Cold Vengeance

University of Texas as you state on your resume. You don’t have a college degree. You dropped out the last semester of your senior year. Which means you weren’t eligible for OCS. Astonishing that no one checked this before. How did you do it? Get into OCS, I mean.”

Galusha rose, his face almost purple. “You’re a low-life bastard.”

“I’m not a bastard. But I am an exceedingly desperate man who will do anything to get what he wants.”

“And what is it you want?”

“I fear to ask. Because now, having met you, I sense you are a man with enough integrity to resist succumbing to the blackmail scheme I had in mind. I believe you will probably go down in flames rather than provide me access to that database.”

A long silence. “You’re damn right about that.”

Pendergast could see that Galusha was already mastering himself, adjusting to the awful news, steeling himself for what was to come. It was his bad luck to find a man like Galusha in this position.

“Very well. But before I leave, I’m going to tell you why I’m here. Ten years ago, my wife died most horribly. Or so I thought. But now I’ve learned she is alive. I have no idea why she hasn’t revealed herself to me. Perhaps she’s being coerced, held against her will. Perhaps she is otherwise kept in thrall. Whatever the case, I must find her. And M-LOGOS is the best way.”

“Do your worst, Mr. Pendergast, but I will never give you access to that database.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to check it yourself. If you find her, just let me know. That’s all. I want no confidential information. Just a name and location.”

“Or you will expose me.”

“Or I will expose you.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Consider this decision with great care, General. I’ve already researched the probable outcome: you will lose your position, be busted down a grade, and very likely discharged. Your distinguished military career will be reduced to a lie. Your honorable career will become an uncomfortable subject in your family, never to be discussed. You will return to civilian life too late for any real redemption or second career, and many of the avenues open to retired army officers will now be closed to you. You will be forever defined by that lie. It’s terribly unfair: we’re all liars, and you’re a far better man than most. The world is an ugly place. Long ago I stopped struggling against that fact and accepted I was part of that ugliness. It made everything so much easier. If you don’t do what I ask, which will harm no one and will help another human being, you will quickly discover just how ugly the world can be.”

Galusha stared at Pendergast, and there was so much sadness and self-reproach in those eyes the agent almost winced. Here was a man who had already seen a great deal of life’s underbelly.

When the general spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. “I’ll need your wife’s personal information to conduct the search.”

“I’ve brought a wealth of information.” Pendergast removed a folder from his jacket. “In here you will find DNA data, handwriting samples, medical history, dental X-rays, distinguishing marks, physical characteristics, and more. She’s alive somewhere in the world — please find her for me.”

Galusha reached out to the file, as if it were something loathsome, but he could not quite bring himself to take it. The hand remained poised in midair, trembling.

“I have an incentive for you, as well,” Pendergast went on. “A certain acquaintance of mine possesses unusual computer skills. He will adjust the files at the University of Texas to give you that BA, cum laude, which you would have been awarded had your father not died, forcing you to drop out in your last semester.”

Galusha bowed his head. Finally his veined hand grasped the file.

“How long?” Pendergast said, his voice almost a whisper.

“Four hours, maybe less. Wait here. Speak to no one. I’ll handle this myself.”

Three and a half hours later the general returned. His face was gray, collapsed. He laid the file on the table and took a seat, the chair scraping slowly, moving like an old man. Pendergast remained very still, watching him.

“Your wife is dead,” said Galusha wearily. “She must be. Because all trace of her vanished ten years ago. After…” He raised his tired eyes to Pendergast. “After she was killed by that lion in Africa.”

“It’s not possible.”

“I’m afraid it’s not only possible but almost inevitable. Unless she’s living in North Korea or certain parts of Africa, Papua New Guinea, or one of a very few other highly isolated places in the world. I know all about her now — and about you, Dr. Pendergast. All records pertaining to her, all threads, all lines of evidence, come to an end in Africa. She is dead.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“M-LOGOS doesn’t make mistakes.” Galusha pushed the folder back at Pendergast. “I know you well enough now to be confident you’ll keep your end of the bargain.” He took a deep breath. “So the only thing left to say is good-bye.”

CHAPTER 39

Black Brake swamp, Louisiana

NED BETTERTON TOOK THE HANDKERCHIEF from his pocket and wiped his forehead for what seemed the hundredth time. He was wearing a loose T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, but he hadn’t expected the swamp air to be this suffocating so late in the year. And the tight gauze bandage around his bruised knuckles felt as hot as a damn rotisserie chicken.

Hiram — the old, almost toothless man he’d spoken to on the front stoop of Tiny’s — was at the wheel of the battered airboat, a shapeless cap pulled down around his ears. He leaned over the gunwale, spat a brown rope of tobacco-laced saliva into the water, then straightened again and returned his gaze to the narrow logging channel that led ahead into a green fastness.

An hour of research in the records office at the county seat was all it had taken for Betterton to discover that Spanish Island was a former fishing and hunting camp deep in Black Brake swamp — owned by June Brodie’s family. Upon learning this, he immediately turned his attention to tracking down Hiram. It had taken a great deal of wheedling and cajoling to convince the old geezer to take him out to Spanish Island. Ultimately a hundred-dollar bill and the brandishing of a quart bottle of Old Grand-Dad had done the trick — but even then, Hiram insisted on their meeting up at the far northwestern corner of Lake End, away from the prying eyes of Tiny and the rest of the crowd.

When they first started out, Hiram had been morose, nervous, and uncommunicative. The journalist had known better than to force the man to speak. Instead he’d left the Old Grand-Dad within easy reach, and now — two hours and many pulls later — Hiram’s tongue had begun to loosen.

“How much farther?” Betterton asked, once again plying the handkerchief.

“Fifteen minutes,” Hiram said, sending another thoughtful jet of saliva over the side. “Maybe twenty. We’re getting into the thick stuff now.”

He’s not kidding, Betterton thought. The cypress trees were closing in on either side, and overhead the braided green and brown of jungle-like vegetation blotted out the sun. The air was so thick and humid, it felt as if they were underwater. Birds and insects chattered and droned, and now and then there was a heavy splash as a gator slid into the water.

“You think that FBI man actually made it as far as Spanish Island?” Betterton asked.

“Don’t know,” Hiram replied. “He didn’t say.”

Betterton had spent a most entertaining couple of days looking into Pendergast’s background. It hadn’t been easy, and he could just as well have spent a whole week at it. Maybe even a month. The man was in fact one of the New Orleans Pendergasts, a strange old family of French and English ancestry. The word eccentric didn’t even begin to describe them — they were scientists, explorers, medical quacks, hucksters, magicians, con men… and killers. Yes, killers. A great-aunt had poisoned her entire family and