Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(111)

The man turned south on Barnard and walked through a small area of grass and trees, bounded on all sides by buildings. This was more like it. At the far end was a plaque, telling him the domesticated little park was named Orleans Square. Ahead now, over the roofs of the city, many with scaffolding, he could see dust rising and hear the familiar noise of construction.

At the sight, and the sound, he felt his throat constrict involuntarily.

Living as he did away from civilization, he didn’t make it a practice to read the paper or watch the news. What happened beyond his property line wasn’t his business, and he’d grown sick of the steady drumbeat of depressing and irritating news about which he could do nothing. His bus trip had taken him first from Seattle to Chicago, and then Chicago to Atlanta, and in the Chicago bus station he’d caught a glimpse of screaming headlines about the Savannah disaster. He’d picked up some papers and read about how the city had suffered some kind of attack, fire and explosions—the stories were baffling—with numerous casualties. This had heightened his anxiety, which was already at a high level. But he reassured himself that above all, she was a survivor—and a most formidable woman.

A most formidable woman. And quite lonely.

He should have done this—found her and gone to her—years ago. But there was still time. Heart pounding, he quickened his pace down Barnard Street. There were cranes ahead, and scaffolding, and the heavy-duty contractors’ vans and pickups. The noise of construction was growing ever louder, and scenes of considerable destruction began to present themselves. Something bizarre and ruinous had happened here, with multiple damaged buildings, scorched trees and, here and there, the hulks of burned cars.

Another ten or so blocks and he reached Chatham Square. Taking a torn and soiled piece of paper from his pocket, he unfolded it and glanced at some scribbled directions. This was the place. The Chandler House stood along the far side of the park, on Gordon Street.

But when he raised his eyes and identified the building, his heart sank. The long, rambling structure was surrounded by newly erected chain-link construction fencing, the upper windows covered with plywood, scaffolding surrounding it. Through it, he could see on the top floor indications of fire damage and collapse.

Taking a firmer grip on the suitcase, he made his way across the square. Several buildings on the other three sides were being restored as well, but the old man paid no attention to them. He crossed Gordon Street, then stopped in front of the hotel’s brick fa?ade, barely visible behind the scaffolding. A local cop stood at the temporary construction gate guarding the hotel’s front door. He walked up to him.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

The man, staring at the fa?ade, said nothing.

“Sir, can I help you?” the cop repeated.

“I’m looking for Miss Frost,” the man said.

“Miss Frost? You mean Felicity Frost?”

The old man nodded. “She…owns this building.”

The cop ingested this for a moment. “What’s your business with her?”

“I’m…” The man broke off, coughing, then cleared his throat. “I’m a relative.”

“I see.” A pause. “Sir, I’m sorry to inform you that Felicity Frost is deceased.”

“What?” The man met the cop’s sympathetic gaze.

“I’m very sorry,” the cop said. “She was killed in the disaster. If you inquire at city hall, they can give you additional information.” He gently pointed the way for him, giving directions.

The old man walked away, but he began to feel weak and even dizzy, as if in a dream. A strange veil of darkness crossed his eyes, and the medical part of his brain warned him: syncope, due to a sudden drop in blood pressure. Looking around, he saw a hydrant a few steps away; he walked over to it and sank down. Here, in the shade, it was cooler. Deceased. His brain simply couldn’t process it.

The last thing he remembered was taking off his hat and placing it carefully in his lap.



A hand was grasping his shoulder, shaking him gently but firmly. And there was a voice calling out: distant at first, then more distinct. “Doctor? Dr. Quincy?”

The old man raised his head at the sound. A person was standing over him; someone with a vaguely familiar voice.

He blinked several times, clearing his vision. His hat was in his lap, and his suitcase lay between his legs, where he’d apparently dropped it.

And then everything came back to him.

He heard the voice, calling his name again, and this time Quincy was able to focus. It was that FBI agent—what was his name, Coldmoon?—who’d visited him at Berry Patch.

“My ass hurts,” he said.

“I’m not surprised,” the FBI agent said. “I think you’ve been sitting on that fireplug for an hour.”

Quincy looked down. “Jesus.”

“I first saw you fifteen minutes ago. Thought it best to leave you with your thoughts. But come on—let’s get you to your feet. I’ll bet you could use something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, you won’t say no to coffee, I’ll bet.” And retrieving his suitcase, the FBI agent helped him up, then began escorting him down the sidewalk.

Quincy fended off the helping hand. “Where’s that meddlesome partner of yours?”