Cold Vengeance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

under the eaves, and in it he could see the rumpled form of the husband, a scarecrow with a bulbous red nose and bushy white hair. He stared at D’Agosta with a single good eye, which contained a certain malevolence.
    “Um, hello,” said D’Agosta, unsure of what to say. “Sorry to disturb you.”
    “Aye, me too,” came the growled reply. “Dinnae make noise.” The old man turned over roughly, showing D’Agosta his back.
    Relieved, D’Agosta took off the borrowed shirt and pants and crawled under a blanket that had been set out on a primitive wooden cot. He blew out the kerosene lantern and lay in the dark. It was wonderfully warm in the loft, and the sounds of the storm outside, the howling wind, were oddly comforting. He fell asleep almost immediately.
    An indeterminate time later, he awoke. It was pitch black and he’d been so sound asleep that it took him a moment of fright to remember where he was. When he did, he realized the storm had died down and the cottage was very, very silent. His heart was pounding. He had the distinct impression that someone, or something, was standing over him in the dark.
    He lay there in utter darkness, trying to calm himself. It had just been a dream. But he couldn’t shake the sensation that some person was standing, maybe even leaning, over him.
    The floor beside his cot creaked softly.
    Jesus . Should he shout out? Who could it be? Surely not the old man. Had someone come in the night?
    The floor creaked again—and then he felt a hand grasp his arm in a grip of steel.

C HAPTER 18

    M Y DEAR V INCENT,” CAME THE WHISPERED VOICE . “While I am touched at your concern, I am nevertheless exceedingly displeased to see you here.”
    D’Agosta felt almost paralyzed with shock. He was surely dreaming. He heard the whisper of a match, a sudden glow, and the lantern was lit. The old man stood over him, misshapen, clearly ill. D’Agosta stared at the sallow, wrinkled skin; the sparse beard and greasy shoulder-length white hair; the bulbous reddened nose. And yet the voice, faint as it was—and the silvery glint the rheumy eye could not fully conceal—these belonged unmistakably to the man he was searching for.
    “Pendergast?” D’Agosta finally managed to choke out.
    “You shouldn’t have come,” Pendergast said in the same whispery voice.
    “What—how—?”
    “Allow me to get back in my bed. I’m not strong enough to stand for long.”
    D’Agosta sat up and watched the old man hang the lantern and shuffle painfully back to the bed.
    “Pull up a chair, my friend.”
    D’Agosta rose, put on the borrowed clothes, and took a chair down from a hook on the wall. He sat next to the old man who bore such remarkably little resemblance to the FBI agent. “God, I’m so glad to find you alive. I thought…” D’Agosta found himself choking up, unable to speak, overwhelmed with emotion.
    “Vincent,” said Pendergast. “Your heart is as big as ever. But let us not become maudlin. I have much to say to you.”
    “You were shot,” said D’Agosta, finally finding his voice. “What the hell are you doing way out here? You need medical attention, a hospital.”
    Pendergast put out a restraining hand. “No, Vincent. I have received excellent medical attention, but I must remain hidden.”
    “Why? What the hell’s going on?”
    “If I tell you, Vincent, you must promise me you’ll return to New York at your earliest opportunity—and not breathe a word of this to anybody.”
    “You need help. I’m not going to leave you. I’m your partner, damn it.”
    With obvious effort, Pendergast rose slightly from the bed. “You must . I need to recover. And then I’m going to find my would-be killer.” He sank back slowly onto the pillow.
    D’Agosta exhaled. “So the bastard really did try to kill you.”
    “And not just me. I believe he was the one who shot you as we were leaving Penumbra. And he was also the one who tried to kill Laura Hayward, on our way to visit you