THIS CITY HALL OF PLANKWOOD, LOUISIANA, WAS

ERECTED WITH FUNDS GENEROUSLY DONATED BY

COMSTOCK ERASMUS PENDERGAST IN THE YEAR OF OUR

LORD 1892

“Comstock Pendergast,” Jennings murmured under his breath. No wonder the name seemed vaguely familiar.

“My great-grand-uncle. The Pendergast family, you see, has long had a tradition of supporting certain towns in the parishes of both New Orleans and St. Charles, places where various branches of our family lived these past centuries. While we may no longer be around in many of these towns, our legacy lives on.”

“Of course,” Jennings said, still staring at the plaque. He began to conceive a rather unpleasant notion as to why Pendergast had been so particular in selecting his office for the request.

“We don’t advertise it. But the fact is, the various Pendergast trusts and charities continue to make benefactions to several towns — including Plankwood.”

Jennings looked from the plaque to Pendergast. “Plankwood?”

Pendergast nodded. “Our trusts provide scholarships to graduating seniors, help maintain the police auxiliary fund, buy books for the library — and support the good work of your very own public health office. It would be a shame to see this support falter… or, perhaps, cease entirely.”

“Cease?” Jennings repeated.

“Programs might be cut.” Pendergast’s gaunt features assumed a sorrowful cast. “Salaries reduced. Jobs lost.” He placed a certain emphasis on this last phrase as his gray eyes affixed Jennings.

Jennings raised a hand to his chin, rubbed it thoughtfully. “On second thought, Mr. Pendergast, I feel certain your request might be reviewed favorably — if you can assure me that it is of great importance.”

“I can, Mr. Jennings.”

“In that case, I’ll get the application process started.” He glanced back at the plaque. “I could even go so far as to promise you that the paperwork will be put through in a rush. In ten days, perhaps as little as a week, we can have this order approved—”

“I’ll stop by for it tomorrow afternoon, thank you,” Pendergast said.

“What?” Jennings removed his glasses, blinked in the sunlight. “Oh, of course. Tomorrow afternoon.”

Boston, Massachusetts

THE MAN WITH THE SUNKEN EYES AND FIVE O’CLOCK shadow shuffled across Copley Square, in the shadow of the John Hancock Tower. Except for brief glances at the passing traffic, his head hung dejectedly; his hands were deep in the pockets of his grimy raincoat.

He walked down Dartmouth Street and entered the Copley subway station. Passing the line of people buying CharlieCards, he slouched down the cement staircase and stopped, looking around. A row of benches was set against the tiled wall to his right, and he made his way toward them, sitting down at the far end. There he lounged, unmoving, hands still buried in the pockets of his raincoat, staring at nothing.

A few minutes later, another man strolled up. He could not have looked more different. He was thin and tall, dressed in a well-tailored suit and a Burberry trench coat. In one hand he held a copy of The Boston Globe, neatly folded; in the other was a crisply rolled black umbrella. A large gray fedora kept his face in shadow. The only distinguishing mark was an odd-looking mole underneath his right eye. Sitting down beside the derelict, he opened the paper wide and began perusing the inside stories.

When a Green Line train squealed its way into the station, the man in the fedora began to speak. He spoke quietly, under the noise of the train, and he kept his gaze on the newspaper.

“State the nature of the problem,” he said in accented English.

The derelict let his head hang as he replied. “It’s this fellow Pendergast. My brother-in-law. He’s found out the truth.”

“The truth? All of it?”

“Not yet. But he will. He’s an extremely competent and dangerous man.”

“What does he know, exactly?”

“He knows that what happened in Africa, the lion killing, was murder. He knows all about Project Aves. And he knows…” Esterhazy hesitated. “He knows about Slade, and Longitude Pharmaceuticals, the Doane family — and Spanish Island.”

“Ah yes, Spanish Island,” said the man. “This is something we have just learned. We now are aware Charles Slade’s death twelve years ago was an elaborate hoax and that he was still alive until some seven months ago. This is most unfortunate news. Why didn’t you tell us these things?”

“I had no idea, either,” Esterhazy lied as forcefully as he could. “I swear to you, I didn’t know anything about it.” He just had to put the genie back in the bottle, once and for all, or he was as good as dead. He found his voice moving up a notch and brought it back down. “It was Pendergast who figured it all out. And what he doesn’t know yet — he will.”

“Pendergast.” The man in the fedora’s tone became tinged with skepticism. “Why haven’t you killed him? You promised us you would.”

“I’ve tried — on several occasions.”

The man in the fedora did not reply. Instead he turned the page of the newspaper and continued reading.

After several minutes, he spoke again. “We’re disappointed in you, Judson.”

“I’m sorry.” Esterhazy felt the blood infuse his face.

“Don’t ever forget your origins. You owe us everything.”

He nodded mutely, face burning in shame — shame at his fear, his submission, his dependence, his failure.

“Does this Pendergast know of the existence of our organization?”

“Not yet. But he’s like a pit bull. He doesn’t give up. You’ve got to take him out. We can’t afford to leave him on the loose. I’m telling you, we’ve got to kill him.”

“You can’t afford to leave him on the loose,” the man replied. “You must deal with him — decisively.”

“God knows, I’ve tried!”

“Not hard enough. How tiresome of you to think you can drop the problem in our lap. Everyone has a weak spot. Find his and attack it.”

Esterhazy felt himself shaking with frustration. “You’re asking the impossible. Please, I need your help.”

“Naturally, you can rely on us for whatever assistance you need. We helped you with that passport — we’ll help you again. Money, weapons, safe houses. And we’ve got the Vergeltung. But you have to deal with this man yourself. In fact, taking care of this — quickly and completely — would go a long way toward restoring yourself to our good graces.”

Esterhazy was silent a moment, letting this sink in. “Where’s the Vergeltung docked?”

“Manhattan. The Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin.” The man paused. “New York… That’s where Agent Pendergast lives, is it not?”

This was enough of a surprise that Esterhazy could not help lifting his eyes to the man for a moment.

The man returned to his newspaper with an air of finality. After a minute, Esterhazy rose to go. As he did so, the man spoke once more. “Did you hear what happened to the Brodies?”

“Yes,” Esterhazy replied in a low voice. He wondered if the question was an implied threat.

“Don’t worry, Judson,” the man went on. “We’ll take good care of you. Just as we always have.”

And as another train came shrieking into the station, he turned back to his paper and did not speak again.

Malfourche

NED BETTERTON DROVE HIS DENTED NISSAN DOWN the main street — the only street, really — of Malfourche. Although it was technically part of his beat, for the most part Betterton avoided the town: too much of that deep-bayou mentality. But the Brodies had lived here. Had… Grudgingly, Kranston was letting him follow up, only because the horrific double murder was so big it would have seemed strange if the Bee pretended it hadn’t happened. “Let’s get it over with,” Kranston had grumbled. “Quickly. Then we move on.”