Crooked River(36)
“And the angle of the blows?”
“Most vary within, say, forty to seventy degrees from the horizontal—angling down, in other words.”
“And the direction of the amputation?”
Crossley was growing more annoyed. She had discussed this with Pendergast before. “The amputation started with the anterior outside portion of the lower leg, right or left.”
“The blows coming from above.”
“Yes, yes. You know all this—we’ve gone over it.”
“Indeed we have. And now, Dr. Crossley, please humor me by visualizing, in your mind, the actual amputation, taking into account all the factors as you’ve just described them.”
Her annoyance finally got the better of her. “I fail to see the point of this.”
The voice dropped in tone, smooth as honey. “Dr. Crossley, I promise that the point will become clear. I can guide you through the process to make it easier. Close your eyes, take five deep, slow breaths, and then visualize the process of amputation. Consider all the relevant details and make a mental film of the amputation, putting in the real person.”
“That’s peculiar and unscientific.”
“Indulge me. Now, please…” His voice was strangely hypnotic. “Close your eyes.”
Almost against her will, she closed her eyes.
“Take a slow, deep breath…Inhale…”
She did so.
“Now slowly, exhale.”
She did as he guided, five times. Remarkably, she could feel annoyance and tension draining away, her mind quieting down.
He continued to murmur directions in a soothing tone. Then, after a few minutes, he began reciting the grotesque details of the amputations in the same calm, neutral voice, asking her to visualize in slow motion the hatchet descending from above; the repeated blows; the flesh being cut; the bones fracturing and splintering; the foot coming free; the gushing blood…It was almost too horrible to imagine: she had literally spent years learning to think of the autopsy as a job to be done on an inert object, rather than on beings who had once lived and suffered—there was no other way to keep her emotional equilibrium. But under Pendergast’s gentle tutelage, she found at last that she was able to bring the human subject to life at the moment of the amputation.
Her eyes popped open in shocking realization. “Oh, no!” she gasped.
For a moment she couldn’t speak. Pendergast looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
She found her voice. “These amputations were self-inflicted,” she said. “Good Lord, these people chopped their own feet off!”
“That is indeed what they did,” said Pendergast. “In the crudest and clumsiest way imaginable. The question is: why?”
20
PENDERGAST DROVE THE rental car northeast along Route 1, also known as the Overseas Highway. This latter moniker seemed particularly apt—in the hour it had taken him to drive up from the Key West airport, Route 1 had been more bridge than highway. Now and then it would pass over solid ground—some islands large enough to support a village, others barely more than a nubbin with palms and grass—and then the land would fall away and the road would once again stretch out over the greenish-blue ocean.
After one long stretch of water, Route 1 passed through Marathon Key and then, a few miles later, approached Islamorada. The lower Florida Keys had a tropical feel, like a land apart: a lived-in, sleepy, and weather-beaten environment that, while still reliant on tourism, was a far cry from the manicured luxury of Palm Beach. Islamorada seemed slightly more upscale than some of the other keys; as he drove, Pendergast passed several resorts monopolizing the island’s beaches. The northern end, however, seemed more for locals, with a school, residential streets stretching away from the ocean, and the occasional trailer half-hidden among the trees.
Pendergast checked the GPS on his phone, and then, just before the highway arced out over the water again, he turned left and headed down one of the narrow roads cut through the scrub, half blacktop and half sand. No resorts here: just trailers and houses in various states of decrepitude; outboard motor repair shops; and small businesses, signs bleached by the sun.
Within half a dozen blocks the road ended in the gravel parking lot of a commercial fishery. Pendergast pulled up beside a row of pickup trucks and got out, glancing around. To the south, rusting hulks of old working boats had been laid on their beam-ends, forming a fence of sorts. To the north, where the land led down into a swampy shoreland area, he saw a motley collection of dwellings: lean-to sheds with corrugated roofs; shabby Airstreams with cinder blocks for wheels; one or two tiki-style huts that Gauguin might have enjoyed painting. The beach community seemed to have grown willy-nilly, like barnacles on the hull of a ship. Pendergast checked his GPS again, then made his way toward the little collection of houses.
He drew close, then stopped. Amid the scents of diesel oil, dead fish, and stagnant water, a new odor had wafted in: acrid, bitter, more appropriate for a chemical plant than a tropical island. Burnt coffee—but burnt hardly did it justice: coffee that had been boiled and boiled far past any trace of appeal or dignity. Pendergast put his phone away and—gingerly—began tracking the stench to its source. It was coming from one of the huts at the edge of the cleared area, where the trees ended at a strip of shoreland marsh. Beyond lay nothing but green water, the occasional sandbar, and the Gulf of Mexico.