She seemed unaware of their presence, all her attention fixed on the courtyard. And then, Coldmoon saw a man rise, hands in the air. Now more men began to stand up, hands raised. Still Constance gripped the machine gun, stock pressed against her shoulder, the barrel of the weapon smoking and steaming in the rain. She took aim, breathing heavily.
Pendergast put a hand on her shoulder. “Constance?” He gave her a gentle shake. “You can stop shooting now.”
For a moment she remained motionless in the gathering silence; then she eased her finger from the trigger. Silence fell as more soldiers rose up, shakily, some splattered with their comrades’ blood.
Although her face remained composed, her eyes were afire—a wraithlike, mud-covered specter of death.
“We’d better get the hell out,” Coldmoon said. Even as he spoke there was a scattering of fire in the parking lot beyond the courtyard. The soldiers who had surrendered, seeing their comrades arriving, hesitated, and some broke into a run to get away.
In an incongruously courteous gesture, Pendergast motioned down a faint road into the dark swamp. “Constance, if you’d kindly lead the way?”
They ran down the track and were soon enveloped in protective darkness. A few random shots rang out behind them, but nobody, it seemed, cared to follow.
“Where’s that woman?” Coldmoon asked abruptly.
“Alves-Vettoretto? Gone,” Pendergast replied. Then: “She’s a survivor; she can take care of herself.”
“Why did you take her with us, anyway?”
“I believed I saw something worth saving. Chalk it up to a personal weakness, perhaps.”
70
THEY JOGGED DOWN the muddy path toward the docks, Constance in the lead.
In his entire law enforcement career, Coldmoon had never seen anything remotely like what this woman had just done. He wondered if she was really Pendergast’s “ward”—this crazed angel of death, in her torn and filthy clothes—or instead some kind of homicidal bodyguard the man had trained for his own protection. For a moment, his thoughts strayed back to his grandmother, and her description of Wachiwi. He recalled seeing Dancing Girl with his own eyes, walking through the frozen trees, her thin form wrapped in a blanket. She is mortal, as we are. Yet she is also different.
Pendergast had taken a spotlight from one of the dead soldiers, and it now illuminated a grisly sight: three dead guards in a rude pillbox made of earth and bricks, their bodies sprawled and splayed in various attitudes of death.
“Your handiwork, Constance?” Pendergast asked.
“I needed their weapon.”
“How did you do that with only a stiletto?”
“Chief Perelman lent me his gun. Not voluntarily, of course. He’s down at the river, with a broken leg. We were caught in a tornado as we were landing.”
They proceeded through the dark trees and around a bend in the lane. Ahead now, Coldmoon could see the black mass of the river through a tangle of wrecked docks, piers, and metal buildings. Constance veered off the road and they made their way to the embankment.
“I left him here,” she said as they came to a small grove of trees. Pendergast shone the light around.
“Over here,” came a faint voice from downriver.
They worked their way along the embankment to find Chief Perelman lying on his side next to his wrecked boat. He had the mike of a VHF in his hand, the radio next to him, wired to a marine battery from the boat.
“Dragged myself over,” he said, gasping, his face smeared with mud and dripping with rainwater. “When I heard all that shooting, I figured you wouldn’t mind if I called in the cavalry.”
As if on cue, Coldmoon heard the distant rumble of rotors and saw—above the treetops in the east—a line of choppers moving fast and low. A moment later, lights appeared downriver, with a rising drone of outboard engines, as a phalanx of Coast Guard patrol boats materialized out of the darkness, moving at high speed, their spotlights playing along the shore.
“That was fast,” Coldmoon said.
“I told them federal agents were engaged in a firefight, with a man down. That did the trick.” Perelman lay back, looking at Constance. “I can’t believe it—you actually went in there alone and rescued these two?”
“I only did what I said I would do,” she said simply.
“Only,” the chief said, shaking his head and lying back with a wince. He glanced in the direction of the river. “I hope to hell they’re bringing painkillers.”
Coldmoon watched the helicopters pass overhead. The first patrol boat made a ground landing and several men and women in body armor jumped out, their lights flashing, armed to the teeth with assault rifles, mortars, and RPGs. Its complement deployed, the boat backed away, making room for the next vessel.
“I’m going back,” said Pendergast, moving toward the troops.
“What the hell for?” Coldmoon asked. “We did our part. Let them do the mopping up.”
“I have to get Dr. Gladstone. They gave her the drug…and she amputated her own foot.”
“Oh my God…” Coldmoon swallowed. “I’m coming with you, then.”
Pendergast nodded. “Thank you.”
They joined the stream of men clambering off the boats. “This way,” Pendergast cried to them. “Follow me!” And moments later, the assembled group set off toward the glowing complex rising beyond the trees, as the choppers hovered above, fast-roping down SWAT teams and exchanging fire with the rogue troops inside the facility.
71
AFTER THE SOUND and fury of the previous night, it was a remarkably quiet group that rode in Perelman’s Explorer the following morning. Towne drove while the chief reclined in the front passenger seat, his leg in a splint. Coldmoon, Pendergast, and Constance Greene sat in the back. The storm was spent, giving way to freshly washed blue sky.
“It’s very good of you to drop us at the house,” Pendergast said, with a voice as tranquil as if they’d just been shopping at the local mall.
“Least I could do,” came the response from the front seat.
Coldmoon was too exhausted to speak. The dawn helicopter ride back from Crooked River to Fort Myers, the obligatory medical exams, the initial debriefing, and paperwork had passed in a blur. Now Perelman was driving them home, and all Coldmoon could think of was crawling into bed. As the Explorer bumped over Blind Pass Bridge onto Captiva, he thought it was as beautiful a place as he’d ever visited in his life—but he was too tired to appreciate it.
Pendergast sat beside him, as pale and still as a marble statue. Constance was on the far side. Constance—what was he to make of her now? She hadn’t spoken to him since they left the complex, and he could feel the tension radiating from her when he was around. He once again recalled her warning when he’d refused to bring her along on the rescue mission. He hoped it was only a brief expression of anger and not an actual threat. Unfortunately, it didn’t feel that way. Maybe he could convince Pendergast to talk to her—he doubted anybody else could change her mind.
As the Explorer approached the Mortlach House, the radio squawked. “Explorer One, Explorer One. P.B., acknowledge.”
With a grunt, Perelman reached forward and plucked the handset from its cradle. “Priscilla, what is it?”
“Chief Caspar wants an update. And Commander Baugh’s been calling and call—”
“Nothing until after my nap,” he interrupted, replacing the handset and turning to Towne. “Just like I predicted, all those souls who did nothing, and even the ones who screwed up, are going to crawl out into the light, eager to share in the glory. Just wait.”
The car slowed as it turned in to the Mortlach driveway. Pendergast turned to Perelman. “I wonder if you might satisfy my curiosity on one small point.”
“Of course,” the chief replied.
“What does ‘P.B.’ stand for?”
There was an awkward pause. Perelman turned to Towne. “Lewis, would you mind waiting for us in front of the house?”
Perel
man waited until Towne had exited the vehicle, then waited some more. He turned to Pendergast. “Percy Bysshe.”
“Marvelous! You must have had literary parents.”
“Not marvelous. Bloody awful. Especially to a thirteen-year-old kid.”
“It seems to have done you no harm in later life.”
“That’s because nobody knows about it. And I hope to hell you can keep my secret.” Perelman opened his door, getting out with difficulty, Pendergast handing him his crutches.
Coldmoon followed the others up the steps and into the Mortlach House. The old boards creaked under their feet. This was immediately followed by a muffled sound coming from the bowels of the house—sounding like a drawn out wail.
Perelman halted in surprise. “What fresh hell is that?”
“That,” Constance said, “is the Mortlach ghost.”
Coldmoon stared, aghast, as another sound, a sort of groan, came through the floorboards.
“If you’d care to follow me into the basement, gentlemen, I’ll be happy to introduce you.” She led the way through the house to the basement door, opened it, turned on the lights, and descended the stairs. Coldmoon followed the others. He’d only been down in the basement once before, and it was as close and stuffy as he remembered it.
There was, however, one major change. A hole had been broken through a far section of the exterior wall, bricks and dirt scattered over the floor. And at the sound of their voices, another howl of protest issued from a dark corner, a sound so full of misery that Coldmoon felt his hair prickle.
Constance walked over and, removing a skeleton key from her pocket, opened a heavy wooden door in the alcove, revealing a tiny, windowless room. A man stumbled out into the light, dressed in muddy clothes, with wild hair and a massive dirty beard. He looked around at them with confused, pleading eyes.
“Wait—I think I know this man,” Perelman said. “He’s that old fellow who’s been hanging around Silver Key Beach.” He stared at Constance. “Who is he and what’s he doing here?”
“His name is Randall Wilkinson.”
“Randall Wilkinson,” Perelman repeated, balancing on his crutches. “But that’s…that’s impossible! Wilkinson was the murder victim who…” His voice trailed off.
“That’s right,” Constance continued for him. “The victim himself, murdered in this house ten years ago, his body never found. That’s what everyone was supposed to believe. But it’s a little more complicated than that—isn’t it, Mr. Wilkinson? Would you care to tell everyone what you told me yesterday?”
The man said nothing.
“Then, if you’ll forgive the liberty, I will.” She turned back to the three. “Mr. Wilkinson once worked as a chemical engineer and did quite well for himself—well enough to buy this house. But then he was involved in an industrial accident that kept him from doing full-time work. His employer claimed the accident was his fault and refused to pay more than a marginal disability benefit—and then fired him. Over the next few years he accrued heavy debts, and it looked like he might lose the house. Finally, in desperation, he turned to his widowed sister, a former nurse who had become a forensic artist. Together, they devised a plan. Mr. Wilkinson took out a large life insurance policy on himself, with his sister as beneficiary. He knew that, if the life insurance was to be paid out, his death would have to be incontestable—even without a body. And so, over a span of many months, he withdrew pints of his own blood, until at last he had roughly six quarts: the amount normally present in the human body. His sister, who lived in Massachusetts, came down to assist from time to time. It was all done in this basement, in secret. In between blood draws, he would conceal the medical apparatus in a hollow pillar.”
She turned to the man. “Correct so far?”
When he didn’t respond, she continued. “One night, when they had finally collected enough blood, they went to work. His sister knew about blood spatter and crime scene analysis, and so she was able to make everything look very credible. She artfully created spatter patterns on the walls and furniture, then poured the rest across the floor—in such profusion that it would have to be considered fatal. Mr. Wilkinson carved a small piece from his scalp; embedded it into a chair back with the blow of an ax; then broke up some furniture to ensure it appeared as if a struggle had occurred. Using blood soaked into his own clothes, they made smear marks to the back door, down the steps, and into a pickup truck. Then they drove away, split up a few days later, and Mr. Wilkinson established a new identity. He lay low for several years in a remote part of Utah—although I suppose ‘a remote part of Utah’ is redundant. In any case, the insurance company, after some initial resistance, eventually paid the sister, who split the money with Mr. Wilkinson. And she, of course, inherited the house. She never lived there, perhaps for obvious reasons, and later died of cancer. Her estate sold the place, and that should have been the end of the story. But it wasn’t.”
She glanced at the man again. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care to take over the story?”
He hung his head.
“Everything had worked out beautifully. Mr. Wilkinson had a new identity and enough money to live without working. But things gradually went awry. After Mr. Wilkinson’s sister died and the house was put up for sale, he began to brood. He couldn’t stop thinking about that hollow pillar and the blood donor equipment hidden inside, contaminated with his own blood. In the frenzy of preparing his own death, he hadn’t thought to remove it. If that were ever found, it might expose his entire scheme. The insurance company had been reluctant to pay and the adjuster had been a barracuda. Although he tried to push those worries aside, the concerns only got worse. Not unlike in Poe’s short story ‘The Tell-Tale Heart,’ his fears grew into a full-blown obsession. That obsession grew worse when he learned the wealthy New Yorker who’d bought the house planned to renovate it. Now Mr. Wilkinson’s obsessive fears suddenly became grounded in reality. He decided there was only one solution: to break in and remove the instrumenta sceleris from the hollow pillar. And so one night he returned to Captiva, with all the equipment he would need to remove the evidence. But being back in town proved mentally distressing. Even though he’d aged and changed his appearance and dress to that of a vagabond, he became paranoid that he’d be recognized. Worse, when he actually tried to break into the house, he disturbed a couple of squatters. He escaped the island, traumatized, while the squatters circulated a story of ghosts, knocking noises, and chains.”
“Ah, the source of the ghostly rumors,” Perelman said.
“My thinking exactly. In any case, the renovation took place but the hidden equipment was not exposed. This was of course a huge relief to Mr. Wilkinson—until a few years later, when the New Yorker couldn’t make a go of the inn he’d dreamed of opening and received a very attractive offer from a developer. After a long fight with the historical society, the house was scheduled for demolition. All of Wilkinson’s fears roared back in force—now his blood kit was sure to be found. He had no choice but to return and try again to get it.”
She paused briefly, examining her audience. “This time, however, he was more careful. He knew of a brick-lined ditch along the hidden side of the house, where an exit door had been planned for the basement but never built. He got the necessary tools and practiced with them. Then—just days before the demolition was to take place, to ensure there would be no squatters this time—he returned in his cover as a vagabond. Imagine his consternation when he found that, instead of squatters, the house had renters—viz., ourselves. But it was too late to back out. And so he was forced to work very slowly and quietly…unseen, usually at night. Unfortunately for him, I heard the faint tapping. And since I find the idea of spirits curious rather than frightening—and had time on my hands—I decided to investigate. And here we are.”
She nodded toward the man. “Gentlemen, Randall Wilkinson.”
There was a brief silence following this explanation. Then, Pendergast said: “Constance, brava.”
“Incredible to think he’s been alive all this time,” Perelman said.
Constance waved a hand at Wilkinson. “Ecce homo.”
“What do we do with him now?” Perelman asked after a moment. “I can think of many laws that were broken here: insurance fraud, conspiracy, tax evasion, contributing to the forgery of a death certificate, financial fraud…the list of felonies is downright staggering.”
Constance turned to Wilkinson. “How much profit did you make?”
The man spoke for the first time. He had, Coldmoon noted, a low, almost melodious voice. “Two million dollars from the insurance. My sister got the house—that was part of the deal, plus half a million. I kept one and a half million.”
“What happened to your sister’s portion after her death?”
“When she found she had cancer, she started wiring amounts to an offshore account, which I later collected. She had no children, you see.”
“You certainly had a devoted sister,” said Pendergast.
“We were very close.”
“And how much do you have left?” Constance inquired.
A hesitation. “About a million two.”
Constance turned toward Perelman. “Chief Perelman, do you know approximately how much money the historical society still needs to raise to purchase and restore the house?”
Another brief pause, during which Coldmoon heard Pendergast say something in Latin to Constance. She smiled as if complimented.
Perelman spoke. “About a million. Give or take.”
“Interesting coincidence,” Constance said. “I wonder how Mr. Wilkinson would feel about making an anonymous gift to the historical society, in order to save the house, in return for being allowed to go free?”
Nobody spoke for a minute. Perelman finally said: “I sweated bullets trying to solve this case. I failed, and it was humiliating. I’m not sure I’m so willing to let it go.”
“Consider the alternative,” Pendergast interjected smoothly. “If you arrest him, all that money will go back to the insurance company—and ticky-tacky condos will replace this beautiful old mansion. Captiva Island will never be the same.”
Crooked River Page 35
