AROUND FOUR PM, PENDERGAST halted at the second major fork in the Boston Post Road and looked about. It was an even lonelier spot than the first. Here, the Post Road continued northeastward, while another road went off to the left heading due north, in the direction of White Plains. It was rutted and strewn with dead weeds crushed into the frozen mud by wagon wheels.
After he’d passed Kings Bridge the night before, the road had entered a hilly region of farms and small villages, and after half a mile he’d come to the first main fork. The left-hand fork followed the route of the railroad, past the grand estates perched on the bluffs over the Hudson, meandering through such villages as Dobbs Ferry, Tarrytown, and Pocantico Hills. The right-hand fork was the continuation of the Boston Post Road.
At this point, Pendergast had been presented with his first decision. He stopped the horse and took a deep breath of the cold night air. The crossroads was cold and silent. He was on a high point of ground, and from it he surveyed the countryside. It was remarkable how dark the world had been before the advent of electric lights; how starry the night sky, and silent the landscape. He could see to his left a faint illumination of the Hudson Line, and a sprinkle of dim lights he assumed must be the village of Spuyten Duyvil. To the right, the Post Road continued on through Williamsbridge and Pelham, then northeastward along the shores of Long Island Sound and its many seaside villages.
It seemed likely Leng was taking Binky to a working farm, not a nouveau riche mansion set on manicured grounds, where a dirty farm wagon would attract attention and a flock of sheep would not be welcome. But he’d reminded himself that nothing about Leng could be taken for granted—and he’d spent much of the morning and early afternoon examining the least likely routes before returning … and choosing the right-hand fork.
Another few miles had brought him to the second major fork—and another decision. As he sat on Napoleon, looking up the long, desolate lane that again veered off from the Post Road, with mist rising from its half-frozen ground, he felt a strong sense of desuetude. He knew from a recent study of local maps that this road led to the scattered dairy farms and smallholdings of the Van Cortlandt region, initially settled by Dutch farmers in the seventeenth century and still relatively remote. He closed his eyes, calmed his mind, and considered the matter. Within moments, he felt certain no more time was needed investigating probable red herrings—this was the road Leng had taken. The man was going to a place he knew well and had long used. This northern road led into an area that was quiet and isolated, far from the gossipy small towns on Long Island Sound as well as from the conspicuous mansions along the Hudson. Somewhere along this road there would be a prosperous, working farm owned by Leng, no doubt in another guise—one with livestock and, in particular, sheep.
Sheep. That seemed odd. He had learned, firsthand, that the wagon that had spirited away Binky stank of sheep. But the wool trade was no longer practiced in the Hudson River valley, and mutton, being a poor man’s meat, was not a profitable trade. Why sheep? There were many dairy farms in the Van Cortlandt valley—but they were stocked with cows. And as he tried to penetrate the Umwelt of Leng, he suddenly understood: this farm to which the haycart had been headed was not about mutton or wool: it was about cheese.
He opened his eyes and breathed deeply of the cold winter air and then exhaled, staring as his breath took on shape and form as dark once again began to fall. The air smelled of ice. He gave Napoleon a nudge and sent him down the road less traveled.
*
As Pendergast rode along, he became aware that this might be the most difficult part of his pursuit: finding the right farm in this vast winter nightscape. But he also felt certain there would be evidence of one kind or another to guide his way.
A mile down the road, he halted his horse and dismounted. He lit a small lantern, then crouched to examine the frozen surface of the road. He noted the ground had become rutted during the freeze-thaw cycle of winter; the relative warmth of the day softened the muddy surface of the road, which would then freeze again at night. The previous Sunday, however, there had been an overcast sky; in the city it had not gone below freezing, and he surmised that had been the case out here as well. Leng’s cart would have left tracks. Unfortunately, he could see that too many wagons and carriages had passed in the intervening time, erasing any useful information.
Pendergast remounted Napoleon, loosened the reins to let the horse have his head, and closed his eyes once again. As the horse continued at a rocking pace, Pendergast used a series of mental exercises to clear his mind of stray thoughts, letting it become like a crystal pool of water. Gradually, the image of Binky in the hay wagon formed in his head, like a reflection on the water. The girl lay with her feet shackled, hands bound before her, a gag around her mouth. Blindfolded, as well: Leng would take no chances with a resourceful, energetic guttersnipe who’d learned the arts of survival in the worst slum of New York City. In the reflected image of his mind, it seemed to Pendergast that she was also tied or otherwise bound to the wagon itself, in order to prevent her from wriggling up and over the sideboards.
But as he observed the scene, he grew convinced that Leng, careful as he was, had made a mistake. Binky’s hands were bound in front … but her fingers were free.
Now Pendergast opened his eyes and halted the horse. He dismounted, relit the lantern, and—leading the animal by the reins—walked slowly along the road, head down, lantern held low to illuminate the ground. The road dipped and rose, and the night deepened as he continued on.
He had gone a quarter of a mile when he found what he was looking for: a piece of damp straw folded into a loose, crude knot.
Remounting Napoleon, he continued on. The tranquil crystal pool vanished from his mind, leaving two images behind. One was of Binky, cleverly tying pieces of straw together with her nimble fingers and dropping them over the side to serve as a sort of breadcrumb trail. But that image dissolved into another, very different, one: Leng, seated at the reins, a handful of straw in his lap—now and then tossing out precisely the same thing.