With the faintest flickering movement he dropped the muzzle and fired, but Alban moved so fast—even before Pendergast seemed to have started his own move—that the bullet missed, just nicking the cloth.
Alban laughed, reaching down, poking his finger through the hole in his trousers, wiggling it. “Close! Whew. But not good enough. What is the expression? This time, I
He took a quick step back, reached down into the weeds, and picked up Pendergast’s .45. “Do you know the Goethe poem ‘Der Erlkonig’?”
“In translation, yes.”
“
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn your back, close your eyes, and recite it. The first three stanzas should be sufficient. No—considering we’re in relative darkness, I’ll be even more sporting and make it only the first two stanzas. And then you can come looking for me.”
“And if I cheat?”
“I’ll shoot you.” Alban’s pale eyes twinkled. “Of course, I could just shoot you right now, and that would also be cheating. We
“I have more—”
“I think I’ve answered enough questions. Now: do you want to play?”
“Why not?”
“If you open your eyes early, it means you’re a cheater; I shoot; you die.”
“You’ll merely outrun me. This is no challenge at all.”
“It is true I could outrun you. But I won’t do that. Instead, during your recitation, which should take no longer than ten seconds, I’m going to hide. And you will have to find me however you can—by intelligence, by stealth, by tracking, by deduction—it’s up to you. So! Turn your back and let’s begin.”
Pendergast heard the soft click of the safety on the Les Baer being thumbed back. He immediately turned around and began to speak in a clear, loud tone:
At the end of the second stanza, he quickly turned and scanned the deserted piers.
Alban was gone. The Les Baer lay in the weeds a few yards away.
Three hours later, Pendergast finally gave up searching.
DAMN IT TO
What was it about New Yorkers and crime? They loved it, they ate it up. The
Brilliant white light poured out into the hall from Room 516, and D’Agosta could see the occasional shadows of the figures still working in there. Gibbs was inside as well. It was complete bullshit that the man had been given access during the evidence-gathering phase—top brass were supposed to be kept out. But this time he’d insisted on going in, despite D’Agosta’s demurral. Christ, he himself, the squad commander, hadn’t been in there since the initial discovery.
“Hey, what’s with the fucking Coke?” he bellowed at a latents specialist passing down the hall. “You know there’s no eating or drinking at the scene!”
The man, immediately cowed, ducked his head in abject submission, turned, and hustled away down the hall, carrying the frosty can, not daring to sip from it.
D’Agosta could see some of the other detectives hovering around the corridor exchanging glances. All right, so he was pissed and showing it. He didn’t give a shit. The whole thing with Pendergast had freaked him out, the way he’d disappeared like that. Just vanished. Along with the perp. And this crazy theory about it being his son… and yet, he’d called it right on the button: date, time, and place.
D’Agosta had been on a lot of strange trips with Pendergast, but this was the strangest of all. He was well and truly shaken up. On top of that, his not-so-old chest wound was giving him a hard time. He felt in his pocket for some Advil, popped a few more.
“Hey, who gave you permission to waltz in here like you owned the place?” he shouted at a white-coated forensic specialist just ducking in under the crime-scene tape. “Log in, for shit’s sake!”
“Yes, Lieutenant, but you see I did log in. I was just visiting the men’s room—”
His attempted smile was cut off by D’Agosta’s shout. “Log in again!”
“Yes, sir.”
D’Agosta turned back and abruptly saw Pendergast. The man’s gaunt figure had materialized at the far end of the hall. As he approached, walking swiftly, D’Agosta’s gut tightened with apprehension. He had to talk to him, find out more about this bizarre business of the alleged son.
He was shocked by the look on Pendergast’s face: it fairly blazed with hard, dazzling intensity. He looked almost mad. And yet the eyes were absolutely clear.
“Where’d you go?” D’Agosta asked.
“I chased the killer to the river. He escaped at the piers.”
“You…
“He had just left the room when I arrived, by the fire escape. There was no time. I engaged in pursuit.”
“And you’re sure he’s… your son?”
Pendergast stared at him. “As I said earlier, that information remains strictly between us.”
D’Agosta swallowed. The intensity of Pendergast’s stare unnerved him. “If you’ve got information, I mean, we’ve got to share it…” he began.
The look on Pendergast’s face became distinctly unfriendly. “Vincent, I am the only person who can catch this killer. Nobody else can. In fact, their attempts would only make things worse. Therefore, we must keep the information to ourselves. At least for now. Do you understand?”
D’Agosta couldn’t bring himself to answer. He did understand. But withholding information—especially the possible identity of the killer? You couldn’t do that. Then again, it seemed a completely crazy idea that the killer was Pendergast’s son—that he even
He had no idea what to do.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Agent Pendergast.” And here came Gibbs, striding out of the hotel room. He approached, hand extended, the phoniest of smiles on his face. Pendergast took the hand.
“You look like you’ve been in a rumble,” said Gibbs with a chuckle, looking over Pendergast’s muddied suit.
“Indeed.”
“I’m curious,” said Gibbs, “how you and the lieutenant managed to get to the crime scene just, what, minutes after the perp arrived? The lieutenant said it was your idea, something about a number sequence?”
“Fibonacci,” Pendergast said.
Gibbs frowned. “Fibonacci? Who’s Fibonacci?”
