Crooked River

by Douglas Preston

  Perelman swallowed. He looked around the room. All eyes were on him. “Doesn’t that make us all conspirators to defraud the insurance company?”

  “Naturally,” said Pendergast. “But sometimes a little bending of the law to the greater good is the wiser option. The insurance company wrote off the loss long ago. The town you serve will benefit. Most important, we can keep a secret—can’t we, gentlemen? Constance?”

  A long silence ensued. Then, slowly, Perelman nodded. “I imagine an anonymous gift would be very well received by the historical society.”

  Constance looked at Wilkinson. “We’ll hold this medical equipment in trust until the donation clears. And then we will turn it over to you to dispose of.”

  Wilkinson clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. “Thank you.” It was probably Coldmoon’s imagination, but, quite suddenly, the air in the basement seemed to lift.

  “Excellent,” Pendergast said to Constance. “Most excellent.”

  “There’s just one thing,” Perelman said with a half smile.

  Everyone glanced his way.

  “If this means the passing of the Mortlach ghost…well, shouldn’t we have an exorcism?”

  “No,” said Coldmoon immediately.

  “Yes,” Constance said at the same time.

  “A small ritual does seem appropriate,” Pendergast said. “But first, I imagine Mr. Wilkinson is both tired and in need of refreshments.”

  “And a bathroom,” Wilkinson said.

  “Naturally. In that case, while Mr. Wilkinson is making use of the facilities, and someone is getting him a drink, I shall scour the manse for a bell, book, and candle.” And with that he turned and vanished up the stairs.

  72

  THE BELL 429 SKIMMED low above coral reefs and emerald waters, Assistant Director in Charge Pickett once again peering out the copilot’s window. The mysterious island, awash in tropical green, came into view on the horizon, set like a gem on the wide expanse of sea. As they drew closer, he made out the ornamental ranks of palm trees, the boathouse, the gleaming white marble walkways and buildings, and the helipads beyond. One helipad was occupied: an AgustaWestland 109 Grand sat upon it, sleek and luxurious, with a top speed nearly double that of his ride. The 429 settled down near it. As Pickett opened the door, he felt like he was stepping out of a Yugo parked next to a Rolls.

  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.”

  Pickett noticed that, at the mention of Gladstone’s name, a shadow passed across Pendergast’s face. “What was your question?” he asked.

  “She claims to have no recollection of that night’s events. She remembers being chased do
wn a road by helicopters…and then, nothing until she awoke in a hospital bed. It seems incredible she could have been induced to amputate her own foot.”

  Pendergast’s face had gone still as granite. “It’s a mercy she can’t remember. What happened is all in my debriefing. That is—was, I hope—a perfectly malign drug. The remorse I feel at involving her and Dr. Lam is something that will haunt me.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Coldmoon said.

  If Pendergast heard this, he did not show it. “For what it’s worth, I can tell you that once she is ready to return to work, a foundation I’m associated with—Vita Brevis—has offered to endow an academic chair for her at the oceanographic institute of her choice.”

  Pickett nodded. “She deserves as much.” He glanced at the pile of luggage. “So: you’re returning to New York?”

  “With as much alacrity as possible.”

  “And you,” Pickett said, turning to Coldmoon. “I understand the papers came through from the Colorado field office?”

  Coldmoon patted the breast pocket of his shirt.

  “Then I’m happy for you both.” He paused. “It is a shame, however, because I’ve just learned of the most peculiar incident that took place last night, north of Savannah—”

  “Forget it,” Coldmoon interrupted. “Sir.”

  Pendergast, too, frowned at this unwelcome advance.

  “Well.” Pickett sighed. “I’m not going to issue any orders, considering what you’ve both been through. But it’s a shame, because—”

  He was interrupted again, this time by the light sound of footsteps coming up a nearby path. A moment later, Constance Greene emerged from the palms into the bright tropical light. She wore a large sun hat, linen blouse, and pleated white skirt. Her strange violet eyes were covered by a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers.

  “Mr. Pickett,” she said, offering her hand.

  “Ms. Greene,” he said, standing and taking it.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to receive you properly on your arrival. I was just taking care of some last-minute business before our departure.”

  “And what might that have been?” Pendergast inquired.

  “Nothing important. I was just giving the security chief a token of our appreciation.” She turned to Pickett. “He was kind enough to give me some weaponry demonstrations after you’d spirited Aloysius away. Merely for my amusement, of course.”

  This was followed by a brief silence. Then Pickett glanced at Coldmoon. “Walk with me,” he said.

  They made their way down the steps of the temple-like structure and along a lane of crushed shells that led to an overlook. Pickett took a moment to get his thoughts in order. Then he turned to Coldmoon. “I’ve read over your transcripts,” he said.

  Coldmoon nodded.

  “I’ve read Pendergast’s too, of course. Everything that I didn’t observe myself, in fact, I read. Read carefully. I realize that, in the mayhem of that night, given the nature of that rogue military encampment, your memory might not be crystal clear. But one thing has been troubling me.”

  “What might that be, sir?”

  “It’s—well, it’s Constance Greene.”

  A look came over Coldmoon’s face that Pickett hadn’t seen on the man before, but he continued anyway. “She’s the one variable in the equation I can’t figure out. First responders mentioned a young woman among your party, dressed in filthy tactical clothes. I also heard reports that someone matching her description was on the rescue helicopter that brought all of you back to Fort Myers. Oddly enough, post-landing records for your group do not include such a person.”

  “No?” asked Coldmoon.

  “Not only that, but a heavy machine gun was found near your exit point that—on trying to reconstruct exactly what happened during your final escape—we can’t quite factor in. Who was manning that? It had recently run through over three hundred rounds.”

  “It was so chaotic, I really can’t recall.”

  “Right. And another thing—Chief Perelman explained how, knowing only that Pendergast had been kidnapped, he undertook a rescue mission with his boat. But the tornado that wrecked that boat and almost killed him has brought on a degree of amnesia of a different sort than Dr. Gladstone’s. He can’t recall much that happened leading up to the tornado—in particular, whether he was alone on the boat or had a passenger.” He paused. “Meanwhile, you were flying in from Mexico, forced to land at Tallahassee. Any idea where Ms. Greene was in all of this?”

  “I don’t know. At home?”

  “Right. Well, let’s say I’d hate to be the one who ever had to interrogate that woman.” Even though the overlook was deserted, Pickett glanced around before continuing. “This isn’t an avenue anybody else is following up, you understand. But I know you, and I know Pendergast better, and…well, I just like the cases under my command to add up.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “And so do I.” Pickett’s eyes met Coldmoon’s in a curious gaze that was interrupted by a chorus of voices from behind them.

  “Those must be the island staff,” Coldmoon said with something like relief. “Making their way down to the helipad with our luggage.”

  “Of course,” Pickett said. “Let’s not keep them waiting any longer.”

  Ten minutes later, both helicopters were warming up, their blades whipping the humid air. Constance got into the plush, leather-lined interior of the AgustaWestland first, keeping her hat in place with one hand while shaking Pickett’s with the other. Coldmoon—whom they would be dropping off on the mainland for his flight to Colorado—followed next. Last was Pendergast.

  “Well, sir,” he said to Pickett, leaning in at the door. “Last time you were here, it was with a request to ‘have a look at the scene.’ I hope you found my perusal to be helpful.”

  “Helpful? You solved the case.”

  “I’ll say farewell, then. Agent Coldmoon is eager to get to his new post. And, in return for your kind words just now, I would only add that Constance and I are eager to get back to New York…without further delay.” He gave the last three words an unmistakable emphasis.

  “Then I’d be the last person to detain you.” And Pickett stepped back while the luggage was loaded into the rear of the passenger compartment. A moment later, the door closed; the chopper rose swiftly and then, with a roar of its powerful engines, it banked to the northwest and sped away.

  Pickett watched the bird vanish into the brilliant blue sky. Then, stepping back from the prop wash of his own helicopter, he reached for his phone and dialed.

  “Dispatch One?” he said when it was answered. “This is ADC Pickett. The craft I told you about is an AW109, tail number Z-513227. Yes, that’s right. Please forward my instructions to divert it to Savannah, as discussed earlier. If necessary, I’ll talk to the pilot myself.”

  And without saying anything further, he slipped his phone back into his suit; took one final look around at the unreal paradise that rose behind him; then, folding his copy of the Miami Herald, he ducked under the rotors and got into his own helicopter. A minute later, it rose into the pearlescent sky, following Pendergast’s ride at a more dignified, stately, government-approved rate of speed.

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  The authors wish to thank Wes Miller, Kallie Shimek, Eric Simonoff, Michael Pietsch, Ben Sevier, Nadine Waddell, and Claudia Rülke. They would also like to underscore that all characters depicted in the book are imaginary, and that in places they have taken liberties with the geography of Florida and its cities to accommodate the novel’s logistical demands. Finally, they wish to praise Sanibel and Captiva, both for their beauty and for their efforts to preserve the natural ecology and wildlife of the barrier islands. The authors in particular recommend the magnificent beaches on which—in their personal experience—the only things of note to have washed ashore are the bea
utiful shells in their private collections.

  About the Authors

  The thrillers of DOUGLAS PRESTON and LINCOLN CHILD “stand head and shoulders above their rivals” (Publishers Weekly). Preston and Child’s Relic and The Cabinet of Curiosities were chosen by readers in a National Public Radio poll as being among the one hundred greatest thrillers ever written, and Relic was made into a number one box office hit movie. They are coauthors of the famed Pendergast series, and their recent novels include Old Bones, Verses for the Dead, City of Endless Night, The Obsidian Chamber, and Blue Labyrinth. In addition to his novels and nonfiction works (such as The Lost City of the Monkey God), Preston writes about archaeology for The New Yorker and National Geographic magazines. Lincoln Child is a Florida resident and former book editor who has published seven novels of his own, including such bestsellers as Full Wolf Moon and Deep Storm. Readers can sign up for The Pendergast File, a “strangely entertaining” newsletter from the authors, at their website, PrestonChild.com. The authors welcome visitors to their Facebook page, where they post regularly.

  Also by Douglas Preston

  and Lincoln Child

  A Nora Kelly Novel

  Old Bones

  Agent Pendergast Novels

  Verses for the Dead • City of Endless Night • The Obsidian Chamber • Crimson Shore • Blue Labyrinth • White Fire • Two Graves* • Cold Vengeance* • Fever Dream* • Cemetery Dance • The Wheel of Darkness • The Book of the Dead** • Dance of Death** • Brimstone** • Still Life with Crows • The Cabinet of Curiosities • Reliquary† • Relic†