Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 58

Augusta, Maine

ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST SAT IN THE BASEMENT of the Maine State Archives building, surrounded by the defunct files of the Bay Manor Nursing Home. He was frowning at the whitewashed cinder-block wall, and one manicured fingernail was tapping the top of a deal table with evident irritation.

A diligent search for the medical records of Emma Grolier had turned up only a single file card. It indicated the complete records had been transferred by medical order to the care of one Dr. Judson Esterhazy, at his clinic in Savannah, Georgia. The date of the transfer was six months after Helen’s alleged death in Africa. The card was signed by Esterhazy, and the signature was genuine.

What had Esterhazy done with those papers? They hadn’t been in the safe of his Savannah house. It seemed almost certain he had destroyed them — that is, if Pendergast’s theory, still taking shape in his mind, was correct. Chances were the existence of the nursing home bills was an oversight. Emma Grolier. Was it possible…? He stood up slowly, thoughtfully, pushing the chair back with great deliberation.

As he ascended from the basement and once again emerged into the subzero afternoon cold, his cell phone rang. It was D’Agosta.

“Constance has escaped,” he said without preamble.

Pendergast stopped dead. For a moment, he did not speak. Then he quickly opened the door of his rental car and slid in. “Impossible. She has no motive to escape.”

“Nevertheless, she escaped. And let me tell you, I hope you’ve got a raincoat handy, because the shit is about to hit the fan.”

“When did it happen? How?”

“Lunchtime. It’s bizarre. She was on a field trip.”

“Outside the hospital?”

“Central Park Zoo. Seems one of the doctors helped her escape.”

“Dr. Ostrom? Dr. Felder? Impossible.”

“No. Apparently his name was Poole. Ernest Poole.”

“Who the devil is Poole?” Pendergast started the engine. “And what in the name of heaven was a self-confessed baby-killer doing outside the walls of Mount Mercy?”

“That’s the million-dollar question. You can bet the press will have a field day if they find out — which they probably will.”

“Keep this from the press at all costs.”

“I’m doing my best. Naturally, homicide is all over it.”

“Call them off. I can’t have a lot of detectives blundering about.”

“No dice. An investigation’s obligatory. SOP.”

For perhaps ten seconds, Pendergast stood motionless, thinking. Then he spoke again. “Have you looked into the background of this Dr. Poole?”

“Not yet.”

“If homicide must occupy themselves with something, have them do that. They’ll discover he’s a fraud.”

“You know who he is?”

“I’d rather not speculate at the moment.” Pendergast paused again. “I was a fool not to anticipate something like this. I believed Constance to be perfectly safe at Mount Mercy. A dreadful oversight—another dreadful oversight.”

“Well, she’s probably not in any real danger. Maybe she got infatuated with the doctor, escaped for some sort of dalliance…” D’Agosta’s voice trailed off awkwardly.

“Vincent, I’ve already told you she didn’t escape. She was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Yes. No doubt by this ersatz Dr. Poole. Keep it from the press and stop homicide from muddying the waters.”

“I’ll do everything I can.”

“Thank you.” And Pendergast accelerated onto the icy street, the rented car fishtailing and spraying snow, heading for the airport and New York City.