Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

“What does that mean?”

“Recall my allusion to the Doctor Faustus quote. I sense our killer feels personally responsible for these deaths, which by the way may — or may not — be suicides.”

Coldmoon repressed an urge to roll his eyes. “If they’re not suicides, what are they? According to the profile our guy was, like, fourteen years old at most when those deaths occurred.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then what possible link could he have?”

“I’m not necessarily saying he’s physically linked. But the question you just raised about the time line is, in fact, a mystery at the very heart of this case. Our man has been killing with alarming regularity and rapidity. We need to exhume Elise Baxter.”

Oh no. Not again. “Pickett’s going to have a fit if you ask him to do that a second time.”

“We have higher loyalties than a man’s ill temper, do we not, Agent Coldmoon?”

“You really want to piss him off like that?”

“What choice do we have? The only other option is to wait for Mary Adler’s autopsy records. And I would guess they will be about as helpful as the previous ones — which is, not at all. Once the police conclude suicide, that’s all the medical examiner can see.”

Pendergast waited until they got back to their temporary office at Miami FBI before he made the call. Coldmoon could hear only one side of the conversation, but it was short and contained no surprises. Pendergast lowered his phone.

“Pickett has refused — again.”

“So much for that idea.”

“Quite the contrary. I’m the agent in charge, and as such I have the authority to exhume Baxter — despite Pickett, and despite the parents’ wishes.”

“Are you serious? That’s direct insubordination.”

To Coldmoon’s vast surprise, Pendergast smiled. “You shall learn, if you haven’t already, that in life insubordination is not only necessary but even, at times, exhilarating.”

Later that evening, while alone in his hotel room, Coldmoon got the message he’d been both expecting and dreading: Call me now.

He made the call, sweeping empty Twinkie wrappers off the bed, and found Pickett in a state of irritation. “Coldmoon? I’ve been waiting to hear from you ever since my conversation with Pendergast.”

Fact was, Coldmoon had been intending, all afternoon, to make just such a call. He knew he had to inform Pickett about Pendergast’s intentions. And he had every reason to do it. Pendergast’s idea was just another harebrained scheme that would yield nothing and end in disaster. He remembered Pickett’s warning: You’re a promising agent. You’ve already come far, against some damned long odds. I admire your ambition. But you have more to lose here than anyone.

“Sir, I—” Coldmoon began.

“No need to explain.” Pickett’s tone softened. “Look, I know you’re in a tough position. I get it: loyalty to your partner and all that. But that last time we talked, you told me that a storm was coming — and now I think I can guess what it is. Did you get the autopsy records from North Carolina on that latest suicide? What’s her name — Mary Adler?”

“Not yet. It seems they’re having trouble locating them. Something about a mix-up while everything was being digitized.”

“So he’s going for the Baxter exhumation, despite my orders. Isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it. Okay. Now, don’t try to talk him out of it. Understand?”

Coldmoon didn’t answer.

“Look. It’s all on him — nothing’s going to blow back on you as junior partner. With this clear insubordination, I can transfer the guy out of my hair, send him to some nice, quiet midwestern backwater — and you’ll be senior partner in the case. So just go along with his plan — all right?”

Coldmoon swallowed. “All right.”

The Elise Baxter exhumation, while not as disastrous as Agatha Flayley’s, presented its own difficulties. It was scheduled for 6:00 AM, so as not to disturb normal visiting hours, and Coldmoon woke to the sound of rain drumming on his hotel window. Bayside Cemetery was soggy beneath a torrential downpour, and despite all precautions — high-tech lifting equipment, waterproof tarp, a temporary tent erected over the worksite — the hole began flooding and Coldmoon ended up sliding around in the mud, ruining his Walmart suit. By the time they had loaded the coffin into the back of the hearse, Pendergast also was a fright: his black suit soaked, shoes and pant cuffs caked with mud, and a streak of mud on his face that made him look like a freshly exhumed corpse himself. What was worse, Pendergast insisted they accompany the coffin to the morgue and begin the autopsy immediately, without allowing time to change. For some reason, he was in a god-awful hurry. Coldmoon, feeling guiltier than he’d expected, wondered if perhaps some sixth sense of Pendergast’s anticipated the betrayal he was walking into.

They arrived in the basement receiving area of the morgue, rain still pounding on the car roof. The morgue assistants worked quickly, sliding the coffin out of the hearse, getting it on an electric rolling rack, moving it to a special receiving bay, washing and cleaning the coffin, then at last opening it and transferring the corpse onto a gurney. The entire process took less than half an hour and Coldmoon watched, fascinated at the efficiency. The corpse, moreover, was the opposite of Flayley’s: aside from being a strange color, it looked as if Baxter might have died a week ago.

They followed the remains into the morgue and into an autopsy room. Once inside, Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “I’ve called ahead to make sure Dr. Fauchet was assigned to the case, and not her supervisor — Moberly.”

Coldmoon nodded his approval. While he didn’t know much about forensic pathology, he knew a first-rate asshole when he met one.

Two dieners began prepping for the autopsy, laying out instruments, readying the video camera, adjusting the lights, and cutting the clothes off the corpse. A strong smell of formalin, wet earth, and rotting flesh filled the room, and Coldmoon found himself studying the walls and ceiling. This entire business was a wild goose chase — but that didn’t make him any happier about how Pickett had maneuvered him into playing Judas. He reminded himself once more that it was Pendergast who seemed determined to sabotage his own career with flagrant insubordination. What could he do? He’d worked too hard, against very long odds, to commit hara-kiri now.

When the corpse was ready, the door opened and Fauchet stepped in.

“Gentlemen,” she said, with a curt nod. “Do we remember the rules?”

“Indeed, Dr. Fauchet,” said Pendergast, with a courteous bow.

“Then I’ll begin.”

She went into a lengthy and precise description of the body, having the dieners turn it over and back again. This completed, she had barely started the Y-incision when the door opened and Moberly entered, all gowned up, trailed once again by the smell of Old Spice.

“Ah, Charlotte,” he said. “I’m glad to see I’m just in time!” He moved in, then turned to Pendergast and Coldmoon. “There was some sort of communication problem — word of the autopsy only reached my office a few minutes ago. I called ADC Pickett and he says he never authorized it. Who did?”

“I have that honor,” Pendergast said coolly.

“Well, it seems you’re at odds with your superior, Agent Pendergast, but that’s none of my affair. What I’m concerned about is that, in an important case like this, the chief of pathology needs to be involved. In fact, I don’t understand what Charlotte is doing here.”