Two Graves

She reached over, took his hand. “You big dope. Let me put you out of your misery. Of course I’ll marry you.”

“You… how…?” D’Agosta fell silent, at a loss for words.

“Do you think I’m a complete idiot? Why would you ask me to meet you for a drink here, of all unlikely places? You made such a big deal out of picking this particular spot—the spot where we first got to know each other. Two years ago, remember?” She squeezed his hand, then laughed. “Vino Veritas, indeed. You know what? Deep down, Lieutenant D’Agosta, you’re just an old softie. A sentimentalist. And that’s one of the things—one of the many things—I love about you.”

D’Agosta looked down. He was so moved that he could not speak. “I can’t believe you knew. I mean…”

“So where’s the ring?”

D’Agosta stammered, trying to explain it was spontaneous, last minute, until he was interrupted by her laugh. “I’m just teasing you, Vi

Sheepishly, he reached over and took her hand. “Thanks.”

Still smiling, she cocked her head. “Let’s go someplace else. Some new place, really nice. As nostalgic as this place is, let’s make a new memory of tonight. We need to celebrate—and not just because it’s Christmas Eve. We’ve got a lot of pla

She signaled the waiter for the check.

And Last

THE LARGE, ORNATELY PANELED LIBRARY OF 891 RIVERSIDE Drive was lit only by fire and candlelight. It was a late-February evening, and a light freezing rain was falling on the cars passing by on Riverside and the West Side Highway, but no sound of traffic, no tick, tick of ice upon glass panes, penetrated the barred and curtained windows. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, the scratch of Agent Pendergast’s fountain pen on cream laid writing paper, and a low, infrequent conversation that was being carried out between Constance Greene and Tristram.

The two were sitting at a gaming table placed before the fire, and Constance was teaching Tristram how to play ombre, a card game that had gone out of fashion decades, if not centuries, before. Tristram stared at his cards, his young face screwed up in thought. Constance had begun introducing him to games slowly—with whist—and already Tristram’s memory, concentration, and logical abilities showed remarkable improvement. Now he was immersed in the subtleties of spadilles, entradas, and estuches.

Pendergast was sitting at a writing table in the far corner of the library, his back to a wall of leather-bound books. From time to time he glanced up from his writing, his silvery eyes moving around the room, always coming to rest at last on the two persons playing cards.

Now the quiet of the room was broken by the ringing of Pendergast’s cell phone. He slipped it from his pocket, glanced at the number. “Yes?” he spoke into it.

“Pendergast? It’s me. Corrie.”

“Miss Swanson. How are you faring?”

“Fine. I’ve been swamped catching up with my coursework, that’s why I’m calling only now. I’ve got one hell of a story to tell you… and…” Here there was a hesitation.

“Is everything all right?”

“Well, if you mean by that I’m not hearing any goose-stepping coming at me from behind, yeah. But listen: I solved a case, a real, honest-to-God case.”

“Excellent. I want to apologize for having been unable to give you greater assistance when you came to me back in December—but I had great faith in your ability to look after yourself. Faith that, it would seem, was justified. And as it happens, I have a rather interesting story to tell you, as well.”

A pause.

“So,” Corrie went on. “Any chance of renewing that offer for lunch at Le Bernardin?”

“How remiss of me for not suggesting it immediately. We should do it soon, however—because I’m thinking of taking an extended vacation.”

“Name the date.”

Pendergast considered a small appointment book he plucked from his jacket pocket. “Next Thursday, one o’clock.”

“That’ll be great, I don’t have any classes on Thursday afternoons.” Another hesitation. “Hey, Pendergast?”

“Yes?”

“Would it be all right if… if I brought my father along? He’s part of the story.”

“Naturally. I’ll look forward to seeing the two of you next Thursday.”

He put pen and paper aside and stood up. Tristram had left, and Constance was sitting at the table alone, shuffling the cards. Pendergast looked over to her.

“How is his playing coming along?”

“Quite well. Better than I expected, actually. If he continues to learn at such a rapid pace, I may move on to rubicon bezique or skat.”

Pendergast remained silent a moment before speaking again. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Back when I visited you in Mount Mercy, looking for advice. And you were right, of course. I had to go to Nova Godói. There was no choice. And I had to act—alas, with extreme violence. I’ve rescued Tristram, true. But the other half of the equation—the more complex and difficult part of the equation—remains unsolved.”

For a moment, Constance did not reply. When she did, it was in a low voice. “So there’s been no word.”

“None. I’ve got certain, ah, assets in place, and he’s been put on the watch lists of both the DEA and the local consulate officials—discreetly, of course. But he seems to have vanished into the forest.”

“Do you think he might be dead?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” Pendergast replied. “His injuries were grievous.”

Constance put down the cards. “I’ve been wondering. I don’t mean to offend with the question but… Do you think he could have gone through with it? Killing you, I mean.”

For a moment, Pendergast did not answer, looking into the fire. Then he glanced back at her. “I’ve asked myself that question many times. There were times—when he was shooting at me in the lake, for example—that I felt sure he meant to do so. But then, there were so many other times when he seems to have missed his opportunity.”

Constance picked up the cards again and began dealing fresh hands. “Not knowing his future intentions, not knowing whether he’s dead or alive… rather disquieting.”

“Indeed.”

“What about the rest of the Covenant?” Constance asked. “Do they still pose a threat?”

Pendergast shook his head. “No. Their leaders are dead; their fortress destroyed; all their decades of research findings burned and gone. Their raison d’être—the twins themselves—are almost all alienated from the project. From the reports I’ve received, many have already begun integrating themselves into Brazilian society. Of course, the very latest ‘iterations’ of twins—those leading up to Alban and the beta test—were the Covenant’s greatest successes, and I understand the Brazilian authorities are finding some of them too incorrigible to be rehabilitated. But their number is small, and there is simply no way for Der Bund to achieve a second critical mass, even…” And here his voice sank lower: “Even were Alban to resurface.”

There was a brief silence. Then Constance nodded at Tristram’s empty chair. “Have you decided what to do about him?”

“I was considering one idea.”

“And what might that be?”

“That, in addition to being my amanuensis—and my oracle, it would seem—you might be his…”

Constance glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. “His what? Babysitter?”

“More than babysitter. Less than guardian. More like—older sister.”

“Older is the operative word. A hundred and thirty years older. Aloysius, don’t you think I’m a little advanced in age to start acting like a sibling again?”

“It is admittedly a novel idea. Will you at least consider it?”

Constance looked at him for a long moment. Then her gaze returned to Tristram’s empty chair. “There is something affecting about him,” she said. “So much the opposite of his brother, at least as you’ve described him to me. He’s so young and impatient—and remarkably naive about the world. So i