Cold Vengeance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

presented: involuntary culpable homicide, or an open verdict. Involuntary culpable homicide is adjudged to be homicide, save for the fact that the mens rea for murder is not present. An open verdict is a verdict in which the cause and circumstances of death, or in this case even the fact of death, cannot be established at the present time.”
    He paused and scoured the courtroom again with a pair of cynical eyes. “Based on the testimony and evidence presented here today, I declare an open verdict in this case.”
    “Excuse me, sir!” Balfour found that he was suddenly on his feet. “I must protest that verdict.”
    Ainslie looked toward him, frowning. “Inspector?”
    “While—” Balfour hesitated, tried to collect himself. “While the act in question may not have been murder, it was nevertheless caused by improper conduct. That argues strongly for a verdict of involuntary culpable homicide. We have Dr. Esterhazy’s own testimony to support that verdict. Negligence was clearly the overwhelming factor in this death. There isn’t a scrap of evidence the victim survived the shooting and overwhelming evidence he did not.”
    “We do have that testimony,” Ainslie said. “But let me remind you, Inspector: we have no body. We have no corroborative evidence. All we have is the statement of a single eyewitness. And thus we have no independent evidence that anyone was actually killed. Therefore, this inquest has no choice but to render an open verdict.”
    Balfour remained standing. “If there’s an open verdict, I have no legal recourse for keeping Dr. Esterhazy in Scotland.”
    “If there is an objection,” the coroner went on, “you can always request a judicial review in divisional court.”
    A low muttering began to rise from the assembly. Balfour shot another glance at Esterhazy. There was nothing he could do.
    “If that is all,” Ainslie said, looking around sternly, “I declare this inquest to be concluded.”

C HAPTER 11

    Inverkirkton, Scotland
    T HE LONE BICYCLIST PEDALED WITH EVIDENT effort up the narrow, winding road. The black three-speed was fitted with a special rack over the rear fender, and it currently held leather panniers, kept in place with bungee cords. The rider was dressed in a dark gray windcheater and dove-colored corduroy trousers, and together with the black bicycle he formed a curiously monochromatic figure, set against the gorse and heather of the Scottish hills.
    At the top of the hill, where a series of weathered boulders reared fang-like from the green furze, the road divided at a T-intersection. Here the rider stopped, dismounted, and—by all indications grateful for the rest—pulled a map from beneath his jacket, smoothed it over the seat, and began to study it leisurely.
    But inside, Judson Esterhazy felt anything but leisurely. He had lost his appetite; it was an effort to force down food. He constantly had to fight the urge to look over his shoulder. He couldn’t sleep nights: every time he closed his eyes he saw Pendergast, mortally wounded, staring up at him from the mire, eyes glittering with implacable intensity.
    For the thousandth time he bitterly reproached himself for leaving the FBI agent in the Foulmire. He should have waited until the muck had totally consumed him. Why hadn’t he? It was those eyes; he couldn’t bear to look into those narrow silver eyes for one more second, staring back at him with the intensity of a scalpel. A pathetic and inexcusable weakness had overwhelmed him at the very moment of truth. Esterhazy knew that Pendergast was transcendentally resourceful. You have no idea—and I mean no idea—how dangerous this man Pendergast is. Hadn’t those been his very own words half a year earlier? He’s tenacious and clever. This time around he’s motivated— uniquely motivated. All Esterhazy’s careful planning—and still no real closure.
    What a curse it was not knowing.
    As he stood there beside the bicycle, pretending to regard the map,