Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

This was no reporter.

“Who is it?” she asked through the microphone.

In response, the man held up a badge. “Special Agent Coldmoon, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Oh.” Unlike Pendergast, this one looked every inch a fed. She buzzed him in. “I was just about to go over the lab results with Agent Pendergast. Are you also assigned to the case—?”

“We’re partners.” His dazzling smile just about bowled her over.

As she led him in, Pendergast rose.

“Good to see you, Agent Pendergast,” said Coldmoon. “I see I’ve arrived just in time.”

“I rather expected you later, Agent Coldmoon.” Pendergast eyed him keenly.

An easy laugh. “We have an old Lakota saying: the early bird gets the worm.”

“Indeed. And I see this early bird has new feathers.”

Coldmoon tugged on his lapels. “Walmart. One hundred twenty-nine bucks.”

A look of undisguised distaste flitted across Pendergast’s face.

Coldmoon took an empty seat, while Crossley resumed her place behind the desk, passed another of the folders to Coldmoon, and then began her summary. “As I was about to explain to Agent Pendergast, we’ve completed the DNA testing and the results are rather interesting. Earlier we determined that most of the feet came from the genetic heritage you typically find in Central and South America — mostly Native American with some European from the Iberian Peninsula, and a small portion of African. We’ve refined those results, and here’s what we’ve got.” She removed a large folded chart. “Many of these individuals are related, in widely varying degrees. We’ve got some brothers and sisters, a few parents and grown children, along with first cousins, second, third, fourth, and even fifth cousins.” She slid the diagram over. “This is an attempt to show relatedness. Of course, it’s extremely complicated because some first cousins are also third and fourth cousins to others, and so forth.”

Coldmoon leaned forward eagerly and drew the diagram toward him, examined it, then passed it on to Pendergast.

“We’re now going to submit the DNA results to several large commercial genetic testing databases to see if we can identify any of these individuals by name. That’s a complicated process, but we’re pushing it forward as fast as we can and should have those results soon.” She cleared her throat. “In addition to the DNA results, six individuals had partial or complete tattoos, which we’ve now analyzed. We’ve identified a few as symbols related to gang or religious affiliations common to the western highlands of Guatemala. The ink used is consistent with crudely formulated tattoo inks commonly used in Central America. Unfortunately, with the proliferation of such gangs, obtaining verifiable, current information on them is difficult. We’ve brought in a specialist and are doing what we can. The toenail polish present on some of the feet was identifiable — cheap brands common to Central America. But perhaps the most important evidence we found is this.”

She took a photo out of the folder and placed it on the desk in front of them. Once again Coldmoon eagerly snapped it up and examined it before passing it on to Pendergast.

“That’s a silver toe ring displaying an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, of a form and style typically worshiped by the Maya people of Guatemala. And engraved on the ring—” she pulled out another close-up photo — “is the name of a town in Guatemala called San Miguel Acatán.”

“Where’s that?” Coldmoon asked.

“A village in the western highlands, close to the Mexican border, with a mostly Maya population.” She paused. “Well, that about summarizes it.”

Coldmoon put down the photo. “The obvious inference is we’re dealing with a group of migrants, all from the same town — San Miguel Acatán.”

Crossley nodded.

“You know how it is,” Coldmoon said. “A group of people from the town get together and decide to head north to the United States. Economic refugees. And you’d expect a lot of people in a small town like that to be related. I would imagine that on their journey north they got waylaid by some bad guys, and then... well, something terrible happened to them and they got their feet chopped off.”

“As Agent Pendergast brought to my attention, it appears they each amputated one of their own feet,” said Crossley.

At this Coldmoon sat back. “Holy shit. They cut their own feet off ?”

“Yes.”

“Were they shackled? Was this a way to escape?”

“A good guess, but they weren’t shackled. There aren’t any abrasions, bruises, or scratches around their ankles you’d get from shackling. They self-amputated for some other reason.”

“What could possibly make someone chop off their own foot?” Coldmoon asked incredulously.

At this Pendergast spoke. “How excellent it is that Agent Coldmoon is finally here to pose the truly arduous question.”

This was followed by a brief silence.

“Is there anything else, Dr. Crossley?” Pendergast asked.

“That’s all for now.”

The two of them rose, and Coldmoon followed Pendergast out. A moment later, with the closing of the hall door, the lab fell silent. Moira Crossley sat in the quiet for some time. The final question Coldmoon had posed, which she had asked herself many times, seemed to have no possible answer — none at all.

Outside, Coldmoon followed Pendergast into the parking lot.

“Do you have a car, Agent Coldmoon?” Pendergast asked.

“Nope.” Coldmoon had anticipated this. He had no intention of playing chauffeur, as he had during the Brokenhearts investigation.

“Pity. However, managing to anticipate that answer, I’ve acquired a vehicle myself that should prove suitable. Not only is it equipped to go across any terrain imaginable — including swamps, beaches, and bayous — but it will do so in comfort.”

Coldmoon looked around the lot but didn’t see any official-looking vehicle among the Ford Explorers and Jeep Cherokees that met these qualifications. Then his gaze fell on something parked at the far end of the lot.

“No,” he said, staring.

“Yes,” Pendergast said, slipping him the key fob.

Glistening in the sun was a factory-fresh Range Rover, an “Autobiography” edition in off-white pearl with a beautiful satin matte finish. It seemed to have every available option for arriving at an opera premiere, or the top of Everest, in style: LED headlights and desaturated taillights, rear fog lights, a badge announcing the 5.0 liter, 557-horsepower supercharged LR-V8 that sat beneath the hood — and those were just the externally visible attributes.

Coldmoon whistled. “Nice ride.”

While he had been taking in the Rover’s features, Pendergast had walked around the rear of the vehicle and was now getting into the passenger seat. Coldmoon looked down, saw the key fob Pendergast had put into his hand. Son of a bitch , he thought. But instead of refusing outright, he put his bag in the back and got into the driver’s seat, immediately sinking into creamy leather. Once he’d figured out how to start the engine, he saw the car had less than fifty miles on it. In the driver’s side pocket was a folded dealer’s sheet, and as the interior cooled off he pulled it out curiously. The sheet ticked off such items as electronic air suspension, wade-sensing technology, hill descent control, roll stability control, and a laundry list too long to read through. At the bottom was a price: $189,500.

Coldmoon took another look at the dealer sheet, recognizing it for what it was. “Hold on,” he said. “You just bought this?”

“Leased, actually. After all, we don’t have Axel on hand to take us around anymore, and that confiscated Mustang of yours was about as comfortable as the rail they used to ride one out of town on. When I learned you were willing to join the investigation, I decided the least we could do was prosecute the case with a degree of luxury.”