Pendergast nodded slowly. Three years earlier, Decker had been found in his Washington, DC, home — murdered, with a bayonet pinning his head to his office chair.
“At first, there were some who suspected you as being the killer — I, of course, was never among them. Later it became clear it was your brother, Diogenes, who murdered Mike and tried to frame you for the job.”
Longstreet peered into his drink. “Now here’s where we get to the heart of the matter. A few months later, once you had been cleared of the false charges, you took me aside and said — not in these exact words, of course—‘You didn’t hear it from me, but my brother is dead.’ When I asked you for proof, you went on to inform me that, while you had not seen the body with your own eyes, you had every proof necessary to confirm his death. You asked me to refrain from further investigation and to take your word for it. You further explained that you did not want me, your friend and mentor and erstwhile commanding officer, to waste countless hours conducting what would ultimately prove a fruitless chase. You suggested that, when the time was right, I should quietly bury Mike Decker’s death among the cold cases. And so I did.”
Longstreet sat forward a little further and laid a fingertip lightly on Pendergast’s knee. “But therein lies the rub. After your disappearance from and apparent drowning near Exmouth, Massachusetts, we of course sent a field team to do a careful investigation. While we turned up no signs of you, either dead or alive, we did lift three prints — all from a wooden observation pier overlooking the town beach — that belonged to your brother. Diogenes.”
Longstreet sat back and let this linger in the air for a moment before continuing.
“I kept the discovery silent. But you can imagine what went through my mind. As members of the Ghost Company — one of the smallest, most secret, most intensely loyal outfits in the military — we all took blood oaths to avenge any member who died at the hands of another. When you specifically told me your brother, Mike Decker’s murderer, was dead, you were, in effect, asking me to put aside my blood oath. Now, years later, there is very good evidence that he was not dead, after all.” He pinned Pendergast with his gaze. “What’s going on, Aloysius? Did you lie to me, betray our common oath, because the killer was your brother?”
“No,” Pendergast said immediately. “I thought he was dead. We all thought he was dead. But he’s not.”
Longstreet remained still for a moment. Then he nodded, settling into his chair, waiting.
Pendergast’s expression went far away. Then, after a few minutes, he roused himself.
“I’m going to have to share some history with you,” he said. “Some very private family history. You mentioned that Diogenes tried to frame me for Mike Decker’s murder — among others. For a while, he was successful, and I was imprisoned.”
Pendergast went silent again for a moment. “I have a ward by the name of Constance Greene. She has the appearance of a woman in her early twenties. She also has a very difficult history that’s not important now; what is important is that she is very fragile mentally and emotionally. She has a hair-trigger temper. Anything that threatens her or those few close to her is likely to precipitate a violent, even homicidal, response.” He drew a deep breath. “When I was in prison, Diogenes seduced Constance and then discarded her with a cruel note suggesting that she kill herself rather than live with the shame. In response, Constance pursued Diogenes with single-minded fury. She chased him across Europe and finally caught up with him on the island of Stromboli. There, she threw him into the lava flow streaming down from the Stromboli volcano.”
Longstreet’s only reaction was to raise his bushy eyebrows.
“Both Constance and I believed Diogenes to be dead. And in the intervening years, there has been no reason for me to believe otherwise. Until my final days in Exmouth.”
“He contacted you?” Longstreet asked.
“No. But I saw him, or thought I saw him, on one occasion — observing me from a distance. Later on, I came upon proof of his being in the vicinity. But before I could do anything about him, I was washed out to sea and held prisoner. And in the weeks since, it appears that—” Pendergast paused to compose himself— “Diogenes has managed to… interfere with Constance again.”
“Interfere?”
“All evidence points to his having either kidnapped her, drugged her, or somehow Stockholm-syndromed her into becoming his accomplice. Whatever the case, they were seen leaving — escaping — my Riverside Drive residence together two mornings ago.”
Longstreet frowned. “Stockholm syndrome would imply active participation on her part. Kidnapping would not. There’s a big difference.”
“The evidence suggests that Constance actively assisted in her abduction.”
The office fell into silence. Longstreet tented his long, narrow fingers and rested his huge shaggy head on them. Pendergast remained motionless as a marble statue in the old wing chair. Many minutes passed. Finally, Pendergast cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry I didn’t share these details with you before,” he said. “They’re painful. Mortifying. But… I need your help. I’m aware of the blood oath we took. Previously, my nerve failed me where Diogenes was concerned. But I now realize there is only one answer: my brother must die. We must work together to track him down and make sure he doesn’t survive apprehension. It’s as you say: we owe it to Mike Decker to make sure he’s taken care of once and for all.”
“And the young girl?” Longstreet asked. “Constance?”
“She must remain unharmed. We can sort out her involvement once Diogenes is dead.”
Longstreet thought for just a moment. Then, silently, he extended his hand.
Just as silently, Pendergast shook it.
41
The boat parted the cerulean water in a silky motion, the warm air riffling Constance’s mahogany hair and playing over her long dress. She reclined on the turquoise-colored upholstered seat next to Diogenes, who was at the wheel. They had taken his yacht from South Beach Harbor to a place called Upper Sugarloaf Key. There, at a bungalow nestled among pines on the water, they had exchanged it for a smaller boat with a shallow draft. Diogenes had spoken of it in reverential tones: a nineteen-foot Chris Craft Racing Runabout built in 1950, which he’d had restored with new bookmatched sides, new decks, and a meticulously rebuilt engine. The boat’s name, in gold leaf edged in black, was PHOENIX, with HALCYON KEY below.
Now, as they neared their destination, a change came over Diogenes. Not a voluble man to begin with, he had become more communicative, if not talkative. At the same time, his normally masked face had smoothed out and relaxed, his expression becoming almost dream-like — a most odd change from his normally acute, watchful mien. The wind stirred his short, ginger hair and his eyes were narrowed, looking ahead. As Petru Lupei, he had among other things covered his dead white eye with a colored contact lens, but she noticed that at some point he had removed it, bringing his eyes back to their heterochromic state, along with removing the dye from his hair. His Van Dyke was already starting to regrow. His whole way of moving, of speaking, seemed to have changed as well, physically becoming the Diogenes that she remembered from almost four years ago, but mentally different; not so hard-edged, not nearly so arrogant and acerbic.
“On the right,” he said, his hand moving from the chromed wheel toward a cluster of tiny islands covered with palmettos, “are the keys called the Rattlesnake Lumps.”