The Obsidian Chamber

42

The main street of Exmouth, Massachusetts, looked far different today from the last time Pendergast had seen it in sunlight. That had been — he thought a moment — twenty-eight days ago. On that day, the entire population of the town had been assembled before the police station, spilling down side streets, and the mood had been one of relief and joy: the cloud that had lingered over the town had vanished; the recent murders, and the vestiges of an old, poisonous past, had both been resolved. But now the police station was quiet and dark: a temporary National Guard barracks had been erected beside it until the shattered town could re-form itself and a new chief of police be appointed.

The main street itself still appeared at first glance to be a typical working-class New England fishing village… until one looked closely. Then the differences became apparent: the boarded-up windows; the numerous FOR SALE signs; the empty shopfronts. It would be years before the town returned to normal — if, indeed, it ever did.

Back in New York, Pendergast knew, Howard Longstreet was — in his quiet way — bringing all the massive resources at his disposal to bear on the single question: where had Diogenes vanished to? Favors were being called in, sister agencies were being queried, even NSA domestic surveillance was being tapped. Nothing, however, had yet surfaced. And so Pendergast had journeyed to Exmouth: the last place he’d seen his brother before he himself had been swept out to sea.

He had spent the morning speaking with several of Exmouth’s inhabitants, sharing joint memories with some and asking vague, indirect questions of others. Now he continued driving down Main, glancing this way and that. Here, he saw, was the corner from which he and Constance had watched the festivities on that final day. Constance. Pendergast held her image in his mind for a moment, then forced it away. Feelings of restlessness, doubt, and guilt were threatening to impair his judgment. It was vital that he keep his speculations as to her motives at bay.

At the far end of the business district, Pendergast paused long enough to glance at the rambling Victorian sea captain’s house that had, until recently, been the Captain Hull Inn. The Inn’s cheery signboard was now gone, replaced by a large, monochromatic sign bearing the name of the R. J. Mayfield Corporation and heralding the building’s imminent destruction, to be replaced by Exmouth Harbour Village, a series of “starter condos, with ocean views, priced to sell.” If, in the wake of tragedy, the town was ultimately unable to return to its roots as a fishing village, it could always become just another middlebrow vacation destination.

Nosing the big Rolls away, Pendergast turned onto Dune Road, driving slowly in order to check the numbers on the mailboxes. When he reached number 3, he stopped. The house was typical of the region: a small Cape Cod of weathered shingles, with a white picket fence around it and a small, carefully tended yard.

As he examined the house, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket. “Yes?”

“Secret Agent Man!” came the voice from River Pointe, Ohio.

“Yes, Mime?”

“Calling to give you an update. It seems that chauffeur of yours has been doing some serious traveling of his own. On November eighth, he chartered a private jet from Teterboro Airport, with no advance notice, using DebonAir Aviation. Final destination, Gander, Newfoundland. Well, that was the final destination of the charter, anyway — by poking through some private email exchanges between the DebonAir employees, I’ve learned your chauffeur wasn’t exactly a model passenger.”

“Is Proctor still in the Gander area?”

“Can’t find a trace of him. Not in the motels, not in the surrounding hamlets — nothing. That’s why I’m guessing Gander might not have been his last stop.”

“But Gander is essentially the eastern tip of North America.”

“Score one for our team! Roll the dice and play some Monopoly: where could your boy be headed?”

“Europe?” Pendergast asked softly.

“A possibility.”

“Keep on it, Mime. Use all available resources — national and international.”

“Oh, I will. International are actually better — I have lots of like-minded friends over there. And don’t forget: the meter’s running. I’ll check in when I know more.”

The line went dead. Pendergast thoughtfully replaced the phone in his pocket. He was relieved Proctor was likely alive. Once again, he had to consciously force himself to leave finding Proctor to Mime. He had to focus all his energy on the present mystery.

He sat very still, controlling his breathing, consciously lowering his heartbeat, establishing a mind-set. Then he opened the car door, walked up to the house, and knocked.

It was answered by a short, heavyset man in his late fifties, with a thin comb-over of mouse-brown hair, beady eyes, and what appeared to be an expression of permanent suspicion on his face. He looked Pendergast up and down. “Yes?”

“Thank you, I will come inside. It’s rather chilly out here.” And Pendergast slipped past the man and into a neat living room, with nautical prints on the walls and a hooked rug on the floor.

“Just a minute,” the man protested. “I didn’t—”

“Abner Knott, isn’t it?” Pendergast said, helping himself to a chair set before a low fire burning on the grate. “I heard your name mentioned in town.”

“And I know about you, too,” Knott said, his little pig eyes looking Pendergast up and down. “You’re that FBI man that was in town last month.”

“How clever of you to recognize me. If you’ll be so kind as to answer a few questions, I won’t take up more than a minute or two of your time.”

Knott walked up to a chair across from Pendergast, but he did not sit down. He stood there staring, arms folded over his chest.

“It’s my understanding you have three cottages to rent, here on Dune Road.” Pendergast had learned this — and much more — from his quiet inquiries in town that morning. He had also learned that Abner Knott was thoroughly disliked by the local citizenry. He was considered miserly and churlish, and held in almost as low esteem as R. J. Mayfield — the real estate developer undertaking the destruction of the Captain Hull Inn, and whose cheap, shabby condos were fast becoming the scourge of Cape Ann and points north.

“I own three cottages. It’s no secret. Inherited two from my parents, and built the third one myself on a piece of adjoining land.”

“Thank you. I also understand that during October, two of those cottages were empty — not surprising, being out of season — but the third was occupied. It was only occupied for about two weeks, however, which was unusual, since I understand you rent your cottages by the month.”

“Who’s been talking about me?” Knott asked.

Pendergast shrugged. “You know how few secrets there are in a small town like Exmouth. In any case, I’m interested in the temporary lodger in your cabin. Could you tell me about him?”

Knott’s expression had become more and more truculent as Pendergast spoke. “No, I can’t tell you anything about him.”

“Why is that, pray?”

“Because my renters’ business is their own, and I don’t like to spread it around. Especially not to you.”

Pendergast looked surprised. “Me?”

“You. It wasn’t until you arrived in town that all our troubles started.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, that’s how I saw it. Saw it then, and see it today. So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll ask you to kindly vacate my premises—and my property. Unless you have some sort of warrant.”

The man waited, arms crossed.

“Mr. Knott,” Pendergast said after a moment. “It’s odd you should mention a warrant. You might be unaware of this, but my sudden departure from Exmouth has resulted in a rather large FBI operation. After what I’ve learned here today, I could have just such a warrant — and within forty-eight hours.”

Knott’s expression grew, if anything, more truculent. “Go ahead.”

Pendergast seemed to digest this a moment.

“The door’s over there.”

But Pendergast made no move to stand up. “So you refuse to answer my questions without a warrant?”

“I said as much, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. You also said I was the cause of the town’s troubles.” And here, Pendergast looked squarely at the short man standing before him. “But it hasn’t all been trouble — has it?”

Knott frowned. “What do you mean?”

“This real estate developer, R. J. Mayfield. Most of the town is very unhappy he’s planning to build condos in Exmouth — tearing down the Inn and erecting an eyesore in its place.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Knott said.

“But then, there are a few who feel quite differently: those people who are eager to sell land to the Mayfield Corporation. Phase two of the Exmouth Harbour Village — still in the development stages, of course — will take up some of the coastline south of the old Inn.”

Knott was silent.

“And that would include your cottages. It seems, Mr. Knott, that you stand to earn a pretty penny from Exmouth Harbour Village — a lucky thing, given how the rest of the town is faring.”

“What of it?” Knott said. “A man has a right to make money.”

“It’s just that the scuttlebutt is your section of coastline is sand and limestone that, if speculation is true, has been eaten away by receding groundwater over the last century — meaning the odd sinkhole might open up somewhere at any minute. I’ll bet that’s something you don’t tell your renters, do you?”

“Just gossip,” said Knott.

Pendergast reached into his suit coat and removed an envelope. “The Tufts geologist who prepared this report back in 1956… Was he a gossip? I wonder what would happen if this were to fall into the hands of Mayfield? Say, this very afternoon?”

Knott’s jaw dropped. “You—”

“Oh, he’d no doubt learn of it eventually — surveys, engineering studies, and the like. But this way, he’d learn about it before he has a contract with you.” Pendergast shook his head. “And then, Mr. Knott, your luck would change — very fast.” He paused. “You see, between ourselves I’d really much prefer not to have to wait forty-eight hours to obtain that warrant.”

There was a long, freezing silence.

“What do you want to know?” Knott asked in a very low voice.

Pendergast settled back and made himself comfortable in the chair, taking his time, removing a notebook, turning the pages to find a blank one. “When did your lodger take possession of the cottage?”

“Three or four days after you came into town.”

“Did he ask for a particular cottage?”

“Yes. The one with the best view of Skullcrusher Rocks.”

“And when did he leave?”

“The day after the—” Knott stopped abruptly, and his mouth worked silently for a few seconds. “The day after everything went to hell,” he finally said, lowering his eyes.

“Is this the man?” And Pendergast held out a police photo of Diogenes.

“No.”

“Take a closer look.”

Knott leaned in, squinting at the picture. “It really doesn’t look like him.”

Pendergast was not surprised. “This renter. Did he tell you why he was here?”

“Don’t know. You’d have to ask his lady friend.”

“Lady friend?”

“The one who lived with him.”

A terrible feeling suddenly overwhelmed Pendergast. Is it even possible…? No, it wasn’t; he had to get a better grip on himself.

“Could you please describe the woman?”

“Blond. Young. Short. Athletic.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Got a couple jobs in town. Before the two left so suddenly, that is.”

“What jobs were those?”

“Waitress in the Chart Room. Also worked part-time as an assistant in that tourist shop, A Taste of Exmouth.”

For a moment, Pendergast went quite still. He knew this woman by sight — quite well, in fact. She had waited on him more than once at the Inn. So Diogenes had an accomplice — an assistant — a helper? This had never occurred to him before.

He was roused by Knott shifting irritably before him. “Anything else?” the man said.

“Just one more thing. I’d like to spend an hour or two in the cottage they rented — alone and undisturbed.”

When Knott didn’t move, Pendergast extended a hand, palm upward, in anticipation of receiving the key. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.”