Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

“And how has the good town of Sanibel taken all this?” Pendergast asked.

“We’ve managed to bury most of the details. Chief Perelman has been most cooperative. He’s even become some kind of local hero. Nobody in town knows why, exactly, but he’s generally being given credit for clearing things up... even though he’s the picture of humility and professes to know nothing.” Pickett chuckled.

“What’s the official story?” Coldmoon asked.

“What we’re saying about the amputated feet is that it was an evil experiment by a clandestine organization, and we’re leaving it at that. Behind the scenes, of course, there’s hell to pay and much to be done — identifying the dead, compensation to those migrants held prisoner, determining how best to move forward... it’s been a nightmare for us.”

“It wasn’t too pleasant for them, either,” Coldmoon said.

“Of course not. And we’ll do absolutely everything in our power to make things right.”

“While we’re on the subject, what is the current status of a certain installation north of Carrabelle?” Pendergast asked.

“Completely emptied and locked down. We’ve spread word that there was an outbreak of hantavirus in the vicinity to keep people away. The remoteness of its location and the storm worked in our favor — nobody seems to have noted anything that evening beyond some unusual helicopter activity. Once the investigation into this rogue operation is complete, the facility will be razed to the ground. And we’re getting 100 percent cooperation from the Pentagon: they’re aghast at what was being done by former U.S. military personnel, supposedly in the name of patriotism. Former is the operative word here: the U.S. armed forces had nothing to do with this.”

Pickett paused.

“What’s that you brought along?” Coldmoon asked, pointing at the newspaper.

“I thought perhaps you hadn’t seen it yet.” Picking up the newspaper, Pickett unfolded it, displaying the front page. The two agents leaned in. It was the Miami Herald , and its headline screamed in seventy-two-point type that its star reporter, Roger Smithback, had been awarded a key to the city of Fort Myers by the mayor for not only assisting with the investigation on Captiva Island, but for publishing a series of daring exposés that precipitated a raid on one of the worst gangs in the city, Panteras de la Noche. The gang had been rolled up and its leader, nicknamed Bighead, taken into protective custody. He was rumored to have flipped, and the Central American cartels had placed a massive bounty on his head. Despite this breathless reportage, the article was remarkably light on details and specifics.

“I do have a question,” Pickett said, putting the newspaper aside. “It might be a little delicate. The oceanographer that you rescued from that facility, Dr. Gladstone. She’s making a full recovery, despite the trauma of losing a foot, and I’m told by doctors and psychiatrists that she won’t experience any lasting psychological damage.”

Pickett noticed that, at the mention of Gladstone’s name, a shadow passed across Pendergast’s face. “What was your question?” he asked.

“She claims to have no recollection of that night’s events. She remembers being chased down a road by helicopters... and then, nothing until she awoke in a hospital bed. It seems incredible she could have been induced to amputate her own foot.”

Pendergast’s face had gone still as granite. “It’s a mercy she can’t remember. What happened is all in my debriefing. That is — was , I hope — a perfectly malign drug. The remorse I feel at involving her and Dr. Lam is something that will haunt me.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Coldmoon said.

If Pendergast heard this, he did not show it. “For what it’s worth, I can tell you that once she is ready to return to work, a foundation I’m associated with — Vita Brevis — has offered to endow an academic chair for her at the oceanographic institute of her choice.”

Pickett nodded. “She deserves as much.” He glanced at the pile of luggage. “So: you’re returning to New York?”

“With as much alacrity as possible.”

“And you,” Pickett said, turning to Coldmoon. “I understand the papers came through from the Colorado field office?”

Coldmoon patted the breast pocket of his shirt.

“Then I’m happy for you both.” He paused. “It is a shame, however, because I’ve just learned of the most peculiar incident that took place last night, north of Savannah—”

“Forget it,” Coldmoon interrupted. “Sir.”

Pendergast, too, frowned at this unwelcome advance.

“Well.” Pickett sighed. “I’m not going to issue any orders, considering what you’ve both been through. But it’s a shame, because—”

He was interrupted again, this time by the light sound of footsteps coming up a nearby path. A moment later, Constance Greene emerged from the palms into the bright tropical light. She wore a large sun hat, linen blouse, and pleated white skirt. Her strange violet eyes were covered by a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers.

“Mr. Pickett,” she said, offering her hand.

“Ms. Greene,” he said, standing and taking it.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to receive you properly on your arrival. I was just taking care of some last-minute business before our departure.”

“And what might that have been?” Pendergast inquired.

“Nothing important. I was just giving the security chief a token of our appreciation.” She turned to Pickett. “He was kind enough to give me some weaponry demonstrations after you’d spirited Aloysius away. Merely for my amusement, of course.”

This was followed by a brief silence. Then Pickett glanced at Coldmoon. “Walk with me,” he said.

They made their way down the steps of the temple-like structure and along a lane of crushed shells that led to an overlook. Pickett took a moment to get his thoughts in order. Then he turned to Coldmoon. “I’ve read over your transcripts,” he said.

Coldmoon nodded.

“I’ve read Pendergast’s too, of course. Everything that I didn’t observe myself, in fact, I read. Read carefully. I realize that, in the mayhem of that night, given the nature of that rogue military encampment, your memory might not be crystal clear. But one thing has been troubling me.”

“What might that be, sir?”

“It’s... well, it’s Constance Greene.”

A look came over Coldmoon’s face that Pickett hadn’t seen on the man before, but he continued anyway. “She’s the one variable in the equation I can’t figure out. First responders mentioned a young woman among your party, dressed in filthy tactical clothes. I also heard reports that someone matching her description was on the rescue helicopter that brought all of you back to Fort Myers. Oddly enough, post-landing records for your group do not include such a person.”

“No?” asked Coldmoon.

“Not only that, but a heavy machine gun was found near your exit point that — on trying to reconstruct exactly what happened during your final escape — we can’t quite factor in. Who was manning that? It had recently run through over three hundred rounds.”

“It was so chaotic, I really can’t recall.”

“Right. And another thing — Chief Perelman explained how, knowing only that Pendergast had been kidnapped, he undertook a rescue mission with his boat. But the tornado that wrecked that boat and almost killed him has brought on a degree of amnesia of a different sort than Dr. Gladstone’s. He can’t recall much that happened leading up to the tornado — in particular, whether he was alone on the boat or had a passenger.” He paused. “Meanwhile, you were flying in from Mexico, forced to land at Tallahassee. Any idea where Ms. Greene was in all of this?”