Crooked River

by Douglas Preston

  He cleared his throat. “Priscilla, I’m calling a condition red. I want you to bring in everyone with a gun or a badge.”

  “Sir.” Priscilla’s voice tightened considerably.

  “I want both lieutenants on duty, and all sergeants on full alert status, in case we have to impose a curfew on short notice. They know the drill. Tell them to handle it quietly; we don’t want to panic the tourists. We’re closing down the entire Captiva beach and western shoreline now. Have them make preparations for the possible evacuation of Captiva Island. And alert the mayor, if she doesn’t know already.”

  “Sir.”

  Perelman was speaking fast now. It seemed his words were accelerating with each passing second. Meanwhile, Laroux had fished out another four or five shoes. At a rough estimate, that made about twenty-five, with more washing in. Now the officer was chasing away seagulls that were trying to make off with some of them. Robinson had escorted the last shellers and sunbathers from the beach and was taping off the access points.

  “I want a checkpoint at the mainland end of the Sanibel Causeway, and a second at the Blind Pass Bridge. The second is to allow access to Captiva residents and renters only. Notify the Office of the District Twenty-One chief M.E., and get them out here, ready to handle significant human remains at Turner Beach.”

  “Sir,” Priscilla said a third time.

  “Get on the horn to the Coast Guard command in Fort Myers. Tell them to send a cutter ASAP; I think the USCGC Pompano is temporarily berthed in Station Cortez. Have the command staff liaise with me directly. And TFR the airspace above Captiva for emergency operations only, no media helicopters. Got all that?”

  A brief silence in which Perelman heard the scratching of a pen. “Roger.”

  “Good. Now, once the islands are secure and checkpoints up, have every free officer report to me here at Blind Pass. Perelman out.”

  He replaced the radio and glanced again in Laroux’s direction. The officer was moving as fast as he could now, plucking shoes from the sea, but the seagulls were swarming in force, screaming and wheeling, and Laroux was outmanned. Distantly, Perelman was aware of how impossibly strange the situation was, but despite that, his attention was fixed on getting things under control. Twenty-five shoes, twenty-five feet, washed up on his beach, and from the looks of it plenty more coming in with the tide. It would be easier just to pile them together, but Perelman knew every clue here would be important and that the shoes should stay as close as possible to the point where they came ashore.

  He pulled his departmental camera from his pocket and, ranging down the beach, took pictures and short video clips of the scene. Then he glanced back at the eyewitnesses, now behind tape, a small, spectral-looking group. He badly wanted to interview them—although he doubted there was much he’d learn—but for now his task was to stabilize and protect the scene until reinforcements arrived.

  More seagulls were converging, the air thick with their cries. Perelman saw one land beside a shoe.

  “Henry! Fire at the gulls!”

  “What?”

  “Shoot at the gulls!”

  “There’s too many, I can’t bag—”

  “Just fire in their direction! Scare them off!”

  He watched as Laroux broke leather, pulled out his Glock, and fired up and out toward sea. A huge cloud of screaming gulls rose wheeling into the sky, including the one that had almost snagged a shoe. Looking farther down the shore, he saw with a sinking feeling that even at a distance there were shoes rolling in. The entire western shore might need to be taped and locked down as a crime scene.

  And now Perelman began to see figures appearing at intervals along the top of the dune. They did not try to approach; they simply stared without moving, like sentinels. More rubberneckers. His heart sank. These weren’t tourists; these were locals. People whose homes were on Captiva Drive, whose beach was being violated by this strange and awful tide. Glancing at them one after another, he realized he knew at least half of them by name.

  Death’s a fierce meadowlark…The mountains are dead stone…

  There was a sudden commotion; a yell and a curse, followed by furious barking. Looking around, temporarily disoriented by the unmanageable scene, Perelman saw a blur of copper: a dog had just darted past him, a shoe gripped in his mouth, headed northeast toward the preserve—an Irish setter named Sligo.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Sligo!” he shouted. “Sligo, come back!”

  But the dog was running flat out away from them. Running with a mouthful of evidence: human remains. If Sligo reached the preserve, they might never see that evidence again.

  “Sligo!”

  It was no good: the dog, excited by all the activity, hunting instincts fully aroused, was beyond obeying.

  “Sligo!”

  Maintain the chain of evidence, his training practically shouted in his ear. At all costs, be respectful of human remains. The ultimate responsibility stopped with him as chief.

  Perelman drew his service piece.

  “What are you doing?” shouted a voice from the line of observers.

  “No! No way!” someone screamed.

  Perelman aimed; took in a long, quavering breath; held it; then—as the dog was about to plunge into the brush—he squeezed off a shot.

  The dog flipped over without making a sound, landing on his back, the shoe tumbling out of his mouth. A terrible moment passed and something like a groan rippled through the people standing atop the dune.

  “Oh my God,” someone said breathlessly, “he shot that dog!”

  Perelman slipped his weapon back into its holster. Son of a bitch.

  More shots echoed behind him: Laroux was chasing away the seagulls as he worked desperately to grab more shoes. Robinson was now jogging over to help him. In the distance, Perelman could hear the whir of a helicopter and the thrum of a marine engine cutting through water.

  “Hey you, mister!” came a loud, accusatory voice. Perelman looked over toward the row of onlookers.

  “You shot that dog!” It was a woman, about fifty years old, her finger pointed at him, shaking accusatorily. He didn’t recognize her; perhaps she was there for the season.

  He said nothing.

  The woman took a step forward, to the edge of the tape. “How could you? How could you do it?”

  “I couldn’t let him get away with the evidence.”

  “Evidence? Evidence?” The woman flapped her arm at the beach. “Isn’t there enough for you already?”

  Abruptly, something—maybe the way the woman pointed so contemptuously at the motionless lumps of flesh placed here and there across the sand, maybe the very absurdity of the comment—made Perelman issue a bitter laugh.

  “And now you think it’s funny!” the woman cried. “What’s the owner going to say?”

  “No, it’s not funny,” Perelman replied. “Yesterday was his birthday.”

  “So you knew the dog!” The woman stamped furiously. “You knew him…and you shot him anyway!”

  “Of course I knew him,” the chief replied. “He was mine.”

  3

  AFTER LEAVING MIAMI, the FBI helicopter dropped low over the blue-green water of Biscayne Bay, heading south, then trending west as it reached the long green finger of national park marking the upper terminus of the Florida Keys. Assistant Director in Charge Walter Pickett, strapped into the copilot seat of the Bell 429, traced the route on a map he’d set atop a thin briefcase, which in turn rested on his knees. It was not quite two in the afternoon, and the brilliant sun, reflecting off the placid water below, was overpowering, despite his sunglasses and the tinted glass of the chopper. Sea plants and coral reefs gave way to a skinny chain of tropical islands linked, like beads on a string, by a single four-lane road. Groomed driveways appeared, then quite suddenly, mansions and yachts. These in turn gave way to what appeared to be a picturesque fishing village, then rows of identical condominiums, and then ocean again. And then another island; another thin ribbon of
highway, surrounded only by water; yet another island. Plantation Key, ADC Pickett guessed: the speed of the chopper, and its low altitude, made it difficult to follow along on the map.

  Now the chopper veered sharply east, heading away from the string of keys and out over open water. They flew for so long—ten minutes, maybe more—Pickett began to wonder if the pilot was lost. Ahead lay only blue, stretching out to the sea horizon.

  But no—that was not quite true. Squinting through his dark glasses, Pickett could just make out a tiny speck of green, appearing now and then almost coquettishly over the most distant waves. He looked a moment longer, then reached back into the passenger compartment and grabbed the heavy marine binoculars. Through the glass, the speck turned into a self-contained oasis of greenery, a tiny ecosystem amid the ocean.

  He lowered the binoculars. “Is that it?”

  The man nodded.

  Pickett glanced down at the map. “There’s nothing on the chart.”

  The man nodded again, this time with a grin. “I’m still wondering how much that little bitty piece of land cost.”

  Pickett took another look at the island as the chopper skimmed over a coral reef. It was approaching quickly now, the placid water turning pale emerald as the bottom shallowed. What had seemed a riot of jungle sorted itself into palm trees, as trim and serried as lines of grenadiers. He could make out shapes between the trees, bone-white against the green: strategically placed guard towers, discreet but equipped with machine guns. And now a long, low boathouse appeared, artfully hidden in the verdant growth, two vessels barely visible within, next to a long pier that stretched out into the turquoise.

  The chopper slowed, banking around the boathouse. On the far side of the pier, a pair of helipads had been built out over the water. They sparkled as if barely used.

  The pilot circled as he descended, then landed neatly on one of the pads. Pickett grabbed his briefcase, opened the door, and stepped out into the blinding sun. As he did so, two men appeared from the shade of the trees and walked down the dock to meet him. Their skin was the color of cinnamon, and they were dressed in black berets with bloused olive shirts and matching shorts, neatly pressed—straight out of the British Raj, with a touch of Caribbean.

  They smiled and shook hands, then led Pickett back up the dock and along gracefully curving paths of crushed shell, punctuated by marble benches set into the foliage, heavy with tropical flowers. They climbed a set of marble stairs, went down another pathway, climbed again. Despite the sun, it was cool under the palms, and a gentle but constant breeze stirred the flower-fragrant air. Now and then, Pickett spied buildings between the trees: alabaster marble, like every other structure. Here and there a peacock strutted across the walk, and huge parrots stared down at them from bottlebrush trees. The island appeared sparsely occupied, just a few men and women whom Pickett infrequently glimpsed at a distance through openings in the trees, or across long, verdant areas of grass, dressed in the same garb as his guides.

  At last, after mounting yet another staircase, grander and longer, and skirting a sculpture of Poseidon, the two guides stopped before a shadowy passage. They indicated he was to go on alone. He thanked them, paused a moment, then walked forward through the archway.

  He found himself in a roofed colonnade, supported by Corinthian columns of the same snowy marble. As he began to walk down its length, stripes of sun painted the walkway, and a distant murmur of conversation from ahead was almost drowned out by birdsong. At the far end, the colonnade opened into a peristyle surrounding a courtyard lined with potted plants. At the center, two artfully poised cherubim fountains sent streams of water puckishly at each other.

  At the rear of the courtyard, several chairs had been placed beneath a vined trellis, and it was here Pickett at last spied Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast. He was wearing a white linen suit similar to the one Pickett recalled from their meeting a fortnight or so earlier at a rooftop bar in Miami Beach. One leg was flung over the other, and beautifully made loafers of buttery leather were on his feet.

  Two men in the same omnipresent uniform stood on either side of the trellis. But there was another person present as well. To Pickett’s surprise, a woman occupied the chair nearest Pendergast. She was young, in her early twenties, and as Pickett approached he saw she was strikingly beautiful, with violet eyes and dark hair cut in a short, stylish bob. She was dressed in pale organdy and was holding a book in one hand—a French book, apparently, titled À rebours. She looked him over with a cool impassivity that for some reason made Pickett uncomfortable. This must be Constance Greene, Pendergast’s ward. He had heard a little about her, and had tried to learn more, but there seemed to be scant information, even in the FBI databases. There was something almost otherworldly about her that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was the eyes. It was as if, Pickett thought, those eyes, so cool and steady, had seen everything, and were thus fazed by nothing.

  The girl cleared her throat to speak and, realizing he was staring, Pickett glanced away.

  “Look, my lord,” she said in a surprisingly deep, velvety contralto. “It comes.”

  “Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” Pendergast murmured.

  “I’m sorry?” Pickett asked after a moment, taking a step forward.

  “You must forgive Constance her little jokes.” Pendergast turned to her. “My dear, I’m afraid ADC Pickett does not share your fondness for literary allusions.”

  She nodded. “Perhaps it’s for the better.”

  Pendergast motioned Pickett toward an empty chair. “Please, have a seat. And may I introduce the two of you: Assistant Director in Charge Walter Pickett of the FBI—my ward, Constance Greene.”

  Pickett took her hand and sat, placing his briefcase down. In the silence that ensued, he glanced past the courtyard and down the colonnade, flanked with its stately palms. He could see the light jade of the ocean in the distance, beyond the line of greenery. It was a beautiful spot: impossibly private, impossibly tranquil—and no doubt impossibly expensive.

  Pickett disliked unnecessary opulence. But this place nevertheless appealed to him on a visceral level. It seemed as elegant, and as rarefied, as a rainbow arcing over a waterfall. Yes, he could indeed get used to it.

  “Would you care for a drink?” Pendergast raised his glass, containing a cloudy crimson beverage.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. Our hosts tell me it’s a native concoction, good for the digestion.”

  “Don’t try it,” Constance warned. “I’ve had a sip of the ‘native concoction,’ and it tasted like brined formaldehyde.” She gestured at Pendergast. “He’s been drinking them practically since we arrived. Don’t you notice his head beginning to shrink already?”

  In response, Pendergast took a deep sip. “Constance, don’t make me send you to your room without supper.”

  “May I ask what you’re drinking?” Pickett asked her.

  “Lillet Blanc with a wedge of key lime.”

  Pickett wasn’t inclined to take a chance on that, either.

  Pendergast called over one of the uniformed men, who asked for Pickett’s order. “Daiquiri,” he said. The man retreated with a faint nod, almost immediately returning with the drink.

  “Leave it to you to find this place,” Pickett said. “Something about it makes me think of Atlantis.”

  “And like Atlantis,” Pendergast replied in his honeyed drawl, “nature will no doubt ensure it shall soon be submerged. Now seemed the ideal time to enjoy it.”

  “I hadn’t expected to be back in Florida so soon,” Pickett said. “But I was summoned to appear before a grand jury yesterday afternoon. In the Brokenhearts case.”

  Pendergast nodded. “My presence was requested as well. I gave my testimony earlier in the week.”

  Pickett had already known Pendergast had appeared before the grand jury and that he was still in Florida—what he hadn’t known was where. Finding that out had taken him m
ore time and effort than he cared to think about.

  “Most kind of you to drop in for a visit like this on our vacation,” Pendergast said. “I assume now you’ll be heading back to New York?”

  Goddamn it, would the guy never tire of busting his balls? Pendergast knew damn well Pickett wasn’t paying a social call. This thing had happened at the worst possible time: right when he was hoping to transition to a leadership position in Washington. “Actually, I’m not heading back north quite yet. I’m heading for Captiva Island.”

  Pendergast sipped his drink. “Ah.”

  Pickett gave a brusque little nod. “There’s a case unfolding as we speak: a very unique case. This morning, a large number of feet—human feet—washed up on shore, each encased in a green shoe.”

  Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “How many?”

  “They’re still coming in with the tide. Somewhere in the upper forties, at last count.”

  Both Pendergast and Constance Greene remained silent. Pickett reached over and unlatched his briefcase. He felt a little uncomfortable sharing confidential information with Pendergast in front of Ms. Greene. But he’d heard she was as much Pendergast’s amanuensis and researcher as she was his ward. Besides, he sensed asking her to leave would not be helpful to his mission—to put it mildly.

  “Nobody knows where the feet came from, why there are so many, who they belonged to, or anything else,” he went on, taking a manila folder of photographs out of the briefcase and handing it to Pendergast. “That’s why the FBI is getting involved with the case, along with the Coast Guard and local authorities. We’ll be forming a task force.”

  “Have any commonalities been identified?” Pendergast asked as he flipped through the photographs. “Age, sex, race?”

  “Too early to say. Law enforcement resources are still arriving and the remains are being transferred to the M.E.’s office in Fort Myers. It’s not an easy crime scene to secure. We’ll know more in twelve to twenty-four hours.”