Bloodless

by Douglas Preston

  “In what way?” Pendergast murmured.

  “That was obscure. All I have are my speculations.”

  A large delivery truck rattled down the street beneath them, causing the iron veranda to tremble slightly. “By all means, speculate,” Pendergast said.

  “Very well. But please don’t criticize my logic or ask me to provide supporting arguments.”

  “I would never be so importunate.”

  Constance suppressed a smile and looked out over the darkness of Chatham Square. “I have three thoughts in particular. One: Although she had plenty of money when she arrived in Savannah, she did not originally come from money. I believe her childhood was happy, but poor. Two: As much as she mourns Ellerby’s passing—we didn’t touch on just how close their relationship was—I sense that she had an even deeper emotional connection somewhere else, somewhere in her past. She may have lost someone, or left someone, long ago, and now in her old age she regrets it bitterly. And three: I sense that she carries a burden of guilt that manifests itself in grief—and fear.”

  “Guilt about Ellerby’s death?”

  “No, something she did long before that. It’s been her companion a long time—and it’s growing more acute.”

  Pendergast took a long, thoughtful sip. “Very interesting, Constance.”

  She hesitated. “There’s one other thing.”

  He put down the snifter.

  “She has a book, very much thumbed, that she keeps with her almost constantly. Naturally, it became an object of my interest. I took the opportunity to examine it.”

  Pendergast leaned forward. “And?”

  “It was a copy of Spoon River Anthology.”

  “Edgar Lee Masters?” Pendergast sat back, visibly deflated.

  “Not exactly Ezra Pound’s Cantos, I know. But poetry can be loved for its sentiment rather than its quality.”

  Pendergast waved a hand, conceding the point.

  “In any case,” Constance went on, “it was the inscription on the flyleaf that I thought might interest you. It’s not taken from the book itself. It reads: ‘From Z.Q. to A.R. To me, you’ll always be “that great social nomad who prowls on the confines of a docile, frightened order.” Berry Patch, 4/22/72.’”

  Pendergast asked Constance to repeat the inscription again.

  “And the author of that quotation?” Pendergast asked. “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “I googled it and came upon the French philosopher Michel Foucault. But it’s been altered. The original quotation in full is: The lyricism of marginality may find inspiration in the image of the outlaw, the great social nomad, who prowls on the confines of a docile, frightened order.”

  Pendergast pulled the bottle of calvados toward him and began turning it slowly, round and round, lost in thought. At last, he said: “What do you think it means?”

  “That this A.R. is an outlaw—and a successful one.”

  He put down the bottle. “And who is ‘A.R.’?”

  Constance gave a small, gentle laugh. “I would wager she is A.R. To this Z.Q., anyway.”

  Pendergast withdrew his fingers from the bottle. “I would agree. Also that she is the outlaw.”

  “An admirable outlaw—at least to Z.Q.”

  “Indeed. And now let me tell you something of interest. You mentioned before that you could find no trace of her existence before 1972. That intrigued me. I took a turn around the FBI’s most excellent databases and discovered that Felicity Winthrop Frost died in 1956.”

  Constance raised an eyebrow.

  “She died at twelve and was buried in a cemetery in a place called Puyallup, a suburb of Seattle.”

  “How very strange,” Constance said. “What does it mean?”

  “Quite simply, our proprietress stole somebody else’s identity. In the days before the Social Security Administration computerized their records and cross-referenced them with deaths, it was not difficult. You found a dead person of about your age, got his or her social security number, and obtained a driver’s license in that name. With those, you could claim to have lost your birth certificate and get a replacement copy. The birth certificate would get you a passport, bank account, any official documents you wanted.”

  “And that’s why I could find nothing about her prior to 1972.”

  “Precisely. She assumed her new identity in that year, the same year she received the book. Perhaps it was a parting gift as she went off into the world as a different person.” He paused. “Excellent work, Constance. I congratulate you.”

  “You made the most important contribution yourself.”

  “You trimmed the tree—I merely mounted the star.”

  “I’m still not sure how this information advances your case.”

  “Information is like electricity; it powers the light that allows us to see our way forward.”

  “Who said that?” Constance asked.

  “I did.”

  Constance finished her cognac, set down the snifter, pushed back her chair, and stood up. “If you don’t mind, then, I’ll go spend an hour or so in my claw-footed bathtub.”

  Pendergast rose and—wordlessly—drew her to him, kissing her good night. As their lips parted, she hesitated a moment, then leaned in again, her arms encircling his neck. Their lips met once more—longer, this time. Then Pendergast—ever so gently—withdrew from the embrace. Constance unwound her arms from him and took a step away.

  “So,” she said, her voice lower and huskier than usual. “It’s as I thought.”

  “My dearest Constance—” Pendergast began again, but she stilled him by pressing a fingertip to his lips.

  “Please, Aloysius. Say no more.” Then she smiled faintly, drew a few stray mahogany hairs away from her eyes with the same fingertip, and left through the French doors.

  Sitting down again, Pendergast’s gaze returned to the middle distance of the veranda. For five minutes, then ten, he remained motionless. And then, with a troubled sigh, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket, activated an internet browser, and began searching.

  42

  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, AGENT Coldmoon emerged onto the veranda via the same door through which Constance had exited. He stepped out and glanced around at the evening vista. “Nice. Very nice. How come you’ve got a balcony and I don’t?”

  “You used to,” Pendergast replied. “I’m afraid your addiction to burnt, boiled coffee cost you your balcony privileges. Please—have a seat.”

  Coldmoon settled into one of the uncomfortable iron chairs. At least the view was pleasing and the night breeze was, for a change, dry and refreshing. He noticed the bottle of calvados, saw one glass was empty.

  “Do you mind?” he said, even as he poured himself a large measure.

  “Not at all, as long as you appreciate that snifter now contains about forty dollars’ worth of fine calvados, and not peppermint schnapps.”

  Coldmoon laughed. “What’s up?” he asked, taking a swig.

  “I wanted to give you notice that we’re leaving shortly.”

  “Oh?” Coldmoon had never tasted calvados before, and he liked how the faint taste of apple softened the bite of the brandy. “Did you solve the case while sitting out here?”

  “We are taking up another avenue of investigation. We’re flying to Portland.”

  Coldmoon almost coughed up his drink. “Portland? As in Oregon?”

  “That is correct. We need to leave within the hour, if we’re to make a connection in Atlanta for the last flight of the night.”

  “But—but that’s on the West Coast!”

  “Your knowledge of geography overwhelms me.”

  Before Coldmoon could reply, Pendergast continued. “I can imagine the protests you’re likely to make. Let me assure you I wouldn’t suggest this trip if I didn’t think it absolutely necessary. We’ll only be gone one day.”

  “What about the investigation here?” Coldmoon said. “We’re at a critical point. And that son of a bitch Drayton? He’s alr
eady raising hell about our failure to apprehend a suspect.”

  “He will say what he will say.”

  “And what about the vampire?” Coldmoon asked with a hint of malice. “What the hell are we to gain from the trip? What’s the purpose?”

  “We’ve reached a point in the case where I believe we must go backward in time before we can move forward.”

  “You’re talking in riddles again,” said Coldmoon, draining his brandy. “We’re equal partners now—remember?”

  Pendergast leaned forward. “Here is why we must make this journey, partner.” He went on to speak in a low voice, in short sentences. Coldmoon, listening, swore first in Lakota, then in English—and then remained quiet until Pendergast sat back once again.

  “Okay, Kemosabe,” he said after a silence, rolling his eyes. “That’s some crazy shit. But I’ve been with you long enough not to dismiss it out of hand. I’ll ride shotgun with you. On two conditions. First: if there’s any blowback from this little field trip, you’ll take one for the team.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And second—Oregon isn’t all that far away from Colorado. I can’t promise you that, once I’m out west, I won’t get a hankering to head for Denver. Where my real job is waiting.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “In that case, I’d better start packing.” And Coldmoon stood up.

  “Armstrong?”

  At the sound of his first name, Coldmoon glanced back. “Yeah?”

  “Pilámaya.”

  “No problem.” And Coldmoon vanished into the hotel.

  43

  FOR COLDMOON, THE NEXT twelve hours passed in a blur. There was some frantic packing; then an Uber to the Savannah/Hilton Head airport; then a bumpy but mercifully short ride in a prop plane to Atlanta—and then they were moving briskly through the big airport, Pendergast’s badge perpetually clearing the way, and onto the flight to Portland with minutes to spare. Once again in the air, Coldmoon—against his better judgment—ordered two vodka tonics. He woke up in Oregon with a headache, and followed Pendergast to an airport rental agency. He took the passenger seat while Pendergast got behind the wheel of a Jeep Wrangler. Coldmoon took notice of how rare this arrangement was: Pendergast behind the wheel, playing chauffeur. He realized the senior agent had mapped everything out in advance, handling logistics effortlessly, batting aside impediments.

  At four o’clock in the morning, as they were driving north out of Portland in a drizzling rain, Coldmoon fell asleep again.

  He woke up, cramped and sore, to a leaden sky. He checked his watch, compensating for the time change, and found it was six in the morning, local time. Pendergast was guiding the vehicle up a twisty road that hugged the side of a mountain. Coldmoon sat up and wiped the drizzle away from the window as best he could. Outside he could see a wild landscape: mountain after mountain, many with their peaks cloaked by lowering clouds. The forest was endless, Sitka spruce, western white pine, mountain hemlock, and a dozen other shaggy specimens he couldn’t identify. At least, he thought, they were in the west. He cracked the window and breathed deep of the fresh mountain air. He was heartily sick of the east.

  Pendergast, not taking his eyes off the road, offered him a large insulated cup of black coffee. Mumbling his thanks, Coldmoon took it, figuring that Pendergast must have stopped for gas while he was asleep. It tasted about like he expected, but at least it was lukewarm.

  They rode in silence for another twenty minutes, weaving through a labyrinth of hills and low mountains. The road was narrow and potholed. Only two or three cars went by the other way. Now and then they passed a house or a trailer huddled at the end of dirt driveways; once they passed a lake and a small dairy farm carved out of the forest; but otherwise there was only mist, and looming mountains, and an unrelieved dark green.

  Pendergast turned off whatever road they’d been on and started north on a road with a sign marking it as State Route 21. As they continued, Coldmoon felt the coffee warming his insides, and he found a feeling of claustrophobia stealing over him. He’d grown up in the Dakotas, where trees such as these were rare enough to have individual names. But he’d seen a lot of the world since then. During the last two cases with Pendergast alone, he’d experienced the deep snows of Maine, the beaches of Miami, and the swampy bayous of the Everglades. But those places felt different. Here…here there were too many damn trees. And they grew thickly, leaning over the vehicle so it was like traveling in a tunnel. Where the hell were they? Coldmoon pulled out his cell phone and tried to fire up the GPS, but there was no signal. On impulse, he reached into the glove compartment and retrieved the Washington-Oregon map he found inside. He turned it this way and that, looking for Route 21. He saw Mount St. Helens—Christ, he hoped they weren’t headed that way—but the roads were like strands of vermicelli scattered here and there randomly across the folded paper, and he couldn’t find Route 21. At last, he gave up.

  Pendergast pulled the vehicle off the road and into a small parking lot with a wooden sign that read GOAT MOUNTAIN TRAILHEAD. He glanced at Coldmoon.

  “Where are we?” Coldmoon asked.

  “Washington State. Roughly twenty miles north of the Mount Adams Wilderness.”

  Coldmoon digested this a moment. “Great. Wonderful. And that is…where?”

  “Close to the man I told you about, the one we came all this way to see. Dr. Zephraim Quincy.”

  “Anybody who lives out in this wilderness doesn’t need to be a doctor. He should get a doctor.”

  In response, the FBI agent continued north on 21. In about two miles they passed a small, battered road sign that read WALUPT LAKE, and Pendergast slowed again. Blinking against the mist, Coldmoon could make out the lake: its water almost black, surrounded by deep forest among the omnipresent mountains. On the far side, beyond a stand of trees, was a small farm, with a shed and a barn and just enough flat acreage to grow something. Beyond, the mountains rose again.

  Pendergast remained still for a moment. Then, reaching into the back seat, he brought out a padded duffel he’d brought along. To Coldmoon’s surprise, he pulled out a DSLR camera body. Coldmoon knew something about fine cameras, and he noticed the senior agent was holding the latest Leica S3. Reaching into the duffel once more, Pendergast pulled out a lens: an aspheric Leica Summicron-S, naturally. That piece of glass alone had to go for eight or nine grand—if you could find one.

  “Couldn’t you have found a more expensive camera?” he asked. “What’s wrong with your cell phone, anyway?”

  “For my purposes, quality is key. Now, please be silent: I want to achieve just the right degree of bokeh.”

  “Are you trying to win a photography award?”

  “Only indirectly. My primary aim is to produce a maximal amount of nostalgia.”

  Pendergast fitted the lens to the camera, aimed it at the farm across the lake, took his time focusing, and then shot several careful exposures at various focal lengths. Then he put the camera back into its duffel, crossed a bridge over one end of the lake, killed the engine, and let the car coast off the highway and down the grade onto the approach to the farm. They came to a stop behind the barn. Pendergast got out—quietly—and Coldmoon did the same. They eased their doors shut, Coldmoon taking his cues from Pendergast.

  Beyond the barn stood an old two-story farmhouse. It had been handsome once, in a colonial “five over four with a door” style that seemed out of place here, with a variety of sheds and other outbuildings attached to its flanks. But time had been unkind to it: the outbuildings had fallen into disrepair, and the house itself hadn’t been painted in at least a decade. A few of the shutters on the second story were leaning away from their windows.

  The entire place was cloaked in the silence of early morning, mist rising from the lake beyond the farmstead.

  Pendergast motioned, and they crept into the barn. In the gloom, Coldmoon could make out various machinery, most of which was unfamiliar to him. There was also a hayloft and what looked
like cow stalls and a milking apparatus, long abandoned.

  “So what’re we looking for in here?”

  “What’s the term? Fishing expedition. This will be our only chance to investigate.”

  But there appeared to be nothing of interest. They exited the open barn door on the far side of the structure. Pendergast stopped a moment, pausing to take in the surroundings. Then he approached the farmhouse, Coldmoon at his side. Together they mounted the steps, and Coldmoon instinctively put his back to one side of the door while Pendergast rang the bell.

  There was no response. Pendergast rang again; rapped loudly; rang a third time. Finally, Coldmoon heard a stirring within. A minute later the front door opened partway, revealing an old man dressed in long johns, who—with his white hair and beard—would have resembled Father Christmas if he weren’t so thin. In one hand he held a Remington 870, muzzle pointed at the floor.

  “What’s all the ruckus?” he asked. “You sick?”

  “We’re quite well, thank you,” Pendergast replied.

  “Then what the hell are you disturbing me for at seven in the morning?” The man’s eyes had an almost mischievous sparkle, but the barrel of the shotgun lifted about twenty degrees toward the horizontal.

  Pendergast had his ID and shield out while the weapon was still in motion. “We’d like to ask you just a couple of questions, Dr. Quincy.”

  The old man considered this. Then he shrugged and stepped back from the door. Quickly, Pendergast stepped in, followed by Coldmoon. The man led them down a short hallway and into a room that once was probably a consultation office, full of old magazines and some medieval-looking medical diagrams hanging on the walls. While everything was old, it was spotless and organized. There was a desk, an examining table, two chairs. Quincy slipped behind the desk and gestured for the agents to sit.

  “I’d offer you coffee, but it’s too damned early,” the man said, moving a stack of medical journals aside to clear his desktop. Something in his economy of movement made Coldmoon realize that, though the man was old, he must have been virile, even formidable, in his prime.