Crimson Shore

36

The Chart Room restaurant was dimly lit as always, but Gavin quickly spied Agent Pendergast at the far end of the bar. The guy’s funereal style of dress and the paleness of his face made him easy to spot.

Pendergast noticed him, nodded slightly, and Gavin approached the bar.

He felt more exhausted than he ever had in his life. Yet it was not a physical kind of exhaustion — it was more emotional than anything else. He’d spent half the previous night, and much of the current day, out at the site of the mass grave. It wasn’t like he had that much to do there — a different kind of expertise than his was required for the job — yet it was his duty to attend. He’d had to watch as, one by one, the bones, some large, many small, were teased out of the sand, cleaned, tagged, photographed, and tucked away in large plastic evidence lockers.

Despite the exhaustion, however, he was curious. Pendergast had left a message at police headquarters, asking Gavin to meet at the Chart Room bar at seven. He had no idea what Pendergast wanted, but he suspected it would be unusual, since everything Pendergast did seemed out of the ordinary.

“Sergeant,” Pendergast said. “Have a seat.” And he waved at the stool beside his own.

Gavin settled onto it.

The bartender, Joe Dunwoody, who was washing glasses nearby, glanced over. “What’ll you have, Brad?”

“Dewar’s on the rocks.” He watched as Dunwoody prepared the drink. The bartender, who’d been at work here when his brother Dana was killed, had — as far as Gavin knew — taken only one day off work as a result of the tragedy. But the brothers had never been close. Joe did look glum; but then he always looked a little glum.

Glum, in fact, was a good word to describe the Chart Room as a whole. Only half of the tables were filled, and the people sitting around them appeared shell-shocked, speaking in hushed tones if at all. News of the mass grave and the intentional sinking of the steamship, apparently by locals — coming as it did on the heels of the two recent murders — had hit Exmouth hard.

The only exception, it seemed, was Pendergast himself. If not exactly cheerful, he radiated a kind of restless energy, even excitement. Gavin watched as the man prepared some kind of ridiculously complex drink: he’d balanced a spoon atop a glass, a sugar cube nestled in the spoon, and he was meticulously dribbling a stream of water over it. As the sugared water hit the pale liquid in the glass, it blossomed into a milky cloud.

“Thank you for coming.” He laid the spoon aside, took a sip of his drink. “I imagine you were out on the beach for much of the day?”

Gavin nodded as he tasted his own drink.

“That can’t have been pleasant.”

“Not at all.”

Pendergast studied the opalescent liquid in his glass. “Sergeant, I’ve asked you here because you’ve been most helpful during my time at Exmouth. You’ve tolerated my presence, worked hard, answered my questions, and volunteered information. You’ve taken me on excursions into the tidal swamps when, no doubt, there were other things you would have preferred to do. It has often been my experience that local law enforcement does not appreciate the presence of federal officers, especially those that appear to be, ah, moonlighting. I found you a welcoming presence rather than a hostile one. I appreciate that. And that is why I’ve chosen you as the first person I’m going to share some interesting news with.”

Gavin nodded for him to continue, trying not to blush from the praise. His curiosity had vastly increased.

“Do you recall how, last night, I told you that only one step remained: to identify the killer or killers?”

“Sure.” Gavin drained his scotch — the drinks they poured in the Chart Room were infamous for being miserly.

“I have now made that identification. There is a single killer: and I know who it is.”

“You—” Gavin began, then stopped. Two thoughts flashed through Gavin’s mind in quick succession. The first was one of overwhelming relief. It’s almost over, he told himself. This nightmare’s about to end. The second was the observation that Pendergast had made a point of telling him first. He hadn’t told Chief Mourdock. This was interesting. Pendergast knew Mourdock was retiring; this was Pendergast’s way of helping Gavin out with his own aspirations. If properly handled, this could be a real feather in his cap and almost guarantee his appointment to chief.

Joe Dunwoody, halfway down the bar, pointed at Gavin’s empty glass. Gavin nodded for a refill.

“Not only have I discovered the identity of the killer,” Pendergast continued, lowering his voice somewhat, “but just today I found the location of his hideout, deep in the swamp.”

“What are we waiting for?” Gavin asked, half sliding off his stool. Forget the damn drink, he thought; eagerness had taken the place of exhaustion. “Let’s go.”

Pendergast shook his head. “Going out there now, in the dark, would be unwise. Our man clearly knows that region of the swamp better than I, and probably better than you. If we aren’t careful, we’ll spook him and cause him to flee. No — we’ll head in at first light, approach with stealth, and surprise him. You, of course, will make the actual arrest.”

This image was most gratifying to Gavin. “What about the chief?” he asked as the fresh drink arrived. “We’re talking about a murderer, after all. We might need backup.” And not telling him would piss him off royally, he thought. Retirement or no retirement, it wouldn’t pay to get on Mourdock’s bad side.

“I fear Chief Mourdock would be a hindrance. However, it’s a prudent suggestion nevertheless, and he should be there — if only for reasons of protocol. Why don’t you brief him over the phone once you get home?”

“I’ll do that.”

“Very good. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire to my room. I have preparations to make for tomorrow. Shall we meet at police headquarters at five AM?”

“We’ll be there.”

“Excellent. Until the morning, then.” And with that, Pendergast drained his glass, shook Gavin’s hand, and slipped out of the Chart Room, heading for the stairway that led to the rooms upstairs.