Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(112)

“He’s occupied.”

“Well, I want to talk to him. I want some goddamned answers.”

“He isn’t talking to anyone right now—even me.”

They walked a few blocks, and the stiffness in Quincy’s limbs eased. Coldmoon ushered him into a diner. A waitress was standing behind the register, checking the morning’s tabs. When she looked up and saw Coldmoon, she frowned.

“You’ve got your nerve!” she said, glaring at him. “Coming back in here!”

“Nice to see you again, too,” Coldmoon said placidly.

Even though the restaurant was almost empty, Quincy noticed that she guided the two of them to the back, to the table closest to the restrooms.

“Coffee please, doll,” Coldmoon said.

“I’m not your ‘doll.’ And don’t try to sweet-talk me.” The waitress glanced at Coldmoon’s western-style shirt with its mother-of-pearl buttons on the front pockets. “That’s a nice blouse. Do they make one for men?”

“She doesn’t like you very much,” Quincy said as the waitress walked away.

“That’s why I’m here.”

Quincy rubbed his forehead wearily. He was going to have to deal with this revelation at some point, but not now. God, not now.

“See that fresh pot of coffee, over there?” Coldmoon said. “Now: see that other one beside it, almost empty, with scorch marks on its sides, that’s probably been there since six AM?”

“Yes.”

“I guarantee she’ll give me what remains of the one pot, and pour you a fresh cup from the other.”

Quincy, uncomprehending, looked at Coldmoon, wondering what the hell he was talking about.

“She was very brave, you know. You would have been proud of her. She fought to the end.”

“Tell me,” Quincy said simply.

And Coldmoon began talking. He spoke for a long time as Quincy listened. It was an amazing story, bizarre, convoluted, and at times incredible. But that was Alicia—nothing about her was ordinary. He heard about how she created a new identity, bought and restored the hotel, used the machine, what had happened between her and Ellerby, and then the crazy thing at the end. Some of it was so outrageous he was disinclined to believe it, except that Coldmoon was a grounded and rational FBI agent. In a strange way, he sensed that Coldmoon had known he was coming and had already thought through what he would tell him.

Finally, the agent fell silent, the story over. When he did, Quincy took in a deep, slow breath, like an astronaut testing the atmosphere on an unknown world. It was going to take him a while to process the story, make some sense out of it—if he ever would. Nevertheless, he felt an invisible weight had been lifted.

“There’s something else,” Coldmoon said. He rummaged in a small day pack, brought something out, and handed it to Quincy.

The old doctor took the thin package wrapped in paper. As he unwrapped it, an odor of smoke reached his nostrils. Inside was a copy of Spoon River Anthology, deeply charred along its lower edge. But even flame could not conceal the years of wear that the battered cover, the dog-eared pages, spoke of so clearly.

Without a word, he opened the cover and saw the inscription he’d written almost fifty years ago:

From Z.Q. to A.R.

To me, you’ll always be “that great social nomad, who prowls on the confines of a docile, frightened order.”

Berry Patch, 4/22/72



The sight of the inscription, the memories it brought back, overwhelmed him with emotion. And he saw, below the faded words, much fresher ones:

I was once a nomad. But over these many years of wandering, you were always, always, my lodestar.

“Thy firmness makes my circle just,

And makes me end where I begun.”

—Alicia

Quincy realized he was gripping the book so tightly his hands were shaking. He relaxed his hold, fighting off the need to weep.

“I looked it up,” Coldmoon said.

“John Donne,” Quincy said, still looking at the inscription.

“Yeah.”

They sat there in silence. Quincy held the book, caressing it faintly, as he might someone’s hand. At last, he looked up. “So when do I get to see Pendergast?”

“Sorry. You won’t.”

A brief hesitation had preceded this. Quincy looked more closely at Coldmoon.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” he asked. “Something happened to him.”

“Doctors are perceptive,” Coldmoon replied.

As another silence descended, the waitress refilled their coffee mugs. Quincy noticed she did indeed pour Coldmoon’s coffee from a different pot, emptying the burnt dregs and sediment into his cup.

“You’re right about that waitress,” he said. “That looks awful.”

“Not in the least. That’s why I come here. She saves the best for me, and I tip her accordingly.” Coldmoon took a gulp, then put down the cup with evident satisfaction. “So. What now?”

Quincy shrugged. “God knows. Life is strange. The years of loneliness, the sudden hope, and now this. I don’t know. I guess I never thought about it…beyond getting here, I mean.”

Coldmoon nodded. “My people have a saying: ‘The journey is the destination.’”