Page 23 of Angel of Vengeance
“Very nice to meet you, Joe. How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s a fine age.”
Joe, in his typical silent fashion, merely nodded.
“Will you stay for a cup of coffee?” she asked the carriage driver.
“I’d best be off afore sunset,” he replied. Then he wrapped his scarf back around his neck and disappeared out into the main house, closing the door behind him with a gust of frigid air.
“Coffee?” Mrs. Cookson asked D’Agosta.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“And for you, young man? Hot chocolate?”
Joe nodded.
“Have a seat.” She fetched D’Agosta a mug of coffee. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Mr. Rockefeller is concerned about security, and at our age we’re just not able to keep up as we should. The house is full of valuable things, of course. I know your presence will be such a reassurance to Mr. Rockefeller—you being an ex-policeman and all.”
D’Agosta wondered who might rob a house in the dead of winter on a remote island in Maine. Even more to the point, he wondered how Pendergast had gotten an in with the Rockefellers on such short notice, let alone arranged for him to be hired on as extra security for the premises. But it was useless to speculate: he’d long ago given up trying to figure out Pendergast’s inscrutable methods or trace his wide-ranging connections. The important thing was the place, being at the ends of the earth, seemed safe from Leng and his henchmen.
“I was sorry to hear of the loss of your wife,” went on Mrs. Cookson, apparently in a talkative mood—and no wonder, with a husband as taciturn as hers. “I hope you’ll find the peace and quiet up here to your liking.”
Loss of his wife. D’Agosta, aka George Harrison, was playing the part of a grieving widower with a child—that was part of the hasty biographical sketch Pendergast had provided as he bundled them off. But the phrase hit home: if he couldn’t find a way to return, Laura truly would be lost to him.
Mr. Cookson got up from his seat, fetched two sticks of wood from a pile beyond the warm kitchen, inserted them into the stove, and sat down again. Mrs. Cookson refilled his mug as if by habit.
“As you can imagine,” Mrs. Cookson said, “the island’s quiet during the winter. There’s a small year-round community of lobstermen, a two-room schoolhouse for Joe and the other children, a one-horse fire station, and a church. Of course it all changes in the summertime, with all the wealthy folk arriving, dances and theatricals, lawn parties and boating and the Lord knows what else. What church do you attend, Mr. Harrison?”
D’Agosta couldn’t remember Pendergast’s instructions on this point, or even if there had been some, and he stammered: “We’re, uh, we’re Catholic.”
This statement caused even Mr. Cookson to look up briefly.
“Oh dear,” the woman said. “Roman Catholic? We’ve not got a church of that persuasion on the island.”
D’Agosta hesitated. He really didn’t go to church anymore, to be honest, but he sensed that Mrs. Cookson would not be happy to hear that. “I’m sure God won’t mind if we attend your church while we’re here.”
“Very good. I think we’re going to get along well.” She eyed the two newcomers for a moment. “Mr. Harrison, I was warned you and Joe might not come prepared for a Maine winter. I can already see that to be the case. Mr. Rockefeller instructed me to make sure you are both properly dressed, and he offered some of his secondhand family clothing. I shall have Mr. Cookson bring some down from the attic.” She cocked her head. “You’re a trifle stout, but I’m a good seamstress and we’ll be able to accommodate.”
“Thank you. I’m not used to this kind of cold.”
“That will change soon enough.” She smiled, looking like an oracle. “Now—Mr. Harrison, Joe—let me show you to your rooms.”
D’Agosta started to follow her, then paused at the staircase, turned back to Joe, and leaned down conspiratorially. “If there is some old ghost, we’ll give him what for—what do you say?” And he mimed a gun with his thumb and index finger.
Joe’s eyes lit up in a way D’Agosta hadn’t seen before. “We will, by jingo!” he whispered back almost fiercely. “He’ll get such a thrashing he’ll just have to go haunt somewhere else.”
And the two shook on it.
16
PENDERGAST SAUNTERED DOWN TO the seaport, where a huge board fence had been erected around a construction site on the East River. The fence was painted green and had been up long enough to be plastered with many layers of playbills and announcements. Slots had been cut in the boards so that passersby could view the activity beyond, and there were quite a few availing themselves of the opportunity.
Pendergast made use of one of these slots. Peering through it, he saw a massive site crawling with hundreds of workers. There were great piles of cut stone, steel, cranes, steam shovels, huge metal caissons. A monstrous cut had been made into the bedrock of Manhattan Island along the river’s margin, mostly filled with concrete, stone, and steel. A half-built tower of granite and limestone rose up from the river itself, and a second could be seen in the distance, near the far shore.
The Brooklyn Bridge was nearing completion.