Two Graves

Proctor was surprised at the effect this description had on Pendergast. The agent shuddered, then turned away.

“This town,” he said in a strange voice, back still to them. “Does it have any other unique aspects to it?”

Tristram frowned. “Aspects? What you mean, aspects?”

Pendergast turned back. “Is there some way it might be different from other towns? A way for someone to recognize it, say, from a distance.”

“Yes. It has…” And the boy raised both his arms, drawing his hands around in a circle, then tenting them together.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Pendergast said.

Tristram made the gesture again, then sighed loudly, frustrated at not getting his meaning across.

Pendergast stood up again. “Thank you, Tristram. You have been most helpful. Now, listen: right now I have to try to prevent your brother from killing any more people.”

Tristram nodded.

“As long as I’m doing that, I can’t stay here with you.”

“No!” The boy rose again.

“You must remain here. They’re looking for you.”

“I not afraid of them!”

Proctor looked at the boy. Brave words, and obviously well intended—but the greater likelihood was that, at the first knock on the door, he’d turn tail and hide behind his father.

“I know you mean well,” Pendergast said gently. “But right now, you need to go to ground.”

“Go… to ground?” the son repeated.

“Go into hiding. This house has places for that: where you can hide, safe from any attack, any threat.”

A flash of anger distorted the boy’s fine features. “Hide? In hole? I will not do such thing! I have been in hole too long!”

“Tristram. You took a big risk in escaping. You came to me. Now you must trust me.” Pendergast took the boy’s hand. “You won’t be in any hole. Proctor will be with you. And I will visit as often as I can.”

The youth’s face had flushed red. He hung his head, clearly angry but holding his tongue.

Pendergast took Proctor aside. “You know where to put him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Proctor? I wonder if I could impose on you to use this time—this enforced, ah, seclusion—to educate Tristram a little.”

Proctor looked at Pendergast. “Educate him?”

“Talk with him. Let him practice his English. Be a companion—he’s obviously in desperate need of socialization. He knows nothing of the outside world. Read books with him—novels, histories, whatever interests him. Listen to music, watch movies. Answer his questions. Show him how to use a computer.”

Proctor stiffened at the thought of babysitting the boy. “Yes, sir,” he said in a tight voice.

Pendergast turned, addressed Tristram. “I have to go now. You’re in good hands with Proctor. I’ll be back tomorrow. Tristram: I want you to recall everything you can about your childhood, growing up, how you lived, where you lived, what its layout was, who was with you—everything—and be prepared to tell me about it when I come tomorrow. We’re going to have a long talk.”

For a moment, the boy continued to hang his head. Then, with a sigh, he nodded sullenly.

“Good-bye, Tristram.” Pendergast gave him a long, penetrating look. Then, nodding to Proctor, he turned and left the room as silently as he had arrived.

Proctor glanced at the boy. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you to your new room.”

He led the way toward a row of bookshelves. The boy followed a little unwillingly. He seemed to have lost his eager curiosity.

Proctor glanced at the rows of books, found the title he wanted, grasped it, and pulled it away from the wall. With a click, the entire bookcase swung away, revealing an elevator beyond.

“Scheiße,” murmured Tristram.

They entered the elevator, and Proctor pressed the button for the basement. Once there, Proctor led the way through the maze of dimly lit stone passageways, heavy with verdigris and efflorescence. He kept the pace brisk, not allowing the youth to stop and look into any chambers whose contents he might find unsettling.

“My father does not like me,” Tristram said in an unhappy tone.

“He’s just doing what’s best for you,” Proctor replied gruffly.

They stopped at a small, vaulted room, completely empty except for a shield carved into one wall, depicting a lidless eye over two moons, one crescent, the other full, with a lion couchant beneath—the Pendergast family crest. Proctor approached it, pressed it with both hands. The stone wall behind swung away, revealing a circular stair that sloped down sharply into darkness. Tristram’s eyes widened but he said nothing.

Snapping on a light, Proctor descended the stairs into the sub-basement, Tristram following. Reaching the bottom, they moved through a short passage leading to a vaulted space that seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see.

“What is this place?” Tristram asked, looking around in wonder.

“This building used to be an abbey,” said Proctor. “I believe the monks used this sub-basement as a necropolis.”

“Necropolis?”

“Burial ground. Where they buried their dead.”

“They bury the dead?”

Proctor refrained from asking what they did with the dead where Tristram came from.

He led the way past ancient laboratories; past rooms full of glass bottles, stored on row upon row of shelving; past rooms full of tapestries and ancient art. Proctor had never liked these moldering underground spaces, and he moved swiftly. The boy followed, looking left and right, eyes wide. At last Proctor led him down a side passageway to a small but well-furnished bedroom with an adjoining bath. There was a bed, a table and chairs, a row of books, and a dresser with a mirror set atop it. The space was as clean and as pleasant as the subterranean atmosphere—with its faint odor of ammonia and ancient decay—could permit. It sported a stout wooden door with a well-built lock.

“This is your room,” he told Tristram.

The boy nodded, looking around. He seemed pleased.

“Can you… read?” Proctor asked, glancing at the books, the thought suddenly occurring to him.

“Only the good twins are supposed to read. But I taught myself. Just a little. But only German.”

“I see. Well, if you will excuse me, I’ll get you some things, be back in half an hour.”

“What did you say is your name?”

“Proctor.”

The boy looked at him, smiled a little shyly. “Thank you, Herr Proctor.”

33

ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST BROUGHT THE ROLLS TO A HALT at the corner of Bushwick Avenue and Meserole Street in Brooklyn. This was—according to the cab company’s records—where the taxi had picked up the fleeing boy. It was an old, mostly abandoned industrial neighborhood that had just started to see the invasion of creative pioneers. But it still retained the rawness of graffiti, trash, boarded-up buildings, and the hulks of burned-out cars. The street scene was a mixture of derelicts, hipsters, and sketchy-looking young men.

Pendergast was conspicuous in his black suit as he stepped out of the Silver Wraith, locking the door behind him. Hands in his pockets, he strolled down Meserole Street. It was midafternoon, a brilliant but warmthless sun blasting the pavement. Several blocks ahead of him rose an old nineteenth-century brewery complex, covering almost an acre of ground. A huge square stack for the hops kiln rose above it, with the name VAN DAM still visible on it, along with the date of its founding: 1858.

A brewery. Tristram had, without knowing it, described just such a place: the long underground tu