Crooked River(71)
Pendergast fell silent. Perelman felt horror creep up his spine.
Baugh spoke. “You’re a sick man, Pendergast, if you think this story is going to intimidate me. That was a dangerous horse, and I have the paperwork to prove it. A trainer certified it as dangerous, and a top-notch vet approved the certification and put it down. It was the only safe and humane thing to do, or other riders would have been put at risk.”
Pendergast removed a document from his briefcase and laid it on the desk. “Here is an affidavit, sworn and notarized, from the trainer in question, stating that you bullied him, up to and including the threat of physical harm, into certifying the horse as dangerous. In the affidavit he details your intimidation and expresses his opinion that the horse was not dangerous and that the fault of being thrown was entirely yours. He also expresses his enormous regret at what he did and his desire to atone.”
He slipped another piece of paper out of his briefcase.
“This is another sworn and notarized affidavit, from the veterinarian you engaged, who confesses to taking a five-thousand-dollar payment in order to approve the certification and put down the horse. He additionally says that you threatened to, quote, ‘make sure his son would never find work as long as he lives’ if the vet refused to cooperate. The son had just graduated from the U.S. Coast Guard Academy, which put that veterinarian very much in your power. And he, too, expresses enormous sorrow at the role he played in the killing of that beautiful animal.”
Baugh had gone even paler. God only knew what he must be feeling. Perelman, for his part, felt sick to his stomach. The story reminded him of what he’d been forced to do to Sligo—something he would never get over as long as he lived.
A vast silence gathered in the room. Baugh seemed unable to speak.
“Commander,” Pendergast said in a quiet voice. “Over the course of my career, I’ve dealt with many murderous and psychotic human beings. But I have rarely seen anything as abhorrent as this cold-blooded, deliberate murder of a trusting and innocent horse, merely to satisfy your inflated ego.”
Finally, Baugh opened his mouth and managed to croak out: “What…are you going to do with those?”
“First, I will state my requirements. You will allow me to continue my investigation as I see fit, with your full cooperation. You will immediately rescind your termination of Dr. Gladstone’s involvement in the case and issue her a letter of apology, along with a check for $101.25 to pay for the buoy Lieutenant Lickspittle—I mean Duran—intentionally damaged. You will have no further contact with Dr. Gladstone. You will maintain the compartmentalization that I have created so that the mole on your staff no longer has access to information on my activities. Pursuant to that, I will tell you nothing of my work…and you will not inquire.”
The man’s mouth worked a little before the phrase all right emerged.
“As for the affidavits, I will keep them in a safe place in case further problems arise.”
He rose. Perelman did likewise: he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. Pendergast had left the commander a quivering, heaving wreck.
Pendergast turned to Darby and said, in a suddenly loud voice: “Why, Lieutenant, you haven’t taken any notes! Shame on you!”
And with that he strode out of the office, Perelman following. They got into the car. Perelman crawled rather than hoisted himself into the passenger seat, taking deep breaths. He had never seen a confrontation like this before—so cold, so efficient, and so devastating. “Man, you play rough,” he finally said.
“It is not play,” said Pendergast. And only then, he allowed a small smile to crease his austere face. “Let us find a place with fresh stone crabs. Cracked cold, with mustard sauce. I have worked up quite an appetite.”
41
THE MORNING BUS from Acatán to the Mexican border was overloaded and stank of diesel fumes, and it had taken two hours to lurch and grind the twenty-five miles. At a sad border station it made a groaning stop, where everyone had to get off, show their papers to a Mexican border patrol agent, and get on another, but equally decrepit, bus that lumbered along the highway for another hour.
Finally, with a chuffing of brakes, the bus pulled into the town of La Gloria, Chiapas State, in southern Mexico. Coldmoon was the only one to exit, and no wonder, he thought as he looked around at the isolated town, with its limp palm trees and dust-caked bushes lining the dirt roadway. He slung his backpack over his shoulder as the bus pulled away. The driver had kindly let him off in front of Del Charro, at the outskirts of town, with its lone blinking neon light advertising Olmeca beer in the window, and the faint sound of ranchera music filtering out. He crossed the street and the parking lot outside the bar, almost empty at this time of day, and pushed open the door.
Inside, it was blessedly cool, and it took a moment for Coldmoon’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. There was no one within except the bartender and a teenage boy sitting on a barrel at the far end of the bar.
Coldmoon sauntered over, took a seat at the bar.
“What would you like, se?or?” the bartender asked in Spanish.
“Olmeca, please.”
The bartender, a friendly-looking man with a colorful striped shirt and a cowboy hat, brought over the bottle. “Glass?”
“Just the bottle, thanks.”
He put it down and Coldmoon took it up. “You wouldn’t happen to be Se?or Corvacho, would you?”