Crooked River

48

Welcome to Tallahassee International Airport,” sounded the voice of the flight attendant over the intercom. “Once again, we apologize for this weather-related diversion, and we’ll make every effort to—”

The rest of the chief attendant’s announcement was drowned out by the clamor of people pulling out cell phones, jumping up and opening the overhead bins, struggling with their roller bags, and pushing and shoving each other. Coldmoon just sat morosely, letting his change in fortune settle in. He’d signed in his handgun at the LEO checkpoint before boarding, and after five hours in the cramped seat it felt like a lead weight, hanging from his shoulder beneath the jacket. Fucking Tallahassee. By rights, they should be landing in Fort Myers, but now he had hours of driving through a storm to look forward to.

His gloomy reverie was interrupted by a vibration in his jeans — and not the kind he appreciated. His phone, muted but not switched off, was ringing. That would probably be Pendergast.

He pulled out the phone. A 212 area code — a New York number he didn’t recognize. It probably was Pendergast, ready to put Pickett on the line to applaud him. Great — sloppy seconds were his favorite kind of congratulations.

This was probably just a figment of his foul mood. He’d know soon enough. Lifting the phone to his ear, he said: “Special Agent Coldmoon.”

“Agent Coldmoon,” came a feminine voice, “it’s—” The rest was drowned out by what sounded like a wind tunnel.

“What?” he said. “Who is this?”

He heard the same voice uttering a command to shut the window, and suddenly the wind tunnel died away. “Lady, I can’t see a thing through the windshield,” came a plaintive voice.

“You can open it again in a moment.”

Now Coldmoon recognized the voice. It was Constance Greene, speaking to what seemed to be a driver.

“Constance?” he said.

“Yes. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last quarter of an hour.”

“I just landed now. Tallahassee — they had to divert because of this storm. What’s up? Where are you?”

“Never mind. Have you heard from Pendergast?” There was an urgency in her voice.

There was a brief commotion on the other end of the line. “Like I said,” Coldmoon heard the driver tell Constance, “Estero Bay runs almost all the way to Bonita Springs. You gotta tell me where to turn off.”

“As I told you: where the police are going to be!” Then, speaking to Coldmoon again: “Did he say where he was going next? What he planned to do?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I think he’s been abducted.”

Coldmoon, who’d been getting ready to join the queue leaving the plane, froze. “What?” This sounded crazy.

“I heard it on your police scanner. They found the burned remains of a Range Rover similar to the one he was driving. A witness mentioned helicopters, automatic weapons, some kind of firefight. A dead man was found in the rear seat, burned.”

Holy shit. Coldmoon was on his feet and in the aisle now, heading for the exit. “Anything else?”

“I got a call from Roger Smithback, the journalist. He spoke of a large shipment of missing drugs, apparently stolen along with some migrants abducted at the U.S. border in Arizona. It’s somehow connected to the feet.”

“Wait. Did you say migrants abducted at the border?”

“Yes. In trucks.”

“Trucks? What kind of trucks?”

“A convoy of government trucks, identical, their numbers painted over. Ten-wheelers. Covered in canvas. Drums bolted in front of the driver.”

This matched the story he’d heard from El Monito — matched it exactly.

Coldmoon left the gate and began making his way toward the main terminal. “Those drums are air cleaners, mounted over the left front fenders. We’re talking M813 troop transports, most likely equipped with side racks, troop seats, and tarpaulins. Drug gangs don’t use those — the U.S. Army does. Did he say where they were going?”

“Just a moment.” The phone was muffled briefly; then Coldmoon could hear Constance talking to the driver. “Over there. See the flickering orange light, just below the horizon? Head that way, as quickly as you can.”

“Lady, there’s no road, and I don’t have pontoons. Oh, jeez, now there’s red and blue lights coming on, too — looks like your cops.”

Coldmoon could hear sirens passing.

“Keep driving until you find the turnoff.”

“But my car—”

“I’ll purchase your car.” And then, Constance was back with Coldmoon. “I need to go.”

Coldmoon said, “Are you sure the Rover was Pendergast’s?”

“I’ll call you back when I know more.” And then the phone went silent, leaving Coldmoon standing there, looking at it, in the middle of the arrivals section of Tallahassee International Airport.