The Brodies. He’d read in the paper about their ghastly deaths. No doubt they’d been discovered by the Covenant. It was a dreadful shock — but really, he should have expected it. June Brodie hadn’t known the half of what she’d been involved in — what he and Charles Slade had involved her in. If she had, she’d never have emerged from that swamp. Amazing that Slade, even in all his craziness and decline, had never betrayed the one, central, all-important secret.

In that moment of fear and desperation Esterhazy finally realized what he had to do. There was one answer — only one. He couldn’t go it alone. With Pendergast on the rampage, he needed that last resort. He had to contact the Covenant, quickly, proactively. It would be far more dangerous if he didn’t tell them, if they found out what was going on in some other way. He had to be seen as cooperative. Trustworthy. Even if it meant putting himself once again fully in their power.

Yes: the more he thought of what he had to do, the more inevitable it became. This way he could control what information they received, withhold the facts they could never be allowed to learn. And if he placed himself under their protection, Pendergast would be powerless to hurt him. In fact, if he could convince them Pendergast was a threat, then even the FBI agent, with all his wiles, would be as good as dead. And his secret would remain safe.

With this decision came a small sense of relief.

He looked around once more, scrutinizing each face. Then, rising and picking up his bags, he strode out of the baggage claim area to the taxi stand. There were several cabs idling: good.

He went to the fourth cab in line, leaned in the open passenger window. “You far into your shift?” he asked.

The cabbie shook his head. “The night’s young, buddy.”

Esterhazy opened the rear door, threw his bags in, and ducked in after them. “Take me to Boston, please.”

The man stared into the rearview mirror. “Boston?”

“Back Bay, Copley Square.” Esterhazy dug into his pocket, dropped a few hundreds in the man’s lap. “That’s a starter. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Whatever you say, mister.” And putting the taxi in gear, the driver nosed out of the waiting line and drove off into the night.

Ezerville, Mississippi

NED BETTERTON LOOKED BOTH WAYS, THEN CROSSED the wide and dusty expanse of Main Street, a white paper bag in one hand and two cans of diet soda in the other. A beat-up Chevy Impala was idling at the curb outside Della’s Launderette. Walking around its hood, Betterton got into the passenger seat. A short and muscular man sat behind the wheel. He wore dark glasses and a faded baseball cap.

“Hey, Jack,” said Betterton.

“Hey, yourself,” came the reply.

Betterton handed the man a soda, then fished inside the paper bag, bringing out a sandwich wrapped in butcher’s paper. “Crawfish po’boy with rémoulade, hold the lettuce. Just like you ordered.” He passed it over to the driver, then reached into the bag again and brought out his own lunch: a massive meatball Parmesan sandwich.

“Thanks,” said his companion.

“No problem.” Betterton took a bite of his sandwich. He was famished. “What’s the latest with our boys in blue?” he mumbled through the meatballs.

“Pogie’s chewing everybody out again.”

“Again? What’s eating the chief this time?”

“Maybe his midnight ass is acting up.”

Betterton chuckled, took another bite. Midnight ass was cop lingo for “hemorrhoids,” an all-too-common complaint among officers who sat in cars for hours at a time.

“So,” Betterton said. “What can you tell me about the Brodie killings?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. I bought you lunch.”

“I said, thanks. A free lunch isn’t worth a pink slip.”

“That’s not going to happen. You know I’d never write anything that could come back to haunt you. I just want to know the real dope.”

The man named Jack scowled. “Just because we used to be neighbors, you think you can hit me up for all your leads.”

Betterton tried to look hurt. “Come on, that’s not true. You’re my friend, you want me to turn in a good story.”

“You’re my friend — you should think more of keeping me out of hot water. Besides, I don’t know any more than you do.”

Betterton took another bite. “Bull.”

“It’s basically true. The thing’s too big for us, they’ve brought in the state boys, even a homicide squad all the way from Jackson. We’ve been cut out.”

The journalist thought a moment. “Look, all I know is that the husband and wife — the couple I interviewed not so long ago — were brutally murdered. You’ve got to have more information than that.”

The man behind the wheel sighed. “They know it wasn’t a robbery. Nothing was taken. And they know it wasn’t anybody local.”

“How do they know that?” Betterton mumbled through a huge bite of meatball.

“Because nobody local would do this.” The man reached into a folder at the side of his seat, pulled out an eight-by-ten color glossy, and handed it over. “And I didn’t show this to you.”

Betterton took a look at the scene-of-crime photo. The color drained from his face. His chewing slowed, then stopped. And then, quite deliberately, he opened the car door and spat the mouthful into the gutter.

The driver shook his head. “Nice.”

Betterton handed the photo back without looking at it again. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Oh, my God,” he said huskily.

“Get the idea?”

“Oh, my God,” Betterton repeated. His mighty hunger had vanished.

“Now you know all I know,” the cop said, finishing his po’boy and licking his fingers. “Oh, except one thing — we don’t have anything even remotely like a lead on this. The crime scene was clean. A professional job the likes of which we just don’t see around here.”

Betterton didn’t reply.

The man glanced over, eyed the half-eaten remains of the meatball sandwich. “You going to eat that?”

New York City

CORRIE SWANSON SAT ON A BENCH on Central Park West, with a McDonald’s bag next to her, pretending to read a book. It was a pleasant morning, the glorious color in the park behind her just starting to fade, the sky patched with cumulus, everyone out on the streets enjoying the Indian summer. Everyone except Corrie. Her entire attention was focused across the street on the façade of the Dakota and its entrance, around the corner on Seventy-Second Street.

Then she saw it: the silver Rolls-Royce coming up Central Park West. It was a familiar car to her — unforgettable even. She grabbed the McDonald’s bag and leapt up from the bench, her book tumbling to the ground, then ran across the street against the light, dodging traffic. She paused at the corner of Central Park West and Seventy-Second, waiting to see if the Rolls turned in.

It did. The driver — whom she could not see — moved into the left-hand lane and put on his blinker, slowing as he approached the corner. Corrie jogged down Seventy-Second to the Dakota, reaching it a few moments before the Rolls arrived. As it began to turn slowly into the entrance, she stepped out in front of the car. The Rolls stopped and she stared at the driver through the windshield.

It wasn’t Pendergast. But it damn sure was his car: there couldn’t be another vintage Rolls like it in the whole country.

She waited. The driver’s-side window went down and a head poked out, a man with a chiseled face and bull neck.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, his voice calm and pleasant. “Would you mind…?” His voice trailed off and the question mark dangled in the air.

“I do mind,” she said.

The head continued to look at her. “You’re blocking the driveway.”