She looked up at Pendergast. 'She'll be fine.'
As if on cue, Hayward's eyes opened and she made a sound in the endotracheal tube. She shifted on the surgical bed, raised a hand, and gestured at the tube.
After briefly examining her, June ordered the tube removed. 'I felt it was better to be safe than sorry,' she said.
Hayward swallowed painfully, then looked around, her eyes coming into focus. 'What's going on?'
'You've been saved by a ghost,' said Pendergast. 'The ghost of June Brodie.'
74
HAYWARD LOOKED AT THE VAGUE FIGURES IN turn, then tried to sit up. Her head was still swimming.
'Allow me.' Brodie reached over and raised the backrest of the surgical bed. 'You were in light shock,' she said. 'But you'll soon be back to normal. Or as close as possible, given the conditions.'
'My leg...'
'No permanent damage. A flesh wound and a nasty bite from a gator. I've numbed it with a local, but when that wears off it's going to hurt. You're going to need a further series of antibiotic injections, too--lots of unpleasant bacteria live in an alligator's mouth. How do you feel?'
'Out of it,' said Hayward, sitting up. 'What is this place?' She peered at June. 'June... June Brodie?' She looked around. What kind of hunting camp would contain a place like this--an emergency room with state-of-the-art equipment? And yet it was like no emergency room she had ever seen. The lighting was too dim, and except for the medical equipment the space was utterly bare: no books, paintings, posters, even chairs.
She swallowed and shook her head, trying to clear it. 'Why did you fake your suicide?'
Brodie stepped back and gazed at her. 'I imagine you must be the two officers investigating Longitude Pharmaceuticals. Captain Hayward of the NYPD and Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.'
'We are,' said Pendergast. 'I'd show you my badge, but I fear the swamp has claimed it.'
'That won't be necessary,' she said coolly. 'Perhaps I shouldn't answer any questions until I call an attorney.'
Pendergast gave her a long, steady look. 'I am not in any mood for obstructionism,' he said in a low, menacing voice. 'You
The short man hastily complied.
'Is that the patient?' Pendergast asked Brodie. 'The one you mentioned earlier?'
She shook her head. 'Is this any way to treat us, after we helped your partner?'
'Don't irritate me.'
Brodie fell silent.
Pendergast looked at her, a terrible expression on his face. His Les Baer still hung ominously by his side. 'You will answer my questions completely, starting now. Understood?'
The woman nodded.
'Now: why this extensive medical setup? Who is your 'patient'?'
'I am the patient,' came a cracked, whispery voice, to the accompaniment of a door opening in the far wall. 'All this largesse is for me.' A figure stood in the darkness outside the door, tall and still and gaunt, a scarecrow silhouette barely visible in the darkness beyond the emergency room. He laughed: a papery laugh, more breath than anything else. After a moment the shadow stepped very slowly from the darkness into the half-light and raised his voice only slightly.
'Here's Charles J. Slade!'
75
JUDSON ESTERHAZY HAD GUNNED THE 250 Merc and aimed the bass boat south, accelerating to a dangerous speed down the old logging pullboat channel. With a supreme effort of will, he drew back a little on the throttle, quieted the turmoil in his mind. There was no question it had been time to cut his losses and run. He had left Pendergast and the injured woman back in the swamp, without a boat, a mile from Spanish Island. Whether they made it there or not was not his most pressing concern; he was safe and it was time to beat a strategic retreat. He would have to act decisively, and soon, but for now the wise course was to go to ground, lick his wounds--and reemerge refreshed and stronger.
Yet somehow he felt uncomfortably certain Pendergast would reach Spanish Island. And--even given all that had happened between him and its occupant--he was finding it hard to leave Slade behind, and unprotected; harder, so much harder, than he'd steeled himself to ever expect.
In a curious way, deep down, he had known this would be the result as soon as Pendergast had shown up in Savannah with his accursed revelation. The man was preternatural. Twelve years of meticulous deception, blown up in a matter of two weeks. All because one barrel of a bloody rifle had not been cleaned. Unbelievable how such a small oversight could lead to such enormous consequences. And he hadn't helped matters any, blurting out about Audubon and New Madrid in his surprise at seeing Pendergast.
At least, Esterhazy thought, he had not made the mistake of underestimating the man... as so many others had done, to their great sorrow. Pendergast had no idea of his involvement. Nor did he know of the trump card he held in reserve. Those secrets Judson knew--without the slightest doubt--Slade would take with him, to the grave or elsewhere.
The night air breezed by his boat, the stars shimmered in the sky above, the trees stood blackly against the moonlit sky. The pullboat channel narrowed and grew shallow. Esterhazy began to calm further. There was always the possibility--a distinct one--Pendergast and the woman would die in the swamp before making it to the camp. After all, the woman had taken one of his rounds. She could easily be bleeding to death. Even if the wound wasn't immediately fatal, it would be sheer hell dragging her through that last section of swamp, infested with alligators and water moccasins, the water thick with leeches, the air choking with mosquitoes.
