Bloodless

by Douglas Preston

  “Miss?” he heard a concerned voice ask. “Are you hurt, too?”

  “His blood, not mine,” came the curt reply.

  Now darkness—an internal darkness—was rising once again. Before it claimed him completely, he heard one final exchange.

  “Is…is he going to survive?”

  “Yes. He’s going to make it.”

  77

  IN THE CHATHAM COUNTY office complex, Agent Coldmoon sat at a conference table with four others: Commander Delaplane, Detective Sheldrake, Dr. McDuffie, and Agent Pendergast. His partner had recovered his normal pale complexion, and aside from the trussed up arm Coldmoon had seen earlier, now hidden by his suit, he appeared his usual unreadable, enigmatic self. But Coldmoon knew he was still very weak—and how very close he had come to death.

  The conference room occupied a corner of the building’s sixth floor and boasted large windows. Gazing out of them, Coldmoon could see, to the west, the morning sun shining over a tranquil landscape of industrial buildings, modest neighborhoods, and the ribbon of I-16 heading toward Macon. The view to the south, however, could not be more different. It looked like the ruins of some city during World War II after the Luftwaffe had finished bombing it.

  A week had passed since the giant caƥúŋka—he could think of no better word for it than “mosquito”—had terrorized and laid waste to swaths of downtown Savannah…and then suddenly died. He assumed it had died; all he knew for certain was that it had vanished in an explosion of smoke and light that would have made the magician David Copperfield proud, leaving behind wrecked buildings, scorched cars, and casualties.

  The lack of any remnant of the thing that caused the devastation had made the subsequent investigation of the disaster all that much more intense…and ultimately ludicrous. An enormous number of military units, CDC teams in biosuits, DHS teams, and countless other mysterious investigators from agencies he didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, had descended on the city. They were too late to do anything about the carnage, but were zealously gathering vast amounts of evidence, including scorched grass, broken brick, shattered glass, and all the cell phone footage and pictures they could find. Large areas of town were still roped off. Vans and trailers with strange markings, or no markings at all, were arranged into makeshift villages of humming generators and blazing lights in the many town squares in the affected area.

  In the beginning, there had been a brief effort to contain and spin what had taken place. But there were too many cell phones, too much news footage, and too many eyewitnesses of the beast and its horror. The authorities finally put out a vague statement that mentioned a “unique mutation event,” promising a “full and thorough investigation” and a careful sweep for any other anomalous creatures.

  For the people of Savannah, on the other hand, the catastrophe had precipitated a different response: in the aftermath, they were pulling together as never before to rebuild the ruined sections of downtown. As it turned out, the body count was lower than initially believed; most of the dead were members of Senator Drayton’s advance team, rallygoers, and unlucky tourists who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some of the town’s wealthiest residents were pitching in to fund the reconstruction, and that—along with disaster relief, and Savannans’ ingrained pride in their beautiful city—would see not only the damaged structures rebuilt, but also several historic sites that had been long awaiting conservation.

  None of this shed any light on what had really happened. Coldmoon knew a lot more than most, but under Pendergast’s orders he’d kept his mouth shut. The two of them had been subjected to innumerable debriefings and meetings, of which this promised to be the last.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Commander Delaplane, who slapped shut the folder that sat on the table before her. It had contained a list of the usual questions—What was the nature of the thing? Where did it come from? What happened to it?—which she’d been obliged, for the record, to ask one final time. Naturally, nobody had any idea, Pendergast least of all. It was with some relief that Delaplane pushed the folder away.

  “Well, that’s done,” she said. “Sorry. I know we’ve been covering the same old ground.”

  “Quite all right,” said Pendergast mildly.

  Delaplane shook her head. “It’s remarkable, really: a week has gone by, and reports are still coming in. Just this morning, I heard that the entire team making that documentary had been killed in the, uh, apparent lair of the creature.”

  “All except for the cinematographer,” Sheldrake added. “And she was so freaked out that she’s only now beginning to describe what happened. Incoherently. And that journalist found with her—Wellstone, I think?—they say he’s irrecoverably insane.” He consulted a notebook. “Akinetic catatonia, precipitated by psychogenic trauma.”

  “Closer to home,” Delaplane went on, “what happened to Felicity Frost was particularly tragic.” She turned to Pendergast. “You got to know her, right?”

  Pendergast shook his head. “That was Constance, my ward.”

  Hearing her name, Coldmoon had to stifle an involuntary twitch. Over the last few days, Constance had been acting even more strangely than usual. When he’d been battling the creature atop the church, was it really possible he’d caught a brief glimpse of her on the balcony of the hotel penthouse, shooting at the beast with a tommy gun? Of course it was: he’d seen her do stranger things than that. She was as crazy as she was beautiful. And brave. She’d been the one to go after Pendergast and drag his ass out of that damned machine.

  He reminded himself he didn’t know anything about that. He was done with Savannah. Back at the hotel—which, pending reconstruction, had been stabilized by heavy steel bracers, jack posts, and Lally columns—his bags were packed. He had a flight for Denver that afternoon, and no power on earth was going to stop him from getting on that plane.

  Now Delaplane was looking nonplussed, and Coldmoon—tuning in to the conversation—heard Sheldrake congratulating her for the commendation on bravery she’d received.

  “Thanks, Benny,” she said. “Who knows—maybe I’ll make chief after all…in twenty or thirty years.”

  “It might happen sooner than you imagine,” Pendergast said. He shifted in his chair. “Ah, Assistant Director Pickett. Why don’t you join us?”

  Glancing toward the exit from the conference room, Coldmoon saw Pickett leaning against the doorframe. Just how long he’d been standing there, Coldmoon didn’t know. But the man’s presence seemed a signal for the meeting to adjourn, because everyone began gathering their things, nodding and shaking hands, and heading for the door. Coldmoon stood to join the exodus, only to see Pickett motioning for him and Pendergast to remain behind. They stood at the door in an awkward silence.

  Pickett glanced over his shoulder, making sure the others had gone. Then he cleared his throat. “I, ah, understand you two went toe-to-toe with the late Senator Drayton on my behalf,” he said. “You look…well?”

  Pendergast nodded.

  Pickett hesitated again, with an almost embarrassed expression on his face. “That means a lot to me. On both counts.”

  “And I am equally grateful,” said Pendergast, “for the way you protected our investigation from the senator. I regret the impact on your career.”

  “Actually,” Pickett said, “Senator Drayton didn’t have the chance to follow through on his threats. He was more of a blowhard than a man of action.”

  So he’s getting his promotion, after all, Coldmoon thought.

  There was a silence as Pickett fixed Pendergast with a long and particular stare. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “For the record, you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  Pickett took a breath. “So: you have no idea where that creature came from?”

  “Absolutely none.”

  “Or what it was doing here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “And you don’t know what happened to it?�
�

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Pickett swiveled his gaze toward Coldmoon. “And you?”

  Coldmoon shrugged. “No, sir.”

  “In other words,” said Pickett, “you’re both as ignorant as everybody else.”

  “Alas,” said Pendergast, “I’m afraid this is one case I failed to solve.”

  The color rose in Pickett’s face, and for a moment Coldmoon thought he was going to get angry. But then he smiled faintly. “Perhaps it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “A most wise stratagem,” Pendergast said.

  “It’s a shame, though,” said Pickett. “That your stellar record, and your partner’s, might be darkened by this failure.”

  Shit. Coldmoon hadn’t really thought of that. He couldn’t wait to get to Denver and into a normal FBI routine investigating ordinary things like terrorism, organized crime, and serial killers.

  “On the other hand,” Pickett said, “solving the D. B. Cooper hijacking is a tremendous coup. I believe that was the FBI’s longest-running unsolved case. No doubt that will balance things out as far as your record is concerned.” He took a breath. “I’m still a little confused how you managed to do that in the midst of all this, though.”

  “Serendipity,” said Pendergast.

  “As soon as we put the finishing touches on that case and wrap it up, we’ll make the announcement. I imagine…” He paused. “There will be some sort of press conference and commendations for you both.”

  “We look forward to it.”

  Coldmoon began to feel better.

  Pickett cast his gaze out the window over the wrecked landscape. “This case was just too crazy. Who could have predicted this?” He turned his scrutiny back to Pendergast. “Just so you don’t think I’m an idiot, I know you know a lot more about this.”

  “As you said, sir, better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “Which leads to my final question. Is there any reason for concern—in your opinion, of course—that there might be any further threats of this kind?”

  “I believe,” Pendergast drawled, “that you can rest easy on that point.”

  With this, he fell silent. What he did not say, nevertheless, spoke volumes.

  “Then that’s all,” Pickett said. “Thank you. Now, is there anything I can do for either of you?”

  “You can allow Agent Coldmoon to catch his flight to Denver,” Pendergast said. “And Constance and I would greatly appreciate spending tonight in our own beds, back in New York.”

  “There was one thing…” Pickett began.

  Coldmoon felt his spine stiffen. For a terrible moment, he thought they might be shanghaied once again…but after a moment Pickett shook his head and said, “Never mind.” Without another word, he stepped to one side and let them pass out of the conference room and toward the waiting elevators.

  78

  AS HE TURNED OFF MONTGOMERY and headed east on Taylor, Coldmoon almost had to restrain himself from pulling ahead of Pendergast’s uncharacteristically slow and painful walk. The debriefing he’d been dreading most—the one with Pickett—had gone more smoothly than he could have hoped. Pickett was a smarter guy than Coldmoon had given him credit for. He’d been cleared to leave for Denver. His bags were packed. He’d even taken the precaution of ordering an Uber the night before, although Pendergast had offered to give him a lift with an FBI pool car. Truth was, he didn’t want to broadcast the fact that he’d arranged to get to the airport three hours early. He couldn’t take the chance of getting dragged at the last moment into some bizarre new assignment. You never knew with Pendergast.

  He glanced at his watch: right on schedule. He’d pop into the hotel, grab his bags, and soon Savannah and Pendergast would be dwindling specks in the rearview mirror of his career.

  As they walked along, he couldn’t help but notice all the activity. Trucks were parked along the curbs, some with beds full of rubble being cleared by heavy machinery, while others were unloading lumber, bricks, and construction materials. Regular citizens were pitching in, shoveling debris into dumpsters and cleaning up. The inhabitants of Savannah, it seemed, having received no explanation for the attack visited upon them beyond a wash of crazy conspiracy theories, had decided to move on as quickly as possible.

  Now up ahead, Coldmoon made out the ancient façade of the Chandler House. It still looked a fright: surrounded by scaffolding, numerous windows boarded up, and the ruined upper floor covered in a superstructure of pipe and plastic. Most of the staff had returned once the building was fully stabilized, to help direct renovations.

  As they came through the lobby doors, Coldmoon caught a glimpse of Chatham Square and the cluster of trailers and temporary Quonset huts he’d privately dubbed Fedville. A car was idling at the curb outside the lobby, an Uber sign posted inside the driver’s window.

  Early, Coldmoon thought. Good omen.

  As they mounted the wide main staircase, Pendergast turned to him. “I see you plan to leave for the airport immediately.”

  Did nothing escape Pendergast’s notice? “Yes, well, I thought it’d be a good idea to get a jump on things.”

  “Given past experience, that’s probably wise.”

  They turned off at the second-floor landing, walked a few steps down the corridor, then stopped at the door to Pendergast’s suite. “Well, let’s find Constance and say our goodbyes,” Pendergast said. “We have a little something to give you.”

  “Will it take long?”

  “Just as much time as it takes to pass from my hand to yours.” Pendergast gave him a slim smile. “My precipitate friend, I dislike maudlin farewells as much as you do. It will be quick and painless.”

  Coldmoon grunted in return. This was, after all, what he wanted. Still, he realized he’d been hoping for the opportunity to say no to a glass of cognac or a final heart-to-heart. Chagrin turned to curiosity as he wondered what token of thanks Pendergast was going to give him. Hopefully it would be something negotiable at a bank.

  The suite had been spared damage, and sunlight flooded the spacious, orderly rooms. The doors were all open, and as he walked into the parlor Coldmoon could see the two studies with attached private bedrooms, their armoire doors thrown open and luggage set upon the beds in the universal language of travelers about to check out. Pendergast had wandered off briefly, but now he returned.

  “This is curious,” Pendergast said. “Where is Constance?”

  “Packing?” Coldmoon asked.

  Pendergast shook his head. He headed to his own set of rooms, returning a moment later. He picked up the house phone.

  “Maybe she’s taking a final turn around the city,” Coldmoon said. “For nostalgia’s sake.”

  Pendergast ignored this sarcastic comment as he dialed. “She’s been rather out of sorts the last few days.”

  A voice answered the phone—apparently, from the front desk—and Pendergast made some brief inquiries. Nobody had seen Constance Greene. If she’d left the hotel while Pendergast was gone, the doorman would know, as there was a system now in place for checking people in and out of the building.

  “Most curious,” Pendergast said as he hung up. He began walking slowly back into Constance’s rooms, and Coldmoon followed.

  “What are your plans?” Coldmoon asked.

  “I’m taking Constance on vacation—a true vacation this time.” He paused in her study, looking around. Coldmoon did as well. Everything seemed as neat and orderly as he would have expected.

  “I’ve arranged for a surprise,” Pendergast went on as he moved into the bedroom. “We’re going to Rome, where the Vatican has agreed to open its private libraries and catacombs. It should be…”

  Outside, a city clock struck noon. And at the same moment, quite abruptly, Pendergast stopped midsentence.

  Coldmoon glanced around the bedroom, wondering what could have caught the agent’s eye. The closet doors were open, revealing a rack of expensive and tasteful clothes. His gaze moved to a small writing desk b
y the bed, on which sat a black handbag and Constance’s cell phone.

  “She can’t be far,” he said. “Her phone’s here.” He glanced toward the bed, where two slab-sided suitcases of monogrammed canvas lay, open and empty.

  Coldmoon watched in surprise as Pendergast seized the lambskin bag and upended it on the table, dumping out the contents. He then began rooting through its zippered pockets.

  “What’s going on—?” Coldmoon began.

  “It isn’t here,” Pendergast murmured.

  “What isn’t there?”

  “Her stiletto.”

  “So?”

  “She is never without it. Never.”

  “Even in the shower? I mean, not that you’d…look, her cell phone’s here, and she wouldn’t leave without that.”

  Pendergast, ignoring him, began sweeping through racks of hanging clothes, pulling open drawers with his good arm.

  Coldmoon glanced surreptitiously at his watch. This was crazy. Constance never strayed far from Pendergast. She was probably in the library, lost in a book.

  As he tried to think of some reason to excuse himself, he paused again. Pendergast had now moved toward the bed and the open, empty suitcases that lay upon it. Reaching for the larger of the two, he felt around its lid, where the brass zipper met the fastidiously stitched leather edging. As if by magic, a small enameled gold box appeared from a hiding place in the lid of the suitcase. Pendergast flipped it open. Lined in plush purple velvet, with a number of tiny compartments, it was empty.

  Pendergast pushed the suitcase aside and hobbled toward the door.

  “Wait!” Coldmoon said. “Pendergast—Aloysius—what’s going on? I’ve got to leave!”

  When Pendergast didn’t answer, he hurried after him. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

  “Her jewels,” Pendergast said over his shoulder.

  “What about them?”