Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [100]
Pendergast turned away, but not before a look of pain lanced across his face. Hayward almost regretted asking the question.
A long pause settled over the library. At last, Pendergast turned toward her again. “We must pick up where Vincent and I left off.”
“ ‘We’?”
“You’re going to grant Vincent’s request, I assume. I need a competent partner. And as I recall, you’re from this region originally. You’ll do well, I assure you.”
His assumptions, his patronizing attitude, were irritating in the extreme. She knew all too well of Pendergast’s unorthodox investigative techniques, his breezy neglect for rules and procedures, his skirtings of the law. She would find that annoying, if not intolerable. It might even damage her career. She returned his steady gaze. If it weren’t for this man, Vinnie wouldn’t be in a hospital right now, critically wounded, in need of a new heart valve.
At the same time… Vinnie had asked her. Twice.
She realized she had already made the decision.
“All right. I’ll help you see this thing through. For Vinnie’s sake, not yours. But—” She hesitated. “I’ve got one condition. And it’s non-negotiable.”
“Of course, Captain.”
“When—if—we find the person responsible for your wife’s death, you must promise me not to kill him.”
Pendergast went very still. “You realize this is the cold-blooded murderer of my wife we’re discussing.”
“I don’t believe in vigilante justice. Too many of your perps end up dead before they even reach a courtroom. This time, we’re going to let justice take its course.”
There was a pause. “What you are asking—is difficult.”
“It’s the price of the dance,” Hayward said simply.
Pendergast held her gaze for a long moment. And then—almost imperceptibly—he nodded.
48
IN THE DIM GARAGE, A MAN CROUCHED BEHIND a vehicle draped in a white canvas shroud. The time was seven in the evening, and the sun had set. The air smelled of car wax, motor oil, and mold. Sliding a 9mm Beretta semi-automatic pistol out of his belt, the man eased open the magazine, checked again that it was full. After snugging the gun back into his waistband, he opened and closed his hands three times, alternately stretching and clenching the fingers. The target would be arriving at any moment. The sweat crept down the nape of the man’s neck and a tendon began to jump in his thigh, but he was unaware of either distraction, so concentrated was he on what was to come.
Frank Hudson had been scouting the grounds of Penumbra Plantation for the past two days, learning the movements and habits of the place. He had been surprised at how lax the security was: a single dotty, half-blind servant opening the house in the morning and shutting it up again at night on a schedule so regular you could set your watch by it. The entrance gates were left closed but unlocked during the day, and they were apparently unwatched. A diligent search had turned up no sign of security cameras, alarm systems, motion sensors, or infrared beams. The decrepit old plantation was so far off the beaten track that Hudson had little to fear from regular police patrols. There were few people at the plantation house besides the target and the servant: only a rather attractive woman with a great figure he’d seen a few times.
Hudson’s target, the man named Pendergast, was the only irregularity in the timeless cycle of Penumbra Plantation. He came and went at the most unpredictable hours. But Hudson had observed long enough to see the beginning of a small pattern in his comings and goings, and it centered on wine. When the shuffling old servant began preparing dinner and uncorked a bottle of wine, Pendergast would be home no later than seven thirty in the evening to partake. If the servant did not uncork wine, it meant Pendergast would not be dining at home and would arrive much later in the evening, if at all.
This evening an uncorked bottle of wine stood