Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

“Fifteen?” Coldmoon said in disgust. The idea of a man owning a single human being was hard enough to conceive of.

Cobb nodded. “Owens also owned some four hundred other enslaved people on various plantations in the area.”

“ Zuzeca ,” Coldmoon muttered under his breath.

“The family’s fortunes declined after the Civil War, but they managed to retain the house up until 1951, when the last descendant died with no heir. The house then passed to the Telfair Academy of Arts and Sciences, which turned it into a museum, as you see now. It is, in fact, one of Savannah’s most popular tourist attractions.”

Tea was now being served, with some bland-looking biscuits. Pendergast picked up his cup. “Tell me more about the slave quarters in the back.”

“Certainly. Its two stories hold six rooms, in which the enslaved people all lived. The rooms are as barren now as they were then, and many of the residents had to sleep on the floor, with no beds and only threadbare blankets. When slavery was abolished, most of them simply became ‘servants’ and continued living back of the big house, doing the same work as before. But as the Owens family fell upon hard times, the servants were gradually let go. The quarters remained intact, however, until the house was turned into a museum.”

“Most instructive, thank you,” said Pendergast. “So one might say, Dr. Cobb — as we look about at all the beauty and wealth on display here, the erudition and elegance, the fine crystal and silver and rugs and paintings — that all of this, the house and its contents, is a physical manifestation of pure evil?”

This was greeted with a stunned silence, until Cobb finally said: “I suppose you might put it that way.”

“I see no supposition in the statement,” Pendergast replied.

A silence fell, and Pendergast half closed his eyes and tented his hands. “Odd, isn’t it,” he said languidly, “that such a crime occurred here, of all places?” And, finishing his tea, he helped himself to another cup.

The Chandler House was a historic hotel on Chatham Square, a long building with a pressed-brick exterior and an ornate iron veranda that stretched the length of the second and third floors, with decorative supporting columns. To Coldmoon, it looked more like an industrial-size southern cathouse than anything else.

“How lucky Constance was able to secure us such an extensive suite of rooms,” Pendergast said.

After their interview that morning, Pendergast had disappeared for several hours before showing up at the hotel. Coldmoon knew better than to ask him where he’d been. They were now sitting in overstuffed chairs in the hotel’s ornate parlor, drinking mint juleps. The canary-yellow room was overflowing with historical memorabilia, in the form of silver trophy cups and giant soup tureens, photographs, faded flags, marble busts, clocks, framed documents, and other obscure objects displayed behind glass, sitting on mantelpieces, or hiding within shaded alcoves.

“Yeah, very lucky,” Coldmoon said without enthusiasm. It was an “extensive suite of rooms” for sure, but his own set were separate from those of Pendergast and Constance. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly what was going on between the two of them. Pendergast called her his “ward,” but Coldmoon often wondered if that was simply a title of convenience.

The julep had been pressed into his hand before he’d had a chance to order anything, and the more he sipped it, the less he liked it. He wondered if he could exchange it for a cold beer but couldn’t quite work up the nerve to ask.

“Is the julep tart enough for you?” Pendergast asked.

“It’s tart,” Coldmoon agreed.

Pendergast looked around with satisfaction. “This is one of the more notable buildings in Savannah’s historic district,” he said. “That’s no mean feat, when you consider that almost half the structures in town are significant architecturally or historically.” His tone had taken on a faintly didactic air, and in this antique parlor, at the heart of what had once been the Old South, he seemed more in his element than Coldmoon had ever seen him. The phrase like a pig in shit came to mind, but he didn’t voice it.

Pendergast went on. “Savannah doubled in size during the railroad boom of the mid-nineteenth century, you know, and buildings serving any number of functions quickly sprang up. This hotel, for example, was originally a hospital for yellow fever victims, and then a Confederate munitions factory, before becoming a lodging house. Like so many other structures, it fell into disrepair in the 1950s and closed in the ’60s. Luckily a guardian angel came along, and she judiciously restored it to its former charm.”

Coldmoon tried another sip and set the drink aside. She? he wondered idly. He couldn’t speak to its former charm — how charming could a yellow fever hospital be? — but old: hell yes, it was old. True, the restoration had been done with care — everything was clean, there was no dust on the furniture — but the floorboards were wide and uneven and creaked and groaned with every footfall, until it felt like the whole place was griping. There were short sets of stairs everywhere, and the halls were crooked. And then there was his bedroom — large, with a four-poster bed and little frilly doilies over the chair backs and pillowcases... but no TV or internet. The bathroom was decked out like nothing he’d ever seen, with a massive porcelain tub and a marble shitter with a wooden seat. Not to mention the rows of little soaps and shampoos and body creams. A yellow fever hospital... Christ, that was perfect. What he wouldn’t give for a Hampton Inn and its modern conveniences right now.

But he didn’t want any more history lectures, so he changed the subject. “What happened to Constance? She left the crime scene around the same time Pickett did... and I haven’t seen her since.”

Pendergast’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “That is no coincidence. After her previous experience with Pickett’s idea of accommodations, she went along with him to make sure he booked us into a comfortable place. Good thing she did, too — he was about to get us rooms in some dreadful hotel chain on the edge of town.”

Coldmoon sighed. “So Pickett left the crime scene just to arrange for our rooms? First he drags us here to Rebel Yell Central, then he vanishes. Nice way to pass the buck.”

Pendergast finished his drink and set the glass on a nearby coaster. “I thought it was rather thoughtful of him.”

Coldmoon looked up. “Thoughtful? He kidnaps the both of us, yanks me away from reporting to my new post — a post I was supposed to be at weeks ago — and then he dumps us in this creepy old place, to handle some damned čheslí case?”

“I don’t speak Lakota, but I perfectly comprehend your tone of voice. And over the last several hours, I’ve observed your vexed attitude. So, as your partner, I’d like to make a suggestion, if I may.”

Even though Coldmoon was angry, he noted Pendergast had not said senior partner. What was that — throwing him a bone? If so, he wasn’t taking it. The agent in the opposite chair, with his pale skin, pale hair, and pale eyes, looked irritatingly complacent, if not smugly satisfied. But Pendergast so rarely offered advice that Coldmoon’s instincts told him to shut up and listen.

“I know no more about this case, or the politics that brought us here, than you do. Senator Drayton is a powerful man, and perhaps his support helped Pickett achieve his promotion to the highest echelons of the Bureau. But Pickett doesn’t like this case any more than you do. And he certainly isn’t planning to take any credit for it, whatever the outcome might be.”