place has yet to enter the twentieth century—let alone the twenty-first.”
And then—slowly, with great deliberation—he eased out of the vehicle, turned to face the house, and raised himself to his
full height.
On the porch, Wisley blinked once, twice. He glanced from D’Agosta to Pendergast, opening his mouth to speak. But his expression
froze as he stared at the FBI agent. Blankness gave way to horrified recognition. With a curse, the man abruptly struggled
out of the chair and rose to his feet, knocking over the glassware in the process. Grabbing an elephant gun that had been
propped against the wooden siding, he pulled open a screen door and lurched into the house.
“Can’t get much guiltier than that,” D’Agosta said. “I don’t—oh, shit.”
The two attendants had dropped out of sight below the porch railing. A gunshot boomed from the porch and a spout of dirt erupted
behind them.
They threw themselves behind the car. “What the
fuck
?” D’Agosta said, scrambling to pull his Glock.
“Stay put and down.” Pendergast leapt up and ran.
“Hey!”
Another report, and a bullet smacked the side of the jeep with a
whang!
sending up a cloud of shredded upholstery stuffing. D’Agosta peered around the tire up at the house, gun in hand. Where the
hell had Pendergast gone?
He ducked back and winced as he heard a third shot ricochet off the steel frame of the jeep. Christ, he couldn’t just sit
here like a target at a shooting gallery. He waited until a fourth shot sailed over his head, then raised his head above the
vehicle’s fender, aiming his weapon as the shooter ducked behind the railing. He was about to pull the trigger when he saw
Pendergast emerge from the shrubbery below the porch. With remarkable speed he vaulted the railing, felled the African shooter
with a savage chop to the neck, and pointed his .45 at the other attendant. The man slowly raised his hands.
“You can come up now, Vincent,” Pendergast said as he retrieved the gun that lay beside the groaning form.
They found Wisley in the fruit cellar. As they closed in on him, he fired the elephant gun, but his aim was off—through drink
or fear—and the kick sent him sprawling. Before he could fire again Pendergast had darted forward, pinned the rifle with his
foot, and subdued Wisley with two swift, savage blows to the face. The second blow broke Wisley’s nose, and bright blood fountained
over the man’s starched white shirt. Reaching into his own breast pocket and plucking out a handkerchief, Pendergast handed
it to him. Then, seizing Wisley by the upper arm, the FBI agent propelled him out of the fruit cellar, up the basement stairs,
and out the front door to the porch, where he dropped him back into the wicker chair.
The two attendants were still standing there, as if dumbstruck.D’Agosta waved his weapon at them. “Walk down the road a hundred
yards,” he said. “Stay where we can see you, hands up in the air.”
Pendergast tucked his Les Baer into his waistband and stood before Wisley. “Thank you for the warm welcome,” he said.
Wisley pressed the handkerchief to his nose. “I must’ve mistaken you for someone else.” He spoke in what sounded to D’Agosta
like an Australian accent.
“On the contrary, I commend you on your prodigious recall. I think you have something to tell me.”
“I’ve nothing to tell you, mate,” Wisley replied.
Pendergast crossed his arms. “I will ask you only once: who arranged my wife’s death?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the muffled response.
Pendergast looked down on the man, his lip twitching. “Let me explain something, Mr. Wisley,” he said after a moment. “I can
assure you, without the slightest possibility of error, that you
will
tell me what I want to know. The degree of mortification and inconvenience you will endure
before
telling me is a choice you are free to make.”
“Sod