Bloodless

by Douglas Preston

  “Is the julep tart enough for you?” Pendergast asked.

  “It’s tart,” Coldmoon agreed.

  Pendergast looked around with satisfaction. “This is one of the more notable buildings in Savannah’s historic district,” he said. “That’s no mean feat, when you consider that almost half the structures in town are significant architecturally or historically.” His tone had taken on a faintly didactic air, and in this antique parlor, at the heart of what had once been the Old South, he seemed more in his element than Coldmoon had ever seen him. The phrase like a pig in shit came to mind, but he didn’t voice it.

  Pendergast went on. “Savannah doubled in size during the railroad boom of the mid-nineteenth century, you know, and buildings serving any number of functions quickly sprang up. This hotel, for example, was originally a hospital for yellow fever victims, and then a Confederate munitions factory, before becoming a lodging house. Like so many other structures, it fell into disrepair in the 1950s and closed in the ’60s. Luckily a guardian angel came along, and she judiciously restored it to its former charm.”

  Coldmoon tried another sip and set the drink aside. She? he wondered idly. He couldn’t speak to its former charm—how charming could a yellow fever hospital be?—but old: hell yes, it was old. True, the restoration had been done with care—everything was clean, there was no dust on the furniture—but the floorboards were wide and uneven and creaked and groaned with every footfall, until it felt like the whole place was griping. There were short sets of stairs everywhere, and the halls were crooked. And then there was his bedroom—large, with a four-poster bed and little frilly doilies over the chair backs and pillowcases…but no TV or internet. The bathroom was decked out like nothing he’d ever seen, with a massive porcelain tub and a marble shitter with a wooden seat. Not to mention the rows of little soaps and shampoos and body creams. A yellow fever hospital…Christ, that was perfect. What he wouldn’t give for a Hampton Inn and its modern conveniences right now.

  But he didn’t want any more history lectures, so he changed the subject. “What happened to Constance? She left the crime scene around the same time Pickett did…and I haven’t seen her since.”

  Pendergast’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “That is no coincidence. After her previous experience with Pickett’s idea of accommodations, she went along with him to make sure he booked us into a comfortable place. Good thing she did, too—he was about to get us rooms in some dreadful hotel chain on the edge of town.”

  Coldmoon sighed. “So Pickett left the crime scene just to arrange for our rooms? First he drags us here to Rebel Yell Central, then he vanishes. Nice way to pass the buck.”

  Pendergast finished his drink and set the glass on a nearby coaster. “I thought it was rather thoughtful of him.”

  Coldmoon looked up. “Thoughtful? He kidnaps the both of us, yanks me away from reporting to my new post—a post I was supposed to be at weeks ago—and then he dumps us in this creepy old place, to handle some damned čheslí case?”

  “I don’t speak Lakota, but I perfectly comprehend your tone of voice. And over the last several hours, I’ve observed your vexed attitude. So, as your partner, I’d like to make a suggestion, if I may.”

  Even though Coldmoon was angry, he noted Pendergast had not said senior partner. What was that—throwing him a bone? If so, he wasn’t taking it. The agent in the opposite chair, with his pale skin, pale hair, and pale eyes, looked irritatingly complacent, if not smugly satisfied. But Pendergast so rarely offered advice that Coldmoon’s instincts told him to shut up and listen.

  “I know no more about this case, or the politics that brought us here, than you do. Senator Drayton is a powerful man, and perhaps his support helped Pickett achieve his promotion to the highest echelons of the Bureau. But Pickett doesn’t like this case any more than you do. And he certainly isn’t planning to take any credit for it, whatever the outcome might be.”

  “How do you know that?” Coldmoon asked suspiciously.

  “Precisely because of the way he left us alone to deal with Commander Delaplane. When we examined the scene, when we spoke to potential witnesses…he was notably absent. Do you really think someone of his rank would busy himself in finding us lodging, instead of taking personal supervision of a high-profile case—one of importance to a U.S. senator?”

  “What are you saying—that he’s looking out for us?”

  “I’m saying he understands perfectly well how we both feel, and he’s signaling that he’s going to let us handle this investigation our way—which, I must say, is a notable change.” Pendergast rubbed his hands together, as if already anticipating the lack of oversight. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And the greedy Denver Field Office—may its tribe decrease!—won’t deny you that empty desk, when the time comes for you to claim it.”

  He settled back in his chair and resumed his normal voice. “In any case, the history here is deep and strong. For example, I just took a little stroll through some of the picturesque back streets.”

  “Is that why you vanished? To do some sightseeing?”

  “Not at all. I was following our good Dr. Cobb.”

  “That museum curator? Why?”

  “I had a hunch that after our conversation, he might pay a visit to someone…in rather a hurry. And indeed, he left the museum and went straight to the house of a wealthy old dowager known as Lida Mae Culpepper. She was apparently a great beauty in her time, sadly faded despite heroic surgical efforts, but well adorned in sapphires, diamonds, and gold.”

  Coldmoon couldn’t imagine where this was going.

  “The dowager Culpepper, it seems, recently invested in real estate: an old desanctified church over on Bee Road.”

  “And this has to do with what, exactly?”

  “Random musings on the fund of secrets in this town, simply aching to be revealed. I know of a fellow calling himself an ‘enigmalogist’ who’d give his eyeteeth to work here.” He waved his hand around the parlor. “This hotel, for instance.”

  “What about it?”

  Pendergast looked almost hurt. “Don’t you find this an intriguing establishment? Especially considering it’s where the first victim was employed?”

  Now Coldmoon, too, sat up. “You mean—”

  “My dear Coldmoon, did you think Constance chose this place at random? The body that was found washed up on the banks of the Wilmington River had, before his death, been the manager of the Chandler. We have work to do here.”

  As if on cue, Constance entered the room. She glanced around with her strange eyes, then took an empty seat near Pendergast.

  “I trust you found the rooms to your liking,” she said to him.

  “Perfect in every way. May I ask what you learned while you checked in?”

  “The usual rumor and gossip. On the night the manager disappeared, he went out for a smoke, and a short time later, a distant cry was heard from the park. He never returned.”

  Pendergast nodded. “An excellent beginning, Constance.”

  “I understand the assistant manager, a Mr. Thurston Drinkman III, has taken his place.”

  “A charming southern name. We will need to speak with him. And the proprietress.” He turned to Coldmoon. “That’s the woman who restored the hotel when it was about to be razed.”

  Constance nodded. “Her name is Miss Felicity Winthrop Frost. She’s a recluse of advanced years who occupies the entire top floor of the hotel and never leaves her rooms. She takes no calls or meetings and does not indulge in email. She is said to be very rich and, despite her age and frailty, rather fearsome.”

  “Constance, you are a marvel,” Pendergast said. “So she’s the Howard Hughes of Savannah.”

  Coldmoon had noticed the top floor as they’d entered. It was smaller than the lower four floors, with a cupola at its center, the tall old windows blocked with cloth.

  “Anything else we should know?” Pendergast asked. “Our friend Armstrong, here, seems to feel this case mig
ht not be worthy of our talents.”

  Constance fixed him with her gaze. “Not worthy? Lakota belief embraces a pantheon of divinities, does it not? Han, spirit of darkness; Iktomi, the spider god who brought speech to humans; Tatankan Gnaskiyan, ‘Crazy Buffalo,’ the evil spirit who drives lovers to suicide and murder?”

  She raised her eyebrows, as if to inquire whether this was correct, but Coldmoon was too surprised to answer.

  “I would think,” she continued when he did not reply, “that someone with your appreciation for spirits will find Savannah to be the most shadow-haunted place in all America.”

  9

  WENDY GANNON TRIED TO tune out Betts’s voice echoing down the long hallway from the editing room to the studio. She continued inventorying the lighting equipment, making a list of things she wanted to add, while Betts, reviewing the dailies, issued a loud and steady stream of expostulations, snorts of disfavor, and other sounds of disgust. As the director of photography, Gannon had initially been concerned that Betts wasn’t pleased with her work, but she soon realized that most of the time he was just acting out. Even when the camera was not trained on him, Barclay Betts was stuck in performance mode.

  The crew had arrived in Savannah several days ago to shoot an episode for their new, high-profile Netflix documentary mini-series, provisionally titled America’s Most Haunted Cities. It had sounded like an interesting project when she’d signed the contract, in a town she’d always wanted to visit. Betts had a reputation for being difficult to work with, but that was true with most directors, and Gannon prided herself on getting along with just about anyone. The town was indeed fabulous. It was one of the few places left in America that had retained a special local flavor, and had resisted the numbing effect of fast-food chains, gas stations, and big-box stores. It was a DP’s dream, a wonderful place to shoot, with mists rising in the early morning among the oaks draped in Spanish moss, the soft light in the evening gilding the grand old mansions, cobbled streets and charming squares—all on a bluff above a slow-moving river. The idea of the show was pretty intriguing, too. They were going to investigate the six most haunted places in Savannah with none other than Gerhard Moller, the famous medium, paranormal researcher, and founder of the Institute for Perceptual Studies. Moller was the inventor of the Percipience Camera—said to be able to capture pictures of ghosts or, as Moller called them, “spiritual turbulences”—as well as other spook-detecting devices. Each segment of the show would be devoted to investigating a single haunted locality to see if there really were ghosts and, if so, to document them using the Percipience Camera and other gadgets.

  Gannon was pretty sure this was all a big steaming load of horseshit, but you never knew. She wasn’t even sure whether Betts bought into it, although he seemed to. But if there really were ghosts, this was the place they’d be hanging out. She might even capture one on video. What a coup that would be.

  Barclay Betts…She’d worked with egomaniacs before, but she had to admit that he was a good director and anchor. He knew what he wanted and was on top of everything. His directions to her were clear, and he had an overall vision for the look and feel of the show that meshed with her own. True, he was a narcissistic asshole with a long memory and a penchant for lawsuits. But if the truth be told, she’d rather have a guy like Betts than a nice director who didn’t know what he wanted and had no clear vision. She’d worked with plenty of those, and they were far worse than a loudmouth jackass like Betts.

  The annoyed noises came to an end, and a moment later Barclay Betts strolled into the studio, followed by the talent, Gerhard Moller. The two together were quite a sight, Abbott and Costello reborn. Moller was tall, silent, and handsome in a cadaverous sort of way. He looked a lot like Peter Cushing, with an expression of deep seriousness, as if pondering the end of the world. Betts, on the other hand, was round. Everything about him was rotund, from the spectacles and head to the deep, plump voice. He rarely stopped talking and moving, as restless as a large round rat in a small square box. But he had that thing all anchors must possess: charisma. Even though he wasn’t physically prepossessing, when he walked into a room, you could feel it right away.

  “These dailies, there’s a problem with the exposure,” Betts said, launching into more criticism. “Look, darling, I want you to expose half a stop lower, so that we can get more saturation and a darker feel. It’s too bright. This isn’t a Travel Channel informercial, this is demon-haunted Savannah. You understand what I’m saying?”

  This annoyed Gannon, because she was of the philosophy that exposure manipulation was best saved for later, that it was better to give post properly exposed video. But it wasn’t something worth disagreeing about—not with Betts.

  “Right,” she said. “Noted. Good point.”

  He patted her knee. “Good girl.”

  It was almost laughable how retrograde he was. Frankly, she didn’t give a shit about being called a “girl” or having him pat her knee: Betts wasn’t a harasser. In fact, his sexuality was quite mysterious—he could very well be gay, straight, bi, asexual. Which was maybe a good thing, since all his energy went into making the provocative and controversial documentary films for which he was both infamous and renowned. The critics, of course, hated him.

  Barclay Betts now turned to Moller. “Don’t you agree? Demon-haunted Savannah. I like that. Let’s use that phrase tomorrow. In fact, that could be our new working title for the series.”

  “Mr. Betts,” said Moller, his voice carrying with it a faint Teutonic accent, “may I ask when we are going to investigate a haunting? We have been here for days and have yet to inspect a single locality with spiritual turbulences.”

  “Don’t worry, Gerhard, your star turn is coming soon. We’re scheduled at the Hamilton-Turner Inn on Friday. Right now, we’re shooting B-roll and background, just ironing out the kinks. We’d be further ahead if it weren’t for that damned murder investigation and the blocked streets.”

  Moller didn’t respond.

  “Crazy thing. Two people with their blood stolen,” Betts went on, flopping down in a chair. “Really sucks, you know what I mean?”

  If he expected a laugh from Moller, he was mistaken. Gannon figured the man hadn’t laughed once in his entire life. But she obliged with a chuckle.

  “Thank you,” said Betts. “I mean, I did overhear somebody mention something about a ‘Savannah Vampire.’ You know anything about that?”

  “No,” said Gannon.

  “Gerhard, darling?”

  The man shook his head.

  “This camera of yours, does it photograph vampires, too?”

  “The Percipience Camera should indeed be able to capture images of vampires, werewolves, and similar phenomena involving spiritual dislocation.”

  Betts leaned back in his seat, rolling out a wet lower lip and placing a finger on his chin, which Gannon had learned meant he was thinking. He turned to her. “Wendy, while we’re at it, we might as well grab some footage on these murders.” He stared off into space. “The Savannah Vampire…who knows where it might lead?”

  “Sure,” said Wendy. It did make sense, “demon-haunted Savannah” and all that.

  Betts turned and yelled down the hall. “Hey, Marty! Come here!”

  Martin Vladimirovich was the crew’s long-suffering researcher-assistant. He appeared a moment later from his cubicle down the hall. He always looked like he’d just woken up, his hair flattened along one side. Sleepy and disheveled seemed to be the style, Gannon thought, among twenty-somethings, perhaps as a way to show they didn’t give a shit. But underneath that veneer, Marty was a smart and capable researcher.

  “Go find out everything you can about any local vampire legends,” said Betts. “You know—history, lore, victims, all that shit.”

  “Yes, Mr. Betts.”

  “And if you don’t find anything, or if it’s dull…well, you know what to do.”

  “Yes, Mr. Betts.” And he shuffled back down the hall.

  Betts
went on. “You know, with this happening right in the middle of filming, it might even make for a great through-line. Maybe we could get a bunch of Percipience photos of ghosts or whatever at one of the murder scenes—right, Gerhard?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Great! Hell, maybe we could even solve the case with that camera. Think about that. This isn’t some ghostly haunting that’s a hundred years old—this is something going on today.” He turned to Gannon. “We’ve got a police scanner radio, right?”

  “Of course.” A scanner was obligatory equipment for a film crew in a city.

  “Tomorrow, let’s shoot some footage of the cops and the investigation. When Marty digs up some background, we can shoot at some of those locations, too. Think about it, darling: two bodies, sucked dry of blood. You never know where this is going. It could be big, and I mean big.”

  10

  FRANCIS WELLSTONE JR., SLOWED his brisk walk as he eyed the numbers over the stately front doors flanking West Oglethorpe Avenue. Sixty-seven, sixty-three…there it was: a neocolonial manse with just the right amount of genteel craquelure over the stone façade. It could have been a film set lifted right out of Jezebel.

  He adjusted his tie—damn, he’d forgotten how humid Savannah was—cleared his throat, and ascended the steps. As he rang the doorbell, he caught a reflection of himself in the frosted glass: the hair with just a touch of gray, the faint patrician lines coming out at the edges of his eyes: a visage that over the years had graced so many television interviews. Odd, he thought, that he wasn’t recognized more frequently on the street.

  There was a bustle from inside, and then the door opened to reveal a well-preserved woman, perhaps seventy years old, makeup carefully done, white hair tinged a shade of lavender, clothes expensive enough to artfully conceal a good twenty extra pounds.

  “Mr. Wellstone!” she said, her eyes running up and down his suit.

  “Mrs. Fayette?”