Read Online Cold Vengeance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Government investigators, Pendergast; Aloysius (Fictitious character)
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behind him. “You seem a bit fagged, laddie.”
Esterhazy nodded again. “Cycled here from Fraserburgh.”
The innkeeper stopped in the act of opening the ledger. “Fraserburgh? But that’s close to forty miles—a good bit of it over mountains.”
“I know. I found that out the hard way. It’s only my second day of vacation, and I guess I overdid it. That’s the way I am.”
The innkeeper shook his head. “Well, all I can say is that you’ll sleep well tonight. You’d best take it easy tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I’ll have a choice.” Another pause for breath. “By the way, I saw the pub next door—I assume it serves dinner?”
“Aye, and a fine one. And if you don’t mind I’d like to suggest the local malt, Glen—”
The man stopped talking. Esterhazy’s face had assumed a worried, pained expression.
“Is anything the matter?” the innkeeper asked.
“I don’t know,” Esterhazy replied. He allowed his voice to become strained. “I’ve got this sudden pressure—pain—in my chest.”
A look of concern crossed the other man’s face. Bustling out from behind the counter, he led Esterhazy to a small adjoining parlor and eased him into an overstuffed chair.
“It’s shooting down my arm now… oh, God, it hurts.” Esterhazy gritted his teeth, clutched at his chest with his right hand.
“Would you like me to get you a drink, then?” the innkeeper said, bending over him solicitously.
“No… call for a doctor. Quickly…” And then, slumping over, Esterhazy closed his eyes.
C HAPTER 12
New York City
T HE DRIVE LEADING UP TO THE PORTE COCHERE of 891 Riverside Drive looked a lot better than the first time D’Agosta had seen it. Back then, it had been filled with drifting trash, the surrounding ailanthus and sumac bushes dead or dying; the Beaux-Arts mansion itself had been shuttered and covered with gang graffiti. Now the property was clean and orderly, the four-story stone structure completely restored, its mansard roof, towers, and widow’s walk returned to period condition. And yet—as D’Agosta stared at it from the carriageway—there was something cold and strangely empty about the place.
He wasn’t sure why he was here, exactly. More than once he’d told himself to stop being paranoid, to stop acting like an old woman. But something about the visit from Corrie Swanson had stuck with him. And this time, when the impulse to stop by Pendergast’s mansion had risen yet again, he’d decided to act on it.
He stood for a minute, catching his breath. He’d taken the number 1 train to 137th Street and walked toward the river, but even that short journey had winded him. He hated this long convalescence; hated how the gunshot wound, the pig valve replacement, the subsequent gradual recovery, had sapped him of strength. The only good thing about it was that he’d initially lost weight, but now he was gaining it back, in spades. And unable for the time being to exercise it off.
After a few moments, he walked down the carriageway and stepped up to the oaken front door. He seized the brass knocker, gave it a stout rap.
Silence.
He waited a minute, then two. Nothing. He leaned in toward the door, listening, but the house was too well built for any sound to escape. He knocked a second time. What with Constance Greene in an asylum, maybe the place really was as deserted as it looked. But that made no sense—he knew Pendergast employed help both here and at the Dakota.
There was a whisper of a key turning in well-oiled tumblers, then the massive door slowly opened. The entranceway was dimly lit, but D’Agosta could make out the features of Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur and sometime butler. Normally expressionless and imperturbable, today Proctor looked dour, almost forbidding.
“Mr. D’Agosta, sir,” he said. “Won’t you please come in?”
D’Agosta stepped inside, and Proctor carefully locked the door behind him. “Would you care to step into the library?”
Esterhazy nodded again. “Cycled here from Fraserburgh.”
The innkeeper stopped in the act of opening the ledger. “Fraserburgh? But that’s close to forty miles—a good bit of it over mountains.”
“I know. I found that out the hard way. It’s only my second day of vacation, and I guess I overdid it. That’s the way I am.”
The innkeeper shook his head. “Well, all I can say is that you’ll sleep well tonight. You’d best take it easy tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I’ll have a choice.” Another pause for breath. “By the way, I saw the pub next door—I assume it serves dinner?”
“Aye, and a fine one. And if you don’t mind I’d like to suggest the local malt, Glen—”
The man stopped talking. Esterhazy’s face had assumed a worried, pained expression.
“Is anything the matter?” the innkeeper asked.
“I don’t know,” Esterhazy replied. He allowed his voice to become strained. “I’ve got this sudden pressure—pain—in my chest.”
A look of concern crossed the other man’s face. Bustling out from behind the counter, he led Esterhazy to a small adjoining parlor and eased him into an overstuffed chair.
“It’s shooting down my arm now… oh, God, it hurts.” Esterhazy gritted his teeth, clutched at his chest with his right hand.
“Would you like me to get you a drink, then?” the innkeeper said, bending over him solicitously.
“No… call for a doctor. Quickly…” And then, slumping over, Esterhazy closed his eyes.
C HAPTER 12
New York City
T HE DRIVE LEADING UP TO THE PORTE COCHERE of 891 Riverside Drive looked a lot better than the first time D’Agosta had seen it. Back then, it had been filled with drifting trash, the surrounding ailanthus and sumac bushes dead or dying; the Beaux-Arts mansion itself had been shuttered and covered with gang graffiti. Now the property was clean and orderly, the four-story stone structure completely restored, its mansard roof, towers, and widow’s walk returned to period condition. And yet—as D’Agosta stared at it from the carriageway—there was something cold and strangely empty about the place.
He wasn’t sure why he was here, exactly. More than once he’d told himself to stop being paranoid, to stop acting like an old woman. But something about the visit from Corrie Swanson had stuck with him. And this time, when the impulse to stop by Pendergast’s mansion had risen yet again, he’d decided to act on it.
He stood for a minute, catching his breath. He’d taken the number 1 train to 137th Street and walked toward the river, but even that short journey had winded him. He hated this long convalescence; hated how the gunshot wound, the pig valve replacement, the subsequent gradual recovery, had sapped him of strength. The only good thing about it was that he’d initially lost weight, but now he was gaining it back, in spades. And unable for the time being to exercise it off.
After a few moments, he walked down the carriageway and stepped up to the oaken front door. He seized the brass knocker, gave it a stout rap.
Silence.
He waited a minute, then two. Nothing. He leaned in toward the door, listening, but the house was too well built for any sound to escape. He knocked a second time. What with Constance Greene in an asylum, maybe the place really was as deserted as it looked. But that made no sense—he knew Pendergast employed help both here and at the Dakota.
There was a whisper of a key turning in well-oiled tumblers, then the massive door slowly opened. The entranceway was dimly lit, but D’Agosta could make out the features of Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur and sometime butler. Normally expressionless and imperturbable, today Proctor looked dour, almost forbidding.
“Mr. D’Agosta, sir,” he said. “Won’t you please come in?”
D’Agosta stepped inside, and Proctor carefully locked the door behind him. “Would you care to step into the library?”
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