“All except for the cinematographer,” Sheldrake added. “And she was so freaked out that she’s only now beginning to describe what happened. Incoherently. And that journalist found with her — Wellstone, I think? — they say he’s irrecoverably insane.” He consulted a notebook. “Akinetic catatonia, precipitated by psychogenic trauma.”
“Closer to home,” Delaplane went on, “what happened to Felicity Frost was particularly tragic.” She turned to Pendergast. “You got to know her, right?”
Pendergast shook his head. “That was Constance, my ward.”
Hearing her name, Coldmoon had to stifle an involuntary twitch. Over the last few days, Constance had been acting even more strangely than usual. When he’d been battling the creature atop the church, was it really possible he’d caught a brief glimpse of her on the balcony of the hotel penthouse, shooting at the beast with a tommy gun? Of course it was: he’d seen her do stranger things than that. She was as crazy as she was beautiful. And brave. She’d been the one to go after Pendergast and drag his ass out of that damned machine.
He reminded himself he didn’t know anything about that. He was done with Savannah. Back at the hotel — which, pending reconstruction, had been stabilized by heavy steel bracers, jack posts, and Lally columns — his bags were packed. He had a flight for Denver that afternoon, and no power on earth was going to stop him from getting on that plane.
Now Delaplane was looking nonplussed, and Coldmoon — tuning in to the conversation — heard Sheldrake congratulating her for the commendation on bravery she’d received.
“Thanks, Benny,” she said. “Who knows — maybe I’ll make chief after all... in twenty or thirty years.”
“It might happen sooner than you imagine,” Pendergast said. He shifted in his chair. “Ah, Assistant Director Pickett. Why don’t you join us?”
Glancing toward the exit from the conference room, Coldmoon saw Pickett leaning against the doorframe. Just how long he’d been standing there, Coldmoon didn’t know. But the man’s presence seemed a signal for the meeting to adjourn, because everyone began gathering their things, nodding and shaking hands, and heading for the door. Coldmoon stood to join the exodus, only to see Pickett motioning for him and Pendergast to remain behind. They stood at the door in an awkward silence.
Pickett glanced over his shoulder, making sure the others had gone. Then he cleared his throat. “I, ah, understand you two went toe-to-toe with the late Senator Drayton on my behalf,” he said. “You look... well?”
Pendergast nodded.
Pickett hesitated again, with an almost embarrassed expression on his face. “That means a lot to me. On both counts.”
“And I am equally grateful,” said Pendergast, “for the way you protected our investigation from the senator. I regret the impact on your career.”
“Actually,” Pickett said, “Senator Drayton didn’t have the chance to follow through on his threats. He was more of a blowhard than a man of action.”
So he’s getting his promotion, after all, Coldmoon thought.
There was a silence as Pickett fixed Pendergast with a long and particular stare. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “For the record, you understand.”
“I understand.”
Pickett took a breath. “So: you have no idea where that creature came from?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Or what it was doing here?”
“I have no idea.”
“And you don’t know what happened to it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Pickett swiveled his gaze toward Coldmoon. “And you?”
Coldmoon shrugged. “No, sir.”
“In other words,” said Pickett, “you’re both as ignorant as everybody else.”
“Alas,” said Pendergast, “I’m afraid this is one case I failed to solve.”
The color rose in Pickett’s face, and for a moment Coldmoon thought he was going to get angry. But then he smiled faintly. “Perhaps it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“A most wise stratagem,” Pendergast said.
“It’s a shame, though,” said Pickett. “That your stellar record, and your partner’s, might be darkened by this failure.”
Shit. Coldmoon hadn’t really thought of that. He couldn’t wait to get to Denver and into a normal FBI routine investigating ordinary things like terrorism, organized crime, and serial killers.
“On the other hand,” Pickett said, “solving the D. B. Cooper hijacking is a tremendous coup. I believe that was the FBI’s longest-running unsolved case. No doubt that will balance things out as far as your record is concerned.” He took a breath. “I’m still a little confused how you managed to do that in the midst of all this, though.”
“Serendipity,” said Pendergast.
“As soon as we put the finishing touches on that case and wrap it up, we’ll make the announcement. I imagine...” He paused. “There will be some sort of press conference and commendations for you both.”
“We look forward to it.”
Coldmoon began to feel better.
Pickett cast his gaze out the window over the wrecked landscape. “This case was just too crazy. Who could have predicted this?” He turned his scrutiny back to Pendergast. “Just so you don’t think I’m an idiot, I know you know a lot more about this.”
“As you said, sir, better to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Which leads to my final question. Is there any reason for concern — in your opinion, of course — that there might be any further threats of this kind?”
“I believe,” Pendergast drawled, “that you can rest easy on that point.”
With this, he fell silent. What he did not say, nevertheless, spoke volumes.
“Then that’s all,” Pickett said. “Thank you. Now, is there anything I can do for either of you?”
“You can allow Agent Coldmoon to catch his flight to Denver,” Pendergast said. “And Constance and I would greatly appreciate spending tonight in our own beds, back in New York.”
“There was one thing...” Pickett began.
Coldmoon felt his spine stiffen. For a terrible moment, he thought they might be shanghaied once again... but after a moment Pickett shook his head and said, “Never mind.” Without another word, he stepped to one side and let them pass out of the conference room and toward the waiting elevators.
78
As he turned off Montgomery and headed east on Taylor, Coldmoon almost had to restrain himself from pulling ahead of Pendergast’s uncharacteristically slow and painful walk. The debriefing he’d been dreading most — the one with Pickett — had gone more smoothly than he could have hoped. Pickett was a smarter guy than Coldmoon had given him credit for. He’d been cleared to leave for Denver. His bags were packed. He’d even taken the precaution of ordering an Uber the night before, although Pendergast had offered to give him a lift with an FBI pool car. Truth was, he didn’t want to broadcast the fact that he’d arranged to get to the airport three hours early. He couldn’t take the chance of getting dragged at the last moment into some bizarre new assignment. You never knew with Pendergast.
He glanced at his watch: right on schedule. He’d pop into the hotel, grab his bags, and soon Savannah and Pendergast would be dwindling specks in the rearview mirror of his career.
As they walked along, he couldn’t help but notice all the activity. Trucks were parked along the curbs, some with beds full of rubble being cleared by heavy machinery, while others were unloading lumber, bricks, and construction materials. Regular citizens were pitching in, shoveling debris into dumpsters and cleaning up. The inhabitants of Savannah, it seemed, having received no explanation for the attack visited upon them beyond a wash of crazy conspiracy theories, had decided to move on as quickly as possible.