Staring at the computer screen, she clicked on the link to the website about Pendergast she had been lovingly maintaining:

www.agentpendergast.com

Working quickly, almost automatically, she created a frame with a thick black border and began to write within it.

I’ve just learned that Agent P. — Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast — has passed away in a bizarre and tragic accident. This is awful. I can hardly believe it to be true. I can’t believe the world can keep spinning without him on it.

It happened during a hunting trip to Scotland…

But even as she wrote the eulogy, fighting back tears, the surreal aspects of the story began to reassert themselves in her mind. And in the end, as she finished and posted it, she wondered if she even believed what she had just written.

The Foulmire

JUDSON ESTERHAZY PAUSED TO CATCH HIS BREATH. It was an uncharacteristically sunny morning, and the boggy moorlands that surrounded him on all sides shone in rich browns and greens. In the distance, he could see the dark line of the Inish Marshes. And between the hillocks ahead of him, a few hundred yards away, stood the small stone cottage known as Glims Holm.

Esterhazy had heard tell of it but had initially dismissed it as being too many miles from the site of the shooting and far too primitive for Pendergast to have received the kind of medical attention he would have needed. But then he’d learned D’Agosta had been in Inverkirkton, asking around for Pendergast, and from there he’d discovered that Glims Holm was the last place D’Agosta had visited before returning to America, disappointed.

But was he truly disappointed? The more he thought about it, the more it began to seem — perversely — the kind of place Pendergast would have chosen to recuperate.

And then — accidentally, in the course of background research into the official records of the Shire of Sutherland — Esterhazy had learned the nugget that convinced him: the strange old woman who lived in the stone cottage in front of him was Dr. Roscommon’s aunt. This was a fact that Roscommon — all too clearly a man of habitual restraint — had kept concealed from the good folk of Inverkirkton.

Positioning himself behind a thicket of gorse, Esterhazy took out his binoculars and observed the cottage. He could see the old woman through the downstairs window, laboring over a stove and moving about. After a while she removed something from the stove, and he watched as she walked past the window and out of sight. For a moment she was gone… and then he saw her figure pass by the second-story window, carrying what looked like a mug. He could just barely see her figure inside the attic space, leaning over what seemed to be a sickly person in a bed, helping him sit up and giving him the mug to drink.

Esterhazy’s heart quickened. Digging his walking stick into the soft ground, he made a circuit of the cottage, ending up on the far side. There was a small back door, of rough wood, that connected to a small kitchen garden; a shed; and a stone sheep pen. There were no windows on the back side of the house.

He glanced around carefully. Nobody was to be seen; the infinitude of moor and mire on all sides was devoid of life. He pulled the small handgun from his pocket, ensured there was a round in the chamber. With great care, he approached the cottage from its blind side.

Soon he was crouched by the back door. With a single finger he made a small scratching noise on the wood and waited.

Sure enough, the sharp-eared old crone heard it; he listened to her footsteps and unintelligible imprecations as she approached. A bolt shot back and the door opened. The woman looked out.

A muttered oath.

With one swift, economical movement Esterhazy rose, clamped his hand over her mouth, and dragged her one-armed from the doorway. He gave her a solid tap on the back of the head with the butt of the gun, then laid her unconscious body on the turf. A moment later he had noiselessly slipped into the cottage. The ground floor was a single large room; he looked around quickly, taking in the enameled stove, the worn chairs, the antlers on the walls, the steep staircase rising to the loft overhead. A loud, stertorous breathing could be heard coming from above. It continued undisturbed.

He moved around the small room with infinite care, placing each foot with fanatical caution, checking the commode, the single closet, satisfying himself that nobody was in hiding. Then, keeping tight hold of the gun, he moved over to the staircase. It was built of thick pegged planks, which might or might not creak.

He waited at the bottom of the stairs, listening. The breathing continued, somewhat labored, and once he heard the man upstairs shift in his bed and grunt with what sounded like discomfort. Esterhazy waited, letting a full five minutes pass. All seemed normal.

He raised a leg and placed one foot on the lower stair, began to put pressure on it, bit by bit, until his full weight was applied. No creak of wood. He placed his next foot on the higher tread, performing the same excruciating operation, and again there was no creak. With maddening slowness he ascended the staircase in this fashion, consuming minutes of time, until he was almost at the top. The foot of a primitive bed was visible five feet away. He raised himself ever so slowly and peered over the top into the bed. A figure lay in it: back to him, covered, sleeping, his breathing labored but regular. He was a gaunt old man in a heavy nightdress, with white hair almost as wild and rumpled as the crone’s. Or so it appeared.

Esterhazy knew better.

An extra pillow had been draped over the headboard. Putting his gun away, Esterhazy took hold of the pillow and, keeping his eyes fixed on the man in the bed, picked it up. Tensing, gripping the pillow in both hands, he crouched like a tiger — then suddenly pounced, landing on the bed, bringing the pillow down on the man’s face and leaning into it with all his strength.

A muffled cry came from below and a hand flew up, scratching and flailing at Esterhazy, but there was no weapon in the hand and he knew his attack had been a complete and total surprise. He drove the pillow down even harder, the muffled sounds cut off, and now the weakened man struggled silently, his flapping hands plucking at his shirt. The body heaved below him, surprisingly strong for one so recently gravely wounded. One large spidery hand grasped the covers, yanking them this way and that, as if mistaking the covers for his assailant’s own clothing. With a final heave of hands and legs the covers came off, exposing his upper body, but Pendergast was rapidly weakening and the end would come soon.

Then something gave Esterhazy pause: the man’s gnarly old hands. He stared in the dim light at the man’s lower body, his spindly legs, the parchment skin, the varicose veins. There was no mistaking it — this was the body of an old man. Nobody could create such an effective disguise. But more than that was the absolute lack of bandages, scar, or anything remotely like a month-old gunshot wound on the heaving torso.

His mind worked furiously to overcome the shock and rage. He had been so sure, so very sure…

He quickly released the pillow, exposing the old man’s distorted face, his tongue protruding, his eyes popping with terror. He coughed once, twice, gasping for breath, his sunken chest heaving with the effort.

In a blind panic, Esterhazy threw the pillow aside and stumbled down the stairs; the old crone was just staggering into the back door, blood running down her face.

“You devil!” she shrieked, grasping at him with bony fingers as he ran past, flinging open the front door and running back over the wide, empty moorlands.