Verses for the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  “Later,” Pendergast said quietly. He tucked the tarp more tightly around Coldmoon as the faint sound of an approaching helicopter reached them from beyond the trees.

  48

  PENDERGAST WATCHED THE medevac chopper rise into the air above Paradise Landing, carrying his comatose partner to the University of Miami Hospital. The chopper was departing, but the rest of the cavalry would be here soon enough. A temporary silence descended over the shabby docks as he led Brokenhearts to the Mustang and put him in the backseat. The young man paused to ask if he could retrieve some object from his own vehicle, which was hidden in the grass just off the dirt road. The object turned out to be a book of poems. Brokenhearts got into the backseat, mumbling to himself, over and over, rocking back and forth, the book clutched in his cuffed hands. Pendergast recognized the mumbling as verse.

  In the desert

  I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

  Pendergast slipped behind the wheel, turned on the LED emergency dash lights, and started the car with a roar. He backed it around and, with a spray of dirt, accelerated down the dusty road, putting on the siren. Reaching the paved asphalt, he pressed the pedal down and pushed the Shelby to over a hundred miles an hour. It shot along the road, walls of vegetation flashing by in a blur of green.

  Who, squatting upon the ground,

  Held his heart in his hands,

  And ate of it.

  In the distance, Pendergast could see flashing lights coming toward him; the Miami Homicide flying squad, on their way to Canepatch for evidence collection and to recover whatever remained of the body of Commander Grove—if anything. Pendergast checked in with them by radio as they flashed by: squad cars, Crime Scene Unit vans, sirens Doppler-shifting down as he blew by.

  Ten minutes later his radio buzzed; he pulled it down and listened. The dispatcher told him that Coldmoon had arrived at U Miami and was heading into surgery. His condition was critical.

  I said, “Is it good, friend?”

  The road merged onto Tamiami Trail and Pendergast passed more police cruisers. The Shelby was now traveling at 120 miles per hour, Pendergast’s silvery eyes looking far ahead, his mind focused only on speed and the long straight road. In the backseat, Mister Brokenhearts kept up his monotonic recital.

  “It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

  The radio hissed again and he pulled it down. “Pendergast here.”

  “Lieutenant Sandoval. Have I got it right that you’re bringing in Brokenhearts?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re liaising with the FBI. You’re to bring him straight to the FBI HQ.”

  “Understood. And Coldmoon?”

  “In surgery. I’m sorry—they doubt they can save him. That son of a bitch Grove, hard to believe…”

  Pendergast hung up the radio and pressed the accelerator further, the Shelby’s speedometer inching toward 130.

  He shot past a succession of shabby roadside attractions, siren wailing, cars pulling off on both sides to make way. In the backseat, Brokenhearts continued to rock slowly and mutter. Now more cars were appearing as he approached the western suburbs. He slowed to 100, then 90. Passing the Everglades boundary, he entered the suburb of Tamiami, then Sweetwater, where he was forced to a crawl by heavy traffic.

  “But I like it

  “Because it is bitter,

  They inched through traffic until he reached the Reagan Turnpike, where he headed north. In another twenty minutes he joined I-75 as far as the exit to FBI headquarters. As he passed through the gates, he was met by two cars and a van. Swinging around to the processing bay in the back, he was met by a mass of agents, Miami police, squad cars, and vans. He pulled to a stop as half a dozen people surrounded the car and opened the doors, removing Brokenhearts, who submitted meekly.

  Sandoval came over, grasped Pendergast’s arm, and helped him out of the car. Agents, support staff, MPD brass—everyone was there. Brokenhearts stood in the hot glare of the sun, hands clasping the book, head bowed.

  “Agent Pendergast, allow me to congratulate you,” said Lieutenant Sandoval. Brokenhearts’s handcuffs were now being reinforced with leg irons. “If I may ask—who the hell is he? I mean, his real name.”

  “His name is Vance.” Pendergast looked around. “Get me on a helicopter for U Miami Hospital.”

  Nearby agents began shouting orders and gesturing. Brokenhearts, now in chains, was being led away. As he passed Pendergast, he glanced over and muttered one final line:

  “And because it is my heart.”

  The FBI chopper took Pendergast from HQ to the helipad on the roof of U Miami, where he was met with more agents from the Miami Field Office and several MPD detectives. Speaking to no one, he sprinted as fast as his wounded leg allowed from the helicopter, past the group, and into the building, bypassing the elevator and taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the main surgical floor. He arrived at a small waiting area outside the surgical bay, guarded by a pair of FBI agents.

  “Coldmoon,” he said. “How is he?”

  “We’ll get a doctor to talk to you, Agent Pendergast.”

  Pendergast nodded. Then he began pacing the small waiting area, the only sound the faint whisper of his footfalls echoing off the linoleum floor.

  Finally a doctor came out, still in scrubs, blood smeared on her gown. “Mr. Pendergast? I’m Dr. Webern.” She did not offer her hand.

  “Doctor. How is he?”

  She hesitated. “Well, he’s a tough customer. But his condition is extremely critical.”

  “His odds?”

  “I wouldn’t want to speculate. The bullet went through the lungs and expanded into a pretty massive thoracic wound. He’s lost a lot of blood, and the water moccasin bite made it worse, as the venom triggers coagulopathy. It’s amazing he survived at all. But we’ve got a team of eight surgeons and fourteen support staff working for him, and believe me, they’re some of the best in the world.”

  Pendergast nodded silently.

  “Can I get you a counselor or clergy?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She frowned. “Are you going to be all right, Agent Pendergast? Waiting here by yourself? Your leg is bleeding.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed back in the OR.”

  “Of course.”

  The doctor gave him a faint smile, replaced the mask on her face, and turned away, disappearing back into the operating suite.

  49

  IT ONLY TOOK seventy-two hours for the med/surg nurses to grow heartily sick of him.

  Coldmoon had first woken up in post-op. Initially, he’d thought he was still asleep, in some nightmare of green walls and bright ceilings and masked beings hovering around. Then he fell asleep again. The next time he woke, he realized it hadn’t been a dream, after all, and now he was in what looked like the recovery bay of a hospital ICU. Doctors would come by, peer down at him, then consult with colleagues in low tones; nurses would check his vitals, stick a needle into the injection port of his IV catheter—and he’d fall asleep again. Soft beeping and buzzing and whisperings of machinery filled the silences. This seemed to go on forever, sleeping and waking, sleeping and waking, but he later realized it couldn’t have been more than twenty-four hours.

  Finally, he woke up in a private room on a step-down floor. He was hungry and thirsty and, for the first time, in pain. They fed him—after a fashion—and he was ministered to by more doctors. They assured him he was going to pull through. Later, they explained he’d been very lucky, given the caliber of the gun and the location of his wound. By this point, two more days had gone by and he’d recovered sufficiently to complain about the coffee. It was maddening. They would only bring him decaffeinated beverages. Worse, he was unable to explain how to brew it the proper way. There was a drip machine in the med staff’s break room, but just when he’d convinced one nurse to leave the pot on the warmer, there’d be a shift change, and the staff coming on duty would throw
out the stale coffee and brew a new pot. If he complained, they’d just sedate him and he’d drift back to sleep.

  He stared out the window, seeing majestic royal palms and the clear blue sky of early April. At this rate, he might never recover.

  The door opened and, instead of a nurse, in walked three slightly blurry figures. Coldmoon turned to see them better, wincing slightly at the pain. The first, he realized after a moment, was his boss, ADC Walter Pickett. Beside him, wearing one of her trademark pastel dresses, was Dr. Fauchet. Behind them, a black shadow approached, ultimately resolving itself into the form of Agent Pendergast. They all looked down at him.

  Coldmoon swallowed painfully. “About time you showed up.”

  “I’ve been here before,” Pickett said. “You were just too high on painkillers to remember.”

  “They wouldn’t let me in until now,” Fauchet said. “Just imagine—and me, a doctor.”

  Pendergast said nothing. And yet, somehow, Coldmoon felt he’d seen the man more than once over the last few days—that pale face and black suit hovering over his bed, pale eyes full of concern.

  One of the nurses, Estrellita, came in with a cup of coffee on a plastic tray. She set it down and turned to leave, but Coldmoon objected. With an effort, he reached over, sipped the lukewarm beverage.

  “Too fresh,” he said, handing it to her. “Bring it back once it’s sat another few hours.”

  The nurse glared at him with what he hoped was feigned annoyance. Then she turned toward Pickett. “Anything you can do to get this one’s discharge expedited would be appreciated.”

  As she left, Pickett came closer and gently grasped Coldmoon’s hand. “Think you’re going to remember what I say this time?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You’re going to be fine. The wounds are healing, you’ve recovered from the shock and loss of blood, and there’s no sign of infection. Just as important, you’re a hero. You’re going to get the FBI Star.”

  “I am?” Coldmoon asked.

  “Oh yes,” Pickett said.

  “Funny, I don’t remember being a hero. I don’t remember much of anything. We were headed toward that broken-down lodge, and then the bottom fell out.”

  “One could say that.” It was Pendergast who spoke.

  “Speaking of heroes,” Pickett went on, “Pendergast here saved your skin and brought in Brokenhearts. Must have been some kind of first—him bringing in a perp alive, I mean. We considered him for the Medal of Valor, but then I saw he’d already been awarded it twice. No point swelling his head any more than it already is.”

  Was he joking? Apparently not: Pickett’s tone was affable enough, and there was a faint twitch to his lips that was probably the closest thing he could manage to a smile. Coldmoon tried to sit up in bed a little, thought better of it, and lay back. He couldn’t seem to clear his head, and weariness was never far away. “So. Is someone going to tell me what happened?”

  “The details can wait,” Pickett went on. “The important thing is, Brokenhearts is in custody.”

  “So who was he?”

  This time it was Pendergast who answered. “Ronald Vance. Son of John Vance—the man we’d gone out to Canepatch to interview.”

  “Was John Vance the old man on the porch?”

  “No. That was a local man who rented airboats—may he rest in peace.”

  “Ronald Vance,” Coldmoon repeated after a moment. “And is that where he lived? Canepatch?”

  “No,” said Dr. Fauchet. “That was an abandoned alligator farm once owned by the grandparents of…well, that’s not important. Anyway, Brokenhearts himself lived in Golden Glades. Tarpon Court.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “About a dozen miles from here. Ugly old house, too.” She beamed with ill-concealed pride. “I was the one who discovered the address. And the house.”

  “You didn’t go out there?” Coldmoon asked.

  The M.E. nodded.

  “And you walked right in? To Brokenhearts’s place?”

  “Hell, no! I knocked on both the front and back doors. Nobody answered, and y’all weren’t picking up your cell phones, so I left. You think I’d walk right into a serial killer’s house, all by myself, with no backup? What do you think I am—crazy?”

  Another nurse came in. “Mr. Coldmoon needs his rest,” she informed the room in general.

  “Caffeine,” Coldmoon said. “Caffeine is what I need.”

  “You already refused a nice fresh cup of coffee, sugar.”

  Coldmoon tried to glare at her, with little success. Talking was making his throat hurt. “Give. Me. Real. Coffee.”

  The nurse shook her head. “Armstrong Coldmoon, I keep telling you the only way you’re going to get your kind of coffee is to walk out the front door and then make it yourself.”

  There was a silence.

  “Armstrong?” Pendergast repeated.

  “What about it?”

  “That’s your Christian name?”

  “I don’t know what’s so Christian about it, but it’s my first name, yes.” This was followed by another silence Coldmoon eventually realized he was expected to break. “My great-great-grandfather killed Custer. Helped, anyway. In Lakota, you sometimes take the name of a vanquished enemy. So Armstrong has been a name in my family ever since.”

  “Mr. Coldmoon needs his—” the nurse began again, but at this Fauchet linked arms with the woman and gently but firmly led her out of the room, peppering her with questions about Coldmoon’s medications. The three men watched as Fauchet closed the door.

  “In any case,” Pickett said, turning back and stiffening his spine as if to make a formal announcement, “now is as good a time as any to let you know there’s an opening in Washington for an executive assistant director of the National Security Branch, and I’ve been offered the position. Closing this case obviously played a part in that offer.” He cleared his throat. “I may be a demanding supervisor, but I also give credit where credit is due. And so, Agent Coldmoon, you should know that—in addition to the FBI Star—I’m initiating the paperwork to promote you to senior special agent.”

  Coldmoon didn’t know how to answer. “Thank you, sir.”

  But Pickett was already turning to Pendergast. “Agent Pendergast. As I’ve mentioned, you deserve a large share of the credit here. I suppose I could promote you to supervisory special agent, but I doubt you’d want to be burdened by the managerial duties.”

  Pendergast bowed slightly. “Quite true.”

  Pickett glanced at his watch. “So before I go, is there anything else I could do for you? Professionally, I mean?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. You recall the recent agreement we made at that rooftop bar, regarding the details of my, ah, operational parameters?”

  A cloud passed across Pickett’s face before he could stop it. “Of course. And I’ll make sure my successor at the New York Field Office continues to honor your unorthodox methods—assuming, of course, you maintain your impressive closure rate.”

  “I shall make every effort.” Pendergast indicated his thanks with a nod. “That leaves just one other matter—the nature of my work environment. Specifically, with regard to a partner.” His face, pale at the best of times, was now like marble. “As you no doubt remember, I initially opposed the idea of working with Agent Coldmoon. However, I…” He seemed to be uncharacteristically stumbling. “It should be noted—”

  “Um, one other thing,” Coldmoon interrupted. “As part of my promotion, I mean.”

  The other two turned to look at him.

  “I’d rather you find me another partner, sir. Going forward, I mean.”

  Pickett raised his eyebrows.

  “No offense to Agent Pendergast. But I’m not sure our investigative methods are entirely, entirely…in sync.” Christ, he was tired. “I mean…” He waved an enervated hand over his prostrate body.

  “No offense taken,” Pendergast said quickly, gliding in before Pickett could speak. “A
fter all, it would hardly be fair—given what’s happened to other agents I’ve worked with in the past. Agent Coldmoon’s current condition speaks for itself. I believe there is a story going around the Bureau to the effect that to partner with me would be a fatal enterprise. That I am a sort of Jonah on the FBI’s vessel, as it were. An unfortunate rumor, but one I find hard to dispel.”

  Pickett looked from Pendergast to Coldmoon and back again, unable to completely keep his features free of suspicion. “Very well,” he said. “If that’s your formal request, Agent Coldmoon.”

  At that moment the nurse barged back in. The expression on her face showed she meant business this time. “Out. All of you.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Pickett hastily. “Agent Coldmoon, you’ll be hearing from me. Get back on your feet soon.”

  Pendergast turned to follow him out. At the last moment, he glanced back. “Thank you,” he said. “Armstrong.”

  “You owe me,” Coldmoon whispered as weariness overwhelmed him. “Big time.”

  50

  ROGER SMITHBACK SAT at his desk, fingers motionless on the keyboard. His office had been cleared of the heavy crates full of letters—all pointless now, with the real Brokenhearts caught just a week ago, and Miami getting back to normal…or as normal as it ever got.

  The thing was, Smithback ruminated, the murders didn’t feel solved to him. Oh, he’d heard the explanations—the police had doled them out to the press like a party line, which it probably was—but there were still questions that remained unanswered. In fact, there were whole pieces missing: exactly what triggered it all, why the hearts had been left on those particular graves…even who, precisely, was guilty of what. He’d asked these questions, of course, but had been stonewalled by the fact that Mister Brokenhearts, aka Ronald Vance, was a very sick individual who was under lockdown, being questioned by psychiatrists and psychologists, and that his motives could not now be revealed by the police—if he had any intelligible motives at all. The same went for this Commander Grove who’d died in an Everglades shootout: although his role in triggering the killings had been alluded to, the police tended to close ranks around their own, even the rotten apples, and nobody would answer his questions.