Synopsis
From the #1 New York Times bestselling duo Preston and Child comes the Agent Pendergast origin story—a golden opportunity for longtime fans and new readers to learn about Agent Pendergast’s strange and shocking first case.
It only took six months for the life of Special Agent Dwight Chambers to crumble around him. First, he lost his partner, and then, tragically, his wife. Returning to work at the New Orleans Field Office, Chambers is dismayed to find himself saddled with mentoring a brand new FBI agent—a certain A. X. L. Pendergast. As Chambers tries to pull himself together, his enigmatic and exasperating junior partner pulls an outrageous stunt that gets both of them suspended.
Pendergast welcomes the banishment, because it gives him the opportunity to investigate a peculiar murder in Mississippi that has captured his fancy. Chambers grudgingly goes along. What starts off as a whimsical quest swiftly turns into a terrifying pursuit, as Chambers and Pendergast uncover a string of grisly, ritualistic killings that defy any known serial killer profile.
Thanks in large part to Pendergast’s brilliance and unorthodox methods, they solve the case and find the killer… and that is when the true horror begins.
Review
According to the Goodreads star-ratings metric, two stars means a book was OK. If one must use a star-rating, this works well enough since Pendergast: The Beginning is the textbook definition of a supremely OK book. Coming along as entry #23 in the Pendergast series, co-authors Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child go back in time to just before their collaborative debut with The Relic to explore the titular FBI agent’s first case a newbie investigator in ye olden days of 1994.
This makes for a neat trip down memory lane, although I shudder at the realization that some of you reading this now might not even have been born then (a thought that has prompted me to sprout at least three more gray hairs), but Pendergast itself feels less like a story the authors were in urgent need of telling than a book written to fulfill a contractual obligation. Sure, they throw in the requisite twists and turns, transforming a rote serial killer story into something more nefarious and deeper, not to mention something straight out of another ‘90s staple, The X-Files, but it lacks that particular spark of yesteryear.
Keeping a series character feeling fresh after 30 years is a difficult task for any author. I stopped reading the Pendergast books roughly 15 years ago after Cemetery Dance and have only occasionally dipped back into the various other series Preston & Child have dreamt up since. I haven’t felt much of a need to check back in with Pendergast, but nostalgia and curiosity once again got the better of me with The Beginning. I’m happy to report this wasn’t a complete waste of my time, but I probably won’t feel the need to pick up a Pendergast book for at least another 15 years.
Pendergast, for me, is a character that has always worked better in small doses as a supporting character. He’s an eccentric, anachronistic, know-it-all oddball. He’s a Deep South Hercule Poirot derivative, a moneyed aristocrat who never feels like a contemporary character but one that has been plucked from a Holmesian mystery book several centuries past and plopped into the present-day, of which he is completely oblivious to. Pendergast is not without charm, but it’s easier to relate to senior Agent Chambers, the Lestrade to Pendergast’s Holmes, whom he is partnered with in The Beginning. Chambers is often completely exasperated by and at wits end with the ostensibly younger agent’s roguish deductions, leaps of logic, and overall strange behavior. I, too, have come to find myself more exasperated than charmed by Pendergast over the years, particularly as he has become the central focus of so many books that have served to progressively strip away the mystery and deepen the soap opera of his weirdo life. See again: small doses.
Pendergast: The Beginning is written with a certain irony, of course. At one point, Chambers thinks of the clues his partner has uncovered as the kind that can only exist in fiction. It’s also a wink and a nod to readers, given that Pendergast is the type of character that can only exist in fiction. He’s a striking work of imagination, but every time he appears on page we are forced to reckon with the uncanny valley of his artificial existence. Nobody speaks or behaves like this in the real world. He’s a comic book character writ large, a sort of Batman for popular fiction airport reads, with his master of disguise schtick, which we see in the book’s opening, and suit jacket cum utility belt filled with hidden compartments chockfull of the investigator’s tools. Pendergast isn’t an FBI agent so much as he’s the imaginary ideal of an FBI agent, working for the imaginary ideal of a competent federal investigatory agency that, even in this entirely made-up world, has a hard time putting up with his shit.
Said shit eventually culminates in a fiery climax set aboard a paddle wheel steamboat, because not even Pendergast’s nemeses can behave even the least bit contemporary, forcing one to question why these guys aren’t caught sooner. If you want to know who the killer in any given Pendergast book is, look for the guy who acts like he’s a Jame Bond villain that’s at least two centuries past their expiration date.
Part of the problem with Pendergast: The Beginning is that it’s tonally inconsistent. It tries to be everything for everyone and ultimately feels like nothing more than a mish-mash of incongruent oddities. Lincoln & Child have their fun crafting a modern-day Sherlock Holmes howdunit (who the bad guy is is never in question for long, to either readers or Pendergast himself), right down to giving Pendergast his own Moriarty (something they’d already done previously in the Diogenes trilogy). Their wannabe brainy horror-mystery then devolves into a straight-up actioner that reads like Under Siege on a riverboat. Readers, it is impossible not to feel some degree of whiplash swinging from Sherlock Holmes straight into a ‘90s-era Steven Seagal set piece.
As a teenager in the ‘90s, I couldn’t help but think of The Relic as one of literature’s greats. It helped scratch that particular itch I had as an X-Files obsessive. Thirty years later, I can’t help but see Pendergast, with all its pastiche derivations and its central character’s baggage of oddities, as pure silliness. Fun, certainly, but still supremely silly, with Pendergast and all his affectations, coming across as the silliest of them all. In another year, in another country, under a different presidential administration, I might question how he’s managed to keep himself employed in the FBI, but considering the state of our constantly norm-defying, increasingly AI slop-ridden, real world and the agency currently being led by the ever-embarrassing Trump cultist Kash Patel, I suppose I must give him yet another pass. I don’t know if Pendergast is any sillier than what’s happening outside these book’s pages, but I do know he’s certainly less harmful.
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