Cold Vengeance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

the chill damp breeze tugging at his trouser cuffs, he reminded himself that the wound was fatal—it had to be. Even if Pendergast had somehow managed to extricate himself from the mire, they should have discovered his corpse in their days and nights of careful searching. The most likely reason dragging the mire had failed was because Pendergast had somehow escaped the first mire, only to die in some thicket or get sucked down into another, distant bog.
    But he didn’t know—not for sure, and that was driving him mad. He had to learn the truth. The alternative—a lifetime of fear and paranoia—was simply not acceptable.
    After the inquest he had departed Scotland—in as high-profile a manner as he could manage, being driven to Glasgow by a disgruntled Inspector Balfour himself. Now, a week later, he was back. He’d cut his hair short and dyed it black; he was wearing thick tortoiseshell glasses; he’d purchased a high-quality stage mustache. In the unlikely event that he ran into Balfour or any of his men, the chance of being recognized was virtually nil. He was simply another American tourist, enjoying a late-year bicycle tour of the Highlands.
    Nearly three weeks had passed since the shooting. The trail, if there ever was one, was now cold. But it couldn’t be helped: before the inquest he’d been kept under close observation, prevented from making private inquiries. He’d have to move as quickly as he could now, make sure no time was wasted. He had to prove to his own satisfaction that Pendergast had not survived, had not crawled out of the Mire. If he could do that, then perhaps he could find peace.
    At last he turned his attention to the map. He located his own position; located the peak of Beinn Dearg and the Foulmire; located Cairn Barrow, the largest village of the region. With a fingertip on the spot where he’d shot Pendergast, he examined the surrounding area closely. The nearest village was Inverkirkton, about three miles from the shooting site. Besides Kilchurn Lodge, no other habitation was closer. If Pendergast had survived—if he’d gone anywhere—it would have been Inverkirkton. That’s where he would start.
    Esterhazy folded up the map and glanced down the far side of the hill. From his vantage spot, he could just make out Inverkirkton. He cleared his throat, got back on the bicycle. A moment later he was coasting eastward down the hill, the afternoon sun on his back, taking no notice of the sweet smell of heather drifting in the air.
    Inverkirkton was a clustering of well-tended buildings at a bend in the road, but it had the two things every Scottish settlement seemed to have: a pub and an inn. He wheeled up to the inn, climbed off the bike, leaned it against the whitewashed stone. Then, plucking a handkerchief from his pocket, he stepped inside.
    The small lobby was cheerfully decorated, with framed photos of Inverness and the Mull of Kintyre beside tartans and a local map. It was empty save for a man in his early sixties, evidently the innkeeper, who was standing behind a counter of polished wood, reading a newspaper. He glanced up as Esterhazy stepped in, his bright blue eyes inquisitive. Esterhazy made a show of mopping his face with the handkerchief and blowing hard. Word of the shooting would have been news in this tiny local hamlet, and Esterhazy was relieved that there was no sign of recognition in the man’s gaze.
    “Good afternoon to you,” the man said with a deep burr.
    “Afternoon,” Esterhazy replied after seeming to recover some of his breath.
    The innkeeper glanced over Esterhazy’s shoulder, where the front wheel of the bicycle was just visible through the door. “On holiday, are we?”
    Esterhazy nodded. “I’d like a room, if one’s available.”
    “Aye, one is. What might your name be, sir?”
    “Edmund Draper.” He took another series of shuddering breaths, wiped his face again with the handkerchief.
    The innkeeper hefted down a large ledger from a shelf