Cold Vengeance (3 page)

C
HAPTER 4

E
STERHAZY FROZE AT THE SOUND OF THE VOICE.

“As you rise, hold your rifle in your left hand, extended away from your body.”

Still, Esterhazy found himself unable to move. How was it possible?

Whing!
The round smacked into the ground between his feet, kicking up a spray of dirt. “I won’t ask again.”

Holding his rifle out by his left hand, Esterhazy stood up.

“Drop the rifle and turn around.”

He allowed the rifle to fall, then turned. There was Pendergast, twenty yards away, pistol in hand, himself rising from a clump of reeds apparently standing in water—but Esterhazy could now see there was a small meandering path of glacially deposited rocks at the water’s surface, surrounded on both sides by quickmire.

“I just have one question,” said Pendergast, his voice thin in the moaning wind. “How could you murder your own sister?”

Esterhazy stared at him.

“I require an answer.”

Esterhazy couldn’t quite bring himself to speak. Looking into Pendergast’s face, he knew he was a dead man. He felt the unutterably cold fear of death fall upon him like a sodden cloak, mingling with horror, regret, and relief. There was nothing he could do. He would not, at least, give Pendergast the satisfaction of an undignified exit. Even with his death, there would be pain enough for Pendergast in the months ahead. “Just get it over with,” he said.

“No explanations, then?” asked Pendergast. “No whining justifications, no abject pleading for understanding? How disappointing.” The finger tightened on the trigger. Esterhazy closed his eyes.

And then it happened: a sudden, overpowering crash of sound. Esterhazy saw an explosion of reddish fur, the flash of antlers—and the stag burst through the reeds, one antler swiping Pendergast, catching his gun and sending it flying into the water. As the stag bounded away, Pendergast staggered and thrashed—and Esterhazy realized he had been thrown into a pool of mire with only a skimming of water covering its surface.

Seizing his own rifle from the ground, Esterhazy aimed and fired. The round caught Pendergast in the chest, slamming him backward into the pool. Esterhazy aimed, preparing to fire again, then paused. A second shot, a second bullet, would be impossible to explain—if the body was found.

He lowered the rifle. Pendergast was struggling, held fast now in the mire, his strength already ebbing. A dark stain was spreading across his chest. The shot had struck him off center but was sufficient to do catastrophic damage. The man looked a sight: clothing torn and bloody, pale hair streaked with mud and darkened by rain. He coughed, and blood came burbling from his lips.

That was it: as a doctor, Esterhazy knew the shot was fatal. It had punctured a lung, creating a sucking wound, and its placement left a good possibility it had torn up the left subclavian artery, which was rapidly filling the lungs with blood. Even if he wasn’t sinking irretrievably into quicksand, Pendergast would be a dead man in a few minutes.

Already up to his waist in the quaking bog, Pendergast stopped struggling and stared up at his assassin. The icy glitter in the pale gray eyes spoke more eloquently of his hatred and despair than any words he might have spoken, and it shook Esterhazy to the core.

“You want an answer to your question?” Esterhazy asked. “Here it is. I never did murder Helen. She’s still alive.”

He couldn’t bear to wait for the end. He turned and walked away.

C
HAPTER 5

T
HE LODGE LOOMED UP, THE WINDOWS CASTING
a blurry yellow light into the driving rain. Judson Esterhazy grasped the heavy iron door ring, heaved it open, and staggered into the entry hall, lined with suits of armor and huge racks of antlers.

“Help!” he cried. “Help me!”

The guests were standing around a roaring fire in the great hall, drinking noontime coffee, tea, and small glasses of malt. They turned and looked at him, astonished.

“My friend’s been shot!”

A boom of thunder temporarily drowned him out, rattling the leaded windows.

“Shot!” Esterhazy repeated, collapsing to the floor. “I need help!”

After a moment of frozen horror, several people rushed over. On the floor, his eyes closed, Esterhazy felt them crowding around, heard the low babble of voices.

“Step back,” came the stern Scottish voice of Cromarty, the lodgekeeper. “Give him air. Step back, please.”

A glass of whisky was pressed to his mouth. He took a swallow, opened his eyes, struggled to sit up.

“What happened? What are you saying?”

Cromarty’s face loomed over him: neatly trimmed beard, wire spectacles, sandy hair, angular jaw. The deception was easy enough; Esterhazy was genuinely horror-struck, chilled to the bone, barely able to walk. He took another swallow of whisky, the peaty malt like a fire in his throat, reviving him.

“My brother-in-law… we were stalking a stag in the Mire—”

“The Mire?” said Cromarty, his voice suddenly sharp.

“A real giant…” Esterhazy swallowed, tried to pull himself together.

“Come to the fire.” Taking his arm, Cromarty helped him up. Robbie Grant, the old gamekeeper, bustled into the room and took Esterhazy’s other arm. Together they helped him shuck off his saturated camouflage jacket and led him to an armchair by the hearth.

Esterhazy sank down.

“Speak,” said Cromarty. The other guests stood around, faces white with shock.

“Up on Beinn Dearg,” he said. “We spotted a stag. Down in the Foulmire.”

“But you know the rules!”

Esterhazy shook his head. “I know, but he was a monster. Thirteen points. My brother-in-law insisted. We tracked him deep into the Mire. Down to the marshes. Then we split up—”

“Are you bloody daft, man?” It was the gamekeeper, Robbie Grant, speaking in a shrill tenor. “You split up?”

“We had to corner him. Drive him against the marshes. The fogs were coming in, visibility was poor, he broke cover… I saw movement, fired…” He paused, heaved a breath. “Hit my brother-in-law square in the chest…” He gasped, covered his face.

“You left an injured man on the moors?” Cromarty demanded angrily.

“Oh, God.” Esterhazy broke into racking sobs, hiding his face in his hands. “He fell into the bogs… Got sucked down…”

“Hold on,” said Cromarty, the tone of his voice as cold as ice. He spoke slowly, quietly, enunciating every word. “You’re telling me, sir, that you went out into the Mire; that you accidentally shot your brother-in-law; and that he fell into a bog? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Esterhazy nodded wordlessly, still hiding his face.

“Christ Jesus. Is there any chance he’s still alive?”

Esterhazy shook his head.

“Are you absolutely sure of that?”

“I’m sure,” Esterhazy choked out. “He went down. I’m… I’m so sorry!” he suddenly wailed. “I’ve killed my brother-in-law!” He began rocking back and forth, head in his hands. “God forgive me!”

A stunned silence.

“He’s out of his head,” the gamekeeper muttered. “As clear a case of moor fever as I’ve ever seen.”

“Get these people out of here,” Cromarty rumbled, gesturing at the guests. He turned to the gamekeeper. “Robbie, call the police.” He swung on Esterhazy. “Is that the rifle you shot him with?” He gestured roughly at the rifle Esterhazy had carried in, now lying on the floor.

He nodded miserably.

“Nobody touch it.”

The guests left in murmuring groups, speaking in hushed tones, shaking their heads. The lightning flashed, a boom of thunder following. Rain lashed the windows. Esterhazy sat in the chair, slowly lowering his hands from his face, feeling the welcome warmth of the fire creeping through his wet clothing. An equally marvelous warmth crept into his inner being, slowly displacing the horror; he felt a sense of release washing over him, even elation. It was over, over,
over
. He had nothing more to fear from Pendergast. The genie was back in the bottle. The man was dead. As for his partner, D’Agosta, and that other New York City cop, Hayward—killing Pendergast had cut the head off that snake. This was truly the end. And by all appearances, these Scottish dunces were buying the story. There was nothing that could come to light to contradict anything he’d said. He had gone back, collected all the shells except the one he wanted them to find. Pendergast’s rifle and the shells from their fight he had deposited in a bog on his way back, and they’d never find that. That would be the only mystery—the missing rifle. Nothing strange in that: a rifle could easily get permanently lost once sunk in the Mire. They knew nothing about his handgun, and Esterhazy had made that disappear as well. The stag’s tracks, if they survived the storm, would be fully consistent with his story.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Cromarty, going to the mantelpiece, grabbing a bottle of scotch and pouring himself a tumblerful. He drank it in small gulps, pacing before the fire, ignoring Esterhazy.

Grant came back in. “The police are on their way from Inverness, sir. Along with a Northern Constabulary Special Services team—with grapnels.”

Cromarty turned, downed the glass, poured himself another, and glared at Esterhazy. “You stay put till they get here, you bloody damned fool.”

Another peal of thunder shook the old stone lodge, and the wind howled across the moors.

C
HAPTER 6

T
HE POLICE ARRIVED MORE THAN AN HOUR LATER
, their flashing lights striping the gravel drive. The storm had passed, leaving a leaden sky of swift-moving clouds. They were dressed up in blue slickers, boots, and waterproof hats, tramping across the stone entryway, looking self-important. Esterhazy watched them from the chair, reassured by their unimaginative stolidity.

The last one to enter was the man in charge, and the only one not in uniform. Esterhazy examined him surreptitiously; he was at least six foot five, bald with a fringe of pale hair; he had a narrow face and blade-thin nose and carried himself tilted forward, as if cutting his way through life. His nose was just red enough to compromise the appearance of seriousness, and he occasionally dabbed at it with a handkerchief. He was dressed in old shooting clothes: tin oil pants, a tight twill sweater, and a scuffed Barbour jacket, unzipped.

“Hullo, Cromarty,” he said, extending an easy hand as Cromarty bustled over. They huddled at the far end of the hall, speaking in low tones, occasionally glancing in Esterhazy’s direction.

Then the officer came over and took the wing chair next to Esterhazy. “Chief Inspector Balfour of the Northern Constabulary,” he said quietly, not offering his hand, but leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “And you are Judson Esterhazy?”

“That’s right.”

He slipped out a small steno pad. “All right, Dr. Esterhazy. Tell me what happened.”

Esterhazy went through the story from beginning to end, pausing frequently to collect himself or choke back tears, while Balfour took notes. When he was done, Balfour shut the pad. “We’re going to the scene of the accident. You’re coming with us.”

“I’m not sure…” Esterhazy swallowed. “… that I’m up to it.”

“I’m quite sure you are,” said Balfour crisply. “We’ve two bloodhounds. And Mr. Grant will be coming with us as well. He knows the byways of the Mire.” He stood up, consulting a large marine watch. “We’ve five hours of daylight left.”

Esterhazy got up with a long, mournful face and a show of reluctance. Outside, the team was gearing up with packs, ropes, and other equipment. At the end of the graveled drive, a dog handler was exercising two leashed bloodhounds around the greensward.

An hour later, they had tramped over the side of Beinn Dearg and arrived at the edge of the Foulmire, the boggy ground marked by a ragged line of boulders. A mist lay over the moors. The sun was already sinking in the sky, the endless landscape disappearing into gray nothingness, the dark pools lying motionless in the heavy air. There was a faint smell of vegetal decay.

“Dr. Esterhazy?” Balfour looked at him, frowning, arms folded over his chest. “Which way?”

Esterhazy glanced around, his face a blank. “It all looks the same.” No point in giving them too much help.

Balfour shook his head sadly.

“The dogs have a scent over here, Inspector.” The thick brogue of the gamekeeper drifted through the mist. “And I see a bit of sign.”

“Is that where you went into the Mire?” Balfour asked.

“I think so.”

“All right. The dogs will lead the way. Mr. Grant, you stay with them up front. The rest of you follow. Dr. Esterhazy and I will come last. Mr. Grant knows the good ground; follow in his footsteps at all times.” The inspector took a moment to remove a pipe, which had been pre-packed, and lit it. “If anyone gets mired, don’t the rest of you rush in like damn fools and get mired yourself. The team has ropes, lifesaver rings, and telescoping hooks for retrieving any who get stuck in quicksand.”

He puffed away, looking around. “Mr. Grant, do you have anything to add?”

“I do,” said the small, wizened man, leaning on his walking stick, his voice almost as high as a girl’s. “If you do get caught in it, don’t struggle. Lean back into it gently, let your body float up.” He fixed a bushy eye on Esterhazy, glaring. “I’ve got a question for Dr. Esterhazy: when you were traipsing over the Mire after that stag, did ye see any landmarks?”

“Like what?” Esterhazy said, his voice confused and uncertain. “It seemed awfully empty to me.”

“There’s ruins, cairns, and standing stones.”

“Ruins… yes, it seems we passed by some ruins.”

“What’d they look like?”

“If I remember correctly—” Esterhazy frowned in mock recollection—“they appeared to be a stone corral and a shelter on a sort of hill, with the marshes beyond and to the left.”

“Aye. The old Coombe Hut.” Without another word the gamekeeper turned and began tramping through the grass, moss, and heather, the bloodhounds with their handler hurrying to keep up. He walked fast with his head down, his short legs churning, walking stick swinging, his shaggy hair like a white halo around a tweed cap perched on top.

For a quarter of an hour they moved in silence, interrupted only by the snuffling and whining of the dogs and the murmured instructions of their handler. As the clouds thickened again and a premature gloaming fell over the moors, some of the men took out powerful flashlights and switched them on. The beams lanced through the cold mists. Esterhazy, who had been feigning ignorance and confusion, began to wonder if they hadn’t gotten lost for real. Everything looked strange and he recognized nothing.

As they descended into yet another lonely hollow, the dogs suddenly stopped, snuffled all around in circles, and then charged forward on a scent, straining their leashes.

“Easy, now,” the handler said, pulling back, but the dogs were too excited and began to bay, a deep-throated sound that echoed over the moors.

“What’s with them?” Balfour said sharply.

“I don’t know. Back. Back!”

“For God’s sake,” shrilled Grant, “pull them back!”

“Bloody
hell
!” The handler pulled on the leashes but the dogs responded by lunging forward, in full throat.

“Watch out, there!” cried Grant.

With a scream of pure terror the handler suddenly went down into a quagmire, breaking through a crust of sphagnum, slopping and struggling, and one of the dogs went in with him, the baying turning into a shriek. The dog churned, his head held up in terror.

“Stop your struggling!” Grant hollered at the handler, his voice mingling with the cries of the dog. “Lean back!”

But the handler was in too much of a panic to pay attention. “Help me!” he screamed, flailing away, splattering mud.

“Bring the hook!” commanded Balfour.

A member of the Special Services team had already dropped his pack and was untying a rod with a large rounded handle on one end and a broad loop of rope on the other. He snapped it out like a telescope and knelt at the edge of the bog, wrapped the rope around his waist, and extended the end with the handle.

The dog yelped and paddled.

“Help me!” the trapped man cried.

“Grab hold, ye damn fool!” cried Grant.

The high-pitched voice seemed to have penetrated and the man grasped its meaning. He reached out and grabbed the handle at the end of the rod.

“Pull!”

The rescuer leaned back, using his body to leverage the man out. The handler clung on desperately, his body emerging slowly with a sucking noise, and was dragged onto firmer ground, where he lay shivering and gasping for breath, covered with clinging muck.

Meanwhile the dog was shrieking like a banshee, churning and slapping the bog with his front legs.

“Lasso his front quarters!” shouted Grant.

One of the men already had his rope out and was fashioning it into a loop. He tossed it toward the dog, but it fell short. The dog struggled and screamed, his eyes rolling white.

“Again!”

The man tossed it again, and this time it fell over the dog.

“Tighten and pull!”

He pulled but the dog, feeling the rope around his neck, twisted and struggled to avoid it, letting it slip off.

Esterhazy watched in mingled horror and fascination.

“He’s going under!” said the handler, who was slowly recovering from his fright.

Another man readied a loop, this one tied with a slipknot, lasso-style, and he crouched at the bank, giving it a gentle toss. It missed. He pulled it in, loosened the noose, prepared to toss it again.

But the dog was going down fast. Now only his neck was above the muck, every tendon popping, the mouth like a pink cavern from which came a sound that went beyond a scream into something not of this world.

“Do something, for the love of God!” cried the handler.

Ooowooo! Oooowooo!
came the sound, horribly loud.

“Again! Toss it again!”

Again the man tossed the lasso; again he missed.

And suddenly, without even a gurgle, there was silence. The sound of the dog’s last smothered cry echoed across the moorlands and died away. The muck closed up and its surface smoothed. A faint tremor shook the bog, and then it went still.

The handler, who had risen to his feet, now sank to his knees. “My dog! Oh, great Christ!”

Balfour fixed him with a stare and spoke quietly but with great force. “I’m very sorry. But we have to continue.”

“You can’t just
leave
him!”

Balfour turned to the gamekeeper. “Mr. Grant, lead on to the Coombe Hut. And you, sir, bring that other bloodhound. We still need him.”

Without further ado they continued on, the dog handler, dripping with mud, his feet squelching, leading the remaining bloodhound, who was shaking and trembling, useless for work. Grant was once again walking like a demon on stubby legs, swinging his stick, stopping only occasionally to viciously stab the end of it at the ground with grunts of dissatisfaction.

To Esterhazy’s surprise, they weren’t lost after all. The land began to rise and, against the faint light, he made out the ruins of the corral and hut.

“Which way?” said Grant to him.

“We passed through and went down the other side.”

They climbed the hill and passed the ruins.

“Here, I think, is where we split up,” said Esterhazy, indicating the place where he had departed from Pendergast’s trail in the effort to flank him.

After examining the ground, the gamekeeper grunted, nodded.

“Lead on,” said Balfour.

Esterhazy took the lead, with Grant right behind, holding a powerful electric torch. The yellow beam cut through the mist, illuminating the rushes and cattails along the edge of the marsh.

“Here,” Esterhazy said, halting. “That’s… that’s where he went down.” He pointed to the broad, still pool at the verge of the marsh. His voice broke, he covered his face, and a sob escaped. “It was like a nightmare. God forgive me!”

“Everyone stay back,” said Balfour, motioning the team with his hand. “We’re going to set up lights. You, Dr. Esterhazy, are going to show us exactly what happened. The forensic team will examine the ground, and then we’ll drag the pool.”

“Drag the pool?” Esterhazy asked.

Balfour glared at him. “That’s right. To recover the body.”