He smiled and waved as the noise went on and on, the seconds stretching into minutes. He felt that indescribable thrill course through him: a feeling better than sex, better than a shot of the finest bourbon — the electricity of victory, of admiration, of power. How could he lose with this outpouring of support? His pathetic opponent could never pull together a crowd like this, even before Drayton’s hackers and disinformation wonks had gone to work on him.
The only obstacle in his path to re-election was this damned murder investigation. Pickett, his old “friend,” had really failed him, assigning that asshole FBI agent and his sidekick to the case. They hadn’t done jack shit, and — as if to rub his face in it — they’d gone off to Washington State the night before, after he’d given them specific instructions... and a specific warning. And that Commander Delaplane was no better, just spinning her wheels, a waste of space if ever there was one.
He waved as the cheering continued. If everything was going well, then why did he feel this tickle of apprehension? Because he not only wanted to win this election; he needed to. The new Jekyll Island sewage treatment plant was going out for bids, and there was a lot of money to be made in kickbacks. Not kickbacks, he reminded himself — legal campaign contributions, made by those bidding on the work. Kickback was practically a moribund concept — thanks to the Supreme Court, it was 100 percent legal for those who wanted to give in return for “constituent service” — as long as there was no quid pro quo. And there would never be a quid pro quo, because nobody had to say or write anything. It was all just understood, in the secret, unspoken language of politics. But even unspoken, it was as old as the hills: you scratch my back, I scratch yours.
His mind drifted back to that rogue FBI agent, Pendergast, and his partner, Coldmoon. Especially Coldmoon. After re-election, with Pickett out of the way, he was going to make a special project out of that sucker. He was going to bring the full power of his office down on that smartass, insect or not. Coldmoon would be sorry he ever shot off his smart mouth. Drayton would send him packing to the nearest reservation. And he would deal with Pendergast, too, put that southern undertaker of an agent out to pasture in Alaska or North Dakota, where he would freeze his ass off for the rest of his career.
These thoughts ran through his mind as he continued waving at the crowd. God, he hoped those sons of bitches in the press area were getting this. Invincible, that was the word that now came to mind. His people loved him.
The cheering finally trailed off as the governor of Georgia took the podium to introduce him. The man heaped on the honors and praises, one fine phrase after another rolling off his tongue. It was a perfect speech, short, elegant, and to the point — and then the governor yielded the podium to him.
The cheering began all over again as he waited, waved a little, waited some more, waved again, and finally cleared his throat to signal the beginning of his speech. He heard, in the far distance, some catcalls and jeers, but they were faint. He’d made it clear to his advance team that those bastards were to be kept well at bay, and none too gently, either.
“My fellow Georgians,” he began, the towers of speakers echoing his voice back from the buildings surrounding the park. “Now is the time of decision. Now is the time of firmness. Now is the time of...” He went on and on, reading his speech from the teleprompter, although he’d practiced it so many times he had it memorized. He paused at particularly well-turned points to allow more cheering and applause, the audience obliging every time.
This was fine. So very, very fine. His enemies and detractors could eat shit and die — with support like this, there was no way he was going to lose this election.
58
As they left the library, Coldmoon felt a slight buzz from the Lagavulin — or was it from the mind-bending concept of a machine that had, somehow, opened a hole in the universe? The idea was absurd, impossible... but since he’d first partnered with Pendergast, the absurd and impossible seemed to have grown commonplace. The world according to Pendergast, he realized, was a far stranger place than he’d ever imagined.
As they entered the foyer of the hotel, Coldmoon noticed a television blaring in a lounge area. On its screen was Drayton, standing live on an elevated stage, thrusting his finger into the air and bellowing to a roaring crowd.
“Look at that wasichu,” snorted Coldmoon as they passed. And then he halted. “Hold on a minute.”
“That so many of you have braved the crime wave to come out tonight is a testament to your courage and conviction—”
Now Pendergast and Constance paused.
“—I have been dismayed by the FBI’s inability to solve these crimes, but I can assure you in my role as senator—”
“Hey,” Coldmoon said. “He’s talking about us.”
“—In the face of their ineffectiveness, I am bringing all state and local resources to bear in catching the monstrous criminal or criminals behind these savage killings—”
“He’s blaming us, the jackoff!”
“Not just us, my dear friend, but ADC Pickett, who it seems has been shielding us from the senator’s wrath all this time — and whose career will suffer for it.”
After listening a moment longer, Pendergast and Constance continued on, and Coldmoon hurried after them. There was nobody behind the desk, and they slipped past toward the offices beyond.
“What are we going to do about it?” Coldmoon asked.
“Does the FBI involve itself in politics?” asked Pendergast as they reached the door to the cellar.
“It’s not supposed to.”
“You have your answer.”
The door to the basement was locked. Pendergast slipped a little tool out of his pocket, and with a brief twist of his wrist, the door swung open.
They descended into the gloom. At the bottom of the stairs, Pendergast paused to remove his jacket. “You might want to check your sidearm, Agent Coldmoon.”
“Right.”
Pendergast took the Les Baer from his shoulder holster, ejected the magazine, checked it, palmed it back in. Coldmoon wasn’t sure why this precaution was necessary just to examine a machine in the basement, but he made sure his Browning had a round in the chamber. He noticed that Constance, not to be outdone, had slid her stiletto out of one sleeve: a vicious little device, he thought as he watched the thin, wicked blade spring out at lightning speed. She knew how to use it, too; he’d seen some demonstrations that he’d just as soon forget. Noticing his stare, she gave him a wry wink, then slid the blade home.
“This way,” she said, taking the lead. She led them past Ellerby’s trading office and deeper into the basement, heading away from the central corridor and making for an area that was roped off and marked STRUCTURALLY UNSOUND.
“One way to deter attention,” drawled Pendergast as they passed by it.
Just as it was growing too dark to see well, Constance touched a light switch and some naked bulbs came on ahead, casting baleful shadows. There was a strange, almost industrial smell in the air, Coldmoon noticed, like burnt rubber. Dead insects crunched under their feet as they walked. Constance led them past a double row of old storerooms, wooden doors splitting from dry rot.