Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

Pendergast said nothing. And yet, somehow, Coldmoon felt he’d seen the man more than once over the last few days — that pale face and black suit hovering over his bed, pale eyes full of concern.

One of the nurses, Estrellita, came in with a cup of coffee on a plastic tray. She set it down and turned to leave, but Coldmoon objected. With an effort, he reached over, sipped the lukewarm beverage.

“Too fresh,” he said, handing it to her. “Bring it back once it’s sat another few hours.”

The nurse glared at him with what he hoped was feigned annoyance. Then she turned toward Pickett. “Anything you can do to get this one’s discharge expedited would be appreciated.”

As she left, Pickett came closer and gently grasped Coldmoon’s hand. “Think you’re going to remember what I say this time?”

“I’ll try.”

“You’re going to be fine. The wounds are healing, you’ve recovered from the shock and loss of blood, and there’s no sign of infection. Just as important, you’re a hero. You’re going to get the FBI Star.”

“I am?” Coldmoon asked.

“Oh yes,” Pickett said.

“Funny, I don’t remember being a hero. I don’t remember much of anything. We were headed toward that broken-down lodge, and then the bottom fell out.”

“One could say that.” It was Pendergast who spoke.

“Speaking of heroes,” Pickett went on, “Pendergast here saved your skin and brought in Brokenhearts. Must have been some kind of first — him bringing in a perp alive, I mean. We considered him for the Medal of Valor, but then I saw he’d already been awarded it twice. No point swelling his head any more than it already is.”

Was he joking? Apparently not: Pickett’s tone was affable enough, and there was a faint twitch to his lips that was probably the closest thing he could manage to a smile. Coldmoon tried to sit up in bed a little, thought better of it, and lay back. He couldn’t seem to clear his head, and weariness was never far away. “So. Is someone going to tell me what happened?”

“The details can wait,” Pickett went on. “The important thing is, Brokenhearts is in custody.”

“So who was he?”

This time it was Pendergast who answered. “Ronald Vance. Son of John Vance — the man we’d gone out to Canepatch to interview.”

“Was John Vance the old man on the porch?”

“No. That was a local man who rented airboats — may he rest in peace.”

“Ronald Vance,” Coldmoon repeated after a moment. “And is that where he lived? Canepatch?”

“No,” said Dr. Fauchet. “That was an abandoned alligator farm once owned by the grandparents of... well, that’s not important. Anyway, Brokenhearts himself lived in Golden Glades. Tarpon Court.”

“Where’s that?”

“About a dozen miles from here. Ugly old house, too.” She beamed with ill-concealed pride. “I was the one who discovered the address. And the house.”

“You didn’t go out there?” Coldmoon asked.

The M.E. nodded.

“And you walked right in? To Brokenhearts’s place?”

“Hell, no! I knocked on both the front and back doors. Nobody answered, and y’all weren’t picking up your cell phones, so I left. You think I’d walk right into a serial killer’s house, all by myself, with no backup? What do you think I am — crazy?”

Another nurse came in. “Mr. Coldmoon needs his rest,” she informed the room in general.

“Caffeine,” Coldmoon said. “Caffeine is what I need.”

“You already refused a nice fresh cup of coffee, sugar.”

Coldmoon tried to glare at her, with little success. Talking was making his throat hurt. “Give. Me. Real. Coffee.”

The nurse shook her head. “Armstrong Coldmoon, I keep telling you the only way you’re going to get your kind of coffee is to walk out the front door and then make it yourself.”

There was a silence.

“Armstrong?” Pendergast repeated.

“What about it?”

“That’s your Christian name?”

“I don’t know what’s so Christian about it, but it’s my first name, yes.” This was followed by another silence Coldmoon eventually realized he was expected to break. “My great-great-grandfather killed Custer. Helped, anyway. In Lakota, you sometimes take the name of a vanquished enemy. So Armstrong has been a name in my family ever since.”

“Mr. Coldmoon needs his—” the nurse began again, but at this Fauchet linked arms with the woman and gently but firmly led her out of the room, peppering her with questions about Coldmoon’s medications. The three men watched as Fauchet closed the door.

“In any case,” Pickett said, turning back and stiffening his spine as if to make a formal announcement, “now is as good a time as any to let you know there’s an opening in Washington for an executive assistant director of the National Security Branch, and I’ve been offered the position. Closing this case obviously played a part in that offer.” He cleared his throat. “I may be a demanding supervisor, but I also give credit where credit is due. And so, Agent Coldmoon, you should know that — in addition to the FBI Star — I’m initiating the paperwork to promote you to senior special agent.”

Coldmoon didn’t know how to answer. “Thank you, sir.”

But Pickett was already turning to Pendergast. “Agent Pendergast. As I’ve mentioned, you deserve a large share of the credit here. I suppose I could promote you to supervisory special agent, but I doubt you’d want to be burdened by the managerial duties.”

Pendergast bowed slightly. “Quite true.”

Pickett glanced at his watch. “So before I go, is there anything else I could do for you? Professionally, I mean?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. You recall the recent agreement we made at that rooftop bar, regarding the details of my, ah, operational parameters?”

A cloud passed across Pickett’s face before he could stop it. “Of course. And I’ll make sure my successor at the New York Field Office continues to honor your unorthodox methods — assuming, of course, you maintain your impressive closure rate.”

“I shall make every effort.” Pendergast indicated his thanks with a nod. “That leaves just one other matter — the nature of my work environment. Specifically, with regard to a partner.” His face, pale at the best of times, was now like marble. “As you no doubt remember, I initially opposed the idea of working with Agent Coldmoon. However, I... ” He seemed to be uncharacteristically stumbling. “It should be noted—”

“Um, one other thing,” Coldmoon interrupted. “As part of my promotion, I mean.”

The other two turned to look at him.

“I’d rather you find me another partner, sir. Going forward, I mean.”

Pickett raised his eyebrows.

“No offense to Agent Pendergast. But I’m not sure our investigative methods are entirely, entirely... in sync.” Christ, he was tired. “I mean... ” He waved an enervated hand over his prostrate body.

“No offense taken,” Pendergast said quickly, gliding in before Pickett could speak. “After all, it would hardly be fair — given what’s happened to other agents I’ve worked with in the past. Agent Coldmoon’s current condition speaks for itself. I believe there is a story going around the Bureau to the effect that to partner with me would be a fatal enterprise. That I am a sort of Jonah on the FBI’s vessel, as it were. An unfortunate rumor, but one I find hard to dispel.”

Pickett looked from Pendergast to Coldmoon and back again, unable to completely keep his features free of suspicion. “Very well,” he said. “If that’s your formal request, Agent Coldmoon.”

At that moment the nurse barged back in. The expression on her face showed she meant business this time. “Out. All of you.”