Crimson Shore

Another spike of anxiety coursed through Joe. He’d seen his brother like this before; he knew his violent temper, what he was capable of. “Okay, listen. You’ll get your share. I promise you. With Dana gone, we can now split it fifty-fifty. But those jewels won’t do you any good. They’re safe in the bank vault at Exmouth. We can’t sell them, not yet. But the main thing is that the FBI agent is going to be here at first light.” Keeping an eye on Dunkan, Joe knelt, reached into the pack, pulled out a thick wad of cash. “Here’s two thousand dollars — my whole stash. Consider it earnest money until we can fence the rubies. And there’s some food and water in the pack, too — enough for another week. But you have to go, now. Otherwise they’ll catch you, send you to prison. They’ll send me to prison, too, as an accessory.”

“It was Dana’s idea to kill that Englishman. Kill him, and mark him up like that. I did what he asked. I’m innocent.”

“Dana’s dead now, and that’s not the way the law works. You did the killings. It’s on you — and on me. Okay? We’re in this together — right?” He tried to modulate his voice, sound reasonable, not further piss off his crazy brother.

It was working. The hostile expression on Dunkan’s face had abated. He took the bundle of cash Joe offered him, flipped through it with a greasy thumb.

“Go to the other place,” Joe said. “You know the one — the old roundhouse at the abandoned switching yard. I’ll meet you there a week from now. Once they find this place is empty, they’ll think you’ve run for good. They’ll watch it for a couple of days, but when they give up, I’ll know. And once it’s safe to come back, I’ll tell you. In a little while, I’ll be able to sell the jewels. Until then, you just hold on to that cash and stay low.”

There was a long silence. Finally, Dunkan nodded. As Joe waited, the man turned back toward the tent and began gathering up his few pathetic things. Collecting them in a ragged sheet, he bundled it up, then turned back toward his brother. As he did so, his gaze went over Joe’s shoulder, and his face abruptly contorted with feral rage.

“Traitor!” he cried, raising the stone knife. “Judas!”

A shot rang out, the round singing past Joe’s ear. Dunkan cried out as the knife was knocked out of his hand with the sound of a ricocheting bullet. With a roar he turned and sprinted toward the wall of dry salt grass, vanishing into it in an instant. As Joe pulled his gun and spun around to confront their attacker, he felt a blow to the side of his head; the gun was torn from his hand; and a knee impacted the small of his back. In a second he was pinned to the ground, his wrists held in an iron grip. They were pulled behind him and the cold steel went on with a click. Next, he felt his legs being securely bound. Writhing on the ground, he finally saw who his attacker was.

“Pendergast!”

The FBI agent was wearing gray-and-black camos.

“I thought you were coming in the morning!” Joe said.

“That’s what you were supposed to think.” Pendergast got up, fetched the .22, shoved it into a pocket, and then vanished into the grass in the direction Dunkan had fled.

38

Pendergast pushed his way through the salt grass. Dunkan, the feral brother, had a head start, and Pendergast could tell from the distant crashing noises that he was moving with the speed and sureness of someone with knowledge of the marshlands. But Pendergast was an expert tracker; he had hunted lion and Cape buffalo in East Africa; and he undertook this pursuit with the same assurance and strategy he would employ in pursuing big game. It was very dark, but he used his flashlight as little as possible, hooding it with one hand to keep its glow from being observed.

He moved along the disturbed trail of grass made by Dunkan’s headlong passage. It was exceedingly hard to follow, but having been in the marshlands several times before, he knew now what to look for. As he ran, he considered his prey’s options. The man’s appearance was too bizarre for him to chance being spotted in daylight. Nor would he make for the “old roundhouse” now. Chances were that, for the time being at least, he would go to ground in the place he knew best: these very marshlands. He could hide out here for a while, formulating a plan, until the search parties and tracker dogs arrived.

Of course, if he managed to kill Pendergast, he might not have to leave at all. That seemed his most likely choice.

Ahead, the sounds of movement had ceased, masked by the wind. The path, too, became more difficult to follow, as it appeared Dunkan had slowed down and was now moving with greater care, following a faint animal trail. The breeze was from the southwest, however, and Pendergast could detect the man’s stink: a mixture of sweat, dirt, and urine. That put him upwind, to Pendergast’s left. The FBI agent corrected course, now moving stealthily as well.