passed by, one after the other. A long pier came into view along a wooded shore and he aimed for it. Beyond the pier lay a dark expanse of lawn, rising to the turrets and shingled gables of a large Gold Coast mansion.
Pendergast brought the boat up to the pier at terrifying speed, reversing the engines at the last moment and spinning the boat so that it pointed back out into the Sound. Before the vessel had even stopped he jammed a boat fender between the edge of the wheel and the throttle, leapt from the bow onto the pier, and ran toward the dark, silent house. The uncaptained boat, throttle jammed in forward idle, chugged out from the pier and soon disappeared into the expanse of Long Island Sound, its red and green running lights gradually merging into darkness.
Chapter 73
Captain Laura Hayward stared balefully at the shattered doors that led into the dark maw of the Ville, heard the din of chaos within. The protest action had been expertly planned. Her fears had come true. This was no ragged, piecemeal gathering: this was a group that had planned well and meant business. Chislett had been hopelessly overwhelmed and overmastered, clearly out of his depth. For five crucial minutes while the mob coalesced out of nowhere, he'd been stunned, doing nothing but standing in impotent surprise. Precious minutes had been lost; minutes in which the police could have at least slowed the progress or run a flying wedge into the leading edge of the protesters. When Chislett finally roused himself, he began shouting out a series of conflicting orders that had merely sown greater confusion among his officers. She could see several police from the forward field positions now taking matters into their own hands and running with tear gas and crowd control equipment toward the front doors of the Ville. But it was too late: the protesters were already inside and, as such, presented an extremely difficult and complex tactical situation.
Yet Hayward couldn't worry about that. Her thoughts were on the phone call she had received from Pendergast.
Her face darkened. This wasn't the first time Vinnie's association with Pendergast had ended in disaster — for Vinnie, of course. Pendergast always seemed to escape unscathed — as he had this time, leaving Vinnie to his own devices.
She shook away her anger. There would be time to confront Pendergast later. Right now, she had to act.
She approached the Ville, seeking to bypass the confrontation taking place in the church. The main doorway gaped wide, lam — bent light flickering from it. As she approached she could see riot police entering, ugly — sticks and tasers in their hands. Her own weapon at the ready, she followed quickly behind them. Beyond the shattered doors lay an ancient, narrow alley, lined on both sides with sagging wooden structures. She followed the uniformed officers past darkened doorways and shuttered windows. From ahead came the din of a thousand voices.
They rounded a bend and entered a stone plaza, beyond which lay the hulking fabric of the church itself. Here she was presented with a sight so bizarre it stopped her dead in her tracks. The plaza was a scene of desperate pandemonium, a Fellini — esque nightmare: men in brown robes were fleeing the church, some bleeding, others wailing or crying. Protesters, meanwhile, were trashing the place, racing about, breaking windows and smashing everything in sight. An indescribable din sounded from within the church walls. A profusion of animals — sheep, goats, chickens — raced about the square, tripping up the running figures and adding their own bleats and squeals to the general din. And among it all stood more riot police, milling around in disbelief, with no orders, no plan — uncertain and confused.
This was no good. She had to find access to the cellars below, where Vinnie had gone looking for Nora Kelly.
Turning away from the scene of bedlam, she left the plaza and ran down another dark cobbled alley, trying doors as she went. Many were locked, but one opened into a workshop of some kind, a tannery or primitive haberdashery. She looked around quickly but found no belowground access. Returning to the street, she continued on, trying doors as she went. Another heavy wooden door a few buildings farther yielded and she hurried in, closing it behind her. The yelling and caterwauling abruptly grew fainter.
This building, too, was deserted. It appeared to be a butcher shop. Walking past a row of glass cases into a back room, she spied a set of stairs leading down into a basement. Pulling a small flash — light from her jacket pocket and snapping it on, she descended. At the bottom was a chilly room lined with ancient panels of zinc: a larder. Hams, ribs, fat sausages, and half carcasses hung from the ceiling, curing. She moved carefully among them, sending one or two swinging gently, letting the beam of her light lick over the floor and the walls. At the back of the larder was a door leading to another staircase, lined with stone and apparently far older, descending into darkness. An unpleasant smell yawned up from the depths. Hayward hesitated, remembering the other thing Pendergast had said:
Without further hesitation, Hayward probed the stairwell with her light and — gun in hand — began to descend farther into blackness.
Chapter 74
Alexander Esteban turned from Pond Road, through the automatic gates, and onto the immaculate gravel driveway that wound among the thick — trunked oaks forming the approach to his estate. He drove slowly, savoring the feeling of returning home. Next to him, on the seat, lay a simple, two — page vellum document, signed, sealed, attested, and legally bulletproof.
A document that would, after a bit of a struggle no doubt, make him one of the richest men in the world.
It was late, almost nine o'clock, but there was no more rush. No more planning, directing, producing, executing. It had consumed practically his every waking moment for more months than he cared to count. But that was all behind him. The show had gone off perfectly to a standing ovation, and now there was just one little loose end to tie up. One last curtain call, as it were: a final bow.
As the car eased to a stop before the barn, Esteban felt his Black — Berry begin to vibrate. With a hiss of irritation he checked it: the rear kitchen door was registering an alarm. His spine stiffened. Surely it was a false alarm — they were a frequent occurrence on his large estate, one of the drawbacks of having such an extensive security system. Still, he had to be sure. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out his favored handgun, a Browning Hi — Power 9mm parabellum with tangent sights. He checked the magazine and found it with its full complement of thirteen ball — point rounds. Slipping it into his pocket, he rose from the car and stepped out into the fragrant night. He checked the freshly raked gravel of the driveway — no sign of a car. Strolling across the broad expanse of lawn, he glanced down at the deserted pier, at the twinkling lights across the Sound, and found all in order. Gun in hand, he passed the greenhouse, entered a walled garden, and approached the back door of the kitchen, the one that had registered the alarm, moving noiselessly. He came to the door, tried the handle. It was closed and locked. The old brass keyhole showed no signs of being forced, no scratches in the old verdigris, no broken panes, nothing to indicate a disturbance.
False alarm.
He straightened up, checked his watch. He was almost looking forward to what was to come. A perverse pleasure, to be sure, but an ancient one. A pleasure encoded in the very genes: the pleasure of killing. He had done it before and found it a curiously cathartic experience. Perhaps, if he hadn't been a movie director, he might have made an excellent serial killer.
Chuckling to himself at this private little sally, he took out his key, opened the kitchen door, and punched in his code, turning off the alarm system in the house. But as he walked through the kitchen toward the door leading
