Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

In the distance, Pendergast could see flashing lights coming toward him; the Miami Homicide flying squad, on their way to Canepatch for evidence collection and to recover whatever remained of the body of Commander Grove — if anything. Pendergast checked in with them by radio as they flashed by: squad cars, Crime Scene Unit vans, sirens Doppler-shifting down as he blew by.

Ten minutes later his radio buzzed; he pulled it down and listened. The dispatcher told him that Coldmoon had arrived at U Miami and was heading into surgery. His condition was critical.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

The road merged onto Tamiami Trail and Pendergast passed more police cruisers. The Shelby was now traveling at 120 miles per hour, Pendergast’s silvery eyes looking far ahead, his mind focused only on speed and the long straight road. In the backseat, Mister Brokenhearts kept up his monotonic recital.

“It is bitter — bitter,” he answered;

The radio hissed again and he pulled it down. “Pendergast here.”

“Lieutenant Sandoval. Have I got it right that you’re bringing in Brokenhearts?”

“Yes.”

“We’re liaising with the FBI. You’re to bring him straight to the FBI HQ.”

“Understood. And Coldmoon?”

“In surgery. I’m sorry — they doubt they can save him. That son of a bitch Grove, hard to believe... ”

Pendergast hung up the radio and pressed the accelerator further, the Shelby’s speedometer inching toward 130.

He shot past a succession of shabby roadside attractions, siren wailing, cars pulling off on both sides to make way. In the backseat, Brokenhearts continued to rock slowly and mutter. Now more cars were appearing as he approached the western suburbs. He slowed to 100, then 90. Passing the Everglades boundary, he entered the suburb of Tamiami, then Sweetwater, where he was forced to a crawl by heavy traffic.

“But I like it

“Because it is bitter,

They inched through traffic until he reached the Reagan Turnpike, where he headed north. In another twenty minutes he joined I-75 as far as the exit to FBI headquarters. As he passed through the gates, he was met by two cars and a van. Swinging around to the processing bay in the back, he was met by a mass of agents, Miami police, squad cars, and vans. He pulled to a stop as half a dozen people surrounded the car and opened the doors, removing Brokenhearts, who submitted meekly.

Sandoval came over, grasped Pendergast’s arm, and helped him out of the car. Agents, support staff, MPD brass — everyone was there. Brokenhearts stood in the hot glare of the sun, hands clasping the book, head bowed.

“Agent Pendergast, allow me to congratulate you,” said Lieutenant Sandoval. Brokenhearts’s handcuffs were now being reinforced with leg irons. “If I may ask — who the hell is he? I mean, his real name.”

“His name is Vance.” Pendergast looked around. “Get me on a helicopter for U Miami Hospital.”

Nearby agents began shouting orders and gesturing. Brokenhearts, now in chains, was being led away. As he passed Pendergast, he glanced over and muttered one final line:

“And because it is my heart.”

The FBI chopper took Pendergast from HQ to the helipad on the roof of U Miami, where he was met with more agents from the Miami Field Office and several MPD detectives. Speaking to no one, he sprinted as fast as his wounded leg allowed from the helicopter, past the group, and into the building, bypassing the elevator and taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the main surgical floor. He arrived at a small waiting area outside the surgical bay, guarded by a pair of FBI agents.

“Coldmoon,” he said. “How is he?”

“We’ll get a doctor to talk to you, Agent Pendergast.”

Pendergast nodded. Then he began pacing the small waiting area, the only sound the faint whisper of his footfalls echoing off the linoleum floor.

Finally a doctor came out, still in scrubs, blood smeared on her gown. “Mr. Pendergast? I’m Dr. Webern.” She did not offer her hand.

“Doctor. How is he?”

She hesitated. “Well, he’s a tough customer. But his condition is extremely critical.”

“His odds?”

“I wouldn’t want to speculate. The bullet went through the lungs and expanded into a pretty massive thoracic wound. He’s lost a lot of blood, and the water moccasin bite made it worse, as the venom triggers coagulopathy. It’s amazing he survived at all. But we’ve got a team of eight surgeons and fourteen support staff working for him, and believe me, they’re some of the best in the world.”

Pendergast nodded silently.

“Can I get you a counselor or clergy?”

“No, thank you.”

She frowned. “Are you going to be all right, Agent Pendergast? Waiting here by yourself? Your leg is bleeding.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed back in the OR.”

“Of course.”

The doctor gave him a faint smile, replaced the mask on her face, and turned away, disappearing back into the operating suite.

It only took seventy-two hours for the med/surg nurses to grow heartily sick of him.

Coldmoon had first woken up in post-op. Initially, he’d thought he was still asleep, in some nightmare of green walls and bright ceilings and masked beings hovering around. Then he fell asleep again. The next time he woke, he realized it hadn’t been a dream, after all, and now he was in what looked like the recovery bay of a hospital ICU. Doctors would come by, peer down at him, then consult with colleagues in low tones; nurses would check his vitals, stick a needle into the injection port of his IV catheter — and he’d fall asleep again. Soft beeping and buzzing and whisperings of machinery filled the silences. This seemed to go on forever, sleeping and waking, sleeping and waking, but he later realized it couldn’t have been more than twenty-four hours.

Finally, he woke up in a private room on a step-down floor. He was hungry and thirsty and, for the first time, in pain. They fed him — after a fashion — and he was ministered to by more doctors. They assured him he was going to pull through. Later, they explained he’d been very lucky, given the caliber of the gun and the location of his wound. By this point, two more days had gone by and he’d recovered sufficiently to complain about the coffee. It was maddening. They would only bring him decaffeinated beverages. Worse, he was unable to explain how to brew it the proper way. There was a drip machine in the med staff’s break room, but just when he’d convinced one nurse to leave the pot on the warmer, there’d be a shift change, and the staff coming on duty would throw out the stale coffee and brew a new pot. If he complained, they’d just sedate him and he’d drift back to sleep.

He stared out the window, seeing majestic royal palms and the clear blue sky of early April. At this rate, he might never recover.

The door opened and, instead of a nurse, in walked three slightly blurry figures. Coldmoon turned to see them better, wincing slightly at the pain. The first, he realized after a moment, was his boss, ADC Walter Pickett. Beside him, wearing one of her trademark pastel dresses, was Dr. Fauchet. Behind them, a black shadow approached, ultimately resolving itself into the form of Agent Pendergast. They all looked down at him.

Coldmoon swallowed painfully. “About time you showed up.”

“I’ve been here before,” Pickett said. “You were just too high on painkillers to remember.”

“They wouldn’t let me in until now,” Fauchet said. “Just imagine — and me, a doctor.”