Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [101]
Hudson checked his watch. He rehearsed in his mind how it would go, what he would do. And then he froze: outside, he heard the sound of wheels crunching on gravel. This was it. Hudson waited, his breathing shallow. The car came to a halt outside the garage, the engine idling. A car door opened, followed by the sound of feet. The garage doors swung open, first one, then the other—they were not automatic—and the footsteps went back to the car. The engine revved slightly. The nose of the Rolls eased into the garage, the lights momentarily filling the space, blinding him. A moment later the lights went out, the engine died, and the garage was dark again.
He blinked, waiting for his eyes to readjust. His hand closed on the pistol grips and he eased the weapon from his belt, carefully thumbing off the safety.
He waited for the sound of the opening door, for his target to turn on the lights in the garage, but nothing happened. Pendergast seemed to be waiting in the car. What for? Feeling his heart accelerate in his chest, Hudson tried to control his breathing, maintain his lucidity. He knew he was well hidden, having adjusted the shroud on the vehicle so that it reached all the way to the ground, ensuring that even his feet were invisible.
Perhaps Pendergast was on his cell phone, finishing up a call. Or he was taking a rare opportunity to sit quietly, as people sometimes did, before getting out of the vehicle.
With infinite caution, Hudson raised his head ever so slightly to peer over the edge of the shroud; the dim form of the Rolls rested quietly in the dark, the only sound the ticking of the cooling engine. It was impossible to see inside the smoked windows.
He waited.
“Lose a button?” came a voice from right behind him.
With a grunt of surprise Hudson leapt up, his hand jerking instinctively, the gun going off with a loud crash in the enclosed space. As he tried to pivot he felt the gun wrenched from his hand and a wiry arm wrap around his neck. His body was spun around, then shoved up hard against the sheeted vehicle.
“In the great game of human life,” the voice said, “one begins by being a dupe and ends up by being a rogue.”
Hudson struggled ineffectually.
“Where are you, my friend, on that happy spectrum?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Hudson finally managed to gasp out.
“If you get a grip on yourself, I’ll release you. Now: relax.”
Hudson stopped fighting. As he did so, he felt the pressure release, his limbs freed. He turned to find himself face-to-face with his target, Pendergast: a tall man in black with a face and hair so pale they seemed to glow in the darkness, like a specter. He had Hudson’s own Beretta in hand, pointed at him. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced. My name is Pendergast.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’ve always found that a curious expression when used pejoratively.” Pendergast looked him up and down, then slid the gun into the waist of his own suit. “Shall we continue this conversation in the house?”
The man stared at him.
“Please.” Pendergast gestured for him to walk toward the side door ahead of him. After a moment, Hudson complied. There might be a way to retrieve something out of this, after all.
He passed through the open garage door, Pendergast following, crossed the graveled drive, and mounted the steps to the shabby mansion. The servant held open the door.
“Is the gentleman to come in?” he asked, in a voice that made it clear he hoped not.
“Only for a few minutes, Maurice. We’ll have a glass of sherry in the east parlor.”
Pendergast gestured the man down the central hall and into a small sitting room. A fire was burning in the grate.
“Sit down.”
Hudson gingerly took a seat on an old leather sofa. Pendergast seated himself opposite, checked his watch. “I have just a few minutes. Now once again: your name, please?”
Hudson struggled to collect himself, to adapt to this sudden and unexpected reversal. He could still pull this off. “Forget the name. I’m a private investigator, and I worked for