“They’re gone.”
“Maybe they were stolen,” Coldmoon said, but even as he spoke he knew this wasn’t the case; nobody could have guessed that suitcase lid was hiding anything.
“What’s so important about the jewelry?” Coldmoon asked.
“Not jewelry,” Pendergast said. “Jewels. They mean more to her than…The cell phone left behind…the missing gown…” He was moving faster now: out the door of the suite, down the corridor toward the stairs. He hurried down them.
Animated by a terrible premonition, Pendergast broke into a limping run as he crossed the lobby—dangerously fast for a man who had recently suffered such a serious injury. Hurrying after him, Coldmoon felt the shadow of that same premonition fall over him…especially when Pendergast reached the door to the basement, flung it open, and disappeared down the stairs. Forgetting his flight and the Uber waiting outside, Coldmoon followed, his heart accelerating as he realized what their destination would be.
Even as they were making their way through the shadowy basement, Coldmoon began to hear an erratic ticking noise. Acrid smoke hung in the air ahead of them, heavy with the stench of melted plastic and burnt wiring. It only grew thicker as they passed the final obstacles and ducked into the secret room that held the machine.
When they reached it, the room was stifling hot and too full of smoke to see much of anything. Coughing, Coldmoon did his best to fan away the fumes. As the air cleared, the outlines of the machine emerged, a sooty pall still drifting up from the vents in its sides. The two steel wands protruding from its front panels were scorched and steaming. The computer screen was blank. The ticking, he realized, was the sound of a superheated machine as it cooled off.
His eye fell to the control knob. It had been twisted to its farthest clockwise extent: past the first mark, past the second mark, past even the setting Ellerby had used to inadvertently summon the creature. Someone had redlined the machine: whether to sabotage it so it could no longer be used, or simply to fulfill its purpose one last time, Coldmoon could not guess. It had been pushed far past its limits and was now little more than a hulk.
Pendergast, after a brief inspection, had gone to the nearby worktable and picked up a crisp, unmarked envelope. As Coldmoon watched, he tore it open with a trembling hand, plucked out the single sheet within, and read it. After a minute, his hand fell to his side, and the letter—released by nerveless fingers—fluttered to the ground.
“Pendergast?” Coldmoon asked.
Pendergast neither moved nor acknowledged his voice. Coldmoon knelt and picked up the letter. On it, a short message had been written in an elegant feminine hand.
I am going back to save my sister, Mary. I belong with her, anyway. This machine has given me that opportunity—and Miss Frost herself made it clear why I must take it. In her, I see my own lonely, loveless future. It is anything but pretty. And so I will return to my past—the destiny I was meant to have. I will make of it what I can—what I must. If I can’t have you on my terms, I can’t have you at all.
Goodbye, Aloysius. Thank you for everything—most particularly for not coming after me, even were it possible. That I could not endure; I’m sure you comprehend my meaning.
I love you.
Constance
79
IT WAS JUST AFTER ten in the morning when the bus from Atlanta pulled into the Greyhound terminal on West Oglethorpe Avenue. There was a hiss of air brakes, and the gleaming metal door slid open. One after another, the passengers descended the steps into bright sunlight. Last to emerge was a thin elderly man with a battered suitcase and a mackintosh that had seen more than its share of weather. He began to step down, then stopped, holding one hand up against the sun.
“Jesus H. Particular Christ!” he said in a pained voice.
The bus driver looked down with an amused but affectionate smile. The old man had ridden in the seat directly behind him, and they’d gotten to talking on the trip from Atlanta. “First time in Savannah?” he asked.
“First time east of the Mississippi,” the old man replied.
“You don’t say.”
“Hell—first time south of the Mason-Dixon, too.” He descended the last few steps, squinting, then waved goodbye to the driver. As the bus pulled away, the man set down his suitcase, shrugged out of his mackintosh with some effort, folded it carefully, and placed it on the suitcase. He wiped his brow with the back of a hand and looked around.
He hadn’t known what to expect of Savannah. For a moment, he tried comparing it to the places he knew: Yakima, Olympia, Seattle. But there was no applicable frame of reference. There were no mountains in the distance. Everything was flat. The buildings looked old and decrepit. The sky didn’t hold the continual threat of rain he’d lived with all his life. On the other hand, there was plenty of water around…in the form of humidity. He’d never imagined that a place could be so hot and so moist at the same time.
He asked for directions, then struck out, heading east on Oglethorpe. The streets were busy with traffic, the sidewalks teeming with pedestrians. More than one of the latter glanced with surprise at the old man with the Santa Claus beard. But he paid no attention: he’d been stared at before. After about ten minutes he stopped again, took off his plaid work shirt, and carefully rolled it up inside his mackintosh, which he snugged back under the handle of the suitcase. Now he was down to a T-shirt and faded coveralls, but it was a uniform that seemed to blend better with the locals. Opening a zipper and reaching into the case, he pulled out a waxed bucket hat, crumpled and shapeless, which he stretched and massaged until it fit upon his head. It was a Stetson he’d used to keep the rain off his pate for forty years; now maybe it would protect him from sunstroke.
The man turned south on Barnard and walked through a small area of grass and trees, bounded on all sides by buildings. This was more like it. At the far end was a plaque, telling him the domesticated little park was named Orleans Square. Ahead now, over the roofs of the city, many with scaffolding, he could see dust rising and hear the familiar noise of construction.
At the sight, and the sound, he felt his throat constrict involuntarily.
Living as he did away from civilization, he didn’t make it a practice to read the paper or watch the news. What happened beyond his property line wasn’t his business, and he’d grown sick of the steady drumbeat of depressing and irritating news about which he could do nothing. His bus trip had taken him first from Seattle to Chicago, and then Chicago to Atlanta, and in the Chicago bus station he’d caught a glimpse of screaming headlines about the Savannah disaster. He’d picked up some papers and read about how the city had suffered some kind of attack, fire and explosions—the stories were baffling—with numerous casualties. This had heightened his anxiety, which was already at a high level. But he reassured himself that above all, she was a survivor—and a most formidable woman.
A most formidable woman. And quite lonely.
He should have done this—found her and gone to her—years ago. But there was still time. Heart pounding, he quickened his pace down Barnard Street. There were cranes ahead, and scaffolding, and the heavy-duty contractors’ vans and pickups. The noise of construction was growing ever louder, and scenes of considerable destruction began to present themselves. Something bizarre and ruinous had happened here, with multiple damaged buildings, scorched trees and, here and there, the hulks of burned cars.
Another ten or so blocks and he reached Chatham Square. Taking a torn and soiled piece of paper from his pocket, he unfolded it and glanced at some scribbled directions. This was the place. The Chandler House stood along the far side of the park, on Gordon Street.
But when he raised his eyes and identified the building, his heart sank. The long, rambling structure was surrounded by newly erected chain-link construction fencing, the upper windows covered with plywood, scaffolding surrounding it. Through it, he could see on the top floor indications of fire damage and collapse.
Taking a firmer grip on the suitcase,
he made his way across the square. Several buildings on the other three sides were being restored as well, but the old man paid no attention to them. He crossed Gordon Street, then stopped in front of the hotel’s brick façade, barely visible behind the scaffolding. A local cop stood at the temporary construction gate guarding the hotel’s front door. He walked up to him.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
The man, staring at the façade, said nothing.
“Sir, can I help you?” the cop repeated.
“I’m looking for Miss Frost,” the man said.
“Miss Frost? You mean Felicity Frost?”
The old man nodded. “She…owns this building.”
The cop ingested this for a moment. “What’s your business with her?”
“I’m…” The man broke off, coughing, then cleared his throat. “I’m a relative.”
“I see.” A pause. “Sir, I’m sorry to inform you that Felicity Frost is deceased.”
“What?” The man met the cop’s sympathetic gaze.
“I’m very sorry,” the cop said. “She was killed in the disaster. If you inquire at city hall, they can give you additional information.” He gently pointed the way for him, giving directions.
The old man walked away, but he began to feel weak and even dizzy, as if in a dream. A strange veil of darkness crossed his eyes, and the medical part of his brain warned him: syncope, due to a sudden drop in blood pressure. Looking around, he saw a hydrant a few steps away; he walked over to it and sank down. Here, in the shade, it was cooler. Deceased. His brain simply couldn’t process it.
The last thing he remembered was taking off his hat and placing it carefully in his lap.
A hand was grasping his shoulder, shaking him gently but firmly. And there was a voice calling out: distant at first, then more distinct. “Doctor? Dr. Quincy?”
The old man raised his head at the sound. A person was standing over him; someone with a vaguely familiar voice.
He blinked several times, clearing his vision. His hat was in his lap, and his suitcase lay between his legs, where he’d apparently dropped it.
And then everything came back to him.
He heard the voice, calling his name again, and this time Quincy was able to focus. It was that FBI agent—what was his name, Coldmoon?—who’d visited him at Berry Patch.
“My ass hurts,” he said.
“I’m not surprised,” the FBI agent said. “I think you’ve been sitting on that fireplug for an hour.”
Quincy looked down. “Jesus.”
“I first saw you fifteen minutes ago. Thought it best to leave you with your thoughts. But come on—let’s get you to your feet. I’ll bet you could use something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, you won’t say no to coffee, I’ll bet.” And retrieving his suitcase, the FBI agent helped him up, then began escorting him down the sidewalk.
Quincy fended off the helping hand. “Where’s that meddlesome partner of yours?”
“He’s occupied.”
“Well, I want to talk to him. I want some goddamned answers.”
“He isn’t talking to anyone right now—even me.”
They walked a few blocks, and the stiffness in Quincy’s limbs eased. Coldmoon ushered him into a diner. A waitress was standing behind the register, checking the morning’s tabs. When she looked up and saw Coldmoon, she frowned.
“You’ve got your nerve!” she said, glaring at him. “Coming back in here!”
“Nice to see you again, too,” Coldmoon said placidly.
Even though the restaurant was almost empty, Quincy noticed that she guided the two of them to the back, to the table closest to the restrooms.
“Coffee please, doll,” Coldmoon said.
“I’m not your ‘doll.’ And don’t try to sweet-talk me.” The waitress glanced at Coldmoon’s western-style shirt with its mother-of-pearl buttons on the front pockets. “That’s a nice blouse. Do they make one for men?”
“She doesn’t like you very much,” Quincy said as the waitress walked away.
“That’s why I’m here.”
Quincy rubbed his forehead wearily. He was going to have to deal with this revelation at some point, but not now. God, not now.
“See that fresh pot of coffee, over there?” Coldmoon said. “Now: see that other one beside it, almost empty, with scorch marks on its sides, that’s probably been there since six AM?”
“Yes.”
“I guarantee she’ll give me what remains of the one pot, and pour you a fresh cup from the other.”
Quincy, uncomprehending, looked at Coldmoon, wondering what the hell he was talking about.
“She was very brave, you know. You would have been proud of her. She fought to the end.”
“Tell me,” Quincy said simply.
And Coldmoon began talking. He spoke for a long time as Quincy listened. It was an amazing story, bizarre, convoluted, and at times incredible. But that was Alicia—nothing about her was ordinary. He heard about how she created a new identity, bought and restored the hotel, used the machine, what had happened between her and Ellerby, and then the crazy thing at the end. Some of it was so outrageous he was disinclined to believe it, except that Coldmoon was a grounded and rational FBI agent. In a strange way, he sensed that Coldmoon had known he was coming and had already thought through what he would tell him.
Finally, the agent fell silent, the story over. When he did, Quincy took in a deep, slow breath, like an astronaut testing the atmosphere on an unknown world. It was going to take him a while to process the story, make some sense out of it—if he ever would. Nevertheless, he felt an invisible weight had been lifted.
“There’s something else,” Coldmoon said. He rummaged in a small day pack, brought something out, and handed it to Quincy.
The old doctor took the thin package wrapped in paper. As he unwrapped it, an odor of smoke reached his nostrils. Inside was a copy of Spoon River Anthology, deeply charred along its lower edge. But even flame could not conceal the years of wear that the battered cover, the dog-eared pages, spoke of so clearly.
Without a word, he opened the cover and saw the inscription he’d written almost fifty years ago:
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
The sight of the inscription, the memories it brought back, overwhelmed him with emotion. And he saw, below the faded words, much fresher ones:
I was once a nomad. But over these many years of wandering,
you were always, always, my lodestar.
“Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.”
—Alicia
Quincy realized he was gripping the book so tightly his hands were shaking. He relaxed his hold, fighting off the need to weep.
“I looked it up,” Coldmoon said.
“John Donne,” Quincy said, still looking at the inscription.
“Yeah.”
They sat there in silence. Quincy held the book, caressing it faintly, as he might someone’s hand. At last, he looked up. “So when do I get to see Pendergast?”
“Sorry. You won’t.”
A brief hesitation had preceded this. Quincy looked more closely at Coldmoon.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” he asked. “Something happened to him.”
“Doctors are perceptive,” Coldmoon replied.
As another silence descended, the waitress refilled their coffee mugs. Quincy noticed she did indeed pour Coldmoon’s coffee from a different pot, emptying the burnt dregs and sediment into his cup.
“You’re right about that waitress,” he said. “That looks awful.”
“Not in the least. That’s why I come here. She saves the best for me, and I tip her accordingly.” Coldmoon took a gulp, then put down the cup with evident satisfaction. “So. W
hat now?”
Quincy shrugged. “God knows. Life is strange. The years of loneliness, the sudden hope, and now this. I don’t know. I guess I never thought about it…beyond getting here, I mean.”
Coldmoon nodded. “My people have a saying: ‘The journey is the destination.’”
“Liar. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote that.”
A brief pause. “Damn,” Coldmoon muttered.
“Nice try, though.”
Coldmoon glanced at his watch. “Look, I’ve got some time, the evening’s free. Let’s get you a hotel room for the night. And then maybe we can grab a beer.”
“Let’s grab that beer now. It’s a goddamned swamp outside.”
Coldmoon smiled again—faint but genuine. “I knew beneath that crusty exterior there was something about you I liked.” And, rising, he drained his coffee, dropped a twenty on the table, then followed the old man as he made his way, slowly and painfully, toward the exit.
80
THE MORNING SUN, FILTERED through a heavy veil of dust and coal smoke, fell feebly across the wide avenue in the west-central section of Manhattan. But it was a different sun, and a different city.
The broad thoroughfare where Broadway crossed Seventh Avenue was made of dirt, its potholed surface packed so hard from an infinitude of horse hooves, wagons, and trolleys that it seemed almost as impermeable as cement, except along the muddy areas surrounding the grooves of the cable car tracks and the hitching posts sunk deep in manure.
The intersection was called Longacre, and would not be known as Times Square for another twenty-five years. It was the center of the “carriage trade,” an outlying district of the rapidly growing city where horses were stabled and buggy makers toiled.
On this particular chilly morning, this broad intersection of avenues and streets was quiet save for the occasional pedestrian or horse cart passing by, and nobody paid much attention to the young woman with short dark hair—dressed in a purple gown of an unusual cut and fabric—who stepped out from an alleyway and looked around, squinting and wrinkling her nose.
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