Two Graves

“Tell me about it,” Hayward said.

“After his wife died, he retreated to his apartment and I’m pretty sure was getting into self-medication, if you know what I mean—hitting the hard stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“I don’t know which drugs, exactly, but I had the terrible feeling it was a calculated form of self-destruction —a run-up to suicide. I followed your advice and gave him the Hotel Killer case portfolio to chew over. It—seems to have unhinged him. He went from being totally apathetic to complete obsession with the case. He showed up at the third murder scene, got himself credentialed up, and now he’s become the bane of Agent Gibbs’s existence. I’m telling you, he and Gibbs are headed for a wreck. I’ve got to believe it’s because Pendergast is feeling so devastated that he’s antagonizing Gibbs. I mean, I’ve seen him needle people, get into their faces—but there was always a reason for it before.”

“Oh, Jesus. Maybe my idea wasn’t so hot after all.”

“I haven’t gotten to the worst part.”

“Which is?”

“His theory of the crime. It’s bizarre, to say the least.”

Hayward sighed. “Let me hear it.”

Another hesitation. “He believes the Hotel Killer is his brother, Diogenes.”

Hayward frowned. “I thought Diogenes was dead.”

“That’s what everyone thought. The thing is, Pendergast won’t tell me why he thinks his brother is the murderer. It seems so preposterous. I really worry that his wife’s death has scattered his marbles.”

“What’s his evidence?”

“None that I know. At least none that he’s shared with me. But I honestly don’t see it in any case. The M.O. is totally different; there’s nothing that links this case to his brother. And a quick-and-dirty search of the databases indicates his brother really did vanish and is presumed dead. This is crazy.”

“So what does Singleton think of this theory?”

“That’s the other thing.” Even though they were alone in the back of the auditorium, D’Agosta lowered his voice. “Pendergast doesn’t want me to tell anyone about this theory. I can’t mention it to Gibbs, to Singleton—to anybody.”

Hayward looked at him, opened her mouth to say, Why haven’t you told me this before? But then she reconsidered. D’Agosta looked so troubled. And the fact was, he had told her—and was now obviously searching for her advice. And, ironically, it had been her idea to bring the case to Pendergast to begin with.

“The thing of it is, I know that if there is information this might be Diogenes—even if it seems like crazy information—he and I both have an obligation to pass it on. There’s always a chance it might help the case. But… I promised him.” He shook his head. “Christ, I’m really in the weeds about this.”

Gently, she took his hand. “Vinnie, it’s your duty to turn over all evidence, all information, even the crazy stuff. You’re the squad commander.”

D’Agosta didn’t reply.

“I know Pendergast is your friend. I know he’s been through a terrible ordeal. But this isn’t about friendship. It’s not even about what’s best for your career. This is about catching a dangerous killer who’s likely to kill again. Vinnie, you have to do the right thing on this. If Pendergast really has hard information, you’ve got to get it out of him. And when you do, you have to turn it over. It’s as simple as that.”

D’Agosta looked down.

“And as far as he and Gibbs are concerned, that’s FBI business. You let them sort it out. Okay?” She gave his hand a harder squeeze. “I’ve got to give that talk now. We can speak more tonight.”

“Okay.”

She stopped herself from kissing him, then stood up. As she gave him one final look before heading to the podium, she was dismayed to find he appeared just as conflicted as before.

30

IT WAS NOON. THE DOCTOR HAD COME AND GONE, THE room was silent and dark, the curtains drawn, the boy—bathed and cleaned of soot—was asleep. A shadowy figure sat in a corner of the small, spare room, unmoving, his pale face like a ghostly apparition floating in the dimness.

The boy stirred, turned, sighed. He had been asleep for eighteen hours. One hand lay on the covers, shackled, with a chain attached to the metal bed frame.

Another sigh, and then a gleam appeared in the darkness—the gleam of an open eye. The boy turned again, restlessly, and finally raised his head. He looked around and his attention fixed on the figure in the corner.

For a long time they looked at each other in the darkness, and then the boy spoke in a whisper. “Water?”

The figure rose silently, left the room, and returned with a glass of water and a straw. The boy reached for it, the movement of his arm stopped by the chain. He looked at it, surprised, but said nothing. Pendergast held the glass for the boy, who drank.

When he was done, his head sank back to the pillow. “Thank… you.”

His voice was weak, but no longer raving. His mind had returned to rationality. The fever was down, the antibiotics taking effect. The long sleep appeared to have done him good.

Another long silence ensued. And then the boy held up his wrist, the one with the chain on it. “Why?” he asked.

“You know why. What I want to know is—why you have come here.”

“Because… you are Father.”

“Father,” Pendergast repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. “And how do you know this?”

“I heard… talk. Of you. Pendergast. My father.”

Pendergast did not reply. Finally, the boy stirred again in the bed. “Do they… know I am here?” He spoke hesitantly, with a strange accent, part German but softened by the mellifluous roundness of what sounded like Portuguese. His face, now clean, was so pale and delicate that blue veins could be seen within it. Dark circles lay like bruises under his eyes, and his thin hair was plastered to his skull by sweat.

“If you are speaking of the police,” said Pendergast, voice cold as dry ice, “I have not informed them. Not yet.”

“Not the police…” said the boy. “Them.”

“Them?”

“The others. My… my brother.”

This was met with another profound silence, and then Pendergast said, in a strange voice: “Your brother?”

The boy coughed, tried to sit up. “More water, please?”

Removing his .45 and laying it out of reach, Pendergast went over to the boy, helped prop him up against the headboard with some pillows, and gave him another sip of water. This time the boy drank greedily, finishing the glass.

“I am hungry,” he said.

“You will be fed in good time,” said Pendergast, resuming his seat and sliding the .45 back into his suit. “Now: you were speaking of your—brother?”

“My brother.”

Pendergast stared at the boy impatiently. “Yes. Tell me about this brother.”

“He is Alban. We are… twins. Sort of twins. He is the one doing the killing. He has been cutting me. He thinks it lustig. Funny. But I escaped. Did he follow?” Fear had crept into his voice.

Pendergast rose, his slender figure like a wraith in the dim room. He paced to the curtained window, turned.