Crooked River

by Douglas Preston

  The man, alerted to Pendergast’s presence, glanced over. For a moment, the two merely exchanged a look. Then the man in the deck chair nodded. “Kemosabe,” he said.

  “Agent Coldmoon.”

  “Nice weather we’re having.”

  “Perfectly delightful.”

  The man named Coldmoon gestured toward one of several empty oil drums scattered around. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you very much, but I’d prefer to stand.”

  “Have it your way. Some coffee, then?” He gestured toward a large steel pot that was simmering on an old ring stove in the darkness of the hut.

  Pendergast didn’t reply.

  Coldmoon took a long pull on his beer. “Funny. I didn’t expect to see you again. At least, not down here in Florida.”

  “I was unavoidably detained. And I might say the same about you. As I recall, you were discharged from the hospital a week ago. Why are you still here?”

  Coldmoon shrugged. “I’m recuperating. The snows of Colorado can wait.”

  “And how did you end up in this picturesque locale?” Pendergast waved a hand at the engineless RVs, the piles of outboard motors, the sand and swamp grass.

  “Just lucky, I guess. Rent’s practically nothing. I got on a Greyhound headed south from Miami, looking for a place to clear my head of Mister Brokenhearts and his murders. Decided to get off here.”

  The capriciousness of that decision had made the search for him a great deal more difficult than it might have been.

  “So you decided to finish your convalescence by going native,” Pendergast said.

  “Careful with that word choice, Pendergast. I’m already native—Lakota.”

  “Of course. But let us not forget your dear Italian mother.”

  Pendergast knew that Coldmoon was ambivalent about his Indian heritage being tainted by European blood.

  “Non mi rompere i coglioni,” Coldmoon replied, making an insulting Italian gesture.

  “Allow me to get to the point. Have you been following the case of the curious flotsam that recently washed up on the beaches of Captiva Island?”

  “The feet? What I read in the newspapers. Hear on that scanner.”

  Pendergast took a breath. “I have taken an interest in the matter.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve found it a most baffling case indeed, perhaps even unique. Since you’re still here, and knowing how you might appreciate additional experience to add to your jacket, I thought you’d find it interesting to take a day or two to observe the situation. Informally, of course. And—”

  He was interrupted by Coldmoon’s laughter. He wasn’t a man to laugh easily, and it was an unusual, melodious sound. When he stopped, he finished the bottle of beer, then dropped it in the sandy dirt.

  “Okay. Let’s take apart that little speech of yours and extract the real meaning. Pickett forced you to take the case—right?”

  “He did nothing of the sort,” Pendergast said, annoyed. “He offered to show me the lay of the land. I accepted the case out of my own interest.”

  “Right, right. And now you’re hip-deep in it, and you’ve decided you need your old partner Coldmoon to help you out.”

  “As you know, I don’t work with a partner. I’m merely offering you the chance to consult.”

  “Ah, consult. You want my help and, given the roundabout way you’re talking, that particular help is something I won’t like.”

  “If you are accusing me of dissembling, I take exception.”

  “Well, maybe I ‘take exception’ to your interrupting my vacation. Oh, and blocking my sun, too.” He looked at Pendergast, one eyebrow arched over the sunglasses.

  After a brief pause, Pendergast stepped aside and perched lightly on the empty drum he’d declined before. “You have a suspicious and cynical nature. Ordinarily, I’d consider that an asset. But at the moment, I wonder if you’re simply using it as a smoke screen for malingering.”

  Coldmoon smiled, but there was an edge when he spoke. “Malingering? You think that a bullet in the chest and a water moccasin bite is an excuse for me to goof off?”

  “I think perhaps you’re getting a little used to dozing in that lawn chair, drinking beer and execrable coffee, instead of consulting on an important case.”

  The two men fell silent. There were distant sounds of machinery, traffic; the cry of gulls and the screech of flamingos.

  Finally, Coldmoon spoke. “Okay, Pendergast. What do you need me for? Just tell it straight. No bullshit.”

  “You have a peculiar—unorthodox—way of looking at things. A way that complements my own.”

  “Why don’t you just say it? ‘I need your help.’”

  “That’s precisely what I am trying to do,” Pendergast said in a frosty voice.

  Coldmoon shook his head. “What does Pickett have to say about this? Your bringing me on?”

  “I have his full support in making this request.”

  “And if I say no? Does the request change to an order?”

  “Let us cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Coldmoon gazed out to sea. “All right. I’m more than a little curious about all those feet washing up on the beach. Who wouldn’t be? And, yes, I’ve got some time until I officially report to Colorado. But I’m not playing Tonto anymore. No consultancy stuff, nothing informal. That’s a euphemism for ‘dogsbody.’ If I help you with this, I want in. Totally. Full partners—or nothing.”

  “You know my methods. What I was suggesting is something more, ah, provisional.”

  “Forget it.”

  Instead of responding, Pendergast closed his eyes. This time, the silence stretched into minutes. Then he said, eyes still closed: “The feet were previously frozen.”

  “That’s bizarre.”

  “And the amputations were crudely performed, by machete or ax, without apparent medical intervention or subsequent first aid.”

  The silence deepened. “Now, that’s some crazy shit.”

  “I promise you, the case presents aspects of exceptional curiosity.”

  “But still: full partners or nothing.”

  Pendergast finally opened his eyes and focused on Coldmoon. “All right. For the duration of this case.”

  “Or until one of us gets killed.”

  “A lovely thought.” At this, Pendergast stood up, dusted himself off in a finicky feline manner, then turned toward his rental car. “Feel free to spend the evening here, entertaining yourself in whatever meretricious manner you’ve grown accustomed to. But I’ll expect you on Captiva Island tomorrow by lunchtime. Let’s say one o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  He opened the car door. “I’ll be at the Mortlach House, just over the Blind Pass Bridge and past the beach. I’ve rented the house and there’s plenty of room, so you needn’t worry about finding a place to stay.” Pendergast let his eye travel over Coldmoon’s tiki hut. “If you’d be more comfortable, I could arrange for a packing box and mattress to be placed in the crawlspace under the porch.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Do you have a mode of transportation?”

  “I’ll get there, don’t you worry.” Coldmoon grinned. “See you at one, pard.”

  With a pained look, Pendergast slipped behind the steering wheel, closed the door, started the engine, and departed back down the dirt track, leaving behind a cloud of dust that slowly settled over the shacks and abandoned boats.

  21

  CONSTANCE LAY IN the old four-poster set back from the windows of a second-floor bedroom in the Mortlach House. The lawyer, Mr. Mayfield, had brought in an army of cleaners and house-dressers, and the shingle-style Victorian had been made bright and airy. Although Constance had kept a sharp eye out, she had yet to see blood seep out from behind the wallpaper, as the lawyer’s secretary had assured her it did.

  Her windows were open to admit the gulf breezes, and the faint thunder of waves on the still-cordoned beach reached her ears. Other than that, the h
ouse was silent. The bedrooms were all on the second floor, and she found that her sleeping quarters were closer to Aloysius’s than she was used to. It was an old house, and well built, but not nearly as solid as the Riverside Drive mansion where she lived in New York City. This was their first night in the place; Pendergast had gone to Key West this afternoon and wouldn’t be getting in until half past one, if not later.

  As she lay on the bed, she watched a tendril of moonbeam make its way across the paneled ceiling. She felt no drowsiness. She had come to know herself well over the many years since her birth, and there was no mystery to her wakefulness: her senses were on high alert and she was waiting for something to happen.

  The mystery, however, was…what?

  Upon arrival, she had done her best to immerse herself in Aloysius’s case: doing bits of online research, expressing her opinion of his speculations and offering a few of her own. But she found it hard to develop an interest in the matter. A hundred human feet, washing ashore—it was a bizarre and awful thing, but it had little to do with the intellectual and murderous battle of wits she so enjoyed assisting Pendergast with in his cases. Death on this scale was more like genocide, and genocide was never clever or mysterious: it was just the ugliest, cruelest side of humanity, manifesting itself in a brutal and pointless fashion. Enoch Leng, her first guardian, had been a scholar of genocide, and through him she had learned more about the subject than she ever would care to have known.

  She had finally admitted to Pendergast that she had little interest in the case and would prefer to pursue other things while on the islands. But there was another reason she wanted nothing to do with the case, which she hadn’t shared with Pendergast.

  If one looked deep enough into the death records of late-nineteenth-century New York City, one could learn that a young married couple had died during a cholera epidemic ravaging the docklands slums. But the death certificates did not tell the full story. After the husband, a stevedore, died of the disease, his wife—out of her head with fever and despair—either fell or jumped into the East River. Two little girls, Mary and Constance, were there to see their mother’s body being hoisted from the foul water with grappling hooks.

  She had never told anyone, even Dr. Leng. But the memory was with her always, and she did not wish to have a hundred waterlogged feet sharpening the edges of those memories.

  And so she had begun playing the role of tourist, wandering the streets, peering into shops, visiting the historical society, or sitting on the veranda of the Mortlach House, gazing toward the gulf and reading To the Lighthouse. She despised the book and had never been able to finish it, but now it was a martyrdom she was grimly determined to see through, like Henry IV of Germany enduring a hair shirt along the Walk to Canossa—

  Constance’s train of thought came to an abrupt stop.

  She lay perfectly still. There it was again: a rapping sound, faint but discernible. And it wasn’t from outside; it was in the house, down below—perhaps the basement, which Constance had not yet explored.

  And now, lying in bed, Constance realized what she had been waiting for: evidence of the Mortlach ghost.

  She sat up with a mixture of thrill and fear. Her eyes were already accustomed to the dark, and reaching over, she picked up the antique Italian stiletto that she always carried with her. She swung her legs out of the bed, rising to her feet in perfect silence while slipping into a silk robe. With equal stealth she crept to the door, then—very slowly—opened it.

  The hall was empty, lit only by a single small lamp. Weapon at the ready, Constance paused again to listen.

  Another tap, followed shortly by yet another: stealthy and hollow with a sense of purpose. They were definitely coming from the basement, and they sounded to Constance like someone tapping on the walls of the old mansion with a bony hand. It reminded her of the Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane, where an inmate had been infamous for…

  The breeze shifted and a sudden gust of wind caught the curtains of her windows, slamming her door shut with a thunderous bang.

  Constance froze. She waited, motionless, listening for a long time, but there was no more tapping.

  At last she turned and—as silently as she had risen from it—she returned to her bed, laid her head back on the down pillows, and once again stared at the continuing journey of the sliver of moonlight across the ceiling.

  22

  THE FINAL LAB results had arrived the previous evening, just as Moira Crossley was about to close up. She had stayed until nine o’clock going through them and then returned to the office that morning at seven to finish up before that strange FBI agent, Pendergast, was due to arrive for another update. She knew he would be punctual, and there was something about him that made her nervous, giving her the feeling that she should be very careful, not make a mistake, and be ready to answer any question.

  The buzzer rang just as the second hand on the clock was sweeping across twelve: OCD-level punctuality. How did he manage it with the hideous and unpredictable traffic? Did he arrive early and wait with a stopwatch? She wondered why she was so concerned about his approval. With most people, she didn’t give a rip.

  She opened the door and Pendergast stepped in, wearing a beautiful lemon-colored silk suit with the same Panama hat he had worn before. He tipped his hat in an old-fashioned way, then hung it on a coat rack by the door.

  “A lovely morning, Dr. Crossley,” he said. “Do I need to gown up?”

  “Not necessary,” she said. “We can go over the new results in my office. Please come with me.”

  Pendergast followed and she unlocked her office.

  “Take a chair,” she said as they entered.

  Pendergast slipped into a seat. Crossley went to her safe and punched in the combination, removing a couple of file folders. At Pendergast’s suggestion, she was taking extra care with security. She placed the folders in a stack. “I’ll be sending these to the FBI later today, but if you wish, we can go over them now.”

  “I do wish.”

  “Fine.” She passed him the top folder, opened the second on her desk. “There’s some, shall we say, unusual new information.”

  “Excellent.”

  At that moment the buzzer sounded again. Irritated, Crossley looked at her watch: 9:05. It wasn’t Paul; he had his own key. Probably one of those goddamn reporters.

  “Excuse me while I get rid of whoever that is,” she said.

  She went to the door. Through the wire-glass window she could see a very tall man standing ramrod straight, in a crisp blue suit, clean-shaven with a fresh buzz cut, lean and chiseled, with brown skin and striking green eyes.

  This was no reporter.

  “Who is it?” she asked through the microphone.

  In response, the man held up a badge. “Special Agent Coldmoon, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Oh.” Unlike Pendergast, this one looked every inch a fed. She buzzed him in. “I was just about to go over the lab results with Agent Pendergast. Are you also assigned to the case—?”

  “We’re partners.” His dazzling smile just about bowled her over.

  As she led him in, Pendergast rose.

  “Good to see you, Agent Pendergast,” said Coldmoon. “I see I’ve arrived just in time.”

  “I rather expected you later, Agent Coldmoon.” Pendergast eyed him keenly.

  An easy laugh. “We have an old Lakota saying: the early bird gets the worm.”

  “Indeed. And I see this early bird has new feathers.”

  Coldmoon tugged on his lapels. “Walmart. One hundred twenty-nine bucks.”

  A look of undisguised distaste flitted across Pendergast’s face.

  Coldmoon took an empty seat, while Crossley resumed her place behind the desk, passed another of the folders to Coldmoon, and then began her summary. “As I was about to explain to Agent Pendergast, we’ve completed the DNA testing and the results are rather interesting. Earlier we determined that most of the feet came from the genetic
heritage you typically find in Central and South America—mostly Native American with some European from the Iberian Peninsula, and a small portion of African. We’ve refined those results, and here’s what we’ve got.” She removed a large folded chart. “Many of these individuals are related, in widely varying degrees. We’ve got some brothers and sisters, a few parents and grown children, along with first cousins, second, third, fourth, and even fifth cousins.” She slid the diagram over. “This is an attempt to show relatedness. Of course, it’s extremely complicated because some first cousins are also third and fourth cousins to others, and so forth.”

  Coldmoon leaned forward eagerly and drew the diagram toward him, examined it, then passed it on to Pendergast.

  “We’re now going to submit the DNA results to several large commercial genetic testing databases to see if we can identify any of these individuals by name. That’s a complicated process, but we’re pushing it forward as fast as we can and should have those results soon.” She cleared her throat. “In addition to the DNA results, six individuals had partial or complete tattoos, which we’ve now analyzed. We’ve identified a few as symbols related to gang or religious affiliations common to the western highlands of Guatemala. The ink used is consistent with crudely formulated tattoo inks commonly used in Central America. Unfortunately, with the proliferation of such gangs, obtaining verifiable, current information on them is difficult. We’ve brought in a specialist and are doing what we can. The toenail polish present on some of the feet was identifiable—cheap brands common to Central America. But perhaps the most important evidence we found is this.”

  She took a photo out of the folder and placed it on the desk in front of them. Once again Coldmoon eagerly snapped it up and examined it before passing it on to Pendergast.

  “That’s a silver toe ring displaying an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, of a form and style typically worshiped by the Maya people of Guatemala. And engraved on the ring—” she pulled out another close-up photo— “is the name of a town in Guatemala called San Miguel Acatán.”