An indeterminate time later, he awoke. It was pitch black and he’d been so sound asleep that it took him a moment of fright to remember where he was. When he did, he realized the storm had died down and the cottage was very, very silent. His heart was pounding. He had the distinct impression that someone, or something, was standing over him in the dark.

He lay there in utter darkness, trying to calm himself. It had just been a dream. But he couldn’t shake the sensation that some person was standing, maybe even leaning, over him.

The floor beside his cot creaked softly.

Jesus. Should he shout out? Who could it be? Surely not the old man. Had someone come in the night?

The floor creaked again — and then he felt a hand grasp his arm in a grip of steel.

MY DEAR VINCENT,” CAME THE WHISPERED VOICE. “While I am touched at your concern, I am nevertheless exceedingly displeased to see you here.”

D’Agosta felt almost paralyzed with shock. He was surely dreaming. He heard the whisper of a match, a sudden glow, and the lantern was lit. The old man stood over him, misshapen, clearly ill. D’Agosta stared at the sallow, wrinkled skin; the sparse beard and greasy shoulder-length white hair; the bulbous reddened nose. And yet the voice, faint as it was — and the silvery glint the rheumy eye could not fully conceal — these belonged unmistakably to the man he was searching for.

“Pendergast?” D’Agosta finally managed to choke out.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Pendergast said in the same whispery voice.

“What — how—?”

“Allow me to get back in my bed. I’m not strong enough to stand for long.”

D’Agosta sat up and watched the old man hang the lantern and shuffle painfully back to the bed.

“Pull up a chair, my friend.”

D’Agosta rose, put on the borrowed clothes, and took a chair down from a hook on the wall. He sat next to the old man who bore such remarkably little resemblance to the FBI agent. “God, I’m so glad to find you alive. I thought…” D’Agosta found himself choking up, unable to speak, overwhelmed with emotion.

“Vincent,” said Pendergast. “Your heart is as big as ever. But let us not become maudlin. I have much to say to you.”

“You were shot,” said D’Agosta, finally finding his voice. “What the hell are you doing way out here? You need medical attention, a hospital.”

Pendergast put out a restraining hand. “No, Vincent. I have received excellent medical attention, but I must remain hidden.”

“Why? What the hell’s going on?”

“If I tell you, Vincent, you must promise me you’ll return to New York at your earliest opportunity — and not breathe a word of this to anybody.”

“You need help. I’m not going to leave you. I’m your partner, damn it.”

With obvious effort, Pendergast rose slightly from the bed. “You must. I need to recover. And then I’m going to find my would-be killer.” He sank back slowly onto the pillow.

D’Agosta exhaled. “So the bastard really did try to kill you.”

“And not just me. I believe he was the one who shot you as we were leaving Penumbra. And he was also the one who tried to kill Laura Hayward, on our way to visit you in the hospital at Bastrop. He’s the missing link. The mysterious other person involved in Project Aves.”

“Unbelievable. So he’s your wife’s killer? Her own brother?”

A sudden silence. “No. He didn’t kill Helen.”

“Then who did?”

“Helen’s alive.”

D’Agosta could hardly believe it. In fact, he didn’t believe it. He couldn’t find anything to say.

A hand reached out, the steel fingers gripping him once again. “As I was shot and sinking into the quickmire, Judson told me Helen was still alive.”

“But didn’t you see her die? You took the ring off her severed hand. You showed it to me.”

For a long moment, the little room was silent. Then D’Agosta spoke again. “The scumbag said it to torture you.” He looked at the figure in the bed, the glitter in the man’s silvery eyes. In it, he could see an undeniable desire: to believe.

“So what’s your, ah, plan?”

“I’m going to find him. I’m going to put a gun to his head. And I’m going to make him take me to Helen.”

D’Agosta was filled with dismay. The obsessive timbre of the voice, the desperation of it, was very unlike his old friend.

“And if he doesn’t do as you say?”

“He will, Vincent. Trust me: I will make sure of that.”

D’Agosta decided not to ask Pendergast how. Instead he changed the subject. “When you were shot… how did you get away?”

“When the impact of the bullet knocked me into the bog, I began to sink. After a moment I realized I wasn’t sinking farther — that my feet had come to rest on something only a few feet beneath the surface. Something soft and buoyant, a carcass I believe. It kept me from going down. To give the illusion of sinking, I slowly lowered myself into a crouch. It was my great good fortune that Judson left the scene without waiting until I was fully… immersed.”

“Great good fortune,” D’Agosta muttered.

“I waited four, maybe five minutes,” Pendergast said. “I was bleeding too badly to wait any longer. Then I rose again and — using the carcass as leverage — extricated myself from the mire. I improvised a compression bandage as best I could. I was miles from anywhere — miles from the nearest village or the lodge.”

Pendergast fell silent a minute or two. When he began again, his voice was a little stronger. “Judson and I had hunted here before, a decade ago. On that trip, I made the acquaintance of a local doctor named Roscommon. We had some similar interests. His practice was in the village of Inverkirkton, about three miles away. It happened to be the closest point as the crow flies from where I was shot.”

“How did you do it?” D’Agosta asked after a moment. “Reach him without leaving any tracks?”

“The improvised dressing stopped my leaving any blood spoor,” Pendergast said. “I moved with great care. The rain took care of the rest.”

“You traveled three miles in the rain, with a sucking chest wound, to the doctor’s house?”

Pendergast fixed him with his gaze. “Yes.”

“Jesus Christ, how…?”

“I suddenly had something to live for.”

D’Agosta shook his head.

“Roscommon is an unusually intelligent and subtle man. He quickly understood my situation. Two things were in my favor: the bullet had missed my subclavian artery by a hair, and it had passed all the way through, so an operation wasn’t necessary to extract it. Roscommon re-inflated the lung and managed to control the hemorrhaging. Under cover of darkness, he brought me out to this cottage. And his aunt has looked after me ever since.”

“His aunt?”

Pendergast nodded. “Looking after her well-being is the only thing that keeps him in this part of Scotland, rather than in a lucrative Harley Street practice. He knew I would be safe with her.”

“And you’ve been here for the past month.”

“And I’ll be here a little longer still — until I’m sufficiently recovered to finish the job.”

“You need me,” said D’Agosta.

“No,” Pendergast said with great vehemence. “No. The sooner you go home, the better. For God’s sakes, Vincent, you may already have led the wolf to the door with this ill-timed discovery.”

D’Agosta fell silent.

“Your mere presence imperils me. Judson is undoubtedly still around. He’s in high panic. He doesn’t know if I’m alive or dead. But if he sees you, particularly in the vicinity of this cottage…”

“I can help you in other ways.”

“Absolutely not. I almost got you killed once. Captain Hayward would never forgive me if I let it happen again. The best thing you can do for me, the only thing, is to return to New York, go back to your job, and not breathe a word of this to anyone. What I must do, I must do alone. Say nothing to no one, not Proctor, not Constance, not Hayward. Do you understand? I need to recover my strength before I can get Judson. And I will get him. If he doesn’t get me first.”