Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 5

THE LODGE LOOMED UP, THE WINDOWS CASTING a blurry yellow light into the driving rain. Judson Esterhazy grasped the heavy iron door ring, heaved it open, and staggered into the entry hall, lined with suits of armor and huge racks of antlers.

“Help!” he cried. “Help me!”

The guests were standing around a roaring fire in the great hall, drinking noontime coffee, tea, and small glasses of malt. They turned and looked at him, astonished.

“My friend’s been shot!”

A boom of thunder temporarily drowned him out, rattling the leaded windows.

“Shot!” Esterhazy repeated, collapsing to the floor. “I need help!”

After a moment of frozen horror, several people rushed over. On the floor, his eyes closed, Esterhazy felt them crowding around, heard the low babble of voices.

“Step back,” came the stern Scottish voice of Cromarty, the lodgekeeper. “Give him air. Step back, please.”

A glass of whisky was pressed to his mouth. He took a swallow, opened his eyes, struggled to sit up.

“What happened? What are you saying?”

Cromarty’s face loomed over him: neatly trimmed beard, wire spectacles, sandy hair, angular jaw. The deception was easy enough; Esterhazy was genuinely horror-struck, chilled to the bone, barely able to walk. He took another swallow of whisky, the peaty malt like a fire in his throat, reviving him.

“My brother-in-law… we were stalking a stag in the Mire—”

“The Mire?” said Cromarty, his voice suddenly sharp.

“A real giant…” Esterhazy swallowed, tried to pull himself together.

“Come to the fire.” Taking his arm, Cromarty helped him up. Robbie Grant, the old gamekeeper, bustled into the room and took Esterhazy’s other arm. Together they helped him shuck off his saturated camouflage jacket and led him to an armchair by the hearth.

Esterhazy sank down.

“Speak,” said Cromarty. The other guests stood around, faces white with shock.

“Up on Beinn Dearg,” he said. “We spotted a stag. Down in the Foulmire.”

“But you know the rules!”

Esterhazy shook his head. “I know, but he was a monster. Thirteen points. My brother-in-law insisted. We tracked him deep into the Mire. Down to the marshes. Then we split up—”

“Are you bloody daft, man?” It was the gamekeeper, Robbie Grant, speaking in a shrill tenor. “You split up?”

“We had to corner him. Drive him against the marshes. The fogs were coming in, visibility was poor, he broke cover… I saw movement, fired…” He paused, heaved a breath. “Hit my brother-in-law square in the chest…” He gasped, covered his face.

“You left an injured man on the moors?” Cromarty demanded angrily.

“Oh, God.” Esterhazy broke into racking sobs, hiding his face in his hands. “He fell into the bogs… Got sucked down…”

“Hold on,” said Cromarty, the tone of his voice as cold as ice. He spoke slowly, quietly, enunciating every word. “You’re telling me, sir, that you went out into the Mire; that you accidentally shot your brother-in-law; and that he fell into a bog? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Esterhazy nodded wordlessly, still hiding his face.

“Christ Jesus. Is there any chance he’s still alive?”

Esterhazy shook his head.

“Are you absolutely sure of that?”

“I’m sure,” Esterhazy choked out. “He went down. I’m… I’m so sorry!” he suddenly wailed. “I’ve killed my brother-in-law!” He began rocking back and forth, head in his hands. “God forgive me!”

A stunned silence.

“He’s out of his head,” the gamekeeper muttered. “As clear a case of moor fever as I’ve ever seen.”

“Get these people out of here,” Cromarty rumbled, gesturing at the guests. He turned to the gamekeeper. “Robbie, call the police.” He swung on Esterhazy. “Is that the rifle you shot him with?” He gestured roughly at the rifle Esterhazy had carried in, now lying on the floor.

He nodded miserably.

“Nobody touch it.”

The guests left in murmuring groups, speaking in hushed tones, shaking their heads. The lightning flashed, a boom of thunder following. Rain lashed the windows. Esterhazy sat in the chair, slowly lowering his hands from his face, feeling the welcome warmth of the fire creeping through his wet clothing. An equally marvelous warmth crept into his inner being, slowly displacing the horror; he felt a sense of release washing over him, even elation. It was over, over, over. He had nothing more to fear from Pendergast. The genie was back in the bottle. The man was dead. As for his partner, D’Agosta, and that other New York City cop, Hayward — killing Pendergast had cut the head off that snake. This was truly the end. And by all appearances, these Scottish dunces were buying the story. There was nothing that could come to light to contradict anything he’d said. He had gone back, collected all the shells except the one he wanted them to find. Pendergast’s rifle and the shells from their fight he had deposited in a bog on his way back, and they’d never find that. That would be the only mystery — the missing rifle. Nothing strange in that: a rifle could easily get permanently lost once sunk in the Mire. They knew nothing about his handgun, and Esterhazy had made that disappear as well. The stag’s tracks, if they survived the storm, would be fully consistent with his story.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Cromarty, going to the mantelpiece, grabbing a bottle of scotch and pouring himself a tumblerful. He drank it in small gulps, pacing before the fire, ignoring Esterhazy.

Grant came back in. “The police are on their way from Inverness, sir. Along with a Northern Constabulary Special Services team — with grapnels.”

Cromarty turned, downed the glass, poured himself another, and glared at Esterhazy. “You stay put till they get here, you bloody damned fool.”

Another peal of thunder shook the old stone lodge, and the wind howled across the moors.