Two Graves

37

THEY LOOKED AT EACH OTHER THROUGH THE SEMIDARKNESS, not moving. Pendergast stood, catching his breath, only now realizing that he had never been quite so thoroughly and rapidly overcome in his life. Alban had entirely surprised him, the way he had stopped as if to wait for Pendergast to catch up, and then—in the space of mere seconds—set up an ambush and followed it through with remarkable success.

Keeping his eyes on his son, he brushed himself off, waiting for Alban to speak, waiting for his opportunity. He still had a backup sidearm and several other weapons on his person. Alban would not escape him now.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said Alban. “Here we are, face-to-face.” His voice was cool, mellifluous. Unlike his brother, he did not have the trace of an accent, yet he spoke with the slight over-preciseness of one to whom English was a second language. “I was destined to meet you. As are all sons to meet their fathers.”

“What about their mothers?” Pendergast asked.

This question did not seem to surprise Alban. He continued. “The test has reached a crucial phase. Allow me to compliment you, by the way, on solving my little riddle. And to think I doubted you would. I apologize.”

“You like to talk,” said Pendergast. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the glint of the .45 in the weeds about ten feet to his left.

Alban laughed. “Yes, I do.” He took a step to his right, then another, effectively blocking Pendergast’s approach to the gun. Although he was only fifteen, he seemed much older—tall, extremely fit, strong, and whippet-fast. Pendergast wondered if the youth had been trained in the martial arts. If so, he did not believe he could best him in a physical contest.

“Why are you—?”

“Killing? Like I said, it’s a test.”

“Tell me—”

“About the test? It’s simple. At least in part, it’s to see who’s the better man: you or me.” He held out his hands toward Pendergast, turned up his palms. “Like you, I’m unarmed. Here we are, evenly matched. It’s not quite fair since you’re old and I’m young. So I’m going to give you a handicap.”

Pendergast could feel his moment arriving, a window in which he could act. He prepared himself mentally, choreographing his actions in his head. But then, mere seconds before he made his move, one of Alban’s extended hands jerked into Pendergast’s jacket and—in one astonishing blur of movement—removed his backup sidearm. It happened so quickly that by the time Pendergast reacted, Alban was already in possession of the weapon.

“Oops.” Alban examined it—a Walther PPK .32—and snorted. “Now, this is a side of you I wouldn’t have guessed. A romantic, aren’t we, Father?”

Pendergast took a step back, but even as he did so Alban stepped forward, keeping the distance between them a close five feet. He continued holding the Walther, his thumb on the safety.

“Why this test?” asked Pendergast.

“Ah! That really is the heart of the matter, isn’t it? Why pit me against you? What a strange thing! And yet, so much depends on it—” But suddenly Alban stopped and stepped back, his arrogant self-assurance wavering.

“Is that why you’re—”

“Calling this the beta test? Yes.” After a moment, Alban relaxed, smiled again. Then he removed the magazine from the Walther, slid out the rounds with his thumb, one at a time, leaving just one in the magazine. He slid the mag back into place, racked the final round into the chamber, and thumbed off the safety. He handed the gun back to Pendergast, butt first.

“There. Your handicap. One round in the chamber. Now the advantage is yours. See if you can capture and take me in. With a single round.”

Pendergast aimed the pistol at Alban. He would not—could not—kill him, not at present: his need to know his son’s motive, his relation to Der Bund, was very great. But the boy was so strong and fast that he could escape, even now, simply by running.

A bullet in the knee would be necessary.

With the faintest flickering movement he dropped the muzzle and fired, but Alban moved so fast—even before Pendergast seemed to have started his own move—that the bullet missed, just nicking the cloth.

Alban laughed, reaching down, poking his finger through the hole in his trousers, wiggling it. “Close! Whew. But not good enough. What is the expression? This time, I bested you.”

He took a quick step back, reached down into the weeds, and picked up Pendergast’s .45. “Do you know the Goethe poem ‘Der Erlkönig’?”

“In translation, yes.”

“Schön! By heart?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn your back, close your eyes, and recite it. The first three stanzas should be sufficient. No—considering we’re in relative darkness, I’ll be even more sporting and make it only the first two stanzas. And then you can come looking for me.”

“And if I cheat?”

“I’ll shoot you.” Alban’s pale eyes twinkled. “Of course, I could just shoot you right now, and that would also be cheating. We Pendergasts do not cheat.” Another pleasant smile. “Do you want to play?”

“I have more—”

“I think I’ve answered enough questions. Now: do you want to play?”

“Why not?”

“If you open your eyes early, it means you’re a cheater; I shoot; you die.”

“You’ll merely outrun me. This is no challenge at all.”

“It is true I could outrun you. But I won’t do that. Instead, during your recitation, which should take no longer than ten seconds, I’m going to hide. And you will have to find me however you can—by intelligence, by stealth, by tracking, by deduction—it’s up to you. So! Turn your back and let’s begin.”

Pendergast heard the soft click of the safety on the Les Baer being thumbed back. He immediately turned around and began to speak in a clear, loud tone:

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?

The father it is, with his infant so dear…

At the end of the second stanza, he quickly turned and scanned the deserted piers.

Alban was gone. The Les Baer lay in the weeds a few yards away.

Three hours later, Pendergast finally gave up searching.