15

15

T HE "COTTAGE" ROSE ABOVE the spruce trees like a gigantic, shingled castle, its eaves shagged with icicles, the windows shuttered and mysterious. The distant Atlantic stretched out beyond and below the mansion, a gray heaving surface smoking in the bitterly cold air. D'Agosta, holding Joe's hand—the only warm thing anywhere—could hear the distant sound of surf crashing on the rocks. The steamship ride from Boston had been brutal—he was sick as a dog on the rough winter seas—then followed by a ride in an actual horse-drawn sleigh with jingling bells, which might have been interesting if he hadn't just about frozen his junk. Not until he'd spent these last several days in this strange universe did it occur to him just how many twenty-first-century conveniences he took for granted. On top of that, the train ride had given him way too much time to mull over the idea that he was trapped in this world; that he'd never see his wife, Laura, again, have another beer with his work buddy Coldmoon… or even drive a car.

At first, D'Agosta had felt the silent Joe to be a millstone around his neck—one he resented being saddled with. How was he going to keep this kid occupied? Would there be a school on the island? There was so much Pendergast hadn't told him. But he and Joe had both enjoyed playing cards—the kid was a determined and clever player. While clearly anxious, he was a tough kid, not prone to showing emotion, and for that at least D'Agosta was grateful. Nothing, in fact, seemed to faze him. On the contrary, it was D'Agosta who was put out by the whole assignment. And then, on the steamship to Bar Harbor, Joe had refused to leave his side even as he fled to the windswept, frozen deck to puke his guts out. And when they were back inside the cabin, Joe had fetched him, without being prompted, a pot of hot tea. The kid didn't talk much—except when asking directions at the station and elsewhere. D'Agosta himself had tried to keep silent, thinking his manner of speech might cause suspicion. At heart, Joe was a steady, reliable kid, and might surprisingly enough even become a comfort to D'Agosta, overwhelmed by this absurd situation and the horrible thought he might never get home again.

Initially, he'd wondered if Joe might bolt at the first opportunity. Pendergast had briefed him on the boy's background and disposition. Only recently sprung from prison, Joe had just gone through a terrible spasm of violence that had torn his family apart and left him alone with a strange man to boot. But it seemed, somehow, the boy was smart enough to sense D'Agosta was an ally and friend, someone he could depend on and even look up to.

His presence had stirred up memories of D'Agosta's son from his first marriage. At twelve, Vinnie Jr. had also been reserved and stubborn—a tall, serious boy. He had kept his stalwart nature even at eighteen, as he was dying of acute myeloid leukemia. D'Agosta knew Joe must have suffered a lot in Blackwell's prison and as a homeless kid on the streets, but he faced it just as Vinnie had faced his illness—with stoic bravery and silence.

"That's big," said Joe matter-of-factly, staring up at the mansion.

It was gigantic. D'Agosta wasn't sure he had ever seen a bigger house. "Yeah, sure is," he said, trying to put some cheer in his voice.

"I thought it was a cottage."

"Apparently, that's what the very rich call their summer homes—no matter how large they are."

"Right this way, sir," said the sleigh driver, as he came around and directed them toward the porte cochere. "Right this way."

"I'll bet there's a ghost," said Joe.

D'Agosta was startled; he'd been thinking the same thing as he stared up at the dark bulk, with its steep roofs, square towers, gables, and eyebrow dormers. The place looked forbidding, if not downright menacing. "I'll bet it just looks scarier than it is," he said. "Anyway, it'll be nice and warm inside."

The driver hustled up to the door and, fumbling with his gloves, removed a key and inserted it into the lock. The door swung back to reveal an entryway opening into a vast salon, the windows showing a few cracks of light through the shutters. Far from being warm, the mansion felt even colder inside than without. All the furniture and paintings were draped in white sheets, the carpets rolled up, the tables covered. Even the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling were tied up in sheets, floating overhead like great shapeless apparitions.

"The heated part of the house is through here," said the driver, bustling across the salon to a passageway. After several windings through chill corridors, they came to a stout door, which the man opened. Out poured the yellow light of kerosene lanterns and a welcome flow of warmth. They entered a cozy set of rooms: small and plain, apparently the kitchen and scullery of the servants' quarters. Perhaps this would feel more familiar to Joe, less alien. In any case, it was warm, gloriously warm, the heat radiating from an iron stove at the end of the room, on which a pot of coffee exuded a welcome scent.

Two people, a man and a woman, sat on either side of the stove. The woman was knitting while the man nursed a cup of coffee. She set down her work and rose to greet them. They made a funny pair, D'Agosta thought—both in their fifties, the woman big and bosomy and cheerful, with a red face and curly orange hair, and the man thin as a rail, stooped and dour, with droopy mustaches. He did not rise. He didn't even look up.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cookson," the driver said. "Caretakers."

Mrs. Cookson enveloped D'Agosta's hand in hers with a beaming smile. "Mr. Harrison, welcome to Norumbega," she said.

Norumbega ? D'Agosta felt a momentary confusion.

"That's Mr. Rockefeller's name for the house," Mrs. Cookson said. "It was a mythical land of gold and pearls that the early English explorers looked for around these parts but never found—of course."

"I see. Thanks for the explanation."

"And who is the young master?" Mrs. Cookson turned toward Joe and bent down to take his hand.

"Joe," the youth said gravely.

"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.