Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(107)
In the beginning, there had been a brief effort to contain and spin what had taken place. But there were too many cell phones, too much news footage, and too many eyewitnesses of the beast and its horror. The authorities finally put out a vague statement that mentioned a “unique mutation event,” promising a “full and thorough investigation” and a careful sweep for any other anomalous creatures.
For the people of Savannah, on the other hand, the catastrophe had precipitated a different response: in the aftermath, they were pulling together as never before to rebuild the ruined sections of downtown. As it turned out, the body count was lower than initially believed; most of the dead were members of Senator Drayton’s advance team, rallygoers, and unlucky tourists who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some of the town’s wealthiest residents were pitching in to fund the reconstruction, and that—along with disaster relief, and Savannans’ ingrained pride in their beautiful city—would see not only the damaged structures rebuilt, but also several historic sites that had been long awaiting conservation.
None of this shed any light on what had really happened. Coldmoon knew a lot more than most, but under Pendergast’s orders he’d kept his mouth shut. The two of them had been subjected to innumerable debriefings and meetings, of which this promised to be the last.
His thoughts were interrupted by Commander Delaplane, who slapped shut the folder that sat on the table before her. It had contained a list of the usual questions—What was the nature of the thing? Where did it come from? What happened to it?—which she’d been obliged, for the record, to ask one final time. Naturally, nobody had any idea, Pendergast least of all. It was with some relief that Delaplane pushed the folder away.
“Well, that’s done,” she said. “Sorry. I know we’ve been covering the same old ground.”
“Quite all right,” said Pendergast mildly.
Delaplane shook her head. “It’s remarkable, really: a week has gone by, and reports are still coming in. Just this morning, I heard that the entire team making that documentary had been killed in the, uh, apparent lair of the creature.”
“All except for the cinematographer,” Sheldrake added. “And she was so freaked out that she’s only now beginning to describe what happened. Incoherently. And that journalist found with her—Wellstone, I think?—they say he’s irrecoverably insane.” He consulted a notebook. “Akinetic catatonia, precipitated by psychogenic trauma.”
“Closer to home,” Delaplane went on, “what happened to Felicity Frost was particularly tragic.” She turned to Pendergast. “You got to know her, right?”
Pendergast shook his head. “That was Constance, my ward.”
Hearing her name, Coldmoon had to stifle an involuntary twitch. Over the last few days, Constance had been acting even more strangely than usual. When he’d been battling the creature atop the church, was it really possible he’d caught a brief glimpse of her on the balcony of the hotel penthouse, shooting at the beast with a tommy gun? Of course it was: he’d seen her do stranger things than that. She was as crazy as she was beautiful. And brave. She’d been the one to go after Pendergast and drag his ass out of that damned machine.
He reminded himself he didn’t know anything about that. He was done with Savannah. Back at the hotel—which, pending reconstruction, had been stabilized by heavy steel bracers, jack posts, and Lally columns—his bags were packed. He had a flight for Denver that afternoon, and no power on earth was going to stop him from getting on that plane.
Now Delaplane was looking nonplussed, and Coldmoon—tuning in to the conversation—heard Sheldrake congratulating her for the commendation on bravery she’d received.
“Thanks, Benny,” she said. “Who knows—maybe I’ll make chief after all…in twenty or thirty years.”
“It might happen sooner than you imagine,” Pendergast said. He shifted in his chair. “Ah, Assistant Director Pickett. Why don’t you join us?”
Glancing toward the exit from the conference room, Coldmoon saw Pickett leaning against the doorframe. Just how long he’d been standing there, Coldmoon didn’t know. But the man’s presence seemed a signal for the meeting to adjourn, because everyone began gathering their things, nodding and shaking hands, and heading for the door. Coldmoon stood to join the exodus, only to see Pickett motioning for him and Pendergast to remain behind. They stood at the door in an awkward silence.
Pickett glanced over his shoulder, making sure the others had gone. Then he cleared his throat. “I, ah, understand you two went toe-to-toe with the late Senator Drayton on my behalf,” he said. “You look…well?”
Pendergast nodded.
Pickett hesitated again, with an almost embarrassed expression on his face. “That means a lot to me. On both counts.”
“And I am equally grateful,” said Pendergast, “for the way you protected our investigation from the senator. I regret the impact on your career.”
“Actually,” Pickett said, “Senator Drayton didn’t have the chance to follow through on his threats. He was more of a blowhard than a man of action.”
So he’s getting his promotion, after all, Coldmoon thought.
There was a silence as Pickett fixed Pendergast with a long and particular stare. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “For the record, you understand.”