Verses for the Dead

46

Pendergast saw the swirl of water and felt the thing brush past his legs just seconds before it paused to attack. He grabbed a knob on the cypress root bundle and hauled himself out of the water just as the alligator lunged. It caught the toe of his shoe but, unable to hold on, slipped back into the water. Another brute lunged upward, jaws closing like a steel trap. Pendergast pulled himself farther out of the water, trying to avoid the snapping jaws while still remaining in cover. Yet another gator lunged up and he shot it point-blank in the throat. It fell back, thrashing, eyes still open, black blood spreading in the dark water. Below him, the water swirled as additional alligators jockeyed for position. If he crept any higher up the side of the stump, he would expose himself to the shooter, but by staying put he could not avoid the reach of the alligators. He shot another that erupted from the water to grab his leg, then another: an unavoidable waste of ammunition as well as being a losing strategy, as the shot animals only added more meat to a feeding frenzy. The frantic thrashing spread further as the living gators tore into the dying ones, strewing entrails and body parts in the water. Pendergast, precariously clinging to the tangle of roots, knew he couldn’t shoot them all. He couldn’t climb higher; he couldn’t descend.

As he considered his situation, he heard a roar, recognizing it a second later as the sound of an airboat engine starting up. Peering around the edge of the tree, he saw the craft emerge from the darkness of a far shed, a figure at the helm. It circled through the trees and he fired at it once, even though it was far out of range and moving fast.

Pendergast tried to move around the side of the stump, but a gator tore at his damaged shoe, almost ripping it off. As the boat circled he became fully exposed to it, unable to move, unable to take cover.

The boat slowed and came to rest across the clear patch of water. Its pilot was in shade, two hundred yards out.

Despite the fact the man was well out of range, Pendergast took careful aim, squeezed the trigger. A jet of water went up ten yards in front, wide of the craft.

“Agent Pendergast,” a voice came over the water. “All you’re doing is wasting bullets and attracting more alligators.”

Pendergast recognized, to his enormous surprise, the voice of Commander Grove, the external affairs liaison from Miami PD.

“That’s a fancy sidearm you’re packing, but it can’t work miracles.” Grove paused. “Go ahead, anyway. Give it your best shot.” The outline of a figure spread his arms, holding the rifle aside.

Pendergast aimed for the boat’s engine and squeezed off his last two shots, spacing them apart long enough to make a correction on the second. A gout of water popped up a dozen feet to the right; the second, much closer at three feet. But not close enough. He fired again, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber, as he knew it would.

“Impressive shooting, under the circumstances. Still, you’re an optimist, and in this crazy world, optimists die.” The boat engine revved up and the airboat crept toward him. “I saw you lose your backup weapon through the scope, and I’m counting on your not having a third magazine for the 1911. Those seven-shot clips are heavy and I never knew an FBI agent to carry more than one spare. I mean, if you can’t do the job with fifteen rounds, that’s pretty sad. What kind of agent would carry a third magazine?” Grove laughed.

As the man spoke, Pendergast was assembling the missing pieces — the real missing pieces — of the puzzle. The picture they formed was depressing indeed. He briefly contemplated his options — either launch himself into the sea of alligators or wait to be shot. The water was still teeming with the agitated reptiles; another lunged up at him, and Pendergast smacked its snout with the butt of his empty gun. There was no longer any possibility of, or any point in, trying to remain in cover.

“Keep your hands away from your body and in sight at all times,” Grove ordered curtly.

The airboat eased closer. Grove, at the helm, kept one hand on the wheel with the other aiming the rifle. “You FBI assholes come down here like you’re manna from heaven. I wonder if you have any clue as to what’s really going on.”

“I do now,” said Pendergast.

Grove eased the boat within twenty feet and cut the throttle, taking up the rifle in both hands and holding it steady on Pendergast.

“I wonder if you understand,” Pendergast added.

Grove laughed. “I’ve got it about 90 percent figured out — thanks to you and Coldmoon. Anyway, with you two dead I’ll have time to piece together the rest and clean it all up. Unless, of course, you’d like to pass on a few pointers. You know, to help me out.”

“I’d rather you satisfied my own curiosity first,” Pendergast said. “I’m assuming it was you who doctored the Vance file to lure us out here?”

Grove’s upper lip twitched with a note of self-satisfaction. “You should pin a medal on me for figuring out it was John Vance who set all this into motion. It wasn’t until the second note had been placed on a grave that I started to wonder. Of course, as a police ‘liaison’ it was a breeze to insert myself into a case involving the FBI — just as a way of keeping tabs on things. And then, with the third note, I knew all this was more than coincidence. When I did some digging and learned Vance was dead, killed in a car accident, I was surprised as hell. But I quickly realized there was only one other possibility.” He shook his head. “Who’d have expected that hangdog little Vance punk would grow up to become a serial killer?”

“If John Vance was dead, you must have pulled his death notice from the file. And added a fictitious interview with him — one that would lead us directly to Canepatch. Where you’d be waiting.”

“Pretty fast footwork, right — pulling his son from the file so you wouldn’t get suspicious, and adding that fake two-year-old interview report? I figured you’d want to talk to Vance.”

“And he would have wanted to talk to you. After all, you did kill his wife. Correct?”

“You’re smarter than the average bear. But just so you know, it was an accident.”

“I assume you were having an affair with her. The husband was returning from a tour of duty; she threatened to confess to him; and you killed her to silence her and preserve your career. Being a cop, you knew what to do to make it look like a suicide.”

“I said it was an accident.”

“Of course it was. As a self-professed former homicide detective, I’m sure you’ve heard that many times.” Pendergast’s voice suddenly launched into a high-pitched, sniveling whine. “It was just an accident.”

The satisfied smirk left Grove’s face. “Fuck you—”

“But Lydia’s husband, being former military police, sensed it was murder. He didn’t have any hard evidence; he just knew. He couldn’t convince the Miami PD of that — thanks no doubt to your behind-the-scenes manipulation of the investigation. Such as substituting her potentially damning X-rays with those of another, unrelated suicide victim.”

Grove just glared at him.

“Clever of you, though, to leave Vance’s hounding of the police — real hounding, by a man convinced his wife had been murdered — in the file. That added to its verisimilitude.”

“I’m glad you’re coming around. Anyway, Vance’s long gone. With you and Coldmoon out of the way, that just leaves Mister Brokenhearts. As soon as I’m finished here, I’m going to do the world a solid by smoking his ass.”

“How good of you — considering you created him in the first place.”

“Bullshit!”

“Hardly. You’re the one responsible for this entire chain of killings. In fact, you’ve been the primum mobile all along. The only difference is that, now, you know it. How many murders, exactly, can be laid at your doorstep? Let’s add them up: Lydia Vance, Jasmine Oriol, Laurie Winters, Mary Adler, Elise Baxter, Agatha Flayley — and that’s not even counting the women slaughtered by Brokenhearts: Felice Montera, Jenny—”

“I keep telling you, no way am I responsible. Lydia was going to shoot off her mouth, and I was just trying to reason with her, but things got physical and, well—”

Again, the shrill, crybaby voice erupted from Pendergast. “I was just trying to reason with her, but things got physical and, well... I strangled her.”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Contrary to your pusillanimous rationalizations, these murders are all a direct result of your actions, Commander — and you can’t fool yourself into denying it. Nine cruel, needless, senseless murders.”

“I’ve heard enough.” Grove raised the rifle and took aim. Pendergast noted, with detached resignation, the slow squeeze of the trigger finger. He tensed his muscles, ready to leap into the swirling water, knowing it would be a useless gesture.

Still, any gesture was better than none at all.