Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(108)

“I understand.”

Pickett took a breath. “So: you have no idea where that creature came from?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Or what it was doing here?”

“I have no idea.”

“And you don’t know what happened to it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Pickett swiveled his gaze toward Coldmoon. “And you?”

Coldmoon shrugged. “No, sir.”

“In other words,” said Pickett, “you’re both as ignorant as everybody else.”

“Alas,” said Pendergast, “I’m afraid this is one case I failed to solve.”

The color rose in Pickett’s face, and for a moment Coldmoon thought he was going to get angry. But then he smiled faintly. “Perhaps it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“A most wise stratagem,” Pendergast said.

“It’s a shame, though,” said Pickett. “That your stellar record, and your partner’s, might be darkened by this failure.”

Shit. Coldmoon hadn’t really thought of that. He couldn’t wait to get to Denver and into a normal FBI routine investigating ordinary things like terrorism, organized crime, and serial killers.

“On the other hand,” Pickett said, “solving the D. B. Cooper hijacking is a tremendous coup. I believe that was the FBI’s longest-running unsolved case. No doubt that will balance things out as far as your record is concerned.” He took a breath. “I’m still a little confused how you managed to do that in the midst of all this, though.”

“Serendipity,” said Pendergast.

“As soon as we put the finishing touches on that case and wrap it up, we’ll make the announcement. I imagine…” He paused. “There will be some sort of press conference and commendations for you both.”

“We look forward to it.”

Coldmoon began to feel better.

Pickett cast his gaze out the window over the wrecked landscape. “This case was just too crazy. Who could have predicted this?” He turned his scrutiny back to Pendergast. “Just so you don’t think I’m an idiot, I know you know a lot more about this.”

“As you said, sir, better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Which leads to my final question. Is there any reason for concern—in your opinion, of course—that there might be any further threats of this kind?”

“I believe,” Pendergast drawled, “that you can rest easy on that point.”

With this, he fell silent. What he did not say, nevertheless, spoke volumes.

“Then that’s all,” Pickett said. “Thank you. Now, is there anything I can do for either of you?”

“You can allow Agent Coldmoon to catch his flight to Denver,” Pendergast said. “And Constance and I would greatly appreciate spending tonight in our own beds, back in New York.”

“There was one thing…” Pickett began.

Coldmoon felt his spine stiffen. For a terrible moment, he thought they might be shanghaied once again…but after a moment Pickett shook his head and said, “Never mind.” Without another word, he stepped to one side and let them pass out of the conference room and toward the waiting elevators.





78



AS HE TURNED OFF MONTGOMERY and headed east on Taylor, Coldmoon almost had to restrain himself from pulling ahead of Pendergast’s uncharacteristically slow and painful walk. The debriefing he’d been dreading most—the one with Pickett—had gone more smoothly than he could have hoped. Pickett was a smarter guy than Coldmoon had given him credit for. He’d been cleared to leave for Denver. His bags were packed. He’d even taken the precaution of ordering an Uber the night before, although Pendergast had offered to give him a lift with an FBI pool car. Truth was, he didn’t want to broadcast the fact that he’d arranged to get to the airport three hours early. He couldn’t take the chance of getting dragged at the last moment into some bizarre new assignment. You never knew with Pendergast.

He glanced at his watch: right on schedule. He’d pop into the hotel, grab his bags, and soon Savannah and Pendergast would be dwindling specks in the rearview mirror of his career.

As they walked along, he couldn’t help but notice all the activity. Trucks were parked along the curbs, some with beds full of rubble being cleared by heavy machinery, while others were unloading lumber, bricks, and construction materials. Regular citizens were pitching in, shoveling debris into dumpsters and cleaning up. The inhabitants of Savannah, it seemed, having received no explanation for the attack visited upon them beyond a wash of crazy conspiracy theories, had decided to move on as quickly as possible.

Now up ahead, Coldmoon made out the ancient fa?ade of the Chandler House. It still looked a fright: surrounded by scaffolding, numerous windows boarded up, and the ruined upper floor covered in a superstructure of pipe and plastic. Most of the staff had returned once the building was fully stabilized, to help direct renovations.

As they came through the lobby doors, Coldmoon caught a glimpse of Chatham Square and the cluster of trailers and temporary Quonset huts he’d privately dubbed Fedville. A car was idling at the curb outside the lobby, an Uber sign posted inside the driver’s window.

Early, Coldmoon thought. Good omen.