Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [24]
“That’s Wisley?” D’Agosta asked.
Pendergast nodded slowly. “He has not aged well.”
“And the other two—those are his ‘boys’?”
Pendergast nodded again. “It would seem this place has yet to enter the twentieth century—let alone the twenty-first.”
And then—slowly, with great deliberation—he eased out of the vehicle, turned to face the house, and raised himself to his full height.
On the porch, Wisley blinked once, twice. He glanced from D’Agosta to Pendergast, opening his mouth to speak. But his expression froze as he stared at the FBI agent. Blankness gave way to horrified recognition. With a curse, the man abruptly struggled out of the chair and rose to his feet, knocking over the glassware in the process. Grabbing an elephant gun that had been propped against the wooden siding, he pulled open a screen door and lurched into the house.
“Can’t get much guiltier than that,” D’Agosta said. “I don’t—oh, shit.”
The two attendants had dropped out of sight below the porch railing. A gunshot boomed from the porch and a spout of dirt erupted behind them.
They threw themselves behind the car. “What the fuck?” D’Agosta said, scrambling to pull his Glock.
“Stay put and down.” Pendergast leapt up and ran.
“Hey!”
Another report, and a bullet smacked the side of the jeep with a whang! sending up a cloud of shredded upholstery stuffing. D’Agosta peered around the tire up at the house, gun in hand. Where the hell had Pendergast gone?
He ducked back and winced as he heard a third shot ricochet off the steel frame of the jeep. Christ, he couldn’t just sit here like a target at a shooting gallery. He waited until a fourth shot sailed over his head, then raised his head above the vehicle’s fender, aiming his weapon as the shooter ducked behind the railing. He was about to pull the trigger when he saw Pendergast emerge from the shrubbery below the porch. With remarkable speed he vaulted the railing, felled the African shooter with a savage chop to the neck, and pointed his .45 at the other attendant. The man slowly raised his hands.
“You can come up now, Vincent,” Pendergast said as he retrieved the gun that lay beside the groaning form.
They found Wisley in the fruit cellar. As they closed in on him, he fired the elephant gun, but his aim was off—through drink or fear—and the kick sent him sprawling. Before he could fire again Pendergast had darted forward, pinned the rifle with his foot, and subdued Wisley with two swift, savage blows to the face. The second blow broke Wisley’s nose, and bright blood fountained over the man’s starched white shirt. Reaching into his own breast pocket and plucking out a handkerchief, Pendergast handed it to him. Then, seizing Wisley by the upper arm, the FBI agent propelled him out of the fruit cellar, up the basement stairs, and out the front door to the porch, where he dropped him back into the wicker chair.
The two attendants were still standing there, as if dumbstruck. D’Agosta waved his weapon at them. “Walk down the road a hundred yards,” he said. “Stay where we can see you, hands up in the air.”
Pendergast tucked his Les Baer into his waistband and stood before Wisley. “Thank you for the warm welcome,” he said.
Wisley pressed the handkerchief to his nose. “I must’ve mistaken you for someone else.” He spoke in what sounded to D’Agosta like an Australian accent.
“On the contrary, I commend you on your prodigious recall. I think you have something to tell me.”
“I’ve nothing to tell you, mate,” Wisley replied.
Pendergast crossed his arms. “I will ask you only once: who arranged my wife’s death?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the muffled response.
Pendergast looked down on the man, his lip twitching. “Let me explain something, Mr. Wisley,