“An admirable outlaw — at least to Z.Q.”
“Indeed. And now let me tell you something of interest. You mentioned before that you could find no trace of her existence before 1972. That intrigued me. I took a turn around the FBI’s most excellent databases and discovered that Felicity Winthrop Frost died in 1956.”
Constance raised an eyebrow.
“She died at twelve and was buried in a cemetery in a place called Puyallup, a suburb of Seattle.”
“How very strange,” Constance said. “What does it mean?”
“Quite simply, our proprietress stole somebody else’s identity. In the days before the Social Security Administration computerized their records and cross-referenced them with deaths, it was not difficult. You found a dead person of about your age, got his or her social security number, and obtained a driver’s license in that name. With those, you could claim to have lost your birth certificate and get a replacement copy. The birth certificate would get you a passport, bank account, any official documents you wanted.”
“And that’s why I could find nothing about her prior to 1972.”
“Precisely. She assumed her new identity in that year, the same year she received the book. Perhaps it was a parting gift as she went off into the world as a different person.” He paused. “Excellent work, Constance. I congratulate you.”
“You made the most important contribution yourself.”
“You trimmed the tree — I merely mounted the star.”
“I’m still not sure how this information advances your case.”
“Information is like electricity; it powers the light that allows us to see our way forward.”
“Who said that?” Constance asked.
“I did.”
Constance finished her cognac, set down the snifter, pushed back her chair, and stood up. “If you don’t mind, then, I’ll go spend an hour or so in my claw-footed bathtub.”
Pendergast rose and — wordlessly — drew her to him, kissing her good night. As their lips parted, she hesitated a moment, then leaned in again, her arms encircling his neck. Their lips met once more — longer, this time. Then Pendergast — ever so gently — withdrew from the embrace. Constance unwound her arms from him and took a step away.
“So,” she said, her voice lower and huskier than usual. “It’s as I thought.”
“My dearest Constance—” Pendergast began again, but she stilled him by pressing a fingertip to his lips.
“Please, Aloysius. Say no more.” Then she smiled faintly, drew a few stray mahogany hairs away from her eyes with the same fingertip, and left through the French doors.
Sitting down again, Pendergast’s gaze returned to the middle distance of the veranda. For five minutes, then ten, he remained motionless. And then, with a troubled sigh, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket, activated an internet browser, and began searching.
42
Forty-five minutes later, Agent Coldmoon emerged onto the veranda via the same door through which Constance had exited. He stepped out and glanced around at the evening vista. “Nice. Very nice. How come you’ve got a balcony and I don’t?”
“You used to,” Pendergast replied. “I’m afraid your addiction to burnt, boiled coffee cost you your balcony privileges. Please — have a seat.”
Coldmoon settled into one of the uncomfortable iron chairs. At least the view was pleasing and the night breeze was, for a change, dry and refreshing. He noticed the bottle of calvados, saw one glass was empty.
“Do you mind?” he said, even as he poured himself a large measure.
“Not at all, as long as you appreciate that snifter now contains about forty dollars’ worth of fine calvados, and not peppermint schnapps.”
Coldmoon laughed. “What’s up?” he asked, taking a swig.
“I wanted to give you notice that we’re leaving shortly.”
“Oh?” Coldmoon had never tasted calvados before, and he liked how the faint taste of apple softened the bite of the brandy. “Did you solve the case while sitting out here?”
“We are taking up another avenue of investigation. We’re flying to Portland.”
Coldmoon almost coughed up his drink. “Portland? As in Oregon?”
“That is correct. We need to leave within the hour, if we’re to make a connection in Atlanta for the last flight of the night.”
“But — but that’s on the West Coast!”
“Your knowledge of geography overwhelms me.”
Before Coldmoon could reply, Pendergast continued. “I can imagine the protests you’re likely to make. Let me assure you I wouldn’t suggest this trip if I didn’t think it absolutely necessary. We’ll only be gone one day.”
“What about the investigation here?” Coldmoon said. “We’re at a critical point. And that son of a bitch Drayton? He’s already raising hell about our failure to apprehend a suspect.”
“He will say what he will say.”
“And what about the vampire?” Coldmoon asked with a hint of malice. “What the hell are we to gain from the trip? What’s the purpose?”
“We’ve reached a point in the case where I believe we must go backward in time before we can move forward.”
“You’re talking in riddles again,” said Coldmoon, draining his brandy. “We’re equal partners now — remember?”
Pendergast leaned forward. “Here is why we must make this journey, partner.” He went on to speak in a low voice, in short sentences. Coldmoon, listening, swore first in Lakota, then in English — and then remained quiet until Pendergast sat back once again.
“Okay, Kemosabe,” he said after a silence, rolling his eyes. “That’s some crazy shit. But I’ve been with you long enough not to dismiss it out of hand. I’ll ride shotgun with you. On two conditions. First: if there’s any blowback from this little field trip, you’ll take one for the team.”
“Agreed.”
“And second — Oregon isn’t all that far away from Colorado. I can’t promise you that, once I’m out west, I won’t get a hankering to head for Denver. Where my real job is waiting.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“In that case, I’d better start packing.” And Coldmoon stood up.
“Armstrong?”
At the sound of his first name, Coldmoon glanced back. “Yeah?”
“Pilámaya.”
“No problem.” And Coldmoon vanished into the hotel.
43
For Coldmoon, the next twelve hours passed in a blur. There was some frantic packing; then an Uber to the Savannah/Hilton Head airport; then a bumpy but mercifully short ride in a prop plane to Atlanta — and then they were moving briskly through the big airport, Pendergast’s badge perpetually clearing the way, and onto the flight to Portland with minutes to spare. Once again in the air, Coldmoon — against his better judgment — ordered two vodka tonics. He woke up in Oregon with a headache, and followed Pendergast to an airport rental agency. He took the passenger seat while Pendergast got behind the wheel of a Jeep Wrangler. Coldmoon took notice of how rare this arrangement was: Pendergast behind the wheel, playing chauffeur. He realized the senior agent had mapped everything out in advance, handling logistics effortlessly, batting aside impediments.
At four o’clock in the morning, as they were driving north out of Portland in a drizzling rain, Coldmoon fell asleep again.
He woke up, cramped and sore, to a leaden sky. He checked his watch, compensating for the time change, and found it was six in the morning, local time. Pendergast was guiding the vehicle up a twisty road that hugged the side of a mountain. Coldmoon sat up and wiped the drizzle away from the window as best he could. Outside he could see a wild landscape: mountain after mountain, many with their peaks cloaked by lowering clouds. The forest was endless, Sitka spruce, western white pine, mountain hemlock, and a dozen other shaggy specimens he couldn’t identify. At least, he thought, they were in the west. He cracked the window and breathed deep of the fresh mountain air. He was heartily sick of the east.