Esterhazy was forced to bend down to see better. “Where?”
“
Even before Esterhazy could comprehend what was happening, he felt a ferocious jerk. Then he was forced to the ground and pinned, his arm twisted behind his back, his face pressed into the turf — and the cold barrel of a pistol was jammed so hard into his ear canal that it cut his flesh, drawing blood.
“Talk,” said the clergyman.
The voice was that of Pendergast.
Esterhazy struggled, his mind wild, but the barrel jammed in relentlessly. He felt a wave of horror and terror. Just when he was sure the devil was dead and gone, he reappeared. This was the end. Pendergast had finally won. The enormity of it sank in like poison.
“You said Helen was alive,” came the voice, almost a whisper. “Now tell me the rest. All of it.”
Esterhazy struggled to bring his mind into order, to overcome his shock, to consider what he would say and how he would say it. The smell of turf filled his nostrils, gagging him. “Just a moment,” he gasped. “Let me explain from the beginning. Please, let me up.”
“No. Stay down. We have plenty of time. And I have no compunctions about forcing you to talk. You
Esterhazy grappled with an almost overwhelming fear. “But then… then you’ll never know.”
“Wrong. Now that I know she’s alive, I’ll find her regardless. But you could spare me a lot of time and trouble. I repeat: truth or die.”
Esterhazy heard the soft click of the safety being thumbed off.
“Yes, I understand…” He tried once again to collect his thoughts, calm himself down. “You have no idea,” he gasped, “no idea what’s involved here. It goes back, before Longitude.” He heaved, struggling for air in the dew- laden grass. “It goes back even before we were born.”
“I’m listening.”
Esterhazy took a heaving breath. This was harder than he ever imagined. The truth was so very, very awful…
“Start at the beginning.”
“That would be April 1945…”
The pressure of the gun abruptly vanished. “My dear fellow, that was a nasty fall! Let me help you up.” Pendergast’s voice had changed, and the Welsh accent was back in force.
For a moment Esterhazy was utterly confused.
“You’ve cut your ear! Oh, dear!” Pendergast dabbed at the ear and Esterhazy felt the gun, now in Pendergast’s pocket, pressing into his side. At the same time he heard a car door slam, then voices — a chorus of voices. He looked up from the earth, blinking. A jolly group of men and women approached, with walking sticks, waterproofs, notebooks, cameras, and pens. The van in which they had arrived was parked just beyond the old stone wall enclosing the kirkyard. Neither of them had heard it come, so intense was their confrontation.
“Hallo!” said their leader, a short, fat, vigorous man, who came stumping toward them waving a furled umbrella. “Are you all right?”
“Just a little fall,” said Pendergast, helping Esterhazy to his feet but at the same time gripping him with a hand of steel, the gun barrel rammed like a pike into his kidneys.
“Fancy meeting other people in this forgotten corner of Scotland! And you here by bicycle, no less! What brings you to these wild climes?”
“Tomb iconography,” said Pendergast, with remarkable calmness. His eyes, however, were anything but calm.
Esterhazy made a huge effort to pull himself together. Pendergast was temporarily stymied, but he could be sure the agent wouldn’t miss even the slightest opportunity to finish what he’d started.
“We on the other hand are genealogists!” said the man. “And our interest is in names.” He stuck out his hand. “Rory Monckton, Scottish Genealogical Society.”
Esterhazy saw his chance. As the man pumped Pendergast’s unwilling hand, thus temporarily occupying it, Pendergast was forced to release Esterhazy’s arm for a moment.
“Nice to make your acquaintance,” Pendergast began, “but I fear we really must be on our way—”
Esterhazy slammed his arm back against the lump of the gun and twisted away from it with sudden violence, dropping down; Pendergast fired but was a millisecond too late, and by then Esterhazy had his own weapon out.
“Mother of God!” The portly man threw himself down on the grass.
The group, which had started to deploy about the headstones, now fell into hysteria, some taking cover, others scattering like partridge in the direction of the hills.
A second shot tore through the flap of Esterhazy’s coat while he simultaneously got off a shot at Pendergast. Tumbling behind a tombstone, Pendergast fired again, and missed; he was not in good form, obviously still weakened by his injury.
Esterhazy fired twice, forcing Pendergast back behind the tombstone, and then ran like hell for the van, going around the far side and leaping in, keeping low.
The keys were in the ignition.
A bullet slammed through the side windows, showering him with glass. He returned fire.
Starting the van, Esterhazy continued firing with one hand out the now-shattered window, over the heads of the genealogists and between the gravestones, preventing Pendergast from getting in a good shot. Screams pealed from the churchyard as Esterhazy threw the van into reverse, scattering pebbles like shotgun pellets. He heard bullets striking the rear of the van as he slewed about, jamming his foot on the accelerator and taking off.
Another round struck the van before he sped over the shoulder of the hill and was out of range. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He considered that the chapel of St. Muns was twelve miles from Lochmoray. There was no cell coverage. And no car, only two old bicycles.
He had two hours, perhaps a little less, to get to an airport.
CHAPTER 25
YOU MAY PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON NOW, Mr. Pendergast.” The elderly doctor replaced his tools in the worn Gladstone bag, one by one, with fussy, precise movements: stethoscope, blood pressure monitor, otoscope, penlight, ophthalmoscope, portable EKG monitor. Closing up the bag, the man looked around the luxurious hotel suite, then fixed his disapproving gaze once more upon Pendergast. “The wound has healed badly.”
“Yes, I know. The recuperative conditions were… less than ideal.”
The doctor hesitated. “That wound was clearly inflicted by a bullet.”
“Indeed.” Pendergast buttoned his white shirt, then slipped into a silk dressing gown of a muted paisley pattern. “A hunting accident.”
“Such accidents have to be reported, you know.”
“Thank you, the authorities know all that is necessary.”
The doctor’s frown deepened. “You are still in a considerably weakened state. Anemia is quite pronounced, and bradycardia is present. I would recommend at least two weeks’ bed rest, preferably in hospital.”
“I appreciate your diagnosis, Doctor, and will take it under advisement. Now if you could please provide me with a report of my vital signs, along with the EKG readout, I will be happy to attend to your bill.”
Five minutes later, the doctor left the suite, closing the door softly behind him. Pendergast washed his hands in the bathroom sink, then went to the telephone.
“Yes, Mr. Pendergast, how can I be of service?”
“Please have a setup delivered to my suite. Old Raj gin and Noilly Prat. Lemon.”
“Very good, sir.”
