Pendergast 00 - Extraction by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

Author:Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781455528080
Publisher: Hachette Book Group
Published: 2012-10-16T07:00:00+00:00

Yours truly,

Everett

“When I handed the letter back, my father looked at me intently. ‘Would you care to explain the meaning of this, Aloysius?’ His tone was mild and yet as coiled as a steel trap.

“Haltingly—with a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and fear—I told him all that had transpired. He listened intently, never asking a question or interrupting the flow of my narrative. When I was done, he sat back in his chair. He lit a cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully, still in silence; when it was a mere bit of ash between his fingertips, he dropped it into an ashtray, leaned forward, and read my uncle’s note again. Then he drew a deep breath, stood up, smoothed his shirtfront, opened a drawer, pulled out a revolver, checked to satisfy himself it was loaded, and snugged it into the rear of his waistband.

“ ‘What are you going to do, Father?’ I asked, though I could guess all too clearly.

“ ‘Going to see what has become of your uncle Everett,’ he replied. He strode out the study, toward the front door.

“ ‘Let me go,’ I blurted. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly in surprise.

“ ‘I can’t do that, son,’ he replied.

“ ‘But it’s my fault. I have to go. Don’t you see?’ I seized his shirt cuff. I pleaded. I insisted. I begged.

“At last, he nodded slowly. ‘Very well. Perhaps it—whatever it is—will prove a lesson to you.’ Just before opening the door, he turned as if taken by a new thought, took up a kerosene lantern, and then we ventured out into the night.

“Only several evenings previous I had walked down Dauphine Street and turned onto Montegut, precisely as we were doing now. Back then I’d been thinking about what a fool my brother was, and feeling great irritation at having to be the one to set him straight. Now—as we approached the dark and silent Dufour place—I felt a great weight on my heart. It was a blustery night, far more unsettled than on my previous outing; the trees thrashing and moaning as the wind stirred their branches, the streetlights throwing gyrating shadows on the road. The houses we passed were dark, shuttered up tight against the fury of the coming storm. I looked up to see thin clouds, scudding across a bloated yellow moon. Despite the presence of my father at my side, I was gripped by an anxiety of the soul, mortal terror of a sort I’ve scarcely known before or since.”

Pendergast fell silent. After several moments, he stood up and paced about the library, in a fashion not unlike that of Monsieur Bertin, forty-five minutes before. He paused to jab a poker into the fire, causing a flare-up of the dying coals that cast a panoply of flickering light across the room. After some more pacing, he made his way to the sideboard and poured himself a large brandy. He gulped it down; refilled his glass; and returned to his chair. Constance waited for him to resume.

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