Pendergast, not taking his eyes off the road, offered him a large insulated cup of black coffee. Mumbling his thanks, Coldmoon took it, figuring that Pendergast must have stopped for gas while he was asleep. It tasted about like he expected, but at least it was lukewarm.
They rode in silence for another twenty minutes, weaving through a labyrinth of hills and low mountains. The road was narrow and potholed. Only two or three cars went by the other way. Now and then they passed a house or a trailer huddled at the end of dirt driveways; once they passed a lake and a small dairy farm carved out of the forest; but otherwise there was only mist, and looming mountains, and an unrelieved dark green.
Pendergast turned off whatever road they’d been on and started north on a road with a sign marking it as State Route 21. As they continued, Coldmoon felt the coffee warming his insides, and he found a feeling of claustrophobia stealing over him. He’d grown up in the Dakotas, where trees such as these were rare enough to have individual names. But he’d seen a lot of the world since then. During the last two cases with Pendergast alone, he’d experienced the deep snows of Maine, the beaches of Miami, and the swampy bayous of the Everglades. But those places felt different. Here... here there were too many damn trees. And they grew thickly, leaning over the vehicle so it was like traveling in a tunnel. Where the hell were they? Coldmoon pulled out his cell phone and tried to fire up the GPS, but there was no signal. On impulse, he reached into the glove compartment and retrieved the Washington-Oregon map he found inside. He turned it this way and that, looking for Route 21. He saw Mount St. Helens — Christ, he hoped they weren’t headed that way — but the roads were like strands of vermicelli scattered here and there randomly across the folded paper, and he couldn’t find Route 21. At last, he gave up.
Pendergast pulled the vehicle off the road and into a small parking lot with a wooden sign that read GOAT MOUNTAIN TRAILHEAD. He glanced at Coldmoon.
“Where are we?” Coldmoon asked.
“Washington State. Roughly twenty miles north of the Mount Adams Wilderness.”
Coldmoon digested this a moment. “Great. Wonderful. And that is... where?”
“Close to the man I told you about, the one we came all this way to see. Dr. Zephraim Quincy.”
“Anybody who lives out in this wilderness doesn’t need to be a doctor. He should get a doctor.”
In response, the FBI agent continued north on 21. In about two miles they passed a small, battered road sign that read WALUPT LAKE, and Pendergast slowed again. Blinking against the mist, Coldmoon could make out the lake: its water almost black, surrounded by deep forest among the omnipresent mountains. On the far side, beyond a stand of trees, was a small farm, with a shed and a barn and just enough flat acreage to grow something. Beyond, the mountains rose again.
Pendergast remained still for a moment. Then, reaching into the back seat, he brought out a padded duffel he’d brought along. To Coldmoon’s surprise, he pulled out a DSLR camera body. Coldmoon knew something about fine cameras, and he noticed the senior agent was holding the latest Leica S3. Reaching into the duffel once more, Pendergast pulled out a lens: an aspheric Leica Summicron-S, naturally. That piece of glass alone had to go for eight or nine grand — if you could find one.
“Couldn’t you have found a more expensive camera?” he asked. “What’s wrong with your cell phone, anyway?”
“For my purposes, quality is key. Now, please be silent: I want to achieve just the right degree of bokeh.”
“Are you trying to win a photography award?”
“Only indirectly. My primary aim is to produce a maximal amount of nostalgia.”
Pendergast fitted the lens to the camera, aimed it at the farm across the lake, took his time focusing, and then shot several careful exposures at various focal lengths. Then he put the camera back into its duffel, crossed a bridge over one end of the lake, killed the engine, and let the car coast off the highway and down the grade onto the approach to the farm. They came to a stop behind the barn. Pendergast got out — quietly — and Coldmoon did the same. They eased their doors shut, Coldmoon taking his cues from Pendergast.
Beyond the barn stood an old two-story farmhouse. It had been handsome once, in a colonial “five over four with a door” style that seemed out of place here, with a variety of sheds and other outbuildings attached to its flanks. But time had been unkind to it: the outbuildings had fallen into disrepair, and the house itself hadn’t been painted in at least a decade. A few of the shutters on the second story were leaning away from their windows.
The entire place was cloaked in the silence of early morning, mist rising from the lake beyond the farmstead.
Pendergast motioned, and they crept into the barn. In the gloom, Coldmoon could make out various machinery, most of which was unfamiliar to him. There was also a hayloft and what looked like cow stalls and a milking apparatus, long abandoned.
“So what’re we looking for in here?”
“What’s the term? Fishing expedition. This will be our only chance to investigate.”
But there appeared to be nothing of interest. They exited the open barn door on the far side of the structure. Pendergast stopped a moment, pausing to take in the surroundings. Then he approached the farmhouse, Coldmoon at his side. Together they mounted the steps, and Coldmoon instinctively put his back to one side of the door while Pendergast rang the bell.
There was no response. Pendergast rang again; rapped loudly; rang a third time. Finally, Coldmoon heard a stirring within. A minute later the front door opened partway, revealing an old man dressed in long johns, who — with his white hair and beard — would have resembled Father Christmas if he weren’t so thin. In one hand he held a Remington 870, muzzle pointed at the floor.
“What’s all the ruckus?” he asked. “You sick?”
“We’re quite well, thank you,” Pendergast replied.
“Then what the hell are you disturbing me for at seven in the morning?” The man’s eyes had an almost mischievous sparkle, but the barrel of the shotgun lifted about twenty degrees toward the horizontal.
Pendergast had his ID and shield out while the weapon was still in motion. “We’d like to ask you just a couple of questions, Dr. Quincy.”
The old man considered this. Then he shrugged and stepped back from the door. Quickly, Pendergast stepped in, followed by Coldmoon. The man led them down a short hallway and into a room that once was probably a consultation office, full of old magazines and some medieval-looking medical diagrams hanging on the walls. While everything was old, it was spotless and organized. There was a desk, an examining table, two chairs. Quincy slipped behind the desk and gestured for the agents to sit.
“I’d offer you coffee, but it’s too damned early,” the man said, moving a stack of medical journals aside to clear his desktop. Something in his economy of movement made Coldmoon realize that, though the man was old, he must have been virile, even formidable, in his prime.
“We appreciate your letting us in,” Pendergast said.
“You mentioned you had a couple of questions,” Dr. Quincy said. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
Pendergast gestured as if to say this was fair enough. “You offered medical assistance when we rang the door, I believe. Are you still practicing?”
The man laughed. “Now, how should I answer that to an officer of the law?”