Two Graves

Another man entered the room. He was powerful, muscular, silent. Like the ones that so often punished him. Tristram watched him warily out of the corner of his eye. He was used to watching, observing, listening—while never seeming to do so. They would correct him if they thought he was listening or looking. Long ago he had learned to hide such habits, along with everything else about himself. The less they noticed him, the better. To be ignored was always his goal. Others had not been as careful as he. Several of those others had died. Caution was the key to survival.

“Ah, Proctor, have a seat,” his father said to the man. “Coffee?”

The man remained standing, his movements stiff. “No, thank you, sir.”

“Proctor, this is my son, Tristram. Tristram, Proctor.”

Startled, Tristram raised his head. He wasn’t used to being singled out, named, introduced like this to strangers. Such things usually came before a beating—or worse.

The man gave him the faintest of nods. He seemed uninterested. That suited Tristram fine.

“Were you followed?” his father asked.

“I expected as much, sir, and noticed as much.”

“We need to get Tristram up to the Riverside Drive mansion. That’s the safest place. Use the apartment’s back passage, of course. I’ve arranged a decoy car. I believe you know what to do.”

“Naturally, sir.”

“Let’s not waste any time.” Then his father turned to him. “Finish your brunch, Tristram,” he said in a not-unkind voice.

Tristram stuffed the rest of the toast into his mouth and gulped down the coffee. He had never eaten such delicious food, and he hoped that wherever they were going it would be as good.

He followed his father and the other one down many winding passageways, stopping at last at an unmarked wooden door. His toe began hurting, but he worked hard to disguise his limp. If they thought he was too damaged, they might leave him behind. He had seen it before, many times.

They stepped into a space that contained nothing except a coiled rope and a padlocked trapdoor in the floor. Pendergast unlocked the padlock, opened the door, and shone the flashlight down. Tristram had seen such dark holes before—had been in many of them—and fear suddenly spiked within him. But then, in the light, he was able to make out a small room below, with a dresser and a sofa and a series of strange machines lined up along a table, wires leading away from them.

His father dropped one end of the ladder down into the room below, then handed the flashlight to the man named Proctor. “Keep the boy close as you make your way through the back passage. When you ultimately emerge from Twenty-Four West Seventy-Second Street, make a careful surveillance. If you can get away without being seen, do so. You’ll find a 1984 Honda Civic from Rent-A-Wreck parked at curbside. I shall meet you at the mansion in a few hours.”

Pendergast turned to the boy. “Tristram, you’ll go with Proctor.”

The boy felt another surge of fear. “You not come?”

“He’ll keep you safe. I’ll join you shortly.”

The boy hesitated for a moment. Then he turned and followed Proctor down the rope ladder with a feeling of resignation. He needed to do what they said, exactly what they said. Perhaps—as in the past—it would keep him alive.

Two hours later, Proctor sat with the boy in the large, dimly lit library of 891 Riverside Drive, awaiting Pendergast’s arrival. Proctor had always seen himself as a soldier doing his duty, and that’s how he thought of this assignment—even if it was chauffeuring a strange boy, Pendergast’s son, no less. The boy was the spitting image of his father physically—but in his demeanor and behavior, a polar opposite. Nothing had been explained to Proctor, and he required no explanations. And yet, of all the surprises he had experienced in Pendergast’s employ—and there had been many—this was the greatest.

The boy had initially been uncommunicative, anxious, and uncertain. But once they were within the mansion, and it was clear he could trust Proctor, Tristram began to open up and—within half an hour—was exhibiting an almost overwhelming curiosity. He asked, in his clumsy, strongly accented English, about everything: the books, the paintings, the rugs, the objets d’art. In so doing, the boy revealed a remarkable, even amazing, ignorance of the world. He had never seen a television set. He did not know what a computer was. He had never listened to the radio, knew nothing about music except for a few Germanic tunes like “The Horst Wessel Song.” Proctor came to understand the boy had never eaten in a restaurant, never gone swimming, never played a game, never been hugged, never had a pet, never tasted ice cream, never met his mother, never ridden a bicycle—and apparently never eaten a hot meal until this morning. It was as if his personality was only just now starting to form, after years and years of dormancy, like a flower being hit by light for the first time. There had been a few flashes of rebelliousness and spunkiness, a dash of bluster, that came and went; but for the most part the boy was full of trepidation—fearful of being captured, anxious about offending, afraid to stand out in any way. He seemed beaten down, passive. Proctor wondered where in the world the boy had come from and under what bizarre circumstances he had been raised.

The double doors to the library opened, and Pendergast entered quietly.

Immediately, Tristram stood up. “Father!” he said.

Pendergast stepped back almost defensively. “It’s fine, Tristram, you may remain seated.” He turned to Proctor. “What news?”

The boy sat down again quietly.

“This time I don’t believe we were followed,” Proctor answered. “I’ve activated all the security measures.”

Pendergast nodded. He turned to Tristram, then sat down in a nearby chair. “I need to know more. More about the place you grew up—Nova Godói.”

Tristram screwed his face up. “I try.”

“Describe it to me, please.”

Tristram looked confused. “Describe?”

“What is it? A building, a town, a crossroads? What does it look like? How do you get to it?”

“I understand. But I not know much—they keep us, the bad twins, under guard. We not go anywhere.” A sudden worried look crossed the boy’s face, as if he was afraid of disappointing his father with his lack of knowledge.

“Just tell me what you know. What you’ve seen.”

“It is town. Deep, deep in jungle. No road. Only way in is by river, or—” And here he imitated the motion of a plane’s wings with his hand. “Town is on edge of lake.”

“Lake,” Pendergast repeated.

“Yes. In middle of lake is… the bad place.”

“Tell me about the bad place.”

“No!” Tristram was on his feet again, agitated. “No, no. Bad twins, like me, get taken to the bad place. They do not come out again.”

He was so agitated that Pendergast said nothing for several minutes, giving the boy time to calm down. “Who lives in the town, Tristram?” he asked at last.

“The workers. The good twins.”

“And where do you live?”

“In the hole,” the boy said simply. “With the others like me. The ones with numbers.”

“What do you do during the day?”

“We work. In the fields. And sometimes we are taken. For… tests.” He shook his head violently. “No talking about the tests.”

“This town,” Pendergast said. “Is it guarded?”

The boy nodded. “Soldiers. Many soldiers.”

“Who do the soldiers answer to? How is the town led? Is there a governing council—a group of people in charge?”

Tristram shook his head. “One man.”

“What is his name?”

“F… Fischer.” Tristram barely whispered the word, as if merely to speak it was dangerous.

“What does he look like?” Pendergast asked.

“He is tall. Older than you. Stark, kräftig—strong, like him.” Tristram pointed at Proctor. “His hair is white, all white.”