She swallowed. “No, we don’t,” she said aloud. “Spanish Island went bankrupt decades ago, it’s been shuttered and vacant since—”

The man raised the handgun again and casually shot Carlton Brodie in the groin. Blood, matter, and body fluids gushed over the love seat. Brodie howled in agony, doubled over again, fell out of his chair and writhed on the ground.

“All right!” June cried. “All right, all right, for the love of God stop it, please!” The words tumbled out.

“Shut him up,” the man said, “or I’ll have to.”

June rose and rushed over to her husband, doubled up and crying out in pain. She put a hand over his shoulder. Blood was running freely from his knee, between his legs. With an ugly gushing noise he vomited all over his trousers and shoes.

“Talk,” said the man, still casual.

“We were out there,” she said, almost spitting the words in her fright. “Out in the swamp. At Spanish Island.”

“For how long?”

“Since the fire.”

The man frowned. “The fire at Longitude?”

She nodded almost eagerly.

“What were you doing out there in the swamp?”

“Taking care of him.”

“Him?”

“Charles. Charles Slade.”

For the first time, the man’s mask of calm unconcern fell away. Surprise and disbelief bloomed on his fine features. “Impossible. Slade died in the fire…” He stopped talking and his eyes widened slightly, gleaming as if in comprehension.

“No. That fire was a setup.”

The man looked at her and spoke sharply. “Why? To destroy evidence of the lab?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know why. Most of the lab work was done at Spanish Island.”

Another look of surprise. June stared at her husband, who was moaning and shivering uncontrollably. He seemed to be passing out. Maybe dying. She sobbed, choked, tried to control herself. “Please…”

“Why were you hiding there?” the man asked. His tone was disinterested, but the gleam had not left his eyes.

“Charles got sick. He caught the avian flu. It… changed him.”

The man nodded. “And he kept you and your husband on to look after him?”

“Yes. Out in the swamp. Where he wouldn’t be found. Where he could work and then — when his disease got worse — where he could be taken care of.” She was almost choking with terror. The man was brutal — but if she told him everything, everything, maybe he would let them go. And she could get her husband to the hospital.

“Who else knew about Spanish Island?”

“Just Mike. Mike Ventura. He brought supplies, made sure we had everything we needed.”

The man hesitated. “But Ventura is dead.”

“He killed him,” June Brodie said.

“Who? Who killed him?”

“Agent Pendergast. FBI.”

“The FBI?” For the first time, the man raised his voice perceptibly.

“Yes. Along with a captain in the NYPD. A woman. Hayward.”

“What did they want?”

“The FBI agent was looking for the person who killed his wife. It had something to do with Project Aves — the secret avian flu team at Longitude… Slade had her killed. Years ago.”

“Ah,” the man said, as if understanding something new. He paused to inspect the fingernails of his left hand. “Did the FBI agent know about Slade’s still being alive?”

“No. Not until… Not until he got to Spanish Island and Slade revealed himself.”

“And then what? Did this FBI agent kill Slade, as well?”

“In a way. Slade died.”

“Why wasn’t any of this in the news?”

“The FBI agent wanted to let the whole thing die in the swamp.”

“When was this?”

“More than six months ago. March.”

The man thought for a moment. “What else?”

“That’s all I know. Please. I’ve told you everything. I need to help my husband. Please let us go!”

“Everything?” the man said, the slightest tinge of skepticism in his voice.

“Everything.” What else could there be? She’d told him about Slade, about Spanish Island, about Project Aves. There was nothing else.

“I see.” The man looked at her for a moment. Then he lifted his gun and shot Carlton Brodie between the eyes.

“God, no!” June felt the body jump in her arms. She screamed.

The man slowly lowered the gun.

“Oh, no!” June said, weeping. “Carlton!” She could feel her husband’s body slowly relaxing in her arms, a low, bellows-like sigh escaping his lungs. Blood was now coursing in regular rivulets from the back of his head, blackening the fabric of the love seat.

“Think very carefully,” the man said. “Are you sure you’ve told me everything?”

“Yes,” she sobbed, still cradling the body. “Everything.”

“Very well.” The man sat still for a moment. He chuckled to himself. “Moon pie. How vile.” Then he rose, and — still moving slowly — walked toward the chair where June had been working on the nursing forms. He hovered over it, glanced down at the paperwork for a moment as he snugged the gun into his waistband. Then he picked up her half-finished bottle of Coke, poured the contents into a nearby flowerpot, and — with a sharp rap to the side of the table — broke off its mouth.

He turned toward her, bottle held forward, at hip level. June stared at the sharp edges of the broken neck, the glass glinting in the lamplight.

“But I’ve told you everything,” she whispered.

“I understand,” he said, nodding sympathetically. “Yet one must be sure.”

CHAPTER 23

Inverkirkton

AFTERNOON, MR. DRAPER. And a fine afternoon it is, too.”

“Indeed it is, Robbie.”

“Did you have a good morning’s ride, then?”

“I did. Cycled as far as Fenkirk and back.”

“That’s a wee distance.”

“I wanted to take advantage of the good weather. I’ll be off in the morning.”

“I’ll hate to lose your trade, Mr. Draper. But I figured you’d be on your way soon. Lucky to have had you this long.”

“If you would just prepare the bill for me, I’ll square accounts.”

“Right away, sir.”

“You’ve been very hospitable. I think I’ll go up to my room and wash up, then pop over to the Half Moon for one last bite of steak-and-kidney pudding.”

“Very good, sir.”

Upstairs, Esterhazy washed his hands in the sink and dried them on a towel. For the first time in weeks, he felt a tremendous relief. All this time, he’d been unable to convince himself that Pendergast was dead. His search for Pendergast had developed into an obsession, consuming his waking thoughts, tormenting his dreams. But somehow, the visit to Glims Holm had — at long last — convinced him that Pendergast was dead. If the FBI agent were still alive, he’d have found some trace of him in his long, exhaustive search. If he were alive, Roscommon would have let slip some morsel of information during Esterhazy’s three visits to his clinic. If he were alive, Esterhazy would have found him at the stone cottage that morning. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He could go home and pick up his life from the point it had been upended when Pendergast and D’Agosta had first shown up on his doorstep.

Whistling, he closed the door to his room and descended the stairs. He was not concerned the old lady would venture into town to announce the assault, and even if she did the village so clearly thought her touched that her story would never be believed. The bicycle ride, and the eight-mile hike across the moors and back, had sharpened his appetite, and for the first time in weeks that appetite was not dulled by anxiety.

He entered the dark and fragrant confines of the Half Moon and settled onto a bar stool with satisfaction. Jennie Prothero and MacFlecknoe, the barkeep, were there in their usual positions: one before the bar, one behind.

“Afternoon, Mr. Draper, sir,” said MacFlecknoe as he drew a pint of the usual for Esterhazy.

“Afternoon, Paulie. Jennie.” Numerous rounds purchased by Esterhazy over the last week had earned him the considerable right of calling them by their Christian names.