Two Graves

Without waiting to hear more, he unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

He closed the heavy door, then snapped on a light, revealing an entryway with a polished marble floor and walls of dark velvet. He led the way into a long, refectory-like space of carved gothic fixtures, and then beyond to a large reception hall, lined by glass-fronted cabinets. Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur, stood stiffly in a bathrobe, leaning on a crutch, apparently roused by the sound of their entrance.

“Proctor, please have Mrs. Trask run a bath for Miss Swanson,” Pendergast said. “And have her clothes washed and pressed, please.”

Corrie turned toward him. “But—”

“I’ll await you in the library.”

Ninety minutes later, feeling renewed, Corrie walked into the library. The room was dark, and no fire had been laid on. Pendergast was seated in a wing chair in a far corner, motionless and almost invisible. There was something about his presence—a restless stillness, if such a thing were possible—that gave her an odd feeling.

She took a seat opposite him. Pendergast sat, his fingers tented, his eyes half closed. Feeling unaccountably nervous, she hurried into her story. She told him about Betterton, his accusations and theories about Pendergast, the yacht, and her crazy decision to break into the house on East End he had mentioned to her.

While she spoke, Pendergast had seemed distant, almost as if he wasn’t listening. But the mention of the house seemed to catch his attention.

“You engaged in breaking and entering,” he said.

“I know, I know.” Corrie colored. “I’m stupid, but you already know that…” She tried to laugh and found no corresponding amusement—or even reaction—in him. Pendergast was weirder than usual. She took a deep breath and went on. “The place looked like it’d been deserted for years. So I broke in. And you won’t believe what I found. It’s some kind of Nazi safe house. Stacks of Mein Kampf in the basement, old radio equipment, and even a torture room. Upstairs it looked like they were packing up to leave. I found a room full of documents in the process of being shredded.”

She paused, waited. Still no reaction.

“I rifled through the documents, thinking they might be important. A lot of them were covered with swastikas and dated back to the war. Some were stamped STRENG GEHEIM, which I later found out means ‘top secret’ in German. And then I saw the name Esterhazy.”

At this, Pendergast woke up. “Esterhazy?”

“Your late wife’s maiden name, right? I learned that researching the website.”

An incline of the head. God, he looked awful.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I stuffed as many documents as I could into my knapsack. But then—” She paused. The memory was still so fresh. “A Nazi caught me. He tried to kill me. I sprayed the mother with capsicum and managed to get away. I’ve been scared shitless and on the run ever since, living in shelters and hanging out in Bryant Park. I haven’t been in my apartment, I haven’t been at school. All this time I’ve been just trying to reach you!” Quite suddenly, she felt herself on the verge of tears. She forced them back roughly. “You wouldn’t answer the phone. I couldn’t stake out the Dakota, those doormen are like the KGB.”

When he did not respond, she reached into her knapsack, pulled out the sheaf of papers, and put them on an end table. “Here they are.”

Pendergast did not look at the papers. He seemed to have gone far away again. Now, with her spike of anxiety ebbing, Corrie looked at him more closely. He was shockingly thin, even gaunt, and in the dim light she could see the bags under his eyes, the paleness of his skin. But most surprising of all was his demeanor. While his movements were usually languid, you nevertheless had a sense that it was the languor of a cat: a coiled spring, ready to strike out at any moment. But Corrie did not have that sense now. Pendergast seemed unfocused, detached, barely interested in her story. He seemed little concerned by what had happened to her, the danger she had put herself in for his sake.

“Pendergast,” she said. “Are you all right? You look… sort of fu

He waved this away as he might a fly. “These so-called Nazis. Did they get your name?”

“No.”

“Did you leave anything behind that might lead them to your identity?”

“I don’t think so. Everything I had was in this.” And she nudged the knapsack with her foot.

“Any indication that they’ve been tracking you?”

“I don’t think so. But I stayed underground. Those guys were freaking scary.”

“And the address of this safe house?”

“Four Twenty-Eight East End Avenue.”

He fell silent for a minute before rousing himself to speech once again. “They don’t know who you are. They have no way of finding you, short of happening upon you by accident. That is of course unlikely, but we shall reduce the likelihood even further.” He glanced at her. “Is there someplace you can stay? With friends, perhaps? Somewhere out of town?”

Corrie was shocked. She’d just assumed that Pendergast would take her in, protect her, help her deal with the situation. “What’s wrong with here?”

There was a protracted silence. Then Pendergast let out a deep, shuddering breath. “Without going into detail, the fact is that, at present, I am simply incapable of looking after your well-being. In fact, I am so preoccupied that I could actually pose a threat to your safety. If you rely on me, you place yourself in grave danger. Besides, New York City is the one place you stand a chance, however small, of coming in contact with these people. Now: is there anyplace else you can go? I can guarantee that you’ll get there safely, and have sufficient funds—beyond that, you will be on your own.”

This was so unexpected that Corrie felt herself in a kind of daze. Where the hell could she go? Her mother was still in Medicine Creek, Kansas, of course—but she swore she’d die before she ever set foot in that shit hole again.

“My father lives near Allentown,” she said, dubiously.

Pendergast—whose expression had once again turned distant—returned to her. “Yes. I do recall your mentioning that. Do you know where he lives?”

Already Corrie was regretting bringing up her father. “I have his address. I haven’t seen him since he skipped out on my mom, what, fifteen years ago?”

Pendergast reached over, pressed a small button beneath the end table. A minute later, Proctor was standing in the doorway to the library. Even with the crutch, he looked immensely powerful.

Pendergast turned to him. “Proctor, please call our private livery service. I would like them to take Miss Swanson to an address she will give them outside Allentown, Pe

Proctor nodded. “Very well, sir.”

Corrie looked from Pendergast to Proctor and back again. “I still don’t believe it. You’re just telling me to turn tail and run?”

“I’ve explained that necessity already. You’ll be safer with your father, especially given that you’ve had no recent contact with him. You need to stay away for at least a month, perhaps two. Use only cash—no credit or debit cards. Destroy the SIM card, throw away your old cell phone, and don’t transfer the contacts except by hand. Contact me—that is, Proctor—when you plan to return.”

“What if I don’t want to go stay with my loser dad?” Corrie fumed.

“These people whose safe house you invaded, who you robbed of highly incriminating documents, are not to be underestimated. You do not want them to find you.”

“But…” This was unreal. She started to get mad. “What about school?”

“Of what use will school be to a dead person?” Pendergast said evenly.

She stood up. “Goddamn it, what’s going on with you?” She paused, looked at him more closely. “Are you sick?”