Bloodless

4

Present Day

The AgustaWestland 109 GRAND shot northwest, powerful rotors humming, flying so low that its landing skids almost seemed to brush the azure-blue surface of the Atlantic. It rose as it cleared the reefs, barrier islands, and bays that led to mainland Florida.

In the luxurious cabin of the helicopter sat three people: a man in torn jeans and a plaid shirt; a young woman in a pleated white skirt and blouse, wearing dark sunglasses, with a large sun hat on her lap; and a spectral figure in a severely cut black suit, who sat looking out the cabin window with a remote expression on his sculptural features. Despite the tinting of the window, the brilliant sunshine outside turned his silver-blue eyes a strange platinum color and gave his light-blond hair the sheen of a snow leopard’s fur.

This was Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. With him in the passenger cabin were his ward, Constance Greene, and his partner, Special Agent Armstrong Coldmoon. They were departing the scene of a successfully concluded case on Sanibel Island, Florida, and though relatively little conversation was taking place, there was a sense of closure in the cabin and a feeling that it was time to get on with their lives.

Now the helicopter climbed and banked right, to avoid the hotels and luxury condos of Miami Beach, glistening like an alabaster Oz against the line of sand and the blue water beyond.

“Nice of the pilot to give us a show like this,” Coldmoon said. “It’s like a ride at Disneyland.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Pendergast replied in his silky, butter-and-bourbon New Orleans accent.

“You’re assuming it was intentional,” Constance said as she leaned forward to pick up the volume that had slipped from her hands when the helicopter banked: Clouds without Water, by Aleister Crowley. “Turbulent pitch and roll are often the first indications of helicopter trouble, before the stresses of a vortex ring force it into an uncontrolled descent.”

This was greeted by a moment of silence broken only by the whine of the engines.

“I’m sure we have an excellent pilot,” Pendergast said. “Or is that your fey sense of humor at work?”

“I find no humor in the prospect of having my person, burned and dismembered, spread across a public beach for all to see,” the young woman replied.

Coldmoon couldn’t see her eyes behind the Ray-Bans, but he felt sure she was looking at him, gauging the effect this morbid observation was having. Not only did this strange, beautiful, erudite, and slightly crazy woman scare the hell out of him — in the last week, she had both saved him and threatened to kill him — but she seemed to get a distinct enjoyment out of busting his balls. Perhaps, he told himself, it was a sign of interest. In which case — no thanks.

He took a deep breath. It didn’t merit thinking about. Mentally, he was already thousands of miles away, at his new posting at the Denver Field Office, far from the muggy air and stifling heat of Florida.

His gaze drifted from Constance Greene to Pendergast. Another strange one. Even though he’d just completed two cases back-to-back with the senior agent, Pendergast was another reason why Coldmoon wanted to get to Colorado as quickly as possible. The guy might be a legend in the FBI and the finest sleuth since Sherlock Holmes, but he was also notorious for the number of homicide cases he’d solved in which the perp had been “killed during apprehension”... and Coldmoon had learned the hard way that anybody who partnered with the guy had only a slightly better chance of surviving than the perp.

As the confectionary beaches of the Florida coast skimmed past below him, bringing him ever closer to the plane that would take him west, Coldmoon felt a sort of release, as if from prison. He almost smiled at the thought of the incredulity on the faces of his cousins, who lived in Colorado Springs, because his assignment had been so delayed that they refused to believe he was actually coming. Cheered by this thought, he glanced out the window again. The coastline was still as built up as farther south, but the buildings were not nearly as tall now. He could see I-95 running up the coast, wall to wall with cars. That would be something else he wouldn’t miss, although he’d heard that traffic in Denver had gotten crazy over the past few years. From above, it was hard to tell where they were. The flight was longer than he’d expected. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Pendergast and Constance had their heads together and were speaking in low tones. It was odd, though — he didn’t know a lot about Miami, despite the time he’d spent there, but he was pretty sure that the airport was west of town, not north... especially not this far north. They’d passed what he thought was Miami some time ago.

He sat back in his leather seat. Were they headed for an air force base or FBI helicopter landing pad? After all, their boss, Assistant Director in Charge Walter Pickett, hadn’t yet issued him a plane ticket to Denver. Maybe they were flying him in a government or military jet — it was the least the Bureau could do, given the shit he’d been through. Unlikely: now that word would soon be coming through of Pickett’s promotion to Associate Deputy Director, he was probably too busy packing his own bags for D.C. to think of anything else.

“Hey, Pendergast,” he said.

Pendergast glanced up.

“I thought we were headed for Miami International.”

“That had been my assumption.”

“Then what’s going on?” He looked out the window again. “Looks like we’re hell and gone from Miami.”

“Indeed. It would appear that we have overshot the airport.”

At these words, Coldmoon became aware of an uncomfortable tickling sensation — something like déjà vu, but distinctly more unpleasant — manifesting itself in the rear of his brain. “Overshot? You’re sure we aren’t coming back around for a landing?”

“If we were actually headed for Miami, I doubt we’d be over Palm Beach right now.”

“Palm Beach? What the hell—?” Coldmoon looked down. Another narrow barrier island covered with mansions was passing below — including one particularly large and garish pseudo-Moorish compound their shadow was crossing over at present.

He sat back again, momentarily dazed by surprise and confusion. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I confess I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Pendergast.

“Perhaps you should ask the pilot,” Constance said without looking up from her book.

Coldmoon glanced at the two with faint suspicion. Was this some kind of joke? But no — his gut, which he always trusted, told him they were as in the dark as he was.

“Good idea,” Coldmoon said, unbuckling his harness and standing up. He made his way forward from the passenger compartment to the cockpit. The two pilots, with their headsets, khaki uniforms, and brown hair cut to a similar regulation length, could have been twins.

“What’s up?” he asked the pilot in command in the right seat, cyclic between his knees. “We’re supposed to be going to Miami.”

“Not anymore,” the PIC said.

“What do you mean, ‘not anymore’?”

“Just after we took off, we got new orders from dispatch. We’re to proceed to Savannah.”

“Savannah?” Coldmoon echoed. “You mean, in Georgia? There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake,” said the PIC. “The orders came from ADC Pickett himself.”

Pickett. That son of a bitch. Standing in the doorway of the cockpit, Coldmoon thought back to the final conversation they’d had with the assistant director before taking off. I’ve just learned of the most peculiar incident that took place last night, north of Savannah... Pickett must have waited until they’d taken off, then ordered the flight to be diverted.

Of all the backstabbing, ungrateful... Well, Coldmoon had already been suckered into taking on a second case with Pendergast and his unorthodox ways — it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen again.

“Turn the chopper around,” he demanded.

“Sorry, sir,” the PIC replied. “I can’t do that.”

“You got shit in your ears? I said, turn this chopper around. We’re going to Miami.”

“Respectfully, sir, we have our orders,” the other pilot said. “And as it happens, they’re the same as yours. We’re headed to Savannah.” And taking his hand from the collective, he unzipped his light windbreaker just enough to display the butt of a handgun peeping out from a nylon shoulder holster.

“Agent Coldmoon?” It was Pendergast, speaking from what seemed like a long distance away. “Agent Coldmoon?”

Coldmoon wheeled around, lurching slightly with the motion of the helicopter.

“What?”

“It’s obvious we can do nothing about this unexpected course of events.”

“Didn’t you hear?” Coldmoon blazed. “We’re going to Savannah. Frigging Savannah, when I should be on a flight to—”

“I did indeed hear,” said Pendergast. “Something most unusual must have occurred, to say the least, for Pickett to abduct us like this.”

“Yeah. He’s being promoted and, as a result, has become even more of an asshole. What the hell are we going to do?”

“Under the circumstances, I would suggest nothing — except sit down and enjoy the view.”

But Coldmoon wasn’t about to let it go. “This is bullshit! I’ve got a mind to—”

“Agent Coldmoon?”

It was Constance who spoke. She said his name in her usual deep, strangely accented voice, without any particular emphasis.

Coldmoon fell silent. This woman was capable of saying, or doing, anything.

As it happened, she did nothing but gaze mildly at him. “You might find it calming to consider just how paradoxical this situation is.”

“What do you mean?” Coldmoon said angrily.

“I mean, how often do you suppose an FBI agent finds himself being kidnapped by his own people? Aren’t you intrigued as to why?” And with that, she returned to her reading.