Bloodless

by Douglas Preston

  “Agent Coldmoon?” Pickett said. His voice was unnaturally quiet, but the subzero tone of it shut Coldmoon up. “This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation, not a country club where you get to dictate your tee times.”

  In the silence that followed, the SUV took the interchange onto I-16 toward downtown Savannah. Pickett opened his briefcase and removed a slim folder.

  “Three days ago,” he said, “the body of a local hotel manager was found washed up on the bank of the Wilmington River. His body was completely drained of blood.”

  “How completely?” asked Constance.

  Pickett looked up at her with an expression of surprise. “A mortician couldn’t have done a better job. Initially, the local authorities thought it to be the work of a madman or a cult—or possibly a vengeance killing by a gang. But just this morning, another body was found in a courtyard of a house on Abercorn Street. It, too, was drained of every last drop of blood.” He glanced at his watch. “The reason for the rush is they’ve been holding the new crime scene for us to examine.”

  Coldmoon glanced over at Pendergast. As usual, the man’s face gave nothing away—except, possibly, an unnatural sparkle in his eyes. The SUV had left the freeway, and they were now driving down a narrow lane named Gaston Street. Creepy brick houses lined both sides, and the road was so bumpy it felt cobbled—perhaps it was cobbled. They passed a park on the right, dense with massive old trees draped so heavily with Spanish moss they appeared to be dripping. It was like something out of a horror movie. Coldmoon had grown heartily sick of Florida: the heat, the humidity, the crowds, the southernness of it all. But this—this spooky city with its gnarled trees and crooked houses—this was even worse.

  Why wasn’t Pendergast objecting? After all, he was the senior agent. A saying his Lakota grandfather was fond of came into his mind: Beware the dog that does not bark, and the man who does not talk.

  “Unci Maka, Grandmother Earth, give me strength,” he murmured to himself as the Escalade drove farther and farther into the heart of what seemed to him a malign and alien town.

  6

  THE ESCALADE EASED THROUGH a police barricade and checkpoint on Abercorn Street, coming to a stop before a magnificent mansion built of reddish stone with a pillared entryway. Coldmoon exited the SUV, getting hit by a blast of humid air, and took in the surroundings. The house faced another square of mossy oaks, with a statue of a long-forgotten man in a tricorn hat, sword drawn, standing high on a marble pedestal. Coldmoon felt awkward in his old jeans and shirt; everyone else was wearing uniforms or crisp dark suits. Pickett could at least have given him advance warning he’d be assigned another case—if, indeed, that’s what this was. The thought put him in an even sourer mood.

  A cop—not in uniform, but nevertheless unmistakable—was standing at the gate to the mansion’s front garden, which was enclosed by a stone balustrade. Next to him was a woman in full police uniform with decorations, whom Coldmoon took to be the chief of police.

  “This is homicide detective Benny Sheldrake of the Savannah PD,” Pickett said as they arrived at the gate, “and Commander Alanna Delaplane of the Southwest Precinct—”

  “The crime scene is waiting,” Pendergast interrupted smoothly. “Perhaps we can save the introductions for later? Now, if you please, show the way.”

  Coldmoon felt a slight thrill at Pendergast’s dismissal. The quicker he made their presence unwelcome, the sooner they might leave—he hoped.

  “Of course,” said Commander Delaplane. “If you’ll follow me, please? The body was found in the back courtyard, next to the slave quarters.”

  “Slave quarters?” Pendergast asked.

  “Correct. The Owens-Thomas House—this is one of Savannah’s historic mansions, if you weren’t aware—retains a remarkably preserved set of slave quarters. The body was found in their old work area. We have to walk through the house and gardens to get there.”

  “Who found the body?” Pendergast asked.

  “The director of the museum, when he came in to work early. He’s in the house.”

  “I should like to see him when we’re done out here.”

  “Very well.”

  They strode through a spectacular marble entranceway and passed down a main corridor sporting richly furnished rooms on both sides before coming out on a portico at the back of the mansion. It overlooked a severely symmetrical garden with a fountain. Delaplane led them down some stairs and across the garden—Coldmoon struggling to keep up—then through a back gate and into a brick courtyard. Before them lay a plain two-story brick building with small windows, evidently the slave quarters.

  The body of a young man lay in the courtyard, on its back with arms thrown out, almost as if it had dropped from the sky.

  “The CSI team have finished their work,” said Delaplane. “The crime scene is all yours.”

  “Thank you most kindly,” said Pendergast in a more genteel tone. He approached the body, hands clasped behind his back.

  Coldmoon wondered if he should follow, then decided not to—let Pendergast do his thing. “Where did Pickett go?” he asked, looking around. “And Constance?”

  Pendergast was too absorbed to answer. He made a circuit around the body, peering down as intently as if he were examining a rare Persian rug. The victim looked to be in his thirties. Coldmoon had never seen a face so pale, or hands so white. The contrast was made more striking by the dead man’s curly black hair and bright blue eyes, staring fixedly upward. The corpse made even Pendergast seem almost ruddy in comparison. The face was frozen in a contortion of horror. The right pant leg had been lacerated, as if raked by a knife or garden tool, but there was no blood to be seen in or around the wound. Not a drop.

  Pendergast looked up at Commander Delaplane. “What can you tell me so far?” he asked.

  “All preliminary,” she said, “but it appears the blood was withdrawn from the femoral artery, in the upper thigh, where the pant leg has been torn.”

  “Withdrawn—how?”

  “The MO appears the same as the earlier victim: a large-bore needle, or maybe a trocar, was inserted into the inner thigh to access the femoral artery.”

  “How curious.” Pendergast swiftly donned a pair of nitrile gloves from a dispenser on a table next to the body, knelt, and gently opened the torn pants, exposing a neat hole on the inside of the upper thigh. A single drop of dried blood clung to the edge, along with a sticky yellow substance. There were thin amber-colored threads of the same substance on the man’s right shoe. They looked to Coldmoon like dried snot.

  A test tube and swab appeared in Pendergast’s hand, and he took a sample, then another and another in swift succession, quickly stoppering them in small glass vials that disappeared back into his black suit.

  “Time of death?” he asked.

  “Around three o’clock in the morning, give or take two hours, based on body temperature,” said Delaplane. “The withdrawal of the blood complicates the calculation.”

  “And this mucus-like substance around the wound and on the shoe?”

  “We’ve taken samples. No results yet.”

  Now Sheldrake spoke. “The FBI’s Evidence Response Team also took extensive samples, sent them down to their lab in Atlanta.”

  “Excellent,” said Pendergast.

  Silence built as he knelt, examining various parts of the body—eyes, ears, tongue, neck, hair, shoes—occasionally employing a small hand magnifier. He moved toward the head, examining the nape of the neck.

  “There was some bruising on the first victim in the thigh, torso, and abdominal region,” said Delaplane, “which is also present here.”

  “A rather short struggle, it seems,” Pendergast said, rising. “Have you established ingress and egress?”

  “That’s the curious thing,” said Delaplane. “We haven’t been able to. This is a very secure area. We’ve got security cameras at the entry points, of which there are only three. There was nothing on the tapes, and no gaps. Nothing, in fact, except
that two of the cameras recorded unusual sounds at around three AM.”

  “What sort of noises?”

  “Hard to characterize. Like a dog grunting or snuffling and a loud slapping sound. I’ll get you a copy of the tape.”

  “Thank you, Commander.” Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “Come look at this.”

  Coldmoon ventured over to the body. Pendergast gently turned the head—rigid with rigor—slightly sideways.

  Coldmoon donned a pair of gloves, then knelt as well.

  “Feel the back of the head,” he said.

  When he followed Pendergast’s instructions, he felt a lump. Pendergast parted the hair to expose what looked like an abrasion.

  “Looks like he got smacked on the head around the time of death,” said Coldmoon.

  “Exactly. This and the many other curious issues shall have to be addressed in the postmortem.”

  Which curious issues Pendergast meant, exactly, Coldmoon didn’t ask.

  “Has the victim been ID’d?” Pendergast asked.

  “Yes. His wallet was on his person. He was one of those guys who give the bike tours you see everywhere around here.”

  “And where is his bicycle?”

  “Found on the corner of Abercorn and East Macon.”

  “Isn’t that quite some distance from here?”

  “Just a dozen blocks or so.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “On Liberty, not far from where his bicycle was found. Chances are he was on his way home when he was accosted.”

  Pendergast rose, stripped off the gloves, and dropped them in a nearby trash container. Coldmoon followed suit.

  “Shall we retire into the house?” Pendergast asked.

  Delaplane said simply “Of course,” and turned to lead the way.

  7

  C​OMMANDER DELAPLANE BROUGHT THEM all back into the cool confines of the mansion, where Pendergast went directly into the elegant living room and took a seat in a grandly stuffed and gilded chair as easily if he were in his own home. “My partner and I have been traveling since daybreak. Would it be possible to have tea?” He threw one leg over the other and looked about inquiringly.

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Delaplane. “This is a museum.”

  But a thin, unsmiling man who had been hovering in the background stepped forward. “I think that can be arranged.”

  “Splendid!”

  “I’m Armand Cobb, director of the Owens-Thomas House museum,” the man said. “Which, if you didn’t know already, is this house.”

  Pendergast nodded languidly. “Forgive me if I don’t rise. I find myself terribly fatigued from the case we just completed down in Florida.”

  The museum director stepped back, and Pendergast turned his eyes to the commander. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Commander Delaplane. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “Of course,” said Delaplane. “And this is homicide detective Sergeant Benny Sheldrake, in charge of the case.”

  The detective came forward, and Pendergast took his hand. “How do you do?”

  Another man, newly arrived, appeared out of the shadows. “Gordon Carracci, FBI liaison supervisor,” he said. “Just seeing the evidence samples off to Atlanta.”

  “Very pleased to meet you,” said Pendergast.

  Coldmoon was amazed to see how this had developed: Pendergast sitting like some pasha on his throne, receiving obeisance as various people came forward, one after the other.

  “Now, Mr. Cobb,” Pendergast said. “Excuse me—or is it Doctor?”

  “It’s Doctor,” the man said stiffly.

  “Dr. Cobb, I understand you found the body.”

  “Yes.”

  “The body isn’t on the way to your office, is it?” Pendergast asked. “How did you happen to come upon it?”

  “I like to come in early from time to time to do work before the museum opens. I always do a quick walk-through.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a habit. The house is beautiful. It refreshes me. Besides, this being a museum…well, it’s always good to check on things.”

  “Naturally. So you saw the body: what then?”

  “I immediately checked to see if he was still alive. He was cold to the touch. I backed away so as not to disturb anything and called the police. I then waited for them in my office.”

  “I see.” Pendergast turned to Delaplane. “A general question, if I may, Commander: have you had any recent reports of animals being killed or mutilated, unusual signs or symbols painted on the street, or anything else that might suggest cult activity—or the presence of Satanists?”

  “God, yes,” said Delaplane. “Savannah draws those people like magnets. We look into them, of course, if we have good reason to think a crime has been committed. We have to be careful, though: those activities can be considered to fall under the religious freedom laws.” She paused. “You think this might be something like that?”

  “I refrain from thinking at the beginning of an investigation, Commander.”

  “What do you do in place of thinking?” Delaplane asked drily.

  “I become a receptacle for information.”

  Delaplane gave Coldmoon a pointed glance, raising her eyebrows. Coldmoon shrugged. It was just Pendergast being Pendergast.

  Pendergast stared at the floor for a long moment, and then he turned abruptly to Cobb. “Can you kindly tell us a bit about the history of this house?”

  “I’d be glad to. But I’m not sure it’s relevant.”

  “Right now, nothing is irrelevant.”

  Cobb launched into what was obviously a well-rehearsed lecture. “The Owens-Thomas House was built in 1819 by the English architect William Jay, in the Regency style, for Richard Richardson and his wife, Frances. Richardson had made his fortune in the slave trade. He found a profitable niche in shipping enslaved children who’d been forcibly separated from their parents or orphaned from Savannah to New Orleans, where they would be sold.”

  Coldmoon felt a shiver of disgust in the matter-of-fact way this was mentioned.

  “This house,” Cobb went on, “was built by slave labor. When it was finished, Richardson and his wife and family—along with their nine enslaved people—moved into the house. The enslaved people were housed in that old brick building in the back. Over the course of the next decade, Richardson’s wife and two children died. He fell into economic difficulties and was forced to sell, moved to New Orleans, and then died at sea in 1833. The house was eventually purchased by the mayor of Savannah, George Owens, who moved into the house with his own fifteen enslaved people.”

  “Fifteen?” Coldmoon said in disgust. The idea of a man owning a single human being was hard enough to conceive of.

  Cobb nodded. “Owens also owned some four hundred other enslaved people on various plantations in the area.”

  “Zuzeca,” Coldmoon muttered under his breath.

  “The family’s fortunes declined after the Civil War, but they managed to retain the house up until 1951, when the last descendant died with no heir. The house then passed to the Telfair Academy of Arts and Sciences, which turned it into a museum, as you see now. It is, in fact, one of Savannah’s most popular tourist attractions.”

  Tea was now being served, with some bland-looking biscuits. Pendergast picked up his cup. “Tell me more about the slave quarters in the back.”

  “Certainly. Its two stories hold six rooms, in which the enslaved people all lived. The rooms are as barren now as they were then, and many of the residents had to sleep on the floor, with no beds and only threadbare blankets. When slavery was abolished, most of them simply became ‘servants’ and continued living back of the big house, doing the same work as before. But as the Owens family fell upon hard times, the servants were gradually let go. The quarters remained intact, however, until the house was turned into a museum.”

  “Most instructive, thank you,” said Pendergast. “So one might say, Dr. Cobb—as we look about at all the beauty a
nd wealth on display here, the erudition and elegance, the fine crystal and silver and rugs and paintings—that all of this, the house and its contents, is a physical manifestation of pure evil?”

  This was greeted with a stunned silence, until Cobb finally said: “I suppose you might put it that way.”

  “I see no supposition in the statement,” Pendergast replied.

  A silence fell, and Pendergast half closed his eyes and tented his hands. “Odd, isn’t it,” he said languidly, “that such a crime occurred here, of all places?” And, finishing his tea, he helped himself to another cup.

  8

  THE CHANDLER HOUSE WAS a historic hotel on Chatham Square, a long building with a pressed-brick exterior and an ornate iron veranda that stretched the length of the second and third floors, with decorative supporting columns. To Coldmoon, it looked more like an industrial-size southern cathouse than anything else.

  “How lucky Constance was able to secure us such an extensive suite of rooms,” Pendergast said.

  After their interview that morning, Pendergast had disappeared for several hours before showing up at the hotel. Coldmoon knew better than to ask him where he’d been. They were now sitting in overstuffed chairs in the hotel’s ornate parlor, drinking mint juleps. The canary-yellow room was overflowing with historical memorabilia, in the form of silver trophy cups and giant soup tureens, photographs, faded flags, marble busts, clocks, framed documents, and other obscure objects displayed behind glass, sitting on mantelpieces, or hiding within shaded alcoves.

  “Yeah, very lucky,” Coldmoon said without enthusiasm. It was an “extensive suite of rooms” for sure, but his own set were separate from those of Pendergast and Constance. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly what was going on between the two of them. Pendergast called her his “ward,” but Coldmoon often wondered if that was simply a title of convenience.

  The julep had been pressed into his hand before he’d had a chance to order anything, and the more he sipped it, the less he liked it. He wondered if he could exchange it for a cold beer but couldn’t quite work up the nerve to ask.