Automatically, Jenny started to follow. But as quickly as the panic had gone away, something else started rising to take its place: the sick feeling she’d noticed earlier. It was coming back, big time. Damn, she thought: it was that fifth vodka-cran. Chugging it had been a mistake.
She stopped again, looking around at the infinitude of glittering lights. They blurred; came into focus; blurred again.
“Guys,” she said. “I’m really not feeling well. I think I’m gonna vom.”
But Beth and Megan were walking on, unable to hear her over the noise.
Jenny looked around quickly. The world was tilting in a sickening way, and her stomach was feeling worse by the second. She couldn’t just toss up a sidewalk pizza here, in front of a million people... but she felt a saliva faucet, which could only mean one thing, start up at the back of her throat.
There: just one building down was one of those service alleys that poked out in random spots along the boulevard. Without another thought she raced for it. As she ran into the sudden, narrow darkness, past foul-smelling dumpsters and doorways that opened onto greasy kitchens, the light and noise receded until she could actually hear her own feet on the bricks. There was only blackness before her, and — far away, it seemed — the glow of light from Ocean Court and, still farther, Collins Avenue. Amazing how things could change from being so overcrowded to so empty in just a few seconds.
Suddenly, nature would let her go no farther. She leaned toward the closest wall, steadied herself with one hand, and let the scallop shu-mai, crispy duck, and black rice dumplings exit her stomach and return once again to the outside world. It went on and on, until nothing was left but dry heaves.
Slowly, the awful sensation of nausea passed. Jenny was still buzzed — and her sides had started to ache — but at least she felt human again. She took a deep, cleansing breath. It was almost cozy here in the dark; she felt a strange affection for the temporary privacy it had afforded. But Beth would probably have an APB out for her by now. A light breeze rustled the scraps of litter behind her as she turned back toward the boulevard. She’d call off the Uber and show her friends that she could party like—
And it was then that the rustling grew suddenly louder — louder than any breeze; a hand clamped down hard over her mouth; a strange sensation ran quickly across her neck; and then her throat abruptly filled with warm, gushing, choking blood.
11
It was almost four thirty when Pendergast returned to the lobby. He didn’t say exactly what he’d been doing in Elise Baxter’s room, and Coldmoon didn’t ask, although he noticed the man still had his parka on, zipped up tight; given the hothouse air of the hotel, perhaps he’d been undergoing his own version of a sweat lodge.
At the sound of activity, Young, the manager, waddled out of the back office, made sure there was nothing else they needed, again expressed regret that he couldn’t put them up, and gave them directions to Millinocket.
They stepped out into the bitter cold and got into the rented car, Coldmoon once again behind the wheel. Following Young’s directions and the car’s GPS, they began driving southeast over increasingly remote and poorly plowed roads. Now and then they passed a farm or commercial building, half buried in snow. Already it was getting dark, but Coldmoon didn’t mind; the night couldn’t be any bleaker than the day.
Ahead he saw a yellow-and-red sign peeking out from above the trees: the SaveMart that Sergeant Waintree had mentioned. A lower piece of the sign was missing, apparently blown away by a shotgun, exposing the fluorescent bulbs within.
“We’d better stop,” Coldmoon said.
Pendergast, who had been perusing the suicide photographs, glanced up. “Pardon?”
“We should pick up some food. Waintree warned us there might not be any restaurants open this time of year.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” And Pendergast put the photos to one side and followed Coldmoon out of the car.
They were the only two customers in the dingy little market, which was about to close. Pendergast seemed strangely at a loss in the place: in the tiny produce area, he picked up a head of lettuce, turned it this way and that, put it back; he wandered up one aisle and down another, finally stopping at the herbal tea shelf.
He picked up a box with two fingers. “Coconut chamomile passion fruit?”
“Don’t look at me.” Coldmoon quickly made his own choices: a tin of sardines, a protein bar, ramen noodles, four packs of Twinkies, and a bag of the cheapest ground coffee he could find. Then he moved to the checkout. Pendergast followed a minute later, empty-handed.
When they got back in the car, Pendergast pulled the photos from the police folder again. The agent seemed to be lingering over one shot in particular: a full-frame view of the woman hanging from the curtain rod, the top of one ankle resting on the edge of the tub, head askew, tangled hair not quite able to mask the bulging eyes.
“What about it?” Coldmoon asked.
It took Pendergast a moment to reply. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“What you said to Pickett yesterday — that it seemed unlikely Ms. Montera and Elise Baxter were both randomly chosen.”
“Doesn’t it seem that way to you? That one of them must have been chosen deliberately?”
“Indeed.” Pendergast put the photo aside. “I agree the likelihood of both women being randomly selected is practically nil. But there is a third possibility.”
Coldmoon thought a moment. “You mean that both women, not just one, were deliberately chosen.”
“Yes. And if that’s the case, I fear it makes our task either much easier — or much harder.”
Already, Coldmoon was growing used to Pendergast’s Buddha-like pronouncements. As of yet, there was zero sign that Baxter’s death had been anything but a suicide, or that — to be honest — there was any real connection between the deaths at all. He gave a neutral grunt. He felt, more than saw, the agent glance at him a moment before turning his attention to the road.
There were a surprising number of cars parked in the lot that doglegged the Lowly Mackerel. When they went inside the lobby, the reason became apparent: in a blizzard the previous week, a fallen tree had taken out an electrical substation, leaving a few dozen homes without electricity. The families who had no relatives in the area had been forced to come here for accommodation. No, the owner said, there were no more rooms: he’d even opened up the second floor, which was usually mothballed for the winter.
Coldmoon watched while, in a feat of combined persuasion, threat, supplication, and bribery, Pendergast talked the owner out of his own room: 101, with two double beds, a color TV, and no Wi-Fi. “Guess I can always stay with my cousin Tom,” the man said as he pocketed a thick wad of folded bills. “You just wait in the lounge while I make up the beds and get my things stowed. Won’t be but a minute.”
The lounge was a sad-looking room with curling linoleum floors, a small kitchen, and a bumper pool table, currently unused. The manager went off to fix the room while Pendergast and Coldmoon approached one of the tables.
“Let’s divide the police material,” Pendergast said, tapping Waintree’s folder. “Then compare notes.”
“What’s there to compare? The autopsy and forensic reports total five pages. The interviews about the same. And the photos speak for themselves.”
“It is precisely because of the paucity of the report that we must think — to use a peculiar expression — ‘outside the box.’ Reviewing the material from a fresh, even random, perspective may result in unsuspected discoveries.”