his night-accustomed vision could see that the receding water had exposed a labyrinth of pools, flats, marshy islands, and low swamplands. The land seemed cloaked in a watchful silence, although a steady wind was starting to pick up. He hurried on, more quickly than before — he’d have to be on his way back before the turn of the tide if he didn’t want to be marooned in these wastes.
Deep in the swamps, the tall grass grew denser until it seemed more jungle than marsh. But here, too, the figure knew his way. He was now following the faintest of paths, recognizable as a trail only to the most experienced eye. He’d given nicknames to many of the various landmarks he passed: an irregularly shaped tidal pool was the Oilstain; a heavily twisted clump of salt grass, dried-out and dead, was Hurricane. These landmarks helped him navigate. At Hurricane, he turned sharp left, still following the secret, near-invisible trail. He was almost there. The wind was now driving hard, filling the air with the dry rattle of stalks.
Ahead in the darkness, the grass became a wall he almost had to push his way through. And then, suddenly, he came into a small clearing, less than fifty feet in diameter. In the faint light of the obscured moon, he glanced around. The clearing was a riot of disorder. To one side was a huge trash heap, from which led a trail of garbage: chicken and fish bones, empty food cans, turnip tops. In the middle of the clearing were the smoldering coals of a fire. And across from the trash heap was an ancient canvas tent, torn and filthy with dirt and grease. Utensils and a few provisions were scattered around it: a frying pan, jugs of fresh water. Behind the tent, he could smell, rather than see, a steaming pile of dung. The camp was deserted — by all signs, very recently.
The man glanced around again. Then he called out quietly: “Dunkan? Dunkan?”
For a moment, all was still. And then a man emerged from the wall of salt grass on the far side of the camp. Joe was used to the sight, but even so it always sent an electric tickle of anxiety through him. The man was dressed in tatters: apparently a dozen or so rotting garments, their original use now unguessable, fashioned together and carefully gathered around his limbs almost like a sarong. He had wiry red hair and a monobrow, and a long, greasy beard was twisted into three points with strange fastidiousness. He was all hair and sinew, and he looked at Joe with wild eyes that nevertheless glinted with cunning and intelligence. A flint knife was in one hand; a long, rusted bayonet in the other. Clearly, he had heard Joe’s approach and had taken refuge in the grasses.
“What is it?” the man named Dunkan said in a voice hoarse from little use. “You aren’t supposed to come tonight.”
Joe let the pack drop from his shoulder to the ground. “You have to leave,” he said. “Right now.”
At these words, deep suspicion overcame Dunkan’s expression. “Yeah? Why?”
“That FBI man I told you about. He knows about you, he’s discovered your camp. I don’t know how, but he did. I heard him say so in the bar tonight. He’s coming here in the morning with the police.”
“I don’t believe it,” Dunkan said.
“Goddamn it, Dunkan, you have to believe it! It’s your fault. If you hadn’t killed Dana, none of this would have happened!”
Dunkan took a step forward, and Joe backed away. One of his hands slipped into his pants pocket and closed around the grip of a .22 pistol. Dunkan saw the gesture and stopped.
“Our brother had to die,” he said, eyes flashing. “He was trying to cheat me.”
“No, he wasn’t. How many times do I have to explain it? He put the jewels in a safe-deposit box until we could sell them. Nobody’s going to get cheated. There was no reason to get mad like that and kill him.”
“He’s cheated me all our lives. You have, too. I wanted my share, and he wouldn’t give it to me. I did all the work. I took the risks. I killed that Englishman, didn’t I?”
“You did all the work?” Joe said. He was angry now, too, but also extremely wary of his brother. “How about Dana or me taking turns, coming out here every week with your food and water? And what the hell are you going to do with a packet of gemstones? We’ve got to turn them into money. Then you’ll get your share.”
“I did all the work,” Dunkan insisted. “I wanted my jewels then, and I want them now. You’ve got them. I know you have.” Gun or no gun, he took another step forward. “Give me my share.”
Another spike of anxiety coursed through Joe. He’d seen his brother like this before; he knew his violent temper, what he was capable of. “Okay, listen. You’ll get your share. I promise you. With Dana gone, we can now split it fifty-fifty. But those jewels won’t do you any good. They’re safe in the bank vault at Exmouth. We can’t sell them, not yet. But the main thing is that the FBI agent is going to be here at first light.” Keeping an eye on Dunkan, Joe knelt, reached into the pack, pulled out a thick wad of cash. “Here’s two thousand dollars — my whole stash. Consider it earnest money until we can fence the rubies. And there’s some food and water in the pack, too — enough for another week. But you have to go, now. Otherwise they’ll catch you, send you to prison. They’ll send me to prison, too, as an accessory.”
“It was Dana’s idea to kill that Englishman. Kill him, and mark him up like that. I did what he asked. I’m innocent.”