Cemetery Dance

Chapter 82

Alexander Esteban hurried back through the basements he knew so well and took the stairs up to ground level, two at a time. In a moment he was out of the barn and outside. It was a fresh, cold fall night, the stars sprinkled hard across a velvet sky. Breaking into a run, he headed to his car, flung open the door, and — thank God, thankGod — grabbed the manila envelope that lay on the passenger's seat. He opened it, slid out the old vellum sheets within, checked them, and — more slowly now — slid them back in.

He leaned against the car, breathing hard. It was silly, this panic. Of course the document was safe. It wasn't worth anything to anyone else but him, anyway. Few would even understand it. Even so, it had tormented him dreadfully, thinking of it sitting there in the car unprotected. He had planned so carefully, cultivated relationships, spent several fortunes, misled and suborned and intimidated and murdered — all for that double sheet of vellum. The thought that it had lain unguarded in his car, open to some opportunistic sneak thief or even the caprice of the Long Island weather, had been a torture. But all had ended well. It was safe. And now, with it once again in his hand, he could afford to laugh at his own paranoia.

Smiling a little ruefully to himself, he went back into the house, walked through the darkened halls to his office, and opened his safe. He put the envelope inside the steel confines and gazed at it fondly for a moment. Now his mind was fully at ease. Now he could go back to the basement and finish things off. Pendergast was dead; he only had to do the girl. Their bodies would go deep beneath the basement floor — he had already worked out the spot — and nobody would ever see them again.

He pushed the massive steel door shut and punched in the electronic code. As the locking mechanism whispered and clicked when the tumblers eased into place, Esteban thought about the coming weeks, months, years… and he smiled. It would be a struggle, but he would emerge from it a very, very rich man.

Leaving the house, he strolled back across the lawn, breathing easily, his hand on the grips of the gun he'd taken from the FBI agent's body. It was clearly a police — issue firearm, perfect for the anonymous job he had in mind. He'd get rid of it, of course — after he had used it on the girl.

The girl. She'd already surprised him with her resourcefulness and physical resilience. One should never underestimate human ingenuity in the face of death. Despite her being injured and locked up, he'd have to be careful — no sense slipping up at the last minute, with everything he desired now in his possession.

Inside the barn, he flicked on his flashlight and descended to the basement. He wondered if the girl was going to make it hard on him, crouching behind the damn door like she'd done before. He didn't think so — tossing Pendergast's body into the cell had clearly freaked her out. She'd probably be hysterical, pleading, trying to talk her way out of it. Good luck — he wouldn't even give her the chance.

He reached the door to her cellar room and opened the barred window, shining his light inside. There she was, once again in the center of the room, lying on the straw, sobbing, all fight gone, head bent forward, covered by her hands. Her broad back made a perfect target. Off to her right, still visible, was the FBI agent's corpse, clothes in disarray, as if she'd been searching him for his gun. Perhaps the lack of a weapon was what had made her ultimately give up hope.

He felt a pang of remorse. This was a cold thing to do. It wasn't like killing Fearing or Kidd — they were opportunistic scum, low — life criminals who would do anything for a buck. And yet killing the woman was a necessary evil, unavoidable. Squinting through the sights, he took careful aim at her upper back, directly above her heart, and squeezed off a round from the Colt. The force of the bullet knocked her sideways and she screamed — a short, sharp scream. The second shot caught her lower down, just above her kidneys, knocking her sideways again. There was no scream this time.

That took care of that.

But he had to be sure. A bullet to the brain for each was in order — and then a quick burial in the place of his choice. He would get rid of Smithback's and the researcher's bodies at the same time. Husband and wife together — wouldn't that be appropriate?

Gun at the ready, he inserted the key in the lock and eased open the door.