Verses for the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  “What does it say?”

  “Nothing new. Vance was still insisting it was murder, but offered no new evidence. The officer states that his health was deteriorating and he was barely ambulatory.” He passed these last sheets to Coldmoon. “It seems this last interview was an attempt to get the man to shut up. Apparently it worked, as that’s the latest document in the file.”

  “Two years ago,” Coldmoon repeated. “And he still believed she was murdered.”

  Pendergast nodded.

  “Hanged with a knotted bedsheet. No suicide note. The location’s right. The time frame is right. MP husband felt sure she was murdered. You know, I think there’s a chance she might be our victim zero.”

  “May I point out this is not the first person we’ve encountered who believed their loved one did not commit suicide?”

  “You mean the Baxters. And we proved them right.”

  “True. But in this case, unless I’m missing something, there’s absolutely no X-ray evidence she was killed by a choke hold.”

  Coldmoon paged through the most recent report. “If there’s even a chance this is victim zero, maybe we should follow it up. Ask this guy Vance why he’s still so convinced she was murdered.”

  “What will he say to us that he didn’t already say to the police?”

  “Take a look at this interview,” Coldmoon said, holding up the sheet and then tossing it back to Pendergast. “It’s all pro forma. The cops just asked a few dumb questions. I think we ought to go talk to the old coot. We have time to kill. Grove’s not going to bring over any more files until late in the afternoon.”

  Pendergast looked at him.

  “Do you disagree?”

  “Not at all. I have little interest in waiting around for news that Brokenhearts has killed again. I merely ask these rhetorical questions because—without our friend Axel at hand—you’ll have to drive.”

  “Oh. Shit.” Coldmoon had forgotten about that. “What was that place again?”

  “A small town with the charming name of Canepatch. About sixty miles west of here.”

  “Canepatch. Figures.” Coldmoon stood up. “We can get there and back in three hours, tops. No point in sitting here waiting. After all, it can’t be any hotter there than it is here.”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Pendergast, who—returning the scattered sheets to the folder and picking it up—rose and walked toward the door.

  39

  IN HER WINDOWLESS office next to the morgue, feeling a little guilty for what she was about to do, Charlotte Fauchet once again opened the accordion file marked LAURIE WINTERS. She had already thoroughly reviewed the file, along with Jasmine Oriol’s: but then, of course, she’d had her medical examiner hat on. For a second time, she’d had trouble sleeping the night before. Certain items in the nonmedical part of the files had gotten her thinking. Maybe it was those sessions with Pendergast and Coldmoon in the “safe house,” which had given her firsthand insight into the investigative aspects of catching a killer. Maybe detective work was rubbing off on her. In any case, now that she was on vacation—and with no real plans to speak of—she’d decided to drop by the office in the morning to examine the files more thoroughly.

  Fauchet began laying out photos of the autopsy. Winters had been found hanging from a rod in a closet at a roadside motel outside of Bethesda. The autopsy had been performed by the local medical examiner, who was also—for a change—an experienced forensic pathologist. As she looked over the photos one by one, she was impressed by the level of technique and clean workmanship.

  The problem was, despite the M.E.’s credentials, he seemed to have approached the autopsy without the slightest doubt regarding the police conclusion—that it was an open-and-shut suicide. That lack of skepticism prevented him from asking a question: how did an incomplete hanging like this fracture a wing of the hyoid bone, but not the body of the bone? Funny how all the surgical precision in the world didn’t matter if the mind was already made up. It reminded her of the earlier cases, where the certitude of the police and the subtlety of the evidence had, it seemed, sometimes helped lead M.E.’s to predetermined conclusions.

  Interesting.

  She turned to the police report of the “suicide.” Winters, twenty-four, had been driving up I-95 on a freelance photography assignment—to photograph her cousin’s wedding in Massachusetts. She had reached the Wildwood Manor Motel off the 495 bypass and checked in around eight o’clock. A cleaning lady found the body the following day, hours after checkout time.

  The investigating officer, Sergeant Sweetser, was a professional who’d been quite thorough in his investigation. He’d copied from the motel’s register the names, car makes, and license plate numbers of the previous night’s fellow guests, along with brief descriptions of each occupant given to him by the manager.

  Fauchet flipped through the interviews. There was nothing of interest. Nobody had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, and all had accounted for themselves in normal, unsuspicious ways. Winters had had no visitors that anyone had noticed. And the night manager insisted he would have noticed, because anyone arriving or leaving by car would have to pass by his office.

  Using Google street view, Fauchet looked at the façade of the motel, which still existed. It was along the highway, outside of town and not easily accessible on foot. That meant the killers were probably staying at the motel themselves.

  Good old Sergeant Sweetser had interviewed six guests, but the rest had already checked out by the time the police arrived. It seemed likely to Fauchet the killers would have left early that morning; why hang around and get caught up in an investigation? So the killers would not have been among those interviewed. That was another important clue.

  As she skimmed the list of license plates, she saw there was another Florida plate, on a 1997 Mercury Tracer wagon with the number JW24-99X. If the killer was from Florida, as Pendergast had implied in yesterday afternoon’s meeting, this could be another clue. And it made sense: if the killers were traveling up I-95 hunting for victims from Florida, it would be easy enough to cruise through a motel parking lot, looking for Florida plates.

  According to Sweetser’s report, the motel register said the Tracer belonged to a man by the name of George Lehigh. The second occupant of the room was listed as his son, Travis.

  Father and son. Master—and apprentice?

  She felt a creeping chill. They were not among those guests who’d been interviewed. But Sweetser had obtained a description from the manager. She turned to it and was disappointed to find it perfunctory—both with brown hair, average height, average build, no distinguishing characteristics—except both father and son were wearing Marlins baseball caps. The son, Travis, “looked to be in his midteens.”

  Fauchet put down the report and thought for a moment. Was Lehigh their real name? Almost certainly they would be traveling under false identities. It didn’t look like Sweetser had run any license plates—not surprising, given the supposed suicide. But surely there would be a record in some database, somewhere, of who was registered to that plate eleven years ago.

  She took out Pendergast’s business card and started dialing the cell number. Then she stopped and laid down her phone. She shouldn’t go off half-cocked. After all, these potential clues were intriguing, but they were just that: potential clues. If she was freelancing, the least she should do was follow through the way Pendergast would: examine both files, dot her i’s and cross her t’s. After all, the Miami PD, whose job it was to examine such things, would know what to look for.

  But wouldn’t it be wonderful, she thought, if she could deliver to Pendergast the identity of Brokenhearts on a silver platter…just like that?

  She put away the Winters folder and turned to the accordion file labeled JASMINE ORIOL.

  40

  I FIGURE THERE’S a pretty good chance we’ll get shot out here,” said Coldmoon, with a mirthless laugh, as they passed by a shabby trailer with five skeletonized cars out fr
ont, surrounded by bedraggled palmettos. “These crackers aren’t likely to pass up the chance to try and jack a Shelby.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Pendergast. He’d been paging through the Vance file again, and now he slipped it into the pocket of the passenger door. “But if it eases your mind, I’d lay odds you could outrun them.”

  Coldmoon downshifted the confiscated drugmobile as they approached a sharp turn. Beyond the smoked windows, the landscape whizzed past—stands of tall marsh grass, clusters of dense vegetation and trees, an occasional trailer or abandoned roadside attraction. And always, running everywhere, channels of lazy brown water, with the occasional alligator basking in the sun.

  The first half hour had been the usual snarl of Miami traffic. But as they continued west, past the racetracks and par-three golf courses and trailer parks, he did his best to relax, forget he’d been the one to suggest this boring field trip, and enjoy the ride. The initial section of road was familiar from his drive to Cape Coral, anyway, and as that little jaunt taught him, the layout of Florida was bizarre: millions of people pressed against the coasts like ants, and in the middle nothing but lakes, orange groves, cattle ranches, and—of course—swamps.

  After they made the turn, Okeechobee Road ran arrow-straight through the flat landscape, the asphalt shimmering in the heat, mirages coming and going on the road surface. They entered an area of wetlands, with tall trees rising upward, bulbous root systems extending into the water like a tangle of snakes. They passed a large family of basking alligators, lying in the muck along the verge, black and oily and gleaming in the patchy sun, slitty eyes open. Some were even lying on top of others. Didn’t the bastards ever shut their eyes? Coldmoon shuddered. God, he hated the look of those creatures—and all of a sudden they seemed to be everywhere, roughly corresponding to the abrupt drop-off in human habitation. He had no idea Florida had so many. They were like giant snakes with legs. He wondered why alligator leather was so expensive, when all you had to do was come to the bayous of South Florida and pick off as many as you liked.

  “Our turnoff should be in about five miles,” Pendergast said.

  Coldmoon checked his iPhone. Thank God it still had a couple of bars—the last time they drove out of town, he’d lost cell reception almost immediately. “Four point four miles to be exact,” Pendergast continued. “Then another ten to Paradise Landing and three more to Canepatch.”

  “Great.” Coldmoon, eager to get the interview over with, accelerated again, this time to ninety. The chopped-down Mustang seemed to prefer high rates of speed: the engine settled down to a mild roar, and the laminar airflow kept them low and steady on the road. The biggest indication of speed was the insects now peppering the windshield like hail, once in a while a particularly large specimen leaving a huge yellow splat.

  The turnoff came before he expected it. There was no sign, but it was the only one around. He braked smoothly and hard, swinging the Shelby onto the side road. It began as potholed blacktop, but within a few miles turned into a white lane of crushed oyster shells. The trailers and rusting hulks of engines they’d seen before were gone. Instead, they were now passing stands of brackish water, saw grass marshes, and tall, strange-looking plants.

  “Is this the Everglades?” Coldmoon asked.

  “I imagine we entered the preserve when we left the state highway.”

  He looked around. “Can you imagine the drive this guy must make to buy beer?”

  “Even longer, I would imagine, for a decent Bordeaux.”

  Coldmoon was used to emptiness, but it was the emptiness of the South Dakota prairie. This kind of desolation felt strangely claustrophobic, as if he was hemmed in by the tropical growth that grew wilder with each mile they went. “Why would anyone live out here?” he muttered.

  “Here we have a man,” Pendergast said, “who was sure his wife was brutally murdered. Rightly or wrongly, he was convinced it wasn’t suicide, but he couldn’t make anyone else believe him, especially law enforcement. He was dismissed, ignored, humored as if he was crazy. An experience like that can break a man. It’s no surprise he decided to retire from humanity.”

  “Okay,” Coldmoon said. “But that was twelve years ago. You think Vance’s still there—or even alive?”

  “He was as of two years ago. We shall find out soon enough.”

  “Yeah. But did you ever see the movie Deliverance?”

  “No.”

  “Well, all I can say is, if I start hearing any banjos, I’m turning the hell around.”

  Behind them, the car was sending up a corkscrew of white dust. As the road deteriorated, Coldmoon slowed. The wild vegetation gave way to vast, tall grass, so high it felt like they were traveling in a green ditch. After another mile, a dark cypress forest loomed up. It seemed to go on forever, growing darker and darker until they found themselves in a gloomy swamp, the elevated dirt road running among the massive trunks of cypress trees and a thick, brushy understory. The greasy gleam of alligators could be seen again, here and there, in the rare patches of sun.

  “Another mile and a half to Paradise Landing,” said Coldmoon, checking his phone. The two bars had dropped to one. After a few more minutes, sunlight could be seen through the cover of trees; then the road made a turn and ran alongside a broad canal. The forest opened up, exposing a burnt-green landscape with several sagging docks extending into the water, a shuttered convenience store, and a couple of rusted gas pumps under a metal awning. Beyond the docks, Coldmoon could see parallel lanes of a once-paved boulevard, with streetlights and rows of half-built homes looming up: concrete shells abandoned before completion. At the close end of the boulevard lay a few kayaks of faded fiberglass, flung together and of questionable seaworthiness. A peeling sign read, WELCOME TO PARADISE LANDING.

  Coldmoon brought the Shelby to a stop and they stepped out. He looked warily for alligators, but if any were around they’d submerged themselves in the canal. A pair of egrets took off from the dock posts.

  “Looks like one of those failed Florida developments you read about.” Coldmoon glanced again at his phone. “We’re still three miles from Canepatch. But the road seems to end here.”

  Pendergast said nothing, just gazed ahead at the brown waterway with distant eyes.

  “After you, kemosabe.”

  Pendergast, still without answering, walked down to the dock. Coldmoon followed. A small aluminum airboat, not nearly as old as its surroundings, was tied up to one of the moorings.

  “Evidently, someone still uses this place,” Pendergast said. He leaned over and examined the boat. “And the keys are in the ignition. How convenient.”

  “You’re going to steal it,” Coldmoon said.

  “We have the right to requisition it,” Pendergast said. “But that won’t be necessary.” He nodded at a crooked wooden sign, on which had been painted:

  Airboat for rent. $10/hr $50/day.

  tank of gas $20.

  “Awfully trusting out here,” Coldmoon said.

  “I doubt anyone would come all this way just to hijack such a specialized form of watercraft.”

  Coldmoon shouted out a greeting—once, twice—but there was no reply except for the buzz of insects.

  Pendergast reached into his black suit—Coldmoon had long since stopped wondering how the man could stand wearing it in all the heat and humidity—slipped out a money clip, removed a hundred-dollar bill, and speared it to a rusty nail sticking out of the sign. He gestured toward the boat. “Be my guest.”

  41

  FAUCHET, HAVING ALREADY seen the file on Jasmine Oriol, knew it was much sketchier than Laurie Winters’s. Oriol had been found in a motel outside Savannah, Georgia. The case had been handled not by a medical examiner, but by an elected county coroner without an MD, who in turn farmed out the autopsy to an intern at the local hospital. This might very well have been his first real autopsy, and it was a piece of work. The forensic photographs were amateurish and underexposed. The report that accompanied them was almost useless
. No photographs of the hyoid bone were sharp enough to show anything useful. The toxicology report indicated that, as with Winters, there were no drugs or alcohol in her system—and that was about it. Shaking her head, Fauchet gathered up the photos and returned them to the file along with the coroner’s report. Short of an exhumation, she’d have to take the report of the broken hyoid wings on faith. But again, it was the nonmedical aspects of the crime that now intrigued her—especially the possibility of the investigating cop having, as in the case of Laurie Winters, made a record of license plates.

  She flipped open the police reports. Jasmine Oriol had been on her way from Miami to visit her fiancé in New York City, where he was in medical school. This was the first night of her cross-country trip. Florida was a long-ass state, and maybe Jasmine had gotten a late start—in any case, she hadn’t made it far.

  Much to Fauchet’s disappointment, the investigating officer had not copied the motel register, or listed the other guests and their license plate numbers. At least there was an interview with the motel manager, a man named Wheaton, who had been eager to help to the point of volubility: the transcribed interview ran to four single-spaced pages.

  Fauchet began reading. Oriol, the manager said, had arrived around six o’clock, asked for a restaurant recommendation, then gone to a diner across the street. Wheaton saw her returning around seven thirty. She stopped in again at the front desk at eight and asked for a hair dryer to use the next morning. The manager didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary—she seemed cheerful and had talked in passing about her fiancé.

  The next morning, he was surprised when she slept in: he thought she’d be eager to be on her way. But he didn’t bother her until noon, when he finally sent the maid around. He heard screams, came running, and saw the woman hanging from the ceiling fan, having kicked over a chair underneath her. From this point, the manager went on and on, bemoaning the tragedy and its effect on business, saying that nothing like this had ever happened before, why would she ask for a hair dryer before killing herself, this was a respectable place, and so forth almost interminably until the interviewing officer gently but skillfully ended the interview.