Crooked River

47

Constance came lightly up the basement steps, then quietly but firmly shut and locked the heavy door behind her. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was dim, the lights off. This was as Constance had left it hours before, setting the trap — but now the gloomy emptiness made her fretful. A part of her had hoped Pendergast would have returned — she felt not so different from a cat, eager to display the prize evidence of her hunting skills to her owner.

She walked over to the sink, ran the water, took the soap from its porcelain dish, and washed her hands and forearms with great care. She took the stiletto from her hidden pocket, slid it open, and gingerly washed its razor-sharp blade with equal attention. Then, drying hands and weapon alike, she took off the black mourning cloak she’d worn during her long vigils in the basement, folded it with a few expert strokes, and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. Beneath she wore an Arc’teryx covert sweater of thin gray fleece with matching leggings: not her usual choice of apparel, but the combination allowed for quick, unrestricted movement while providing excellent concealment — and the basement had been damp and surprisingly chilly.

She paused to listen for a moment. The only sounds were the rain, the police radio — random bursts of low squawking — and the muffled cries emerging from the basement. Giving those as little attention as she’d given the radio, she stepped into the butler’s pantry, filled a small cut-glass tumbler with ice, poured in a generous splash of Lillet, quartered a key lime, and dropped a segment into the glass, then wiped her hands on the nearby bar towel. She moved back into the kitchen and pushed the door open onto the back porch. She was curious to see the point of ingress the man had used and wondered how she’d managed to miss it earlier. But first, she would relax for a few moments, in the calming dark.

The cool, humid breeze coming off the gulf and the sound of the rain on the porch roof were as welcoming as they were relaxing. The beach was empty, and the large houses to her right were dark and asleep. The police scanner sat on a round table of white-painted wicker, and she moved down to a rocking chair at the far end of the porch so as to be away from it.

Now that she had caught the “ghost,” her thoughts turned to her absent guardian — and to the unresolved and never-discussed nature of their relationship. His suggestion that they spend a week on a luxurious island with no name, in the wake of wrapping up the Brokenhearts case, had awakened hopes that she had long since suppressed. But then ADC Pickett, like a cruel Mercury, had appeared — just long enough to take Pendergast away, leaving her to her own devices, consumed with memories of what had been, and what might have been.

Can you love me the way I need you to? Then you’ve answered your own question.

She had quickly followed him here to Sanibel, eager to help — until the grisly details of the case, sharpening as they did her own dreadful memories, forced her to beg off. She had found another mystery to occupy her time, and had kept herself away from the details of Pendergast’s case — especially avoiding that blond female oceanographer with whom he spent so much time. For the same reason she disliked even the scanner. It, like Coldmoon, reminded her of the case that had torn Pendergast away from their island. And so, perversely, she refused to turn it off.

She put down her glass, untouched. This was petulance. It was beneath her. The fact was, the time she’d spent in recent days, living so near the shore — nearer even than the time she and Pendergast had spent at Exmouth, Massachusetts — had dulled her fierce childhood aversion to the sound of salt water. Her own little case, the mystery of the Mortlach House, was solved. Perhaps her place should have been at Pendergast’s side: helping move his case forward, suggesting ideas, doing more of the research she was so good at... and watching his back. Allowing her own feelings to obscure this duty was weak.

Her train of thought was interrupted by the scanner. Normally, she had no difficulty ignoring it. But now it had grown unusually active.

...burned remains of a late-model Range Rover... Route 41, along a swampy preserve on the outskirts of Estero Bay... one unidentified male, young, in the rear seat, shot multiple times and burned... no other individuals in the immediate area... evidence of struggle...

Instantly, Constance leapt to her feet. Range Rover? Aloysius had recently acquired just such a vehicle. The oceanographer’s assistant — Lam — was about twenty-four. Was this Pendergast’s car? She listened intently as the dispatcher went on to say the license plate had melted in the fire and no identification papers could be found in the car.

...Reported by airboat fisherman... heard automatic weapons fire, helicopters... distant flames... possible abduction... all units please report, all units...

She pulled out her phone and dialed Pendergast’s number, but it rolled over immediately to voice mail. She tried a second number with the same result.

Crossing the porch, she grabbed the radio scanner and studied its controls, wishing she’d paid more attention when Coldmoon had first shown her the damn thing. How did one transmit? Could one even transmit? She turned a dial, then another, succeeding only in changing the frequency and cutting off the babel of voices. In a panic, she spun the dial back and listened, but it was the same information: nothing new, no ID on car or victim. In sudden fury, she threw the radio from the porch, where it shattered upon the stone walkway below.

Coldmoon was, she believed, on his way back from Mexico. Pendergast’s location was unknown. Possible abduction...

She had to do something.

She checked: the stiletto was already in her pocket. She needed nothing else for the moment — except an Uber.

Just as she had ordered a ride, her cell phone rang. The number was blocked — was it Pendergast? Her heart turned over in her breast.

She answered it. “Hello?”

“Who is this?” a voice demanded.

“I was contemplating the same question.”

“I’m Roger Smithback. Reporter for the Miami Herald. I’m trying to reach Agent Pendergast.”

Roger Smithback — Constance recalled Aloysius mentioning his role in the Brokenhearts investigation more than once. “How did you get this number?”

“Don’t ask me. I just kept calling Pendergast’s private line — the one he gave me. I have information for him.”

Pendergast had several cell numbers. There was one number in particular, used only when they were working together, that would roll over to her phone on the second repeated call.

She almost hung up — she had no time to talk. But this reporter might know something.

“This is Constance Greene,” she said. “What’s your information?”

“Constance Greene,” Smithback repeated. “Oh, sure, you’re the—” Abruptly, he stopped. “Listen. You work closely with Pendergast, right? That’s as much as he ever told me. You’re part of his inner circle.”

“Get to the point, please.”

“I’ve been, like, locked up for days, about to have my ass... about to be killed at any moment. I need to talk to him: you see, the gang, the tattoo—”

“Mr. Smithback, if you have information, give it to me without the circumlocutions.”

“Okay. Right.” Smithback was panting slightly, as if winded. “I was looking for a story on those feet washing ashore. I got my hands on a tattoo from one of them. It looked gang related. So I started asking around. Ended up asking the wrong person — and got kidnapped by the local gang honcho, Bighead. Jesus, what a piece of work—”

“Keep to the point.” She looked at her watch. Where was that bloody driver?

“Okay. So these drug dealers were all pissed off about some big drug shipment that had gone missing. A reward was being offered, heads were going to roll if the shipment wasn’t recovered. It was being brought in by some smugglers hidden with a group of migrants coming over the border. They all got picked up unexpectedly and taken away in trucks. Government trucks, identical, numbers painted over... like military.”

“Go on.” Constance continued listening as she pulled back the curtain and glanced out the window. A pair of headlights was approaching along Captiva Drive.

“Some old rummy told them this story about a convoy seen going into Tate’s Hole, or Tate’s Hall, I didn’t quite catch it...”

Constance watched, listened. The headlights slowed.

“...West, past Johnson’s Fork, he said. Ten-wheelers, payloads covered in canvas. With these weird drumlike things bolted in front of the driver. Sounded like they matched the trucks carrying the migrants. Pendergast needs to know all this, okay? You’ll tell him? And be sure to remind him he owes me. You got that?”

The headlights stopped in front of the Mortlach House.

“I have to go.” She had no idea what the significance of this information was, but nevertheless filed it away in her head.

“Where is he, by the way?” Smithback asked.

Constance hung up and ran out to the waiting car. The muffled complaints from the basement, which had died down somewhat, increased again at the sound of her footsteps.

He’ll survive, Constance thought as she climbed into the idling SUV.

“Lady, if you don’t mind me saying, the destination you put out by Estero Bay is in the middle of nowhere.”

“When we’re on the road in the vicinity, I’ll tell you where to stop.”

She saw the driver frown in the rearview mirror. “You can’t say where, exactly? That’s a long empty road.”

“It’s where the police are going to be.”