Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

The running lights of a passing boat swept through the tree branches, and he pressed himself against the trunk, melting farther into the whispering darkness. The approaching Action made him think of Archy and Mehitabel, who lived in the deep, reinforced pockets of his cargo pants. As a child, before the Death and the Journey, he had read and loved the little books about Archy and Mehitabel, their humorous verses and stories — Archy, a free-verse poet who’d been reincarnated as a cockroach, and Mehitabel, a scruffy alley cat. He identified with them both. They were nobodies, too; vermin, despised by the world. But they had nobility, and it was right that he named his tools after them. They were his only friends. They never let him down. And in return he kept them clean and sharp, just as he had been taught in the Lessons, honing them until they could cut a hair. They would have gleamed brightly in the moonlight if he did not take care to blacken them after sharpening. Action would dull them soon enough, the warm gush of liquid rinsing away the black. Mehitabel usually came out first, her lone claw cutting so fast and smooth and deep there was no pain, only swift and merciful sleep. And then Archy would make his appearance. His wooden handle felt as much a part of him as his own arm. Archy, lowly though he was, carried the power of expiation. He could forget almost anything with Archy in his hand, even the Journey. As he grew older, his truth had become clearer and more bitter — and that was good, because bitterness and truth were the only reality. Because it is bitter. Just as his own heart had grown bitter with remorse.

But this was not a time to dwell on the past, but rather to stay in the present, to be as keen as Mehitabel; to be conscious of the sweat drying on his neck and the cigar smoke drifting in the breeze and the strange mechanical conversations of distant traffic: because now he realized the waiting was almost over and the Action was approaching; he could hear it and see it and he would soon even smell it and feel it. It would happen so quickly. There would be the Action first, and then next would come the thing, the sole thing that, one day, could — he hoped — make the pain and guilt and shame go away forever:

Atonement.

Agent Coldmoon was lounging on the queen bed of his room at the Holiday Inn Miami Beach, watching a rerun of The Dick Van Dyke Show and eating four packets of chocolate chip cookies he’d picked up from the vending machine in the lobby, when the telephone rang.

Coldmoon was not particularly a fan of the show — he had about as much in common with Rob Petrie and his ’60s suburban family as he did with a colony of Martians — but he always enjoyed predicting whether or not Van Dyke would trip over the ottoman during the opening credits. He waited a few seconds — ottoman successfully navigated this episode, just as he’d predicted — before picking up the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Special Agent Coldmoon?” It was Assistant Director Pickett.

Coldmoon reached over and muted the TV. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been expecting a call from you.”

Pickett liked having people phone him, rather than the other way around. Making Pickett reach out now and then was one of Coldmoon’s little private mutinies. “The flight was late getting in,” he said. “Then we had a meeting with the document examiner.”

“What happened in Ithaca?”

“We stopped by the local PD, picked up the case files, spoke to the woman at Cornell who’d interviewed Agatha Flayley, then got a tour of the scene from the first responder.”

“What about the motel she stayed in the night before she killed herself?”

“Torn down half a dozen years ago. Staff scattered to the winds. No records.”

“So basically it was the waste of time I predicted.”

“We haven’t finished going through the files.”

“You didn’t need to leave Miami to do that.” An exasperated sigh. “So you didn’t get any takeaway from the trip? Nothing at all?”

“No, sir, I—” Coldmoon hesitated, recalling Pendergast’s odd behavior on the bridge. That sudden catching of breath, as if he’d seen something, or put two pieces of a puzzle together.

Pickett jumped on the hesitation instantly. “What? What is it?”

“I think Pendergast is holding something back from me.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. Some theory. A plan of action, maybe. Something crystallized for him today, up in Ithaca. At least, that’s how it looked to me. I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

This was a stupid question, and Coldmoon didn’t particularly try to hide it. “You know Pendergast better than that. If he senses me doing any probing, he’s just going to withdraw further.”

“All right. Any sense of how this theory, or whatever, is going to manifest itself?”

“I just... sense that a storm is coming.”

“A storm? Good. In fact, it’s perfect.” There was a pause. “You’re right — I know Pendergast. Sooner or later he’s going to do something crazy. Something out of left field, or of questionable ethics, or even specifically against orders. So I want you to watch him, Agent Coldmoon. And when you think this storm is about to break, I want you to report back to me.”

Coldmoon moved restlessly on the bed. “Can I ask why, sir?”

“I thought we discussed this at the time you agreed to be his partner. I’m going to shut it down before it happens.”

“Even if whatever it is might help the case?”

“What will help the case is accomplishing things. We both know that if Pendergast can be relied on to do anything, it’s to veer off on some wild goose chase that wastes time and makes everyone look bad. That’s you and me, Agent Coldmoon. Look what happened with the Maine trip.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pickett’s voice had uncharacteristically risen in volume. “I’ve been frank with you. The truth is, Pendergast’s like a serpent in the garden. My garden. I’ve seen how he’s dealt with superiors before.” He stopped abruptly, as if catching himself, and there was a short silence before he began again, his voice lower. “Here at the FBI, we do things by the book because that’s how we collar our perps and defend our actions in court. We protect ourselves, our cases, and our chain of evidence — and we maintain our reputation for integrity. That’s why I need you to keep a close eye on your partner, and report to me if he starts going off the rails.”

Coldmoon frowned. “I’m no snitch. Sir.”

“Oh for chrissakes, nobody’s asking you to be.” His voice was rising again. “This is about best practices. We talked about this — remember? Neither you nor I want this case to blow up in our faces due to insubordinate or unethical action by your partner. This case is important to both our careers. Pendergast is a bomb waiting to go off, and it’s up to you to defuse it. This has nothing to do with snitching.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Pickett’s voice softened. “Listen. You’re a promising agent. You’ve already come far, against some damned long odds. I admire your ambition. And I shouldn’t need to spell it out, but you have more to lose here than anyone. You do understand, Agent Coldmoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I needn’t take up any more of your evening. I’ll expect to hear from you soon.”

The phone went dead with a soft click, and picking up the remote, Coldmoon turned his attention back to the TV. Shit, he’d seen this episode — it was the one where Rob Petrie spends the night in a haunted cabin.

With a sigh and a muttered curse, he started channel flipping.