Finally—over the roar of the flame—Pendergast heard a cry: a howl of rage and desperation. He moved along the edge of the grass in its direction. Soon after, it was followed by the sound of crashing footsteps: Dunkan had been flushed out and was running in a panic from the flames.
Fast as a striking snake, Pendergast darted into the grass. The terrified figure was running on a path tangential to his own, his retreating shoulders backlit by the flames. Pendergast raced after him, leapt upon his back, stunning him with a blow from the butt of his gun; as they crashed to the ground he ripped the bayonet from Dunkan’s hand and threw it into the oncoming flames. Cuffing Dunkan’s wrists behind him, he rose and half dragged, half carried the semiconscious man away from the oncoming fire and out onto the flats. There, he let him flop down in the mud.
While waiting for the man to recover his senses, Pendergast cleaned as much soot and dried mud from his own arms and legs as possible. Soon, he saw Dunkan’s eyes flutter open, grotesquely white within their coating of mud. They fastened on him in mute fury.
“Save your energy,” said Pendergast. “We’re going to have to wait awhile for the turn of the tide. And then I’ll take you to your brother.”
40
The storm that had been lingering over Exmouth the past few days had blown away on the previous night’s wind, and the morning had dawned bright and warmer. Now the noon sun shone benevolently over the main street, gilding the shopfronts and window displays, and throwing the large crowd gathered before the police station into sharp relief. Percival Lake stood back from the crowd, Carole at his side, on the doorstep of her shop. He clutched a shopping bag in one hand, and held Carole’s hand with the other.
It was, he thought, an almost painfully typical New England small-town event. A microphone and podium had been set up on the steps of the police station, and over the last hour almost everybody who was anybody in town had taken their turn before it. It had started with the first selectman, an elderly and reclusive man of ancient New England stock, who, despite his position, rarely appeared in public anymore. He had been followed by the town’s other remaining selectman, Dana Dunwoody of course being unable to attend. Next came notables such as the director of the library and that tiresome ex-thespian, Worley. And now, finally, Chief Mourdock was taking his turn before the microphone, his portly figure angled so that the smattering of press photographers could snap his profile. He’d already cataloged in detail his critical role in cracking the case. Now, he was expressing relief that this “shameful taint”—meaning the Dunwoody clan and their contemporary, as well as ancient, crimes—had at last been scrubbed from the town. To one side stood his deputy, Gavin, looking distinctly uncomfortable at all the attention. On Mourdock’s other side was a sealed glass case, containing the twenty-one blood-red rubies that made up the “Pride of Africa,” dazzling in the sunlight. They were being watched over by a stuffy representative of Lloyd’s of London, who—Lake knew—was not only guarding them, but would shortly take possession. Lloyd’s had, after all, paid out the claim on the gemstones over a century ago and owned them as a result.
Lake still couldn’t get over the fact that those jewels—and the body that had once contained them—had lain behind the wall of his cellar all these years.
The last few days had been such a series of shocks—one revelation after another, each more bizarre than the last—that Lake felt quite exhausted. As no doubt did many residents. And yet they had turned out, almost every single one. A sea of heads, hundreds and hundreds, stretched away from the police station steps for at least a block, all sharply defined by the brilliant sun. His gaze roamed over them, picking out familiar faces. Mark and Sarah Lillie—wearing matching outfits; old Ben Boyle; Walt Adderly, proprietor of the Inn. Somehow—despite the inflated words of Mourdock, despite the pompous speechifying and small-town politics—the ritual was, undoubtedly, a benediction. Mourdock, in his own obnoxious way, was right. A horror that had been festering in Exmouth for over a century had been identified, named, and rooted out. Now, after all that had happened, the town could heal.
The chief finally went into a rousing We-Are-the-Salt-of-the-Earth, America-Is-Great, God-Bless-Us-All finish. There was applause and cheers. And then it was over. Accompanied by the snapping of press photographs, the crowd began to disperse.
Lake caught sight of Agent Pendergast, standing on a far corner, in his usual black suit. Constance Greene was at his side, a thin, lovely specter in an old-fashioned lace dress. Her only concession to the modern world was a pair of classic Ray-Bans as protection from the sun.
“What a perfect small-town spectacle,” said Lake.
Carole laughed. “That’s what I love about this place.”