THE SUN HAD ALREADY risen in the eastern sky an hour before Pendergast peered down from the top of a hill, surveying the landscape with a pair of binoculars. After spending the night in a meadow some distance away, where he’d made sure Napoleon was fed and watered, he’d left the horse tied up in a copse, well hidden, while he made his way up the hill at dawn, creeping the last few yards. Mists had risen from the fells and dales of the surrounding farms.
The trail of knotted straw—sparse to begin with—seemed to have vanished. Whatever its origin, it seemed likely Leng’s wagon had turned off the road and headed to one of three farms Pendergast could see in the valley. All were isolated, the farmhouses and outbuildings buried in hollows or surrounded by trees, the encircling fields spreading out broadly across the land, separated by hedgerows and windbreaks. This was dairy country, and he saw small herds of dairy cows, released from the barns, make their way to grazing areas that, despite the season, were clear of snow and offered some meager sustenance. He remained in his blind—motionless, watching—until at the farthest farm he saw what he was looking for: a flock of sheep meandering up a hill, driven by a shepherd with a dog.
The sheep’s milk, he felt sure, was for making cheese. If the farthest farm specialized not in dairy per se, but in cheese making, such an establishment would have cellars or natural caves of the kind necessary for aging cheese—and useful for other, more nefarious purposes.
He crept down from the summit of the hill and back to Napoleon. Stroking the horse, he praised him and murmured a soft goodbye in his ear. Then he unbridled and unsaddled the horse, hung the bridle on a tree branch, propped the saddle on a rock, and turned the horse loose. He knew such a beautiful animal would soon find a good home, and the lucky traveler who happened upon the abandoned saddle and bridle would be grateful indeed.
He ventured back to the road, where he could just make out the gables of the target farm’s main house peeking above the protected dell in which it lay. A stream ran past the rambling old structure, deep in shadow, and it was along these wooded banks that Pendergast decided he would make his approach.
He cast a final glance back at Napoleon, who was standing next to the road, ears perked, watching him quizzically. Another murmured goodbye, and then the horse turned and trotted away, tossing his head with newfound freedom, breathing out clouds of condensation as the sun broke over the horizon.
Crossing the road, Pendergast vaulted a split-rail fence, then traversed a field, moving rapidly and keeping to low areas of ground. He had fixed the terrain in his mind during his long vantage from the top of the hill; he had seen no movement except in the immediate vicinity of the barn, and it was a simple matter to work his way to the small stream burbling along a pebbled course edged by ice, overhung on both sides with bare trees.
He moved downstream, following the meandering course of the rivulet and staying under cover. He calculated it was about eight-tenths of a mile to the farmhouse—a distance he could cover in less than fifteen minutes. Keeping rigid track of both time and distance allowed him to follow his progress across the landscape as clearly as if he were viewing his location on a modern GPS. As the sun rose over the bare tops of the trees, the stream brightened and he began moving more cautiously, keeping to areas of heavier vegetation. The farmhouse was now one final turn of the stream away, and as he came around, creeping through the bushes, he could see it clearly across a broad expanse of matted grass. The farm was showing robust signs of life: smoke streaming from the house’s chimneys, a strange-looking man carrying wood inside, another rolling open the door of the adjacent barn—but the shepherd was away with his sheep and, once he’d satisfied himself as to the rest, Pendergast could plan his final approach.
He heard a stealthy sound behind him in the nearby bushes, then another, farther and to his left. He did not turn, did not even move, but merely tensed ever so slightly. The sounds approached from two sides. Still, he did not react … until he felt the icy steel of a muzzle press itself into the back of his neck, while a second individual with scabby lips and a boil on his face emerged from the thicket to his left, rifle leveled.
“Mr. Prendergrast,” came the voice from behind him. “Raise your arms nice and slow, like.”
“That’s Pendergast,” he said coolly as he complied. “Please do get the name right, at least.”