“Lady, if you don’t mind me saying, the destination you put out by Estero Bay is in the middle of nowhere.”
“When we’re on the road in the vicinity, I’ll tell you where to stop.”
She saw the driver frown in the rearview mirror. “You can’t say where, exactly? That’s a long empty road.”
“It’s where the police are going to be.”
48
WELCOME TO TALLAHASSEE International Airport,” sounded the voice of the flight attendant over the intercom. “Once again, we apologize for this weather-related diversion, and we’ll make every effort to—”
The rest of the chief attendant’s announcement was drowned out by the clamor of people pulling out cell phones, jumping up and opening the overhead bins, struggling with their roller bags, and pushing and shoving each other. Coldmoon just sat morosely, letting his change in fortune settle in. He’d signed in his handgun at the LEO checkpoint before boarding, and after five hours in the cramped seat it felt like a lead weight, hanging from his shoulder beneath the jacket. Fucking Tallahassee. By rights, they should be landing in Fort Myers, but now he had hours of driving through a storm to look forward to.
His gloomy reverie was interrupted by a vibration in his jeans—and not the kind he appreciated. His phone, muted but not switched off, was ringing. That would probably be Pendergast.
He pulled out the phone. A 212 area code—a New York number he didn’t recognize. It probably was Pendergast, ready to put Pickett on the line to applaud him. Great—sloppy seconds were his favorite kind of congratulations.
This was probably just a figment of his foul mood. He’d know soon enough. Lifting the phone to his ear, he said: “Special Agent Coldmoon.”
“Agent Coldmoon,” came a feminine voice, “it’s—” The rest was drowned out by what sounded like a wind tunnel.
“What?” he said. “Who is this?”
He heard the same voice uttering a command to shut the window, and suddenly the wind tunnel died away. “Lady, I can’t see a thing through the windshield,” came a plaintive voice.
“You can open it again in a moment.”
Now Coldmoon recognized the voice. It was Constance Greene, speaking to what seemed to be a driver.
“Constance?” he said.
“Yes. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last quarter of an hour.”
“I just landed now. Tallahassee—they had to divert because of this storm. What’s up? Where are you?”
“Never mind. Have you heard from Pendergast?” There was an urgency in her voice.
There was a brief commotion on the other end of the line. “Like I said,” Coldmoon heard the driver tell Constance, “Estero Bay runs almost all the way to Bonita Springs. You gotta tell me where to turn off.”
“As I told you: where the police are going to be!” Then, speaking to Coldmoon again: “Did he say where he was going next? What he planned to do?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I think he’s been abducted.”
Coldmoon, who’d been getting ready to join the queue leaving the plane, froze. “What?” This sounded crazy.
“I heard it on your police scanner. They found the burned remains of a Range Rover similar to the one he was driving. A witness mentioned helicopters, automatic weapons, some kind of firefight. A dead man was found in the rear seat, burned.”
Holy shit. Coldmoon was on his feet and in the aisle now, heading for the exit. “Anything else?”
“I got a call from Roger Smithback, the journalist. He spoke of a large shipment of missing drugs, apparently stolen along with some migrants abducted at the U.S. border in Arizona. It’s somehow connected to the feet.”
“Wait. Did you say migrants abducted at the border?”
“Yes. In trucks.”
“Trucks? What kind of trucks?”
“A convoy of government trucks, identical, their numbers painted over. Ten-wheelers. Covered in canvas. Drums bolted in front of the driver.”
This matched the story he’d heard from El Monito—matched it exactly.
Coldmoon left the gate and began making his way toward the main terminal. “Those drums are air cleaners, mounted over the left front fenders. We’re talking M813 troop transports, most likely equipped with side racks, troop seats, and tarpaulins. Drug gangs don’t use those—the U.S. Army does. Did he say where they were going?”
“Just a moment.” The phone was muffled briefly; then Coldmoon could hear Constance talking to the driver. “Over there. See the flickering orange light, just below the horizon? Head that way, as quickly as you can.”
“Lady, there’s no road, and I don’t have pontoons. Oh, jeez, now there’s red and blue lights coming on, too—looks like your cops.”
Coldmoon could hear sirens passing.
“Keep driving until you find the turnoff.”
“But my car—”
“I’ll purchase your car.” And then, Constance was back with Coldmoon. “I need to go.”
Coldmoon said, “Are you sure the Rover was Pendergast’s?”
“I’ll call you back when I know more.” And then the phone went silent, leaving Coldmoon standing there, looking at it, in the middle of the arrivals section of Tallahassee International Airport.
49
MARK MACREADY, ACTUARY by profession and currently between jobs, had never liked his wife’s idea that he use his new Lincoln Navigator and become a driver for Uber, as a way to make ends meet during this rough patch. He liked it a whole lot less right now, driving in the rain on a gravel road, through swamps and stands of pine trees at fifty miles an hour, heading—as far as he could tell—directly toward the bay.
“Go faster,” said the crazy woman in the seat behind him.
Even though it meant increasing the chances of a head-on collision with some tree, Macready complied. He knew that reasoning with this passenger from hell was useless at best, and at worst encouraged threats. She’d already agreed to pay him $1,000 extra for this ride, tossing a crumpled mass of hundred-dollar bills into the front seat. That money, which he needed dearly, was the only reason he hadn’t ended the trip prematurely.
A savage bump, then the scrape of a branch along his window. “That’s going to leave a scratch,” he said, easing off on the accelerator.
“Maintain speed.”
Another bump, this one almost bottoming out the suspension, and then suddenly the trees fell away and, through the steady rain, Macready could see there was open marshland ahead of them. They were closer to whatever was going on than he’d realized; police lights were striping the vegetation less than half a mile away. If it weren’t for the dark night, he’d stick out like a sore thumb.
“Here. Stop,” came the low voice from behind him.
Thank the Lord. Macready did so with a strong sense of relief.
“Thank you, Mr. Macready, for what I realize was not quite the trip you expected,” the young woman said. “Now I’m going to ask you to turn off your engine and remain here until I return. It might be fifteen minutes; it might be longer—I can’t be certain.”
She opened the door, filling the big SUV with the sound of thrashing rain. Ignoring it, she slipped out. A moment later, she knocked on his window. Macready lowered it halfway.
“By the way: if you’re thinking of stranding me here, I’d strongly advise against it. I’m not one to forget ill treatment.”
He swallowed. “I’ll be here,” he replied.
He turned off the engine. Shit. Was this for real? He watched as the woman began moving away, her gray warm-up suit quickly lost in the wind and rain. Macready closed his window, then settled in disconsolately to wait.
Constance stayed low, using the surrounding vegetation for cover as she approached the scene of police activity. She paused and could hear the distant crackle of radios and the murmurs of conversation. Bright torches lanced here and there through the soggy darkness, and one stationary light threw a bright pool of yellow onto an area just to th
e south.
She began moving forward again. The area was marshy bottomland, riddled with muddy holes. Activity around the scene of the crime seemed subdued. A bolt of lightning split the sky, with the crash of thunder.
She came to a place in the swampy ground where she could see a group of people had recently passed, with crushed vegetation, broken branches, and muddy footprints filled with water, all headed away from the scene. These must be the abductors. Following the trail, she came to an open area, the grass flattened in a spiral pattern and in the center, and two parallel marks that were evidently from helicopter landing gear. If Pendergast had been abducted, this was where it had happened. She looked around carefully, but could see no shell casings, no splashes of blood, no sign of struggle or violence.
She turned and followed the confusion of footprints back to a point where they neared the crime scene. Lights blazed through the pouring rain, illuminating a gutted Range Rover, half-sunk in the muck, surrounded by tape. The closest officer was standing barely twenty feet from her, drenched to the skin, shining his light around in an apathetic display of searching. Moving away from him, she circled and approached the back of the wrecked car through heavy vegetation. She knelt and crept under the crime scene tape. The rear end of the car was badly burned: scorch marks licked all the way to the front passenger door. The Rover was not torched completely—the driver’s seat and engine compartment were intact, and retardant foam covered the windows, now slowly being washed away by the rain. Four police officers stood on the other side of the car, just outside the tape. They seemed to be waiting.
Constance paused, assessing the situation. Then she crept closer to the passenger side of the vehicle. She could see that the metal had been punctured by large-caliber bullets, the holes running in a neatly stitched line. The panoramic roof was a gaping mouth of glass. Stealing closer, staying low and remaining in the shadow, she approached the rear door. It was ajar, and she quickly slipped in.
The interior smelled of melted plastic, burnt wiring, scorched leather and flesh. She caught her breath as she noticed a human being, hair and clothes burned off, teeth clenched shut in a lipless smile, limbs drawn up in the strange manner of the burned. The bullet holes in the ceiling, dripping with rain, and the remains of pooled blood that had boiled away around his feet told the story of his demise. The corpse was unrecognizable, but she noticed the distinctive red sneakers on the body’s feet, the only part that hadn’t burned. Aloysius had mentioned those to her with amusement while discussing the postdoc working with the oceanographer: The body must be that of Wallace Lam, the technician.
Her heart froze. Despite the evidence, a part of her hadn’t quite accepted the idea that this could be Pendergast’s car. It seemed unlikely that anyone could successfully abduct him. But here was proof. She gingerly lowered herself onto the rear seat next to the body, the charred leather crackling.
She took a moment to think. The huddle of cops was not more than twenty feet away, but within the vehicle she was shielded from view and nobody seemed inclined to look closely. The foam and smoke on the windows also helped obscure the interior.
The body explained why the police were just standing around: they must be waiting for an M.E., an ambulance, and a CSI and forensic evidence team to process the site before they could move the car and body.
If Lam had been sitting in the rear seat, and Pendergast had been driving, it meant Lam’s boss, Pamela Gladstone, would have been in the front passenger seat. In all likelihood, Pendergast had not been kidnapped alone: the oceanographer had been taken as well.
From behind, she heard the distant whoop of sirens: the rest of the cavalry was arriving. She didn’t have much time.
But she didn’t leave. Pendergast had led his pursuers on a chase that had ended here. Why the chase, the sudden flight? It seemed clear Pendergast had discovered something that forced the hand of whoever was behind this—and provoked a massive reaction. Whatever he’d found must have been of great importance.
Knowing he was being chased, in possession of vital information, he might have left a message with that information. That message would be somewhere in the car. The more she thought about it, the more she was certain. But there was no telling how long it would take the cops and forensic teams to find it.
She crouched in the dark interior, thinking. The car had been on fire. He couldn’t leave a scribbled note just lying inside somewhere: it would either burn up or be found by his kidnappers. He would have to place the message someplace where the fire couldn’t reach it, but where he knew it would eventually be found. And he’d had mere seconds.
Loud voices, suddenly near, forced her to duck down and remain motionless. They moved a little farther away, blending with the approaching sirens. Headlights stabbed through the scorched windows. Keeping low, Constance leaned forward and popped the glove compartment. Nothing. The cup holders and console compartment were empty. She lifted the front floor mats but found nothing underneath.
The problem was, with the car on fire, all these things could have burned up. So what place inside the car was most likely to survive a fire?
Constance glanced around the backseat, but it was thoroughly burned, the seats charred down to the springs.
Her gaze settled on Lam. She took in his burned clothes; the seared remains of hair; his teeth, still strangely white, clenched against the heat…
There was the faintest of hesitations. And then, in a single swift movement, Constance slipped the stiletto from her pocket, forced it between Lam’s teeth, and twisted.
For a moment, nothing happened. And then, with an unpleasant cracking noise, Lam’s teeth—brittle from the heat—gave way and the jaw came loose. She reached in and there it was: something hard and small, pushed deep into the throat. She withdrew it: a tiny test tube, stoppered with a rubber plug.
Now more flashing lights came into view behind her, and she could hear slamming doors. Vaguely, through the blurry windows, she made out a forensic team. Constance shoved the tube into the pocket of her leggings. Then she reached out, put her cool hand on the corpse’s withered fingers. “Thank you, Dr. Lam,” she murmured. The phrase Lipsbury pinfold came unbidden into her mind, and she was distantly surprised by the fact she could entertain such an obscure allusion at a time like this. The young scientist, in death, had provided the safest, if unlikeliest, place to protect a small article from fire, where it was certain to be found—eventually.
Constance glanced left and right, took a deep breath, and slid sideways and low out the open rear door. She dropped to her knees and crawled back under the police tape and into the thick vegetation.
Mark Macready, watching the distant proceedings with increasing alarm, almost had a heart attack when—with no notice whatsoever—the woman, soaking wet, muddy, and stinking of soot and smoke, slipped back into his rear seat.
“You may now leave, Mr. Macready,” she said, her breathing fast. “The quicker, the better.”
He stared at her in the rearview mirror.
“Now, if you please,” she said.
Not until they had reached Highway 41 and were speeding northward did Constance dip into her pocket and pull out the miniature test tube. Examining it in the courtesy light, she saw it contained a rolled-up fragment of paper. She upended the test tube and let the paper fall into her palm. Opening it carefully, she found it was part of a computer printout, apparently a list of place-names. One of them had been hastily circled:
50
MOMENTS AFTER SHE restoppered the note, her phone rang.
“It’s Coldmoon,” came the voice when she answered. “I’ve been waiting for your call. What the hell’s going on—?”
Constance interrupted. “Aloysius was abducted. They ambushed his car in the swamplands south of Fort Myers, along with that oceanographer Gladstone and her assistant, Dr. Lam; shot the car full of holes; killed and burned Lam—and took Aloysius and Gladstone.”
A brief silence. “Any idea where they’re taking him?”
“He left a clue. Two words: Crooked River.”
“Crooked River. Let me check that.” A moment later he said, “It’s a river up in the Panhandle, near the town of Carrabelle.”
She could hear the grinding of an engine in the background. “Where are you?”
“I’m getting onto a shuttle. Crooked River—what the hell’s there?”
“There’s something else. That reporter Smithback—recall him?—heard talk among his captors of a convoy of trucks.”
“Yeah. The M813s.”
“He overheard a tip that a convoy matching this description had been seen near a place called Tate’s Hole, or perhaps Tate’s Hall.”
“Tate’s Hole…Wait, I’m looking at a Google map of the Crooked River now…Son of a bitch, it’s Tate’s Hell! Tate’s Hell State Forest—up the Crooked River. It’s right here. What else did that reporter say?”
Sitting in the backseat of the Uber, Constance tried to recall the exact words. “He said…Johnson’s Fork. The trucks were seen turning into Tate’s Hell, west, past Johnson’s Fork.”
More background noises, Coldmoon murmuring to someone. Then he got back on. “I don’t see any ‘Johnson’s Fork’ on the map. The crazy river twists all over the place, but there’s no Johnson’s Fork.”
Constance called up Tate’s Hell on her own cell phone. It appeared to be endless swampy forest, through which the Crooked River flowed.
“Got it!” Coldmoon said triumphantly. “Johnson’s Fork.”
“Where?”
“Ten miles past Carrabelle to the north, just beyond Bucketmouth Crossing.”
Constance peered at her screen again. She found Bucketmouth Crossing—literally a mere crossing of two small roads—but beyond that she saw no named places, just another twisty fork in the river, this one shaped like a dangling sausage.
“I still don’t see it,” she said.
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