Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

“And those names? And what is Endo... endo...”

“Those are Bill’s business partners. The artists. Look for yourself: John Kramer, Doctor of Drawing Studies. You really haven’t read any of their graphic novels? ‘Endodontics’ is the name of the series. The superheroes all come from the planet Endodont.”

“What about la película ? The movie?”

“It comes out around Christmas.” Maybe he should just get out of the car and start running. Suicide by Flaco.

At the nadir of his despair, Flaco eased the car forward. At the next intersection, Flaco made another U-turn, then came back and pulled up in front of the Flagler Building.

“I go in with you,” he said.

Smithback’s heart accelerated. Flaco had just swallowed the most outrageous load of bullshit Smithback had ever flung. And it was only, he realized, because he’d stopped caring — and the fear had gone out of his voice.

“Bad idea.” He pointed at Flaco’s sleeved arms, the torn bandanna around his head. “We talked about this. Let me speak to Bill, show him the manuscript. After he’s read it, your looks — apariencia — will be okay. But too early... You don’t want to spook him.” Smithback shook his head.

Flaco sat without moving for a moment. Then he took his right hand and reached across his own gut, toward the driver’s door. At first, Smithback thought he was going for his gun. But instead, he reached into the door pocket, pulled out the manuscript, and handed it to Smithback.

“ ¡Muévete! ” he said.

Smithback nodded. Then he opened his door, stuck a foot out. His sweaty shirt peeled away from the vinyl of the bucket seat.

He walked briskly toward the building, thinking fast. It was filled with dental practices. If he was lucky, that meant not just one receptionist, but several. And beyond them, several rooms, and maybe a back way out. Or places he could hide in. It all depended on Flaco staying in his car long enough for Smithback to call the cops.

Without looking back, he trotted up the steps and opened the door with as much élan as he could muster. As it closed behind him, he saw a floor of gleaming blond wood lead down a hallway ahead of him. There were open doors to the left and right. Immediately past the entrance was a staircase, the risers painted white. Flowers were set on a small table, along with several plastic holders for business cards.

Smithback raced up the stairs. There was another hallway here and, operating purely on instinct now, he followed it to a desk, behind which sat two women in white.

“Can I help you?” asked one, looking him up and down.

“May I use your phone?” he asked. “It’s an emergency.”

The women looked at each other. But even as they did, Smithback heard a burst of angry Spanish from downstairs and realized it was already too late. Flaco, ever suspicious, had entered the building himself.

On pure instinct, Smithback raced past the reception desk and through a partially open door beyond. He sprinted past a room in which a dentist was at work, drill whining. Another room contained a patient waiting in a reclining chair surrounded by hideous gleaming instruments. Ahead, a sign above a door read EXIT. Smithback charged through and rammed it open, finding himself in a back stairway as he heard another burst of Spanish, this one louder, longer, and angrier.

He descended to a landing, two steps at a time, down a second flight, pushed open the door the stairs dead-ended at, and found himself in the backyard of the building. He paused a second. On either side were similar structures. Ahead of him was the slough he’d noticed earlier: a dense, swampy tangle of mud, brook, and bracken that ran like a green labyrinth from right to left. Pushing himself away from the façade, he ran for it. As he did so, he heard a shot ring out behind him, followed by yelling and a scream. Reaching the edge of the slough, he practically dove into the jungle-like vegetation, rolling over once, then gaining his feet and running on into deep mud as the mazy branches of a mangrove swamp closed in overhead and the sunlight dimmed.

Suddenly, another shot rang out. Then another, whining past a few feet behind him, clipping twigs as it went. He realized he was still clutching the manuscript and immediately dropped it, pages fluttering into the muck. And then he heard the already distant Flaco, yelling at him in furious, frustrated rage: “Smithback! You a dead man. ¡Chinga tu madre! You hear me, motherfucker? Dead! Dead! Dead! ”

Chief P. B. Perelman, on his first day off since the case broke, heard his doorbell ring at noon, as he was sitting down to lunch. The ringing, once again, aroused a twist of pain for him, followed not by a flurry of eager barking, but only by silence. God, he mourned that dog every day. If only he’d closed the door properly on that fateful, awful morning...

He was surprised to find Pendergast standing on his porch. The man was so unpredictable, never turning up where you’d expect. His very capriciousness seemed to be a feature of his investigative methods.

“Lovely morning,” said Perelman. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you. I have an appointment with the commander, and I was hoping you might accompany me.”

“Of course. Come in while I get ready.” This was a bit strange.

Pendergast stepped into the entryway and waited while Perelman buckled on his belt and sidearm, then buttoned up and adjusted his shirt. Perelman disliked the commander and as a result always wanted to appear spit-and-polished when meeting him. Speaking of spit and polish, he noted the perfect gleam on Pendergast’s shoes and checked his own.

“Just a moment.”

He kept a shoe brush handy in the entryway for just this purpose, and he now pulled it out of its box and gave his shoes a swift brushing.

“What’s the meeting about and, if you don’t mind me asking, why do you need me?”

“I am bereft of my partner, Agent Coldmoon, who is down in Central America. Constance is out on some errand of which I am ignorant. As a result, I find myself in need of a witness. That would be you, Chief Perelman.”

“A witness.” He followed Pendergast out to the porch. To his surprise, a new, full-size Range Rover sat gleaming at the curb. “How so?”

“I believe our meeting with the commander might result in a small contretemps. He will be accompanied by his second, Lieutenant Darby. I, too, must have a second.”

“Sounds like a duel,” said Perelman with a laugh. The laugh quickly died as he realized the man wasn’t making a joke. There was a chill about him today that was quite unsettling.

Pendergast got into the driver’s seat, while Perelman slid into the passenger seat.

Traffic was lighter than usual, and they sailed along the causeway and up to Fort Myers. It felt strange, somehow, to see Pendergast behind the wheel, but Perelman was very pleased with the plush interior of the vehicle. The parking lot was almost empty. Pendergast parked up close and they stepped out into the muggy air. Perelman noticed that, for the first time in his memory, Pendergast was carrying a briefcase.

The commander’s door was closed, as usual, and when Pendergast knocked — at exactly 12:30 — it was opened by Darby, who stepped aside in silence to let them in.

The commander rose. “Chief Perelman, this is a surprise. I was, however, hoping to have a private conversation with Agent Pendergast.”

“Chief Perelman is standing in for my absent partner,” said Pendergast. “You can speak in front of him as you would Agent Coldmoon.”

“Well, fine. If that’s the way you’d prefer it. As we get started here, I just have to warn you that what I have to say may not be things you wish others to hear, Agent Pendergast.”