Crooked River

70

They jogged down the muddy path toward the docks, Constance in the lead.

In his entire law enforcement career, Coldmoon had never seen anything remotely like what this woman had just done. He wondered if she was really Pendergast’s “ward” — this crazed angel of death, in her torn and filthy clothes — or instead some kind of homicidal bodyguard the man had trained for his own protection. For a moment, his thoughts strayed back to his grandmother, and her description of Wachiwi. He recalled seeing Dancing Girl with his own eyes, walking through the frozen trees, her thin form wrapped in a blanket. She is mortal, as we are. Yet she is also different.

Pendergast had taken a spotlight from one of the dead soldiers, and it now illuminated a grisly sight: three dead guards in a rude pillbox made of earth and bricks, their bodies sprawled and splayed in various attitudes of death.

“Your handiwork, Constance?” Pendergast asked.

“I needed their weapon.”

“How did you do that with only a stiletto?”

“Chief Perelman lent me his gun. Not voluntarily, of course. He’s down at the river, with a broken leg. We were caught in a tornado as we were landing.”

They proceeded through the dark trees and around a bend in the lane. Ahead now, Coldmoon could see the black mass of the river through a tangle of wrecked docks, piers, and metal buildings. Constance veered off the road and they made their way to the embankment.

“I left him here,” she said as they came to a small grove of trees. Pendergast shone the light around.

“Over here,” came a faint voice from downriver.

They worked their way along the embankment to find Chief Perelman lying on his side next to his wrecked boat. He had the mike of a VHF in his hand, the radio next to him, wired to a marine battery from the boat.

“Dragged myself over,” he said, gasping, his face smeared with mud and dripping with rainwater. “When I heard all that shooting, I figured you wouldn’t mind if I called in the cavalry.”

As if on cue, Coldmoon heard the distant rumble of rotors and saw — above the treetops in the east — a line of choppers moving fast and low. A moment later, lights appeared downriver, with a rising drone of outboard engines, as a phalanx of Coast Guard patrol boats materialized out of the darkness, moving at high speed, their spotlights playing along the shore.

“That was fast,” Coldmoon said.

“I told them federal agents were engaged in a firefight, with a man down. That did the trick.” Perelman lay back, looking at Constance. “I can’t believe it — you actually went in there alone and rescued these two?”

“I only did what I said I would do,” she said simply.

“Only,” the chief said, shaking his head and lying back with a wince. He glanced in the direction of the river. “I hope to hell they’re bringing painkillers.”

Coldmoon watched the helicopters pass overhead. The first patrol boat made a ground landing and several men and women in body armor jumped out, their lights flashing, armed to the teeth with assault rifles, mortars, and RPGs. Its complement deployed, the boat backed away, making room for the next vessel.

“I’m going back,” said Pendergast, moving toward the troops.

“What the hell for?” Coldmoon asked. “We did our part. Let them do the mopping up.”

“I have to get Dr. Gladstone. They gave her the drug... and she amputated her own foot.”

“Oh my God...” Coldmoon swallowed. “I’m coming with you, then.”

Pendergast nodded. “Thank you.”

They joined the stream of men clambering off the boats. “This way,” Pendergast cried to them. “Follow me!” And moments later, the assembled group set off toward the glowing complex rising beyond the trees, as the choppers hovered above, fast-roping down SWAT teams and exchanging fire with the rogue troops inside the facility.