Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [1]
Finally Esterhazy spoke, his voice barely audible over the wind. “The one in the glen, he’s a monster.”
No response from Pendergast.
“I say we go after him.”
“The one in the Mire,” murmured Pendergast, “is even larger.”
A silence. “Surely you know the rules of the lodge regarding entrance into the Mire.”
Pendergast made a short, dismissive gesture with a pale hand. “I am not one who is concerned with rules. Are you?”
Esterhazy compressed his lips, saying nothing.
They waited as a gray dawn bled suddenly red into the eastern sky and the light continued to creep over the stark Highland landscape. Far below, the Mire was now a wasteland of black pools and ribbons of marshy water, quaking bogs and heaving quickmire, interspersed among deceptive grassy meadows and tors of broken rock. Pendergast extracted a small spyglass from his pocket, pulled it open, and scanned the Mire. After a long moment, he passed the glass to Esterhazy. “He’s between the second and third tor, half a mile in. A rogue stag. No harem.”
Esterhazy peered intently. “Looks like a twelve-point rack on him.”
“Thirteen,” murmured Pendergast.
“The one in the glen would be much easier to stalk. Better cover for us. I’m not sure we have even the ghost of a chance of bagging the one in the Mire. Aside from the, ah, risks of going in there, it’ll see us a mile away.”
“We approach on a line of sight that passes through that second tor, keeping it between us and the stag. The wind is in our favor.”
“Even so, that’s treacherous ground in there.”
Pendergast turned to Esterhazy, gazing for a few awkward seconds into the high-domed, well-bred face. “Are you afraid, Judson?”
Esterhazy, momentarily taken aback, brushed off the comment with a forced chuckle. “Of course not. It’s just that I’m thinking of our chances of success. Why waste time in a fruitless pursuit all over the Mire when we have an equally fine stag waiting for us down there in the glen?”
Without responding, Pendergast delved into his pocket and extracted a one-pound coin. “Call it.”
“Heads,” said Esterhazy reluctantly.
Pendergast flipped the coin, caught it, slapped it on his sleeve. “Tails. The first shot is mine.”
Pendergast led the way down the shoulder of Beinn Dearg. There was no trail, only broken rock, short grass, tiny wildflowers, and lichen. As night gave way to morning, the mists thickened over the Mire, eddying about the low areas and streaming up the hillocks and tors.
They moved silently and stealthily down toward the verge of the Mire. When they reached a small hollow, a corrie, at the base of the Beinn, Pendergast gestured for them to halt. Red deer had an extremely acute suite of senses, and the men had to take exquisite care not to be seen, heard, or scented.
Creeping to the brow of the corrie, Pendergast peered over the top.
The stag was about a thousand yards off, moving slowly into the Mire. As if on cue, he raised his head, snuffled the air, and let out another ear-shattering roar, which echoed and died among the stones, then shook his mane and went back to sniffing the ground and taking odd snatches of grass.
“My God,” whispered Esterhazy. “He’s a monster.”
“We must move quickly,” murmured Pendergast. “He’s heading deeper into the Mire.”
They swung around below the rim of the corrie, keeping out of sight, until they had lined up the stag with a small tor. Turning, they approached the animal using the hummock as cover. The edges of the Mire, after the long summer, had firmed up, and they moved quickly and silently, the soft hillocks of grass acting as stepping-stones. They came up in the lee of the hill, then hunkered down behind it. The wind was still in their favor and they heard the stag roar again, a sign he was unaware of their presence. Pendergast shivered; the end of the roar sounded uncannily like that of a lion. Motioning Esterhazy to remain behind, he crept up to the hill’s edge, cautiously peering through a tumble of boulders.
The stag stood a thousand yards