Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(61)
“Thank you for coming.” He laid the spoon aside, took a sip of his drink. “I imagine you were out on the beach for much of the day?”
Gavin nodded as he tasted his own drink.
“That can’t have been pleasant.”
“Not at all.”
Pendergast studied the opalescent liquid in his glass. “Sergeant, I’ve asked you here because you’ve been most helpful during my time at Exmouth. You’ve tolerated my presence, worked hard, answered my questions, and volunteered information. You’ve taken me on excursions into the tidal swamps when, no doubt, there were other things you would have preferred to do. It has often been my experience that local law enforcement does not appreciate the presence of federal officers, especially those that appear to be, ah, moonlighting. I found you a welcoming presence rather than a hostile one. I appreciate that. And that is why I’ve chosen you as the first person I’m going to share some interesting news with.”
Gavin nodded for him to continue, trying not to blush from the praise. His curiosity had vastly increased.
“Do you recall how, last night, I told you that only one step remained: to identify the killer or killers?”
“Sure.” Gavin drained his scotch—the drinks they poured in the Chart Room were infamous for being miserly.
“I have now made that identification. There is a single killer: and I know who it is.”
“You—” Gavin began, then stopped. Two thoughts flashed through Gavin’s mind in quick succession. The first was one of overwhelming relief. It’s almost over, he told himself. This nightmare’s about to end. The second was the observation that Pendergast had made a point of telling him first. He hadn’t told Chief Mourdock. This was interesting. Pendergast knew Mourdock was retiring; this was Pendergast’s way of helping Gavin out with his own aspirations. If properly handled, this could be a real feather in his cap and almost guarantee his appointment to chief.
Joe Dunwoody, halfway down the bar, pointed at Gavin’s empty glass. Gavin nodded for a refill.
“Not only have I discovered the identity of the killer,” Pendergast continued, lowering his voice somewhat, “but just today I found the location of his hideout, deep in the swamp.”
“What are we waiting for?” Gavin asked, half sliding off his stool. Forget the damn drink, he thought; eagerness had taken the place of exhaustion. “Let’s go.”
Pendergast shook his head. “Going out there now, in the dark, would be unwise. Our man clearly knows that region of the swamp better than I, and probably better than you. If we aren’t careful, we’ll spook him and cause him to flee. No—we’ll head in at first light, approach with stealth, and surprise him. You, of course, will make the actual arrest.”
This image was most gratifying to Gavin. “What about the chief?” he asked as the fresh drink arrived. “We’re talking about a murderer, after all. We might need backup.” And not telling him would piss him off royally, he thought. Retirement or no retirement, it wouldn’t pay to get on Mourdock’s bad side.
“I fear Chief Mourdock would be a hindrance. However, it’s a prudent suggestion nevertheless, and he should be there—if only for reasons of protocol. Why don’t you brief him over the phone once you get home?”
“I’ll do that.”
“Very good. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire to my room. I have preparations to make for tomorrow. Shall we meet at police headquarters at five AM?”
“We’ll be there.”
“Excellent. Until the morning, then.” And with that, Pendergast drained his glass, shook Gavin’s hand, and slipped out of the Chart Room, heading for the stairway that led to the rooms upstairs.
37
The figure moved quietly through the tall salt grass, barely more than a passing shadow in the near-moonless night. Although the wildlife preserve west of Exmouth was invariably deserted, and the man was in a great hurry, he was nevertheless careful to be as quiet as possible: the only sounds were the swish of the dry grass as he passed and the faint sucking sounds when he traversed one of the frequent mudflats.
The trek was a long one—an hour and a half—but he had made it many times before and was used to the journey. He did not mind the darkness; in fact, he welcomed it.
At the boundary of the wildlife preserve he paused to shift his pack from one shoulder to another and look around. The tide was ebbing fast, and his night-accustomed vision could see that the receding water had exposed a labyrinth of pools, flats, marshy islands, and low swamplands. The land seemed cloaked in a watchful silence, although a steady wind was starting to pick up. He hurried on, more quickly than before—he’d have to be on his way back before the turn of the tide if he didn’t want to be marooned in these wastes.
Deep in the swamps, the tall grass grew denser until it seemed more jungle than marsh. But here, too, the figure knew his way. He was now following the faintest of paths, recognizable as a trail only to the most experienced eye. He’d given nicknames to many of the various landmarks he passed: an irregularly shaped tidal pool was the Oilstain; a heavily twisted clump of salt grass, dried-out and dead, was Hurricane. These landmarks helped him navigate. At Hurricane, he turned sharp left, still following the secret, near-invisible trail. He was almost there. The wind was now driving hard, filling the air with the dry rattle of stalks.