Crooked River(37)

Pendergast walked around to the front of the hut. There, reclining on a deck chair, was a young man, unshaven and unkempt. He wore a pair of cheap sunglasses and ragged sun-bleached jeans cut off midthigh. He was shirtless, displaying a muscled, bronze chest. A large scar, the stitches recently removed, ran in a thin line across his abdomen, like a stripe of pale paint against olive-colored skin. His jet-black hair had been pulled back into a tight ponytail and a red bandanna was rolled and tied around his neck. On one side of the chair stood a large mug of coffee, and on the other a half-empty bottle of Corona, beads of moisture sweating on the glass. The crackle of a police scanner sounded faintly from within the darkness of the hut.

The man, alerted to Pendergast’s presence, glanced over. For a moment, the two merely exchanged a look. Then the man in the deck chair nodded. “Kemosabe,” he said.

“Agent Coldmoon.”

“Nice weather we’re having.”

“Perfectly delightful.”

The man named Coldmoon gestured toward one of several empty oil drums scattered around. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you very much, but I’d prefer to stand.”

“Have it your way. Some coffee, then?” He gestured toward a large steel pot that was simmering on an old ring stove in the darkness of the hut.

Pendergast didn’t reply.

Coldmoon took a long pull on his beer. “Funny. I didn’t expect to see you again. At least, not down here in Florida.”

“I was unavoidably detained. And I might say the same about you. As I recall, you were discharged from the hospital a week ago. Why are you still here?”

Coldmoon shrugged. “I’m recuperating. The snows of Colorado can wait.”

“And how did you end up in this picturesque locale?” Pendergast waved a hand at the engineless RVs, the piles of outboard motors, the sand and swamp grass.

“Just lucky, I guess. Rent’s practically nothing. I got on a Greyhound headed south from Miami, looking for a place to clear my head of Mister Brokenhearts and his murders. Decided to get off here.”

The capriciousness of that decision had made the search for him a great deal more difficult than it might have been.

“So you decided to finish your convalescence by going native,” Pendergast said.

“Careful with that word choice, Pendergast. I’m already native—Lakota.”

“Of course. But let us not forget your dear Italian mother.”

Pendergast knew that Coldmoon was ambivalent about his Indian heritage being tainted by European blood.

“Non mi rompere i coglioni,” Coldmoon replied, making an insulting Italian gesture.

“Allow me to get to the point. Have you been following the case of the curious flotsam that recently washed up on the beaches of Captiva Island?”

“The feet? What I read in the newspapers. Hear on that scanner.”

Pendergast took a breath. “I have taken an interest in the matter.”

“And?”

“I’ve found it a most baffling case indeed, perhaps even unique. Since you’re still here, and knowing how you might appreciate additional experience to add to your jacket, I thought you’d find it interesting to take a day or two to observe the situation. Informally, of course. And—”

He was interrupted by Coldmoon’s laughter. He wasn’t a man to laugh easily, and it was an unusual, melodious sound. When he stopped, he finished the bottle of beer, then dropped it in the sandy dirt.

“Okay. Let’s take apart that little speech of yours and extract the real meaning. Pickett forced you to take the case—right?”

“He did nothing of the sort,” Pendergast said, annoyed. “He offered to show me the lay of the land. I accepted the case out of my own interest.”

“Right, right. And now you’re hip-deep in it, and you’ve decided you need your old partner Coldmoon to help you out.”

“As you know, I don’t work with a partner. I’m merely offering you the chance to consult.”

“Ah, consult. You want my help and, given the roundabout way you’re talking, that particular help is something I won’t like.”

“If you are accusing me of dissembling, I take exception.”

“Well, maybe I ‘take exception’ to your interrupting my vacation. Oh, and blocking my sun, too.” He looked at Pendergast, one eyebrow arched over the sunglasses.

After a brief pause, Pendergast stepped aside and perched lightly on the empty drum he’d declined before. “You have a suspicious and cynical nature. Ordinarily, I’d consider that an asset. But at the moment, I wonder if you’re simply using it as a smoke screen for malingering.”

Coldmoon smiled, but there was an edge when he spoke. “Malingering? You think that a bullet in the chest and a water moccasin bite is an excuse for me to goof off?”

“I think perhaps you’re getting a little used to dozing in that lawn chair, drinking beer and execrable coffee, instead of consulting on an important case.”

The two men fell silent. There were distant sounds of machinery, traffic; the cry of gulls and the screech of flamingos.

Finally, Coldmoon spoke. “Okay, Pendergast. What do you need me for? Just tell it straight. No bullshit.”

“You have a peculiar—unorthodox—way of looking at things. A way that complements my own.”