Two Graves

He looked over at the phone again. He might as well get it over with—he’d never feel easy until he got it off his chest.

He sighed, then picked up the phone and dialed Pendergast’s cell.

It was answered on the third ring. “Yes?” came the cool southern drawl.

“Pendergast? It’s me. Vi

There was a pause. When the voice sounded again, it had dropped several dozen degrees in temperature. “Yes?”

“Where are you?”

“In my car. Driving home.”

“Good. I thought you’d still be awake. Listen, I just wanted to say… well, how sorry I am about what happened.”

When there was no answer, D’Agosta struggled on. “I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I was squad commander, it was my duty to report any and all possible evidence. Singleton was coming down hard on me—I was backed into a corner.”

Still no reply. D’Agosta licked his lips. “Look, I know you’ve gone through a lot these past several weeks. I’m your friend, I want to help any way I can. But this… this is my job. I had no choice. You’ve got to understand.”

When it came, Pendergast’s voice was as brittle, yet as steely, as he’d ever heard it. “Even one with the meanest comprehension would understand. You betrayed a confidence.”

D’Agosta took a deep breath. “You can’t take it like that. I mean, we’re not talking about the sanctity of the confessional here. Withholding the identity of a serial killer, even if it is your own flesh and blood—that’s illegal. Trust me, better it came out now than later.”

No response.

“They took me off the case. And you—let’s face it—you were never on it to begin with. Let’s put that all behind us now.”

“My son—as you so kindly pointed out—is a serial killer. How, precisely, am I supposed to put that behind me?”

“Then let me help you. On the side. I’ll still have access and I can pass developments on to you. We’ve worked that way before—we can do it again.”

Once again, Pendergast was silent.

“Well? What do you say?”

“What do I say? What I say is this: exactly how much longer am I to be burdened with self-serving justifications and unwanted offers of assistance?”

D’Agosta felt the full force of this, and the unfairness of it all, coming suddenly to a boil. “You know what I say?” he shouted. “Fuck you!” And he slammed down the phone.

45

AS SOON AS PENDERGAST ENTERED THE MANSION HE sensed something was wrong. There was a watchful silence in the air, an u

Nevertheless, Pendergast moved fast through the echoing corridors to the library. It was cold, dark, and silent, the fireplace dead, no sign of Proctor.

Swinging open the bookcases, he took the elevator to the basement, raced along the subterranean passageway to the secret door, opened it. Now the smell hit him like a wall—the commingled stench of formaldehyde, ethanol, and myriad other liquids, powders, and unguessable concoctions. He drew his .45 as he raced down the curve of the staircase.

He emerged through the archway into the long string of underground chambers that made up the sub-basement, ran through the first half dozen, then stopped abruptly. The rooms ahead—stretching off one after another, co

“Tristram!” he cried as he began to run.

He flew through the vaults, his shoes crunching on a carpet of glass, turned a corner halfway down the series of chambers, came to his son’s room, jammed his key in the lock, then turned it and wrenched open the door.

A body lay on the floor, covered with a sheet. Stifling a gasp, Pendergast rushed to it and pulled the sheet back—to uncover Proctor, his face covered with blood. He quickly felt the pulse in his neck: strong. The chauffeur was alive but unconscious. Pendergast made an examination of Proctor’s body, determining he was merely battered, with a nasty gash on his head that had bled copiously and was clearly evidence of a concussion.

Going to the co

“What happened?” Pendergast asked, quietly but urgently.

Proctor shook his head to clear it, then groaned at the resulting pain. “Alban… took Tristram.”

“How in God’s name did he get in?”

Another shake of the head. “No idea. Thought I heard… a noise.”

“When did this happen?”

“About a quarter… to ten.”

It was now past eleven. Pendergast leapt up. There was no indication Alban and his victim had left the house—the alarms had been green. And yet more than an hour had passed since the attack.

“I’m going to leave you here while I track them,” he said.

Proctor waved a dismissive hand as if to say, Don’t worry about me.

Sidearm at the ready, Pendergast performed a quick search of the room. Going through the mess of papers on Tristram’s desk, his attempts to write in English, he found a striking drawing of a mountain, with a note indicating it was a gift to his father. This discovery caused a painful twinge. But he pushed the feeling away as best he could, took the drawing, and left the room, locking the door behind him.

He examined intently the marks in the dust of the side passage, but this close to Tristram’s room there were too many confusing footprints to bring any order to. He returned to the main corridor, continuing on as swiftly as he could while still maintaining vigilance, examining the riot of ruin that covered the floor. Passing through several more chambers, he came to the old laboratory of Professor Leng. The confrontation had not extended this far—the lab was relatively in order. Old soapstone tabletops were covered with beakers, retorts, titration apparatuses. He looked around carefully, then made his way noiselessly along the walls to the open door leading to the next and final room. It was full of weapons, both ancient and relatively modern: swords, maces, rifles, blackjacks, grenades, flails, tridents.

Here Pendergast paused, fishing a small LED light from his pocket and exploring the room with it. Nothing appeared to be missing. At the far end, he stopped. There were fresh marks before an unobtrusive door in the wall.

The security alarms had been green. The motion sensors had not been triggered. The mansion was exceedingly well wired against intruders—except for the basement and sub-basements, accessible only through the hidden elevator and secret door, which because of their bizarre layout and almost limitless extent could not be properly wired for security. Indeed, attempting to have done so might actually have compromised that secret section of the mansion. But this was all speculation, because no intruder could find his way into them.

Pendergast stared at the closed door. Unless… was it even possible?

He quickly opened the door, which led to a crude stone passageway and a descending staircase, constructed from a natural crevasse in the schist bedrock. A strong smell of mold and damp rose from below. Heading down the long series of rude steps, he came to an ancient stone quay alongside a watery tu