Blue Labyrinth by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

faint moaning of the wind.
    On the southern outskirts of Salton Palms, away from the other structures, stood an improvised shack with a tar-paper roof—dingy, rimed with salt, cobbled together from pieces of abandoned houses. An ancient but operable pickup truck, more rust than metal, stood beside it. Pendergast stared at the shack for a long, appraising moment. Then, with an easy, loping stride, he began to approach it.
    Other than the pickup truck, there was no evident sign of life. The shack seemed to be without electricity or running water. Pendergast glanced around again, then rapped on the piece of corrugated metal that served as a rude door. When there was no reply, he rapped again.
    There was the faintest sound of movement within. “Go ’way!” a hoarse voice rang out.
    “Pardon me,” Pendergast said through the door, the accent of the Old South replaced by a mild Texas twang, “but I wonder if I might have just a minute of your time?”
    When this produced no discernible result, Pendergast plucked a business card from one of the breast pockets of his shirt. It read:
    William W. Feathers
    Dealer in Collectibles, Dead Pawn,
    Western Artifacts, and Cowboy High Style
    eBay reselling my specialty
    He slid it beneath the piece of corrugated metal. For a moment, it remained in place. Then it quickly disappeared. And then the hoarse voice spoke again. “What you want?”
    “I was hoping you might have a few things for sale.”
    “Don’t got nothin’ right now.”
    “People always say that. They never know what they have until I show them. I pay top dollar. Ever watch
Antiques Roadshow
?”
    No response.
    “Surely you’ve rustled up some interesting things around here, combed this old town for collectibles. Maybe I can buy some off you. ’Course, if you aren’t interested, I’ll just have a look around some of these old houses myself. Having come all this way, I mean.”
    Still nothing for perhaps a minute. And then the door creaked open and a grizzled, bearded face appeared, hovering like a ghostly balloon in the darkness of the interior, creased with suspicion.
    Immediately, Pendergast took the opportunity to put his foot inside the door with a jolly greeting, pumping the man’s hand enthusiastically as he pushed his way in, with a show of bluff good-fellowship, showering the man with thanks and not giving him an opportunity to get in a single word.
    The inside of the shack was rank and stifling. Pendergast looked around quickly. A rumpled pallet lay in one corner. Beneath the lone window sat a cookstove, atop which was a cast-iron skillet. Two sawn-off sections of tree trunk substituted for chairs. Everything was a whirlwind of disorder: clothes, blankets, bric-a-brac, empty tin cans, ancient road maps, driftwood, broken tools, and innumerable other items lay scattered around the tiny abode.
    Something glinted faintly amid the ruin. Breaking off his handshaking, Pendergast bent down to seize it with a cry of delight. “You see what I mean—just look at this! Why, heck, what’s this doing on the ground? This should be in a display case!”
    It was a piece of a squash blossom necklace, dented and scratched, of cheap pot silver, missing its precious stone. But Pendergast cradled it as reverently as if it were a stone tablet from God. “I can get sixty bucks for this on eBay, no sweat!” he crowed. “I handle the entire transaction, take the photo, do the write-up, deal with the mailing and the collection, everything. All I ask is a small commission. I make you a payment to get the ball rolling, and then, if I make more on eBay, I keep ten percent. Did I say sixty? Let’s make that seventy.” And without further ado, he pulled out a roll of money.
    The rheumy eyes of the shack’s resident went from Pendergast’s face to the huge wad. They stayed there as Pendergast peeled off seven $10 bills and proffered them. There was the slightest hesitation, and then the old man’s trembling hand reached up