Crooked River

3

After leaving Miami, the FBI helicopter dropped low over the blue-green water of Biscayne Bay, heading south, then trending west as it reached the long green finger of national park marking the upper terminus of the Florida Keys. Assistant Director in Charge Walter Pickett, strapped into the copilot seat of the Bell 429, traced the route on a map he’d set atop a thin briefcase, which in turn rested on his knees. It was not quite two in the afternoon, and the brilliant sun, reflecting off the placid water below, was overpowering, despite his sunglasses and the tinted glass of the chopper. Sea plants and coral reefs gave way to a skinny chain of tropical islands linked, like beads on a string, by a single four-lane road. Groomed driveways appeared, then quite suddenly, mansions and yachts. These in turn gave way to what appeared to be a picturesque fishing village, then rows of identical condominiums, and then ocean again. And then another island; another thin ribbon of highway, surrounded only by water; yet another island. Plantation Key, ADC Pickett guessed: the speed of the chopper, and its low altitude, made it difficult to follow along on the map.

Now the chopper veered sharply east, heading away from the string of keys and out over open water. They flew for so long — ten minutes, maybe more — Pickett began to wonder if the pilot was lost. Ahead lay only blue, stretching out to the sea horizon.

But no — that was not quite true. Squinting through his dark glasses, Pickett could just make out a tiny speck of green, appearing now and then almost coquettishly over the most distant waves. He looked a moment longer, then reached back into the passenger compartment and grabbed the heavy marine binoculars. Through the glass, the speck turned into a self-contained oasis of greenery, a tiny ecosystem amid the ocean.

He lowered the binoculars. “Is that it?”

The man nodded.

Pickett glanced down at the map. “There’s nothing on the chart.”

The man nodded again, this time with a grin. “I’m still wondering how much that little bitty piece of land cost.”

Pickett took another look at the island as the chopper skimmed over a coral reef. It was approaching quickly now, the placid water turning pale emerald as the bottom shallowed. What had seemed a riot of jungle sorted itself into palm trees, as trim and serried as lines of grenadiers. He could make out shapes between the trees, bone-white against the green: strategically placed guard towers, discreet but equipped with machine guns. And now a long, low boathouse appeared, artfully hidden in the verdant growth, two vessels barely visible within, next to a long pier that stretched out into the turquoise.

The chopper slowed, banking around the boathouse. On the far side of the pier, a pair of helipads had been built out over the water. They sparkled as if barely used.

The pilot circled as he descended, then landed neatly on one of the pads. Pickett grabbed his briefcase, opened the door, and stepped out into the blinding sun. As he did so, two men appeared from the shade of the trees and walked down the dock to meet him. Their skin was the color of cinnamon, and they were dressed in black berets with bloused olive shirts and matching shorts, neatly pressed — straight out of the British Raj, with a touch of Caribbean.

They smiled and shook hands, then led Pickett back up the dock and along gracefully curving paths of crushed shell, punctuated by marble benches set into the foliage, heavy with tropical flowers. They climbed a set of marble stairs, went down another pathway, climbed again. Despite the sun, it was cool under the palms, and a gentle but constant breeze stirred the flower-fragrant air. Now and then, Pickett spied buildings between the trees: alabaster marble, like every other structure. Here and there a peacock strutted across the walk, and huge parrots stared down at them from bottlebrush trees. The island appeared sparsely occupied, just a few men and women whom Pickett infrequently glimpsed at a distance through openings in the trees, or across long, verdant areas of grass, dressed in the same garb as his guides.

At last, after mounting yet another staircase, grander and longer, and skirting a sculpture of Poseidon, the two guides stopped before a shadowy passage. They indicated he was to go on alone. He thanked them, paused a moment, then walked forward through the archway.

He found himself in a roofed colonnade, supported by Corinthian columns of the same snowy marble. As he began to walk down its length, stripes of sun painted the walkway, and a distant murmur of conversation from ahead was almost drowned out by birdsong. At the far end, the colonnade opened into a peristyle surrounding a courtyard lined with potted plants. At the center, two artfully poised cherubim fountains sent streams of water puckishly at each other.

At the rear of the courtyard, several chairs had been placed beneath a vined trellis, and it was here Pickett at last spied Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast. He was wearing a white linen suit similar to the one Pickett recalled from their meeting a fortnight or so earlier at a rooftop bar in Miami Beach. One leg was flung over the other, and beautifully made loafers of buttery leather were on his feet.

Two men in the same omnipresent uniform stood on either side of the trellis. But there was another person present as well. To Pickett’s surprise, a woman occupied the chair nearest Pendergast. She was young, in her early twenties, and as Pickett approached he saw she was strikingly beautiful, with violet eyes and dark hair cut in a short, stylish bob. She was dressed in pale organdy and was holding a book in one hand — a French book, apparently, titled À rebours. She looked him over with a cool impassivity that for some reason made Pickett uncomfortable. This must be Constance Greene, Pendergast’s ward. He had heard a little about her, and had tried to learn more, but there seemed to be scant information, even in the FBI databases. There was something almost otherworldly about her that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was the eyes. It was as if, Pickett thought, those eyes, so cool and steady, had seen everything, and were thus fazed by nothing.

The girl cleared her throat to speak and, realizing he was staring, Pickett glanced away.

“Look, my lord,” she said in a surprisingly deep, velvety contralto. “It comes.”

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” Pendergast murmured.

“I’m sorry?” Pickett asked after a moment, taking a step forward.

“You must forgive Constance her little jokes.” Pendergast turned to her. “My dear, I’m afraid ADC Pickett does not share your fondness for literary allusions.”

She nodded. “Perhaps it’s for the better.”

Pendergast motioned Pickett toward an empty chair. “Please, have a seat. And may I introduce the two of you: Assistant Director in Charge Walter Pickett of the FBI — my ward, Constance Greene.”

Pickett took her hand and sat, placing his briefcase down. In the silence that ensued, he glanced past the courtyard and down the colonnade, flanked with its stately palms. He could see the light jade of the ocean in the distance, beyond the line of greenery. It was a beautiful spot: impossibly private, impossibly tranquil — and no doubt impossibly expensive.

Pickett disliked unnecessary opulence. But this place nevertheless appealed to him on a visceral level. It seemed as elegant, and as rarefied, as a rainbow arcing over a waterfall. Yes, he could indeed get used to it.

“Would you care for a drink?” Pendergast raised his glass, containing a cloudy crimson beverage.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Our hosts tell me it’s a native concoction, good for the digestion.”

“Don’t try it,” Constance warned. “I’ve had a sip of the ‘native concoction,’ and it tasted like brined formaldehyde.” She gestured at Pendergast. “He’s been drinking them practically since we arrived. Don’t you notice his head beginning to shrink already?”

In response, Pendergast took a deep sip. “Constance, don’t make me send you to your room without supper.”

“May I ask what you’re drinking?” Pickett asked her.

“Lillet Blanc with a wedge of key lime.”

Pickett wasn’t inclined to take a chance on that, either.

Pendergast called over one of the uniformed men, who asked for Pickett’s order. “Daiquiri,” he said. The man retreated with a faint nod, almost immediately returning with the drink.

“Leave it to you to find this place,” Pickett said. “Something about it makes me think of Atlantis.”

“And like Atlantis,” Pendergast replied in his honeyed drawl, “nature will no doubt ensure it shall soon be submerged. Now seemed the ideal time to enjoy it.”

“I hadn’t expected to be back in Florida so soon,” Pickett said. “But I was summoned to appear before a grand jury yesterday afternoon. In the Brokenhearts case.”

Pendergast nodded. “My presence was requested as well. I gave my testimony earlier in the week.”

Pickett had already known Pendergast had appeared before the grand jury and that he was still in Florida — what he hadn’t known was where. Finding that out had taken him more time and effort than he cared to think about.

“Most kind of you to drop in for a visit like this on our vacation,” Pendergast said. “I assume now you’ll be heading back to New York?”

Goddamn it, would the guy never tire of busting his balls? Pendergast knew damn well Pickett wasn’t paying a social call. This thing had happened at the worst possible time: right when he was hoping to transition to a leadership position in Washington. “Actually, I’m not heading back north quite yet. I’m heading for Captiva Island.”

Pendergast sipped his drink. “Ah.”

Pickett gave a brusque little nod. “There’s a case unfolding as we speak: a very unique case. This morning, a large number of feet — human feet — washed up on shore, each encased in a green shoe.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “How many?”

“They’re still coming in with the tide. Somewhere in the upper forties, at last count.”

Both Pendergast and Constance Greene remained silent. Pickett reached over and unlatched his briefcase. He felt a little uncomfortable sharing confidential information with Pendergast in front of Ms. Greene. But he’d heard she was as much Pendergast’s amanuensis and researcher as she was his ward. Besides, he sensed asking her to leave would not be helpful to his mission — to put it mildly.

“Nobody knows where the feet came from, why there are so many, who they belonged to, or anything else,” he went on, taking a manila folder of photographs out of the briefcase and handing it to Pendergast. “That’s why the FBI is getting involved with the case, along with the Coast Guard and local authorities. We’ll be forming a task force.”

“Have any commonalities been identified?” Pendergast asked as he flipped through the photographs. “Age, sex, race?”

“Too early to say. Law enforcement resources are still arriving and the remains are being transferred to the M.E.’s office in Fort Myers. It’s not an easy crime scene to secure. We’ll know more in twelve to twenty-four hours.”

Constance Greene sat forward in her chair. “You called it a crime scene. How can you be sure of that?”

Pickett started to reply but then stopped himself. The question seemed either very shrewd or very stupid. What could this be, if not some horrific mass murder? “The feet show indications of extreme trauma: torn flesh, broken and chopped bones. I can’t imagine any accident or other circumstance that would cause such injuries.”

“Only feet have been washed ashore, you say? No other body parts?”

“None. The rest of the remains have yet to be discovered.”

“You speak of ‘remains.’ How do you know the people who once possessed these feet are, in fact, dead?”

“I—” Pickett fell silent a moment. “We don’t know. As I said, this case appears to be unique.” As annoyed as he was by these probing questions, he was careful to add special emphasis to the word unique.

“I would imagine it is. Thank you, Mr. Pickett.” And Constance sat back in her chair, like a lawyer completing a cross-examination. Pendergast handed her the folder of photographs. Pickett winced inwardly but said nothing.

“Fascinating,” Pendergast said. “But I assume you didn’t go so far out of your way just to exchange pleasantries about an odd case.”

“No.” Already Pickett was growing accustomed to the novelty of the surroundings, and he felt a good ground of command once again beneath his feet. “Actually, it’s not that far out of my way. As I said, I’m headed to Captiva now. And I’d like you to go with me.”

“I see,” Pendergast replied after a silence. “And why is that, may I ask?”

“This has all the makings of an exceedingly unusual and difficult case. I think your experience would be... useful.”

“I’m gratified by your faith in my experience. But, as you can see, we’re on vacation.”

Constance, Pickett noticed, was looking through the photographs with undisguised interest. “I would think you, of all agents under my command, would find it intriguing,” he said.

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps. But Constance and I have not completed our holiday.”

Pickett took a deep breath. “Nevertheless, I would like you to have a look at the scene.” He knew he could order Pendergast to take the case, but it was a tactic that would surely backfire.

Pendergast finished his drink. “Sir,” he said, “I assume you don’t mind my speaking freely?”

Pickett waved a hand.

“You already ordered me to uproot myself from New York and come down to Florida to work on one case. And now you are asking me to ‘have a look’ at a second. To be frank, I don’t much like the idea of taking up cases in distant locations at a whim. I would prefer to return to my field office of record — that is, New York City. Besides, based on what you’ve described, this problem seems outside my area of competence. It doesn’t sound like the work of a serial killer. The circumstances may be interesting, but I don’t see any deviant psychological angle. It would hardly be gentlemanly of me to leave Constance here unchaperoned.”

“You needn’t worry, Aloysius,” Constance said, handing back the photographs. “You can hardly call this place ‘unchaperoned.’ Besides, I have Huysmans to keep me company.” With a brief nod, she indicated the book by her side.

Pickett was thinking. He could assign Gibbons, or Fowler, or Singh. But he had a gut feeling that this case was so bizarre — so sui generis — that Pendergast would be by far the best tool in his belt. The Brokenhearts case had already demonstrated that. He reconsidered ordering Pendergast to come with him. Fact was, this bantering refusal of Pendergast’s bordered on insubordination. Pickett’s habitual impatience began to reassert itself. He’d come all the way down here. He’d humored Pendergast, dangling tasty tidbits in front of him. He wanted to get back to New York, too, and time was passing. He stood up.

“Listen, Pendergast,” he said. “Come with me. I’ve got a chopper waiting. We’ll look at the scene. Just look at it, for Chrissakes. We can argue about the details afterward. Over stone crabs.”

Pendergast, who had been idly regarding his empty glass, looked up slowly. “Stone crabs?”