Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

Coldmoon peered in the indicated direction. There was a large, irregular depression in the mud, as if something had swiped across its surface, leaving an unclear, confused impression.

“What is it?” Delaplane called out, standing next to Coldmoon and peering at the smear. “Why’s this significant?”

“Because,” said Pendergast, “when you approach you will see, in the section closest to my left, a small plug of bloody fur — which, unless I’m very much mistaken, came from the back of our unfortunate bloodhound.”

It’s very strange,” said McDuffie breathily as he led the way into a small conference room to one side of the M.E. lab. “Very strange,” he repeated as Coldmoon and the others all took seats around the central table. “Dr. Kumar will explain it.”

The doctor, a small man with dark skin and a lively face, opened a briefcase and passed out slim folders to everyone. Coldmoon opened his. There was a cover letter, followed by a bunch of incomprehensible lab reports replete with structural formulas. He quickly shut it but noted that Pendergast, next to him, seemed fully absorbed. Was chemistry another of the agent’s unexpected talents? He decided it must be.

“Well,” said McDuffie, clasping and unclasping his hands, “Dr. Kumar has something to tell us about the, ah, substance recovered from two of the victims.”

Dr. Kumar nodded and cast his bright eyes around the table. “As George just said, it is most strange. The details are in the folder, but I’ll try to explain in common English.”

“Thank you, Dr. Kumar,” said Pendergast.

“The substance we found on both victims is a mixture of organic molecules, all very unusual. One compound, making up over fifty percent of the sample, will serve as an example. It is a very complex and large organic polymer — a long chain molecule with a core of carbon and hydrogen — with side groups of sulfur, nitrogen, iron, and strangely enough, silver. This is not a substance we would find in any living organism.”

He let this hang. Coldmoon could see Pendergast’s eyes glittering. “Can you expand on that, Dr. Kumar?”

“I can, at least a little. We call this class of compounds organosilvers, which are formed when silver bonds with carbon. The reason we don’t find silver incorporated into the chemistry of living organisms is because it’s toxic.”

“Then where did it come from?” Coldmoon asked.

“I believe it’s a manufactured compound. Nothing like this would occur in nature. But to manufacture this would take a very sophisticated chemist, equipped with a high-level lab.” He paused. “The fact is, I’ve never seen a compound like this. It’s sort of crazy, to be honest.”

“What’s it supposed to do?” Coldmoon asked.

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Kumar said.

“I mean, it must have been made to do something, right? To serve a purpose? So: what’s the purpose?”

“Ah,” said Kumar. “That is a very good question.” He paused again. “I have absolutely no idea what its purpose is.”

“I believe it was kind of greasy or slick,” said Coldmoon. “And it was found around the puncture wounds in the victims. Could it have been a lubricant?”

“Possibly. But why use it as a lubricant, when much simpler compounds can be purchased at the drugstore? Really, I wish I could tell you more, but we’ve barely been able to analyze the compound. We’re still working on its structure. A full analysis could take months.”

“And the other compounds found in the sample?” Pendergast asked. “What is their chemistry?”

“Equally bizarre. All organic, complex, and unlike anything we typically see in nature or in manufacturing, medicine, or chemical synthesis. Many seem to have metals in them — organometallic, we call them. Platinum and gold, primarily.”

“Gold?” Coldmoon asked incredulously. “How much?”

“Minute quantities. Gold bonded to carbon to make various gold carbide compounds. Again, this is something that doesn’t occur in nature, because such compounds are toxic to life — and they’re not stable.”

“Any idea what company might manufacture these sorts of compounds?”

“No idea who, and no idea how. In fact, that’s something that should be looked into.”

“And we shall,” said Pendergast quietly. He turned his gaze to McDuffie, who flinched visibly in response. “What about the fur found in the mud this morning?”

“Definitely from the dog,” the M.E. said.

“And the imprint itself?”

“Our CSI lab has a cast of it. They’re trying to figure out what made the impression, but it’s so smeared it’s hard to tell.”

Pendergast leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers, half closing his eyes. “In that case, they are focusing on the wrong problem.”

“What do you mean?” McDuffie asked.

“ What made the impression is not the question of greatest significance.”

“What other question is there?”

“ How it was made. Consider, if you will, that the mark is ten feet out on the mudflat, with no other marks leading to it.”

There was a silence in the room.

Pendergast rose and picked up the file. “Thank you, Dr. Kumar, for your report. My partner and I will study this with great interest.”

They took their leave.

“Fascinating,” Pendergast said as they left the building. “But singularly unilluminating.”

“So how was it made?” Coldmoon asked.

But Pendergast, lost in thought, didn’t answer.

Francis Wellstone Jr. sat in a rear corner banquette of Lafitte’s restaurant — one of Savannah’s most historic eateries, situated just off Warren Square. He always ate lunch promptly at noon, and when he was on assignment, he usually ate out and was careful to make his meals brisk, without wine or cocktails, and solus . Writing and researching were hard work. A freelancer such as himself had no boss to motivate him, no one checking up on his whereabouts, and it was all too easy to have a few martinis and let the afternoon and evening slide away. He’d seen it happen many times to other writers, and he was determined it would never happen to him.

As luck would have it, the maître d’ at Lafitte’s was a voracious reader of nonfiction and happened to recognize Wellstone. While he hated to admit it to himself, this was tremendously gratifying. With great ceremony, the man ushered Wellstone to a prize table, and then — unexpectedly — returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Wellstone was about to refuse it until he noticed it was a Beaucastel: a princely gift, and one of his favorite reds of the Rhône Valley. Under the circumstances, there was no choice but to have one glass. One. It might well be gauche for him to take the rest of the bottle with him, but it would be even more gauche for the restaurant manager to repossess it. So he’d still be able to do a full afternoon’s work, then reward himself with the rest of the bottle after a light dinner.

But it hadn’t worked out that way. The sommelier, after uncorking the wine, immediately decanted it. So much for taking home the rest of the bottle. But the wine was excellent: earthy, almost leathery. As he was looking over the menu, Wellstone found that not only had he finished the glass, but a second had been poured for him. What the heck — he could take an afternoon off. He ordered an appetizer of escargots à la Bordelaise and then, feeling expansive, Lafitte’s famous oysters Rockefeller. But by the time he’d finished the two courses, and three glasses of wine, an uncomfortable satiety, combined with a dismaying lunchtime buzz, made him feel both guilty and discomposed. Not a good idea, after all.