Two Graves

“I think it would be best if we reviewed the events that have brought us to the present state,” she said, quietly and coolly. “Your wife, Helen Esterhazy, the descendant of a Nazi doctor, was the product of a genetic experiment involving twins, organized by a group calling itself Der Bund, the Covenant. Twelve years ago, when she threatened to reveal the experiments, they arranged to have her killed. But in an elaborate ruse perpetrated by her own brother, Judson, she survived and her defective twin, Emma, died in her place. Recently, when Der Bund realized Helen was still alive, they kidnapped her from your intended safekeeping—and then killed her.”

Pendergast’s pace slowed even further.

“Your wife gave birth—early in your marriage, and unbeknownst to you—to twin boys. These were the product of Der Bund’s ongoing experiments in eugenics and genetic manipulation. One son, named Alban, was developed into a highly intelligent, aggressive, and remorseless killer, an example of Teutonic perfection as visualized by Nazi ideology. The other son, whom you named Tristram, comprises what is left from their joint gene pool, and thus by necessity is Alban’s opposite: weak, timid, empathic, kind, and guileless. Both were brought here, to New York, as some kind of beta test, the purpose of which is unknown beyond the fact that it involved Alban’s serial killing of guests in hotel rooms and leaving messages intended for you. So far, am I correct?”

Pendergast nodded without looking at her.

“Tristram escaped to you. Last night, Alban found him and kidnapped him in turn, spiriting him away—as Helen Esterhazy was spirited away, not so long ago.”

Somehow, this direct, factual recitation, devoid of emotion, seemed to clear the charged air of the room. Pendergast’s expression eased somewhat, grew less distraught. He stopped in his pacing and looked at Constance.

“I cannot put myself in your place, Aloysius,” Constance went on. “Because you and I both know that— had I been in your place, had this happened to me—my reaction would have been of a rather more… harsh and impulsive nature than yours. However, the fact you have come to me like this tells me a great deal. I know you must be tormented by the tragic way your wife’s kidnapping ended. And I sense this cruel twist of fate—your son, the son you never knew you had, being taken in such a similar manner—has paralyzed you. You don’t trust your own judgment. Had you decided on a plan of action, you would not be here now, with me.”

Still Pendergast gazed at her. Finally, he sat down in a chair across the table.

“You are entirely correct,” he said. “I find myself in a paradox. If I do nothing, I will never see Tristram again. If I go after him, I might precipitate his death—just as I did my wife’s.”

Neither spoke for several minutes. At last, Constance shifted in her chair. “The situation to me is clear. You have no choice. This is your child. For too long now, this contest of yours has been waged tangentially, along the periphery of your true adversary. You must attack the nerve center—the homeland, the viper’s nest—directly. You must go to Nova Godoi.”

Pendergast’s gaze dropped to the papers on the table. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Recall my own child,” Constance went on. “When we learned of the threat posed to him, we didn’t hesitate to act. Even if it meant my being accused of infanticide. You must act now, decisively—and with violence.”

His eyebrows rose.

“Yes: violence. Great and decisive violence. That is sometimes the only solution. I discovered that for myself…” Her voice trailed off into silence, filled by the ticking of an antique clock.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low. “In my preoccupied state I didn’t think to ask about your own child. You should have heard something by now.”

“I received the sign just five days ago. He’s finally in India now, away from Tibet, deep in the mountains above Dharamsala—safe.”

“That is good,” Pendergast murmured, and the silence fell once again. But even as Pendergast began to rise from his chair, Constance spoke again.

“There’s something else.” She swept a hand in the direction of the photographs and paperwork. “I sense something unusual about this Alban. Something unique in the way he perceives reality.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure. He somehow sees… somehow knows… more than we do.”

Pendergast frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I don’t fully understand it myself. But I feel he has some power, like an additional sense—one that in normal human beings is undeveloped or absent.”

“Sense? As in a sixth sense? Clairvoyance or ESP?”

“Nothing as obvious as that. Something subtler—but perhaps even more powerful.”

Pendergast thought for a moment. “I obtained some old papers, taken from a Nazi safe house on the Upper East Side. They pertain to the Esterhazy family, and they make mention of something called the Kopenhagener Fenster.”

“The Copenhagen Window,” Constance translated.

“Yes. The documents reference it frequently, but never explain it. It seems to have to do with genetic manipulation, or quantum mechanics, or perhaps some combination of the two. But it’s clear that the scientists working on the Copenhagen Window believed it held vast promise for the future of the master race. Perhaps it is related to the power you mention.”

Constance did not answer. In the silence, Pendergast clenched, then unclenched, his fingers. “I’ll follow your advice.” He glanced at his watch. “I can be in Brazil by dinnertime. I’ll finish this, one way or another.”

“Take extreme care. And remember what I said: sometimes violence is the only answer.”

He bowed, and then raised his head again, fixing her with glittering, silvery eyes. “You should know this: if I cannot bring Tristram back with me, safe and sound, I will not return. You will be on your own.”

The detached, almost oracular expression faded from her face, and a faint flush rose in its place. For a long moment the two simply looked at each other across the table. Then, at last, Constance raised one hand and caressed Pendergast’s cheek.

“In that case, I wish you a tentative good-bye,” she said.

Pendergast took the hand, squeezed it gently. Then he rose to leave.

“Wait,” Constance murmured.

Pendergast turned back. The flush on her face deepened, and she looked down, not meeting his eyes.

“Dearest guardian,” she said in a tone almost too low to be heard. “I hope… I hope that you find peace.”

48

CORRIE STOOD OUTSIDE THE DEALERSHIP. IT WAS THREE o’clock in the morning, on a night as dark as sin, the air ten degrees below freezing. The ugly sodium lights blasted the rows of parked cars with a sickly yellow glow, glittering on the frost that rimed the windshields. They hadn’t given Corrie any keys to the dealership, but she had managed to swipe Miller’s when he left them around—which he did all the time, sending him into a fit of rage, searching and searching, cursing, kicking trash cans, and generally displaying his assholery in full bloom.

Corrie had expended a lot of research—and thinking—on the scam the salesmen were all so proud of. It turned out to actually be pretty common, known as a credit cozen. Miller had been right in saying it was widespread among dealerships, and rarely prosecuted. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that the only people at the dealership who would be threatened by such exposure would be the owners, not the salesmen. That meant the Riccos, Senior and Junior. If her dad had made good on his threat to blow the whistle, they were the ones with the most to lose.

Corrie decided to focus her attention on father and son.

Keeping well outside of the gaudy pool of illumination, she circled the dealership and came up to the building from behind, where the service and repair operations were located. There were still some area lights here, but the