Crooked River(117)
The same two men were waiting for him in their starched and pressed uniforms. They led him along the crushed-shell paths and up the staircases of white marble. But this time, they went not along the covered passage to the courtyard where he had initially met Pendergast, but rather in another direction entirely, to arrive at a large temple-like structure built of the same bone-white marble. It was surrounded on all four sides by Corinthian colonnades, topped with entablatures and a trapezoidal roof. This, Pickett thought, was so outrageous it could only be the island’s main house.
The attendants brought him up to a front portico, where he found Pendergast and Coldmoon seated in chairs, waiting for him. A refreshing breeze blew among the columns, rustling the royal palms nearby and bringing with it the scent of honeysuckle. Pendergast was dressed once again in his trademark black suit, his face and silver-blue eyes pale in the bright sun. Coldmoon also was in traditional mufti: old jeans and a plaid shirt. To one side lay a curious assortment of luggage: elegant, slab-sided Louis Vuitton suitcases beside a pair of beat-up, dirty backpacks. Pickett noticed the junior agent looked completely, even ridiculously, out of place in these surroundings—and his face betrayed his discomfort.
“ADC Pickett,” Pendergast said, rising to shake his hand as he came up the steps. “How nice of you to see us off like this.”
This was spoken with the casual tone of a tourist about to board a cruise ship. To observe Pendergast’s manner, one would think the last frantic week had never happened: the inquiries, depositions, arrests, warrants, and raids, all done under a cloak of secrecy. Pickett had kept a tight lid on the story even within the FBI, doing his best to bury the proceedings in the bureaucratic red tape his department was so good at providing.
“I couldn’t very well let you go without giving you a summary of what’s happened since you left to, ah, finish your interrupted vacation,” Pickett said.
“Thank you; we’re most anxious to hear about it.” Pendergast motioned him to a chair in the shade next to them.
Pickett whisked a newspaper from beneath his arm and laid it to one side as he sat down. “As you might imagine, there’s been a massive reckoning in Lee County. Commander Baugh has been relieved of his post, pending an official Coast Guard inquiry; the police chief of Fort Myers has been reprimanded; and Baugh’s aide-de-camp, a certain Lieutenant Darby, has been arrested on charges of espionage, along with another Coast Guard officer named Duran. There are many more arrests to come. It’s early days still.”
“And how has the good town of Sanibel taken all this?” Pendergast asked.
“We’ve managed to bury most of the details. Chief Perelman has been most cooperative. He’s even become some kind of local hero. Nobody in town knows why, exactly, but he’s generally being given credit for clearing things up…even though he’s the picture of humility and professes to know nothing.” Pickett chuckled.
“What’s the official story?” Coldmoon asked.
“What we’re saying about the amputated feet is that it was an evil experiment by a clandestine organization, and we’re leaving it at that. Behind the scenes, of course, there’s hell to pay and much to be done—identifying the dead, compensation to those migrants held prisoner, determining how best to move forward…it’s been a nightmare for us.”
“It wasn’t too pleasant for them, either,” Coldmoon said.
“Of course not. And we’ll do absolutely everything in our power to make things right.”
“While we’re on the subject, what is the current status of a certain installation north of Carrabelle?” Pendergast asked.
“Completely emptied and locked down. We’ve spread word that there was an outbreak of hantavirus in the vicinity to keep people away. The remoteness of its location and the storm worked in our favor—nobody seems to have noted anything that evening beyond some unusual helicopter activity. Once the investigation into this rogue operation is complete, the facility will be razed to the ground. And we’re getting 100 percent cooperation from the Pentagon: they’re aghast at what was being done by former U.S. military personnel, supposedly in the name of patriotism. Former is the operative word here: the U.S. armed forces had nothing to do with this.”
Pickett paused.
“What’s that you brought along?” Coldmoon asked, pointing at the newspaper.
“I thought perhaps you hadn’t seen it yet.” Picking up the newspaper, Pickett unfolded it, displaying the front page. The two agents leaned in. It was the Miami Herald, and its headline screamed in seventy-two-point type that its star reporter, Roger Smithback, had been awarded a key to the city of Fort Myers by the mayor for not only assisting with the investigation on Captiva Island, but for publishing a series of daring exposés that precipitated a raid on one of the worst gangs in the city, Panteras de la Noche. The gang had been rolled up and its leader, nicknamed Bighead, taken into protective custody. He was rumored to have flipped, and the Central American cartels had placed a massive bounty on his head. Despite this breathless reportage, the article was remarkably light on details and specifics.
“I do have a question,” Pickett said, putting the newspaper aside. “It might be a little delicate. The oceanographer that you rescued from that facility, Dr. Gladstone. She’s making a full recovery, despite the trauma of losing a foot, and I’m told by doctors and psychiatrists that she won’t experience any lasting psychological damage.”