Two Graves

+ Six Hours

A DOCTOR IN WRINKLED SCRUBS STUCK HIS HEAD INTO the waiting room of the Lenox Hill ICU. “He’s awake, if you’d like to talk to him.”

“Thank God.” Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta of the NYPD stuffed the notebook he’d been examining into his pocket and stood up. “How is he?”

“No complications.” A note of irritation crossed the physician’s face. “Although doctors always make the worst patients.”

“But he’s not—” D’Agosta began, then fell silent. He followed the doctor into the intensive care unit.

Special Agent Pendergast was sitting up in bed, attached to half a dozen monitoring machines. An IV was in one arm, and a nasal cannula was fitted to his nostrils. His bed was strewn with medical charts, and he held an X-ray in his hand. Always very pale, the skin of the FBI agent was now like porcelain. A doctor was bending over the bed, in intense conversation with his patient. Although D’Agosta could barely hear Pendergast’s replies, it was clear the two men were not exactly in agreement.

“—Completely out of the question,” the doctor was saying as D’Agosta approached the bed. “You’re still in shock from the gunshot wound and loss of blood, and the wound itself—not to mention the two bruised ribs—will require healing and ongoing medical attention.”

“Doctor,” Pendergast replied. Normally, Pendergast was the quintessence of southern gentility, but now his voice sounded like ice chips rattling on iron. “The bullet barely grazed the gastrocnemius muscle. Neither the tibia nor the fibula was touched. The wound was clean, and no operation was required.”

“But the blood loss—”

“Yes,” Pendergast interrupted. “The blood loss. How many units was I given?”

A pause. “One.”

“One unit. Due to damage to the minor tributaries of the Giacomini vein. Trivial.” He waved the X-ray like a flag. “As for the ribs, you said it yourself: bruised, not broken. The costae verae five and six, at the heads, approximately two millimeters from the vertebral column. Being true ribs, their elasticity will aid in quick recovery.”

The doctor fumed. “Dr. Pendergast, I simply cannot permit you to leave this hospital in your condition. You of all people—”

“On the contrary, Doctor: you cannot prevent it. My vitals are within acceptable norms. My injuries are minor, and I can tend to them myself.”

“I will note on your chart that you are leaving the hospital against my express orders.”

“Excellent.” Pendergast flipped the X-ray like a playing card onto the nearby table. “And now if you’ll excuse me?”

The physician took one final, exasperated look at Pendergast, then turned on his heel and left the room, followed by the doctor who had admitted D’Agosta.

Now Pendergast turned to D’Agosta as if seeing him for the first time. “Vincent.”

D’Agosta quickly approached the bedside. “Pendergast. My God. I’m so sorry—”

“Why aren’t you with Constance?”

“She’s safe. Mount Mercy redoubled their security measures. I had to…” He paused a moment to control his voice. “To check up on you.”

“Much ado about nothing, thank you.” Pendergast removed the nasal cannula, slid out the IV needle from the inside of his elbow, then detached the blood pressure cuff and pulse oximeter. He pulled back the sheets and sat up. The movements were slow, almost robotic; D’Agosta could see the man was driving himself by a sheer iron will.

“I hope to hell you aren’t really planning to leave.”

Pendergast turned to look at him again, and the fire in his eyes—fierce coals in an otherwise dead face—shut D’Agosta up immediately.

“And how is Proctor?” Pendergast asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“He’s fine, they say. Considering. A few broken ribs where the impact of the shot hit his bulletproof vest.”

“Judson?”

D’Agosta shook his head.

“Bring me my clothes,” Pendergast said, nodding toward the closet.

D’Agosta hesitated, realized it was useless to protest, and brought them over.

With a wince, Pendergast stood up; swayed almost imperceptibly for a second; then steadied himself. D’Agosta handed him his clothes, and he drew the curtain.

“Do you have any idea what the hell happened back there in the park?” D’Agosta said to the curtain. “It’s all over the news, five people dead, homicide’s going crazy.”

“I have no time for explanations.”

“Sorry, but you’re not getting out of here without telling me what happened.” He took out his notebook.

“Very well. I will speak to you for the length of time it takes me to get dressed. And then I am getting out of here.”

D’Agosta shrugged. He’d take what he could get.

“It was a carefully planned—exceptionally carefully planned—abduction. They killed Judson and kidnapped my wife.”

“They? Who?”

“A shadowy group of Nazis, or Nazi descendants, called Der Bund.”

“Nazis? Jesus, why?”

“Their motives are obscure to me.”

“I need details of exactly what happened.”

Pendergast’s voice came from behind the curtain. “I went to meet Judson and Helen at the boathouse, to take Helen and hide her from this group. Helen arrived at six, as agreed. I quickly became aware that we’d been set up. One of the model yachtsmen was acting suspicious. He didn’t know the first thing about boats, and he was nervous—sweating in the chill air. I drew on him and told him to stand up. That precipitated it.”

D’Agosta took notes. “How many were involved?”

A pause. “At least seven. The yachtsman. Two lovers on a park bench—they killed Judson. A would-be homeless man, who shot Proctor. Your CS people have probably already reconstructed the sequence of the firefight. There were at least three others: two joggers, who kidnapped Helen as she was trying to escape, and the driver of the ersatz cab they forced her into.”

Pendergast emerged from behind the screen. His usually immaculate suit was a mess: the jacket was covered with grass stains, and the lower part of one trouser leg was torn and crusted with dried blood. He stared at D’Agosta as he straightened his tie. “Good-bye, Vincent.”

“Wait. How the hell did this… this Bund learn about your meeting?”

“A most excellent question.”

Pendergast grabbed a metal cane and turned to leave. D’Agosta caught him by the arm. “This is nuts, you walking out of here like this. Isn’t there something I can do to help you?”

“Yes.” Pendergast plucked the notebook and pen from D’Agosta’s hand, opened the notebook, and quickly scrawled something. “This is the license plate of the cab Helen was abducted in. I managed to get all but the final two numbers. Put all your resources into finding it. Here’s the hack number, too, but my guess is it’s meaningless.”

D’Agosta took back the notebook. “You got it.”

“Put out an APB on Helen. It might be complicated, as she’s officially dead, but do it anyway. I’ll get you a photograph—it will be fifteen years old, use forensic software to age it.”

“Anything else?”

Pendergast gave a single, brusque shake of his head. “Just find that car.” And he stepped out of the room without another word, limping down the hall, accelerating as he went.