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Chapter 13

Pendergast stood absolutely still as he remembered Glinn’s warning. He was about to speak when he felt the barrel of the shotgun press harder into his back and heard the voice again.

“Well?”

“I’m looking for Tigg.”

Pendergast heard a sharply drawn breath, then silence. After a few moments, the voice spoke again.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Pendergast. Eli Glinn sent me.”

“Why didn’t Eli Glinn come himself?”

“He is physically unable to make the journey.”

“Why does he need Tigg?”

“He believes Tigg has some information that will be vital for a certain project.”

Silence. Several minutes passed. Finally, the voice spoke again.

“Tigg’s busy. You’ll have to wait for that ‘information’.”

“This is a very important project for Mr. Glinn. Time is of the essence.”

“Not here, it’s not. Start walking. Don’t turn around, don’t try any tricks. Clear?”

“Perfectly clear.”

“Good. Now, move.”

Pendergast walked slowly towards the front of the cabin, mindful of the shotgun barrel jammed against his spine. He ascended the stone steps and walked across the front porch. When he reached the front door, the voice told him to stop.

“Your boots.”

“My...?”

“Boots. Take them off.”

He carefully knelt down, untied the laces, slipped the boots off his feet, and placed them by the front door.

“Inside.”

Pendergast opened the front door and took several steps into the shadowy interior of the cabin. The light disappeared as the front door shut, and he stood silently in the dark.

“Slide your feet. Aristophanes might be around. He doesn’t like to be stepped on.”

“Aristophanes?”

“Chief officer in charge of rodent and copperhead control. Keep moving. Go fifteen paces and there’ll be a door.”

Pendergast cautiously reached out and felt for the wall. His hand closed over a door knob.

“Step inside.”

He opened the door and walked through the doorway.

“Your coat.”

Pendergast removed his jacket and held it out to the side. It was quickly taken from his grasp.

“Have a seat. There’s a chair to your left and a bed to your right, your choice. Don’t turn around.” The shotgun barrel left his back and he heard the door shut. A key rattled in the lock and a few moments later, he heard the front door close. Pendergast took a small flashlight from his shirt pocket, switched it on, and swept the light around the small room. It was not much bigger than a walk-in closet and there were no windows. The bed barely fit between the front and back walls, a small nightstand with a battery-powered lantern stood next the bed, and a wooden rocking chair was squeezed in the back corner. Shelves lined the walls above the bed and the chair. Pendergast switched on the lantern, turned around to examine the door, and saw that there was a flat piece of metal where the knob and lock should have been. He stared at the door for a moment, then turned back to the bed and inspected the books that were stacked neatly on the shelves above. After a few minutes, he selected Sophocles’ Three Theban Plays, sat down on the bed, and began to read.



Tigg collapsed against the front door. What the hell am I doing? I must be as crazy as everyone thought. Why? Why couldn’t I just have the peace I wanted? I can’t help. I can’t change anything. I need some time to think this through. Tigg rose, leaned the shotgun against the woodpile, and walked slowly towards the fire pit on the far side of the clearing. Damn you, Eli, all I wanted was to be left alone...



Charlie Quinn stood at the bottom of the large hill on Highway 8, watching the tow truck driver winch Brian Cambry’s truck up out of the woods. After he left the sheriff’s office, he had gone straight to the hospital and was told that Cambry was in surgery. The ER doctor told him that Cambry was expected to recover, but the staff was trying to notify next of kin. Quinn had promised to try and get them some of that information and had then driven out to the crash site. Frank Andrews, the state patrol officer on the scene, had finished photographing and measuring where the truck had gone off the road and had started to supervise removal of the truck. He and Quinn had silently watched the proceedings, and finally Quinn spoke.

“What do you make of this, Frank?”

“No skid marks. He didn’t even hit the brakes.”

“Do you think he fell asleep at the wheel?”

“Who knows? Not something you would expect from a guy who just spent the night at that fancy B&B up the road.”

Quinn gave him a quizzical look.

“Mr. Shoemaker told me. He said the guy was fine this morning at breakfast, although he did look a little worn out.”

“Maybe it was a heart attack or something like that and he lost control.”

“I think even with something like that he could have hit the brakes.”

“What if he didn’t have any,” Quinn said darkly.

“We’ll have the truck checked for signs of mechanical failure.”

How about sabotage?thought Quinn. An idea had been forming in his head ever since his meeting with Cambry last night and the idea had been reinforced by the mornings’ events. What if someone didn’t want Cambry to make that meeting this morning? What if that someone had been watching the office, had seen Cambry, and knew what had precipitated his presence in Winstead? Someone with everything to lose if a connection was made between the Zoller case and the case Cambry had investigated twelve years ago.As crazy as it seemed, Quinn thought he knew just who that person was.

“Any word on his condition?” asked Andrews.

“I stopped by the hospital. They were still working on him.” Quinn took one last look at the crumpled truck and shook his head. What a mess. He’s damn lucky he made it out of the truck in time.

“I’m going to go talk with the Shoemakers. I need to find some information on next of kin for the hospital. Hopefully Cambry said something to them that will help with that search.”

“I need to finish up here. See you later, Charlie.”



At the crest of the long hill, Quinn turned into the Shoemakers’ driveway. He pulled up to the house and stopped. His eyes swept over the small parking area, and he noticed a large dark stain on the gravel at the far end. He got out of his cruiser and walked over for a closer look. Suddenly the front door of the house opened and Mrs. Shoemaker stepped out onto the porch. When she saw Quinn, she rushed down the front steps and called out to him.

“Officer Quinn! My husband told me what happened? Is Mr. Cambry all right?”

“We don’t know yet. The hospital needs help in locating next of kin.”

Her lower lip trembled. “Oh, he’s such a nice man! I hope he’s okay. He was fine when he left, but...”

“But what?”

“He said he had a rather sleepless night. He didn’t dose off while driving, did he? He had plenty of coffee at breakfast, but he still looked tired.”

“Did he mention anything about his family? I need to find them.”

Mrs. Shoemaker thought for a moment. “He said his wife would have loved our home, but it sounded like she’s...gone. He never mentioned anything about kids.”

“What about his home? Did he mention any friends?”

“He said he lives eastern Kentucky, not too far from Huntington. He said he used to live in a little town in southern West Virginia. I think it was called Pineville? Something like that.”

“Pine Mountain?”

“Yes, that’s it. He retired three years ago and moved away, but he didn’t say why. He didn’t mention any friends in either place, but someone called for him this morning. A woman, I think her name was Amelia Harding. She seemed very disappointed that she had just missed him.”

That’s who called this morning. I wonder why she’s so desperate to talk to him?

Quinn glanced down at the stain. “Is this where Mr. Cambry’s truck was parked last night?”

“Uh, yes, I believe it is. Why?”

“Thank you. Someone will be coming back here to check out this area.” He walked back to his cruiser, grabbed a roll of crime scene tape, and began to cordon off the area. Mrs. Shoemaker’s eyes widened in surprise. She gave Quinn a frightened look, turned and quickly walked back to the house. When she was gone, Quinn pulled out his cell phone and pressed one of the numbers.

“Winstead Sheriff’s Office, how may I help you?”

“Sherri, this is Charlie. I need you to do a few things for me.”

“Sure Charlie, what do you need?”

“First, call Frank Andrews and tell him he needs to check out something up here at Winstead Manor. I found a fresh-looking stain where Cambry’s truck was parked last night.”

“You think that—?”

“I’m just making sure all the bases are covered. I also need you to contact someone named Amelia Harding at the Pine Mountain Sheriff’s Office. She called for Cambry earlier this morning, and I’m hoping she can help with locating his next of kin.”

“Is he—?”

“They don’t know yet. Please keep all of this to yourself, especially this next thing. I need you to find as much information as you can on a certain individual.”

“Okay, Charlie, will do. Who is it?”

“Eleanor Eastman.”



After several hours, Pendergast heard the front door open and close. He turned off the lantern and waited in the dark, listening. He heard a few soft thumps, a rustle of something dry and brittle, and a few scrapes of metal against stone. Several minutes passed and he was able to discern the sound of running water and the clink of metal against metal. Another thump, and then he heard the sound of the key in the lock. Pendergast rose and stood with his back against the wall, the book still clutched in one hand. The door opened slowly, and a figure, backlit by a low glow from the room beyond and holding what appeared to be a shotgun, stepped into the doorway. Pendergast noticed that the person’s stature was similar to his own, though a couple of inches shorter than his own height. The figure spoke with the same hoarse voice as the person who had locked him in.

“Come out.”

Pendergast moved slowly from the small room. He saw that the low light was coming from a lantern on a wooden across the larger room.

“Keep moving.”

He walked toward the table, remembering to slide his feet along the floor.

“Sit.”

He reached for the wooden chair next to the table and lowered himself onto the seat.

“Put your hands on the table where I can see them.” Pendergast complied.

“Nice choice of reading material.”

“Do you approve?” said Pendergast with the faintest trace of sarcasm.

“It’s an...interesting read.”

“I much prefer the original Greek to the translation you have here.”

“Those of us lacking a classical education must make do somehow, don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” Pendergast was silent for a moment. “Do you have a favorite passage?”

After a pause, the figure replied, “as a matter of fact, I do: ‘I have no home on earth and none below, not with the living, not with the breathless dead.’”

Pendergast thought a moment, and nodded. “I understand.”

The figure moved to the far end of the table, away from the light, and sat down.

“Now, Mr. Pendergast, kindly tell me why Eli Glinn chose you for this little errand.”

“He assisted with one of my cases, a case that was highly personal. I am returning the favor.”

“He must have great reason to trust you. Otherwise you would not be here.”

“Yes.”

“That means I am supposed to trust you as well. Trust for me is, shall we say, rather difficult.”

“So I noticed.”

The figure gave a short, hoarse, coughing laugh. “I see you and Eli share the same sense of humor. You must have many similarities, as I am sure he would only trust someone like himself. Did he tell you why he needs to speak with me?”

“He says you have information that could be vital for a particular project.”

“So you said. What is this project? Why is it so important that he needed a face to face meeting, even though he couldn’t be here himself?”

“It has to do with the murders of the Eastman family, twelve years ago.”

“That case is closed. What could I possibly have that would help now?”

“A similar case, in southeastern Ohio, has been brought to his...our attention. We are working on a profile for the case.”

“How ‘similar’?”

“Almost identical.”

Pendergast heard a sharp gasp, and then silence. After a long pause, Tigg spoke in a shaky voice.

“And what, pray tell, would I know about a case like this that occurred hundreds of miles away? I haven’t been off this mountain in...twenty-five years. I’m sure the locals told you that.”

“First, I do not believe Glinn needs your help in profiling the killer. He needs it to profile the victims. Second, I don’t believe you have been here that long.”

Tigg stood, leaned across the table, and turned the knob on the lantern. For the first time, Pendergast was able to see Tigg clearly: long, dark auburn hair with a streak of white at the right temple, twisted into a thick braid which hung over one narrow shoulder; a pale heart-shaped face with thin lips and high cheekbones, marred by two thin jagged scars that ran diagonally from jaw to hairline; dark grey, intelligent eyes surrounded by long, thick lashes.

“You know me, don’t you? You remember me.”

“Yes.”

Tigg stared at Pendergast. “I remember you, too. Well, Mr. Pendergast, it seems we do have something to talk about after all.”

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