Two Graves

Tristram. Something about that name—the very existence of the name—deeply angered Alban.

Moving quickly, Alban jogged down the walkway to an obscure metal door in a side alcove. With a quick twist of a key in the well-oiled lock, he moved into a narrow tu

He raised his rifle and examined his father through the magnification of the scope. He thought, idly, that despite it being a three-hundred-yard shot, in this windless and pleasant afternoon, given his superb marksmanship, it was an almost certain kill.

He lowered the rifle without firing, complimenting himself again on his strong sense of honor and justice. His father was a great man who would die a good death—not shot in the back from afar. The swim was about half a mile, and at the rate he was going with his wounded shoulder, it would take him at least fifteen minutes to reach the swamp on the far side. There was plenty of time to arrange for a more equal, more interesting contest.

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he hiked along the well-worn path circling the island. Within a few minutes a small landing came into view, to which were tied several outboard launches. Walking up to them, he looked them over, selecting the lightest and most maneuverable: a thirteen-foot fiberglass flat-bottomed skiff with a two-stroke engine. He leapt in, checked the gas, fired up the engine, and headed out into the lake.

The skiff slapped the water as it skimmed away from shore, with Alban standing at the tiller, peering ahead, feeling the lovely, cool air rush past. This close to the water it was hard to see his father, but he knew where he would be. And sure enough, as he approached the middle of the lake, he could see the man’s faint movement in the afternoon light: the regularly moving arms, the splash of the feet, as he swam.

His father glimpsed him and dove. Alban slowed the boat, turning slightly to the south. With the dive and swim underwater, his father would change direction. But no: he wouldn’t. That would be his surprise, to keep going in the same direction.

How long could he hold his breath?

An astonishing two minutes later—Alban could hardly believe it—he reappeared, just where Alban expected, along the same route almost a hundred yards closer to shore. Alban could swim a hundred and fifty yards underwater, but one hundred was still extraordinary, especially for a man his father’s age.

Alban steered the boat toward the swimmer, closing the distance fast. Why not just run him over?

Why not, indeed? That would be sport. His father would dive, of course. And dive again. He goosed the engine to full throttle and aimed at the figure, sweeping toward him. His father dived at the last minute and Alban jammed the tiller around, carring the boat in a tight circle, aiming for where he knew his father would surface.

He didn’t really expect to kill his father this way. But it would wear him out, exhaust him.

Best of all, it would be good sport—for both of them.

78

UNDERWATER, HIS EYES OPEN, PENDERGAST COULD SEE the boat make a tight turn on the surface and head in the very direction he had pla

Reading his mind? It seemed absurd… and yet even the most unusual hypotheses must be considered to explain the most unusual events. Pendergast was at the cusp of a revelation; he could sense it. A number of threads were twining themselves together in his hypoxic brain—the inexplicable nature of the killings in New York; the recent stalk in the fortress tu

Something most unusual was going on. It was as if Alban was reading his mind.

But he needed air. Now. He rose straight up, burst the surface, took a deep breath. And he saw Alban was heading away from him, swerving his boat and coming back around, a look of surprise and even consternation on the boy’s face.

No, Alban wasn’t reading his mind. It was something else. Pendergast recalled what Constance had said about Alban—something about a sixth sense, or perhaps an extension of one of the other five. The line from Nietzsche that Alban had quoted ran through his head, once, twice. What did it mean?

He kicked down under the surface about three feet and swam laterally, deliberately, toward shore. The boat above him swerved and made a loop, the whine of its engine filling his ears, then slowed and headed approximately toward the spot where he would have to surface for air. And yes, he would surface there; he would. That is what he would definitely do.

No, this was not a question of mind reading. Alban could not read a person’s mind. He had some sort of unusual ability, but it was not that. It was both less than that, and more.

Pendergast, long before he needed air, abruptly shot to the surface after a split-second change of plans—and Alban, only twenty feet away but moving in the wrong direction, saw him, again surprised; he swerved the boat and jammed on the throttle. Pendergast waited, dove, and as the boat came overhead and moved in a tight circle he darted upward again, the Nazi hewer in hand, and rammed it into the hull as the boat passed overhead; the heavy blade cleaved the light fiberglass and he gave the knife a twist before the boat’s forward motion wrenched it out of his hand. The propeller passed just inches over his head, buffeting him with turbulence, buzzing like a gigantic wasp.

Surfacing right behind the boat, he gulped air once, then again, and kicked off for shore, swimming like mad. It would take Alban at least a few minutes to deal with the flood of water introduced by the leak, and he was already approaching the shoaling water near shore, a hundred yards from the begi

As much as he could, he swam underwater, making random changes in direction unexpected even by himself, often opposite to what his instincts told him, sometimes actually doubling back on himself. When he surfaced he could see Alban hunched over in the boat, working frantically to stanch the leak, but every time Pendergast rose for air he stood, shouldered his rifle, and cracked out a shot that smacked the water inches from Pendergast’s head; turning and kick-diving down again, he heard several more shots zip past in the water.

His son was, without question, shooting to kill. That answered another important question that had been lingering in his mind.

He continued swimming, maintaining his erratic behavior but always trending toward shore. The boat was listing seriously now, but Alban had apparently blocked or stuffed the hole and was starting to bail, once in a while rising to take another shot when Pendergast surfaced. He was a superb shot: the only thing saving Pendergast was the afternoon sun lying low on the horizon, shining directly toward Alban and reflecting off the water in a blinding sheet.

Pendergast felt his feet brush the muddy bottom, and he swam until the water was waist-deep and he was at the edge of the marsh grass. Now he could wade, albeit awkwardly, keeping low. More shots came, but now distance and the surrounding cattails were in his favor, and then he was hidden by the thickening plants. Still, Alban continued firing—no doubt at the rustling of the vegetation disturbed by his passage. By slipping through the lanes of cattails, Pendergast was able to decoy his movements, reaching out and shaking stalks that were at a distance from him. But Alban quickly caught on to that, rounds ripping through on either side, snipping the cattails and sending up clouds of fluff.