Pendergast, after a brief inspection, had gone to the nearby worktable and picked up a crisp, unmarked envelope. As Coldmoon watched, he tore it open with a trembling hand, plucked out the single sheet within, and read it. After a minute, his hand fell to his side, and the letter — released by nerveless fingers — fluttered to the ground.
“Pendergast?” Coldmoon asked.
Pendergast neither moved nor acknowledged his voice. Coldmoon knelt and picked up the letter. On it, a short message had been written in an elegant feminine hand.
I am going back to save my sister, Mary. I belong with her, anyway. This machine has given me that opportunity — and Miss Frost herself made it clear why I must take it. In her, I see my own lonely, loveless future. It is anything but pretty. And so I will return to my past — the destiny I was meant to have. I will make of it what I can — what I must. If I can’t have you on my terms, I can’t have you at all.
Goodbye, Aloysius. Thank you for everything — most particularly for not coming after me, even were it possible. That I could not endure; I’m sure you comprehend my meaning.
I love you.
79
It was just after ten in the morning when the bus from Atlanta pulled into the Greyhound terminal on West Oglethorpe Avenue. There was a hiss of air brakes, and the gleaming metal door slid open. One after another, the passengers descended the steps into bright sunlight. Last to emerge was a thin elderly man with a battered suitcase and a mackintosh that had seen more than its share of weather. He began to step down, then stopped, holding one hand up against the sun.
“Jesus H. Particular Christ!” he said in a pained voice.
The bus driver looked down with an amused but affectionate smile. The old man had ridden in the seat directly behind him, and they’d gotten to talking on the trip from Atlanta. “First time in Savannah?” he asked.
“First time east of the Mississippi,” the old man replied.
“You don’t say.”
“Hell — first time south of the Mason-Dixon, too.” He descended the last few steps, squinting, then waved goodbye to the driver. As the bus pulled away, the man set down his suitcase, shrugged out of his mackintosh with some effort, folded it carefully, and placed it on the suitcase. He wiped his brow with the back of a hand and looked around.
He hadn’t known what to expect of Savannah. For a moment, he tried comparing it to the places he knew: Yakima, Olympia, Seattle. But there was no applicable frame of reference. There were no mountains in the distance. Everything was flat. The buildings looked old and decrepit. The sky didn’t hold the continual threat of rain he’d lived with all his life. On the other hand, there was plenty of water around... in the form of humidity. He’d never imagined that a place could be so hot and so moist at the same time.
He asked for directions, then struck out, heading east on Oglethorpe. The streets were busy with traffic, the sidewalks teeming with pedestrians. More than one of the latter glanced with surprise at the old man with the Santa Claus beard. But he paid no attention: he’d been stared at before. After about ten minutes he stopped again, took off his plaid work shirt, and carefully rolled it up inside his mackintosh, which he snugged back under the handle of the suitcase. Now he was down to a T-shirt and faded coveralls, but it was a uniform that seemed to blend better with the locals. Opening a zipper and reaching into the case, he pulled out a waxed bucket hat, crumpled and shapeless, which he stretched and massaged until it fit upon his head. It was a Stetson he’d used to keep the rain off his pate for forty years; now maybe it would protect him from sunstroke.
The man turned south on Barnard and walked through a small area of grass and trees, bounded on all sides by buildings. This was more like it. At the far end was a plaque, telling him the domesticated little park was named Orleans Square. Ahead now, over the roofs of the city, many with scaffolding, he could see dust rising and hear the familiar noise of construction.
At the sight, and the sound, he felt his throat constrict involuntarily.
Living as he did away from civilization, he didn’t make it a practice to read the paper or watch the news. What happened beyond his property line wasn’t his business, and he’d grown sick of the steady drumbeat of depressing and irritating news about which he could do nothing. His bus trip had taken him first from Seattle to Chicago, and then Chicago to Atlanta, and in the Chicago bus station he’d caught a glimpse of screaming headlines about the Savannah disaster. He’d picked up some papers and read about how the city had suffered some kind of attack, fire and explosions — the stories were baffling — with numerous casualties. This had heightened his anxiety, which was already at a high level. But he reassured himself that above all, she was a survivor — and a most formidable woman.
A most formidable woman. And quite lonely.
He should have done this — found her and gone to her — years ago. But there was still time. Heart pounding, he quickened his pace down Barnard Street. There were cranes ahead, and scaffolding, and the heavy-duty contractors’ vans and pickups. The noise of construction was growing ever louder, and scenes of considerable destruction began to present themselves. Something bizarre and ruinous had happened here, with multiple damaged buildings, scorched trees and, here and there, the hulks of burned cars.
Another ten or so blocks and he reached Chatham Square. Taking a torn and soiled piece of paper from his pocket, he unfolded it and glanced at some scribbled directions. This was the place. The Chandler House stood along the far side of the park, on Gordon Street.
But when he raised his eyes and identified the building, his heart sank. The long, rambling structure was surrounded by newly erected chain-link construction fencing, the upper windows covered with plywood, scaffolding surrounding it. Through it, he could see on the top floor indications of fire damage and collapse.
Taking a firmer grip on the suitcase, he made his way across the square. Several buildings on the other three sides were being restored as well, but the old man paid no attention to them. He crossed Gordon Street, then stopped in front of the hotel’s brick façade, barely visible behind the scaffolding. A local cop stood at the temporary construction gate guarding the hotel’s front door. He walked up to him.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
The man, staring at the façade, said nothing.
“Sir, can I help you?” the cop repeated.
“I’m looking for Miss Frost,” the man said.
“Miss Frost? You mean Felicity Frost?”
The old man nodded. “She... owns this building.”
The cop ingested this for a moment. “What’s your business with her?”
“I’m...” The man broke off, coughing, then cleared his throat. “I’m a relative.”
“I see.” A pause. “Sir, I’m sorry to inform you that Felicity Frost is deceased.”
“What?” The man met the cop’s sympathetic gaze.
“I’m very sorry,” the cop said. “She was killed in the disaster. If you inquire at city hall, they can give you additional information.” He gently pointed the way for him, giving directions.
The old man walked away, but he began to feel weak and even dizzy, as if in a dream. A strange veil of darkness crossed his eyes, and the medical part of his brain warned him: syncope, due to a sudden drop in blood pressure. Looking around, he saw a hydrant a few steps away; he walked over to it and sank down. Here, in the shade, it was cooler. Deceased. His brain simply couldn’t process it.