“I’m very sorry for the confusion, Constance.” Ostrom looked quizzically at Esterhazy. In return, Esterhazy indicated with a slight gesture that it was time to leave.
“We’ll be going now, Constance,” Felder added. “Dr. Poole has asked for a moment of your time alone. We’ll be right outside.”
“But—” Constance began, then fell silent. She shot a glance toward Esterhazy. He was momentarily taken aback by the hostility that freighted her gaze.
“Please be quick, Doctor,” Ostrom said as he unlocked and opened the door. He slipped outside, followed by Felder. The door closed again.
Esterhazy took a step back from Constance, dropped his hands to his sides, and adopted as nonthreatening a stance as possible. There was something about this girl that set off warning bells in his head. He would have to be careful — consummately careful.
“You’re right, Miss Greene,” he said, his voice low. “You’ve never met me before in your life. I’ve never treated you. That was all a deception.”
Constance just stared at him from behind the desk, suspicion radiating from her in tangible waves.
“My name is Judson Esterhazy. I’m Aloysius’s brother-in-law.”
“I don’t believe you,” Constance said. “He never mentioned your name.” Her voice was low and utterly neutral.
“That’s just like him, isn’t it? Listen, Constance. Helen Esterhazy was my sister. Her death in the jaws of that lion was probably the worst thing that ever happened to him — except maybe the deaths of his parents in the New Orleans fire. You surely know him well enough to know he is not one to speak of his past — especially a painful one like this. But he asked me to help — because I’m the only one he can really trust.”
Constance said nothing, merely staring at him from behind the desk.
“If you doubt me, here’s my passport.” He removed it, opened it for her. “Esterhazy’s not a common name. I knew Great-Aunt Cornelia, the poisoner, who lived in this very room. I’ve been to the family plantation, Penumbra. I’ve gone shooting in Scotland with Aloysius. What more proof do you need?”
“Why are you here?”
“Aloysius sent me here to help get you out of this place.”
“That makes no sense. He arranged for me to be here, and he knows I’m perfectly content.”
“You don’t understand. He didn’t send me here to help you — he sent me here because he needs your help.”
“My help?” Constance said.
Esterhazy nodded. “You see, he has made a terrible discovery. It seems his wife — my sister — didn’t die accidentally.”
Constance frowned.
Esterhazy knew that his best hope lay in keeping as close to the truth as possible. “Helen’s gun was loaded with blanks on the day of that lion hunt. And now Pendergast has embarked on a mission to find whoever was responsible. Only events have spiraled out of control. He can’t do this alone. He needs the help of those he trusts the most. That means me — and you.”
“What about Lieutenant D’Agosta?”
“The lieutenant was helping him. And got shot in the heart for his trouble. Not dead — but badly injured.”
Constance started visibly.
“That’s right. I told you events have spiraled out of control. Pendergast is in over his head, he’s in terrible danger. So I took the only steps I could to contact you. I pretended to have knowledge of you and… your case. Obviously it was all a ruse.”
Constance continued to stare at him. The hostility had largely disappeared, but uncertainty remained.
“I’m going to figure out a way to get you out of here. Meanwhile, please continue to deny knowing me. Or you could feign a growing recollection — whatever you feel more comfortable with. Just play along. All I ask is that you help me get you out of here. Because we’re almost out of time. Pendergast needs your quick mind, your instincts, your research skills. And every hour counts. You can’t imagine — and I haven’t the time at present to explain — the forces that are now arrayed against him.”
Constance continued staring, her face a mixture of suspicion, concern, and indecision. Better to leave her now, let her mull it all over. Esterhazy turned and rapped lightly on the door. “Dr. Ostrom? Dr. Felder? We can go now.”
CHAPTER 49
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
THE EIGHTEENTH HOLE AT PALMETTO SPRAY GOLF LINKS was one of the most infamous on the East Coast: a par-5 five-hundred-and-sixty-yard drive with a wicked dogleg and half a dozen wide bunkers tightly bracketing the fairway.
Meier Weiss rolled his wheelchair up to the tee, plucked the blanket from his ruined legs, grabbed the crutches that hung from his golf bag, and hoisted himself up to a standing position, locking the joints on his leg braces. “Mind if I give some more advice?”
Aloysius Pendergast slid his borrowed golf bag to the ground. “If you’d be so kind.”
“It’s a long hole, but we’ve got the wind to our backs. I usually try for a controlled fade. With luck, it puts you on the right of the fairway and sets you up for the green in two.”
“I am, alas, a skeptic when it comes to the concept of ‘luck.’ ”
The old man rubbed his sunburned forehead and chuckled. “I always like to play a round before getting down to any kind of business. Tells me all I need to know about my partner. Now, I’ve noticed improvement on your last few holes. Just remember to follow through on your swing, like I showed you.”
Grabbing his driver, Weiss stumped over to the tee. Bracing himself on the crutches, he drew the club back, then swung it down in a perfect arc. The ball shot into the air with a crack, curving gracefully to the right and out of sight beyond the fringe of trees.
Pendergast watched, then turned to Weiss. “No ‘luck’ in that shot.”
Weiss slapped the crutches and braces. “I’ve had plenty of years with these things to perfect it.”
Pendergast stepped up to the tee, lined up his driver, and took the shot. The club impacted the ball with too open a face and what was meant as a fade turned into something more like a slice.
The older man shook his head, clucking in sympathy but hardly able to conceal his delight. “May have to go searching for that one.”
Pendergast thought for a moment and then asked, “I suppose you wouldn’t consider allowing me a mulligan?” He already knew the answer but was curious to hear Weiss’s reaction.
“Mr. Pendergast, you surprise me. I wouldn’t have pegged you for the mulligan type at all.”
The ghost of a smile lingered on Pendergast’s face as Weiss eased himself back into his wheelchair while unlocking the leg braces. His heavily muscled arms propelled him along, almost shooting him forward along the gravel path. It was a facet of the Nazi-hunter’s forceful personality that he spurned the luxury of a golf cart, preferring to wheel himself over the course. It had been a long eighteen holes, but he showed no sign of fatigue.
As they made their way down the fairway and around the dogleg, their balls came into view: Weiss’s lined up nicely for a shot to the green, Pendergast’s in a sand trap beside the fringe.
Weiss shook his head again. “Your honor.”
Pendergast took a calculating stroll around the bunker, then knelt beside the ball, estimating the trajectory to the pin. He waited for Weiss to issue his recommendation.
“If I were you, I’d choose the lob wedge,” Weiss said after a moment. “It’s more forgiving than the pitching wedge.”
Pendergast rummaged through the set of Pings, took out the wedge, lined himself up gingerly, took a few practice swings, and then — with a huge spray of sand — hit the ball. The ball moved about two feet up the side of the bunker.