'There's a fine team of doctors working on the lieutenant. If there's a way to pull him out of this, they will find it. If not, then God's will be done. Now, does either of you think the lieutenant might have any reason to wish that I not administer the sacraments?'
'To tell you the truth, he was never a very observant Catholic...' Hayward hesitated. She couldn't remember the last time Vinnie had gone to church. But something about the idea of having the priest there seemed comforting, and she sensed that he'd appreciate it. 'I would say yes. I think Vincent would approve.'
'Very well.' The priest squeezed her hand. 'Is there anything I can do for either of you? Arrangements? Phone calls?' He paused. 'Confession? We have a chapel here in the hospital.'
'No thank you,' said Hayward. She glanced at Pendergast, but he said nothing.
Father Bell nodded at them in turn, then picked up his black bag and walked down the corridor toward the operating suites at a brisk and confident pace, perhaps even with a slight hurry in his step.
She put her face in her hands.
Somewhere in the background, she heard Pendergast speaking. 'I want you to know, if things go badly, that Vincent did not throw his life away.'
She stared through her fingers down the empty corridor where the priest had vanished, not responding.
'Captain. A police officer puts his life on the line every day. You can be killed anytime, anywhere, for anything. Breaking up a domestic quarrel, thwarting a terrorist attack. Any death in the line is honorable. And Vincent was engaged in the most honorable job there is: helping right a wrong. His effort has been vital, absolutely crucial to solving this murder.'
Hayward said nothing. Her mind went back to the code. That had been a quarter hour ago. Perhaps, she thought, the priest was already too late.
45
THE TRAIL BROKE FREE OF THE WOODS AND came out atop the mountain. Judson Esterhazy halted at the edge of the open meadow just in time to see the sun set over the pine-clad hills, suffusing the misty evening with a ruddy glow, a distant lake shimmering white-gold in the dying light.
He paused, breathing lightly. The so-called mountain was one in name only, being more of a bump than anything else. The summit itself was long and narrow and ridge-like, covered with tall grass, with a granite bald spot on which stood the remains of a fire tower.
Esterhazy glanced around. The summit was empty. He made his way out of the yellow pines and walked along an overgrown fire road toward the tower, finally coming up beneath its looming form. He leaned on one of the rusted metal struts, fumbled in his pocket, removed his pipe and a tobacco pouch. Inserting the pipe into the pouch, he slowly packed it with tobacco, using his thumb, the scent of Latakia rising to his nostrils. When it was filled to his liking he removed it, cleaned a few stray bits from the rim, gave it a final pack, removed a lighter from the same pocket, flicked it on, and sucked flame into the bowl in a series of slow, even movements.
The blue smoke drifted off into the twilight. As he smoked, Esterhazy saw a figure emerge from the far end of the field at the top of the south trail. There were several trails to the top of South Mountain, each arriving from a different road in a different direction.
The fragrance of the expensive tobacco, the soothing effects of the nicotine, the comforting ritual, steadied his nerves. He did not watch the figure approach, but instead kept his eyes focused on the west, at the orange diffusion above the hills where the sun had been moments before. He kept his eyes there until he heard the sweep of boots through grass, the faint rasp of breathing. Then he turned toward the man--a man he hadn't seen in a decade. The man looked little different than he remembered: slightly jowlier, hair somewhat receded, but he was still strongly built and sinewy. He wore an expensive pair of swamp boots and a chambray shirt.
'Evening,' the man said.
Esterhazy removed his pipe and gave it a lift by way of greeting. 'Hello, Mike,' he replied.
The man stood against the afterglow, and his features were indistinct. 'So,' he began, 'sounds like you took it upon yourself to clean up a little mess, and instead it turned into a rather bigger mess.'
Esterhazy wasn't going to be talked to like that--not by Michael Ventura. 'Nothing involving this man Pendergast is a 'little mess,' ' he said harshly. 'This is precisely what I've been dreading all these years. Something had to be done and I did it. Nominally, the job belonged to you. But you would undoubtedly have made a bigger hash of it.'
'Not likely. That's the kind of job I do best.'
A long silence. Esterhazy took in a thin stream of smoke, let it leak out, trying to regain his equilibrium.
'It's been a long time,' Ventura said. 'Let's not get off on the wrong foot.'
Esterhazy nodded. 'It's just that... Well, I thought it was all long past. Buried.'
'It'll never be long past. Not as long as there's Spanish Island to deal with.'
A look of concern crossed Esterhazy's face. 'Everything's all right, isn't it?'
'As well as could be expected.'
Another silence.
'Look,' Ventura said in a milder tone. 'I know this can't be easy for you. You made the ultimate sacrifice; we're very grateful to you for that.'
Esterhazy drew on his pipe. 'Let's get down to it,' he said.
'Okay. So just let me understand. Instead of killing Pendergast, you killed his partner.'
