If you please. That accent—he’d never heard one like it. Southern, of course, but different somehow. He wondered if the man was boning Constance.
Up one channel, down another. It only seemed to get colder. A couple of seagulls followed them for a while, crying loudly, and one dropped a jet of waste right beside the boat. Rats with wings, the lobstermen called them. Once in a while the chief would speak to the others on the radio. It seemed they were not having much luck, either, and one of the boats was apparently lost. They were trying to get a GPS reading, but without cell coverage they couldn’t get a good fix.
Pendergast certainly wasn’t lost. Or if he was, he was doing a good job of covering it up.
Now the current was really picking up, the water flowing out. The boat struggled against it, throttled up but not really making good time against the current. Gavin checked his watch.
“Agent Pendergast?” he repeated.
Again the white face turned.
“Tide’s down about two feet. Another half hour and we better be well out of here.”
“Understood.” The black-clad arm pointed again, and they took yet another fork. And now Gavin could see the chief beginning to get nervous.
“Gavin’s right,” Mourdock said. “I think we’d better head back out, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
This was ignored. They continued on.
“Stop!” came a barked order from Pendergast, his hand shooting up like a semaphore. They were passing yet another waterlogged tree, lodged in the now-exposed muck at the upper side of the embankment. Gavin throttled down, but not too much, as the current would sweep them back downstream otherwise.
“Bring the boat in to that snag,” said Pendergast.
“It’s too shallow,” Gavin said. “We’ll ground out.”
“Then ground out.”
“Hold on,” said the chief, alarmed. “What’s so damned important that we have to risk our lives?”
“Look.” And Pendergast pointed.
There, just under the murky surface of the water, wagging back and forth in the current in a grotesque parody of a farewell wave, was a pale hand.
“Oh, shit,” Gavin muttered.
“Toss the rope over that exposed branch and tie us up,” said Pendergast.
Gavin made a loop with the rope and tossed it toward the branch, goosing the throttle to keep the boat steady. He got it on the first try, cut the engine, raised it, and then hauled the boat over to the log, tying it securely. He could feel the resistance of the mud against its bottom, the current thrumming past the hull.
“I don’t think this is a good idea at all,” said the chief.
But Pendergast was leaning out, hanging over the side of the boat. “Give me another rope.”
Gavin passed it to him. The agent reached down, grasped the arm, and pulled it out of the water. The head now appeared, just breaking the surface. Gavin rushed over to help, overcoming his revulsion to grasp the other submerged, lolling arm.
Pendergast tied the rope around the wrist. The body was only lightly caught up on the snag and it suddenly floated free, coming to the surface and heading downstream.
“Pull!” Pendergast ordered.
Gavin pulled the rope, using the skiff’s oarlock as a brake, and they hauled the body against the current and up to the side of the boat.
“For God’s sake, you’re not bringing that into the boat!” cried the chief.
“Move over,” said Pendergast sharply, but the chief needed no urging to scramble aside as they grasped the body, preparing to haul it in. “On three.”
With a great heave the two got it over the gunwale, the body flopping onto the bottom of the boat like a huge dead fish. Its clothes were torn and shredded by its journey through the currents, and it lay facedown, the back exposed. Pendergast, still grasping the lifeless arm, rolled the man over.
Gavin immediately recognized the face. When he next saw the cuts on the body, he was so shocked he was temporarily unable to speak.
Not so the chief. “It’s Dana Dunwoody!” he said. He glanced at Pendergast. “You know, Brad here told me just yesterday that you had your suspicions about him. If this is what happens to your suspects, I hope you don’t start suspecting me.”
Neither Gavin nor Pendergast paid any attention. They were too busy looking at the body.
“Cut up just like that historian,” Gavin finally managed to say.
“Indeed,” murmured Pendergast. “The Tybane inscriptions, once again.” He leaned over the body, his face so close to the gray, rubbery, glistening skin it was positively disgusting. “Curious. The cuts on Mr. McCool were done with confidence and vigor. These, or at least certain of these, appear to be different.”
“Fine, fine, let the M.E. sort it out,” said Mourdock. “Let’s call the others and get the hell out of here.”
22
Sister, come in!”