Verses for the Dead

11

It was almost four thirty when Pendergast returned to the lobby. He didn’t say exactly what he’d been doing in Elise Baxter’s room, and Coldmoon didn’t ask, although he noticed the man still had his parka on, zipped up tight; given the hothouse air of the hotel, perhaps he’d been undergoing his own version of a sweat lodge.

At the sound of activity, Young, the manager, waddled out of the back office, made sure there was nothing else they needed, again expressed regret that he couldn’t put them up, and gave them directions to Millinocket.

They stepped out into the bitter cold and got into the rented car, Coldmoon once again behind the wheel. Following Young’s directions and the car’s GPS, they began driving southeast over increasingly remote and poorly plowed roads. Now and then they passed a farm or commercial building, half buried in snow. Already it was getting dark, but Coldmoon didn’t mind; the night couldn’t be any bleaker than the day.

Ahead he saw a yellow-and-red sign peeking out from above the trees: the SaveMart that Sergeant Waintree had mentioned. A lower piece of the sign was missing, apparently blown away by a shotgun, exposing the fluorescent bulbs within.

“We’d better stop,” Coldmoon said.

Pendergast, who had been perusing the suicide photographs, glanced up. “Pardon?”

“We should pick up some food. Waintree warned us there might not be any restaurants open this time of year.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” And Pendergast put the photos to one side and followed Coldmoon out of the car.

They were the only two customers in the dingy little market, which was about to close. Pendergast seemed strangely at a loss in the place: in the tiny produce area, he picked up a head of lettuce, turned it this way and that, put it back; he wandered up one aisle and down another, finally stopping at the herbal tea shelf.

He picked up a box with two fingers. “Coconut chamomile passion fruit?”

“Don’t look at me.” Coldmoon quickly made his own choices: a tin of sardines, a protein bar, ramen noodles, four packs of Twinkies, and a bag of the cheapest ground coffee he could find. Then he moved to the checkout. Pendergast followed a minute later, empty-handed.

When they got back in the car, Pendergast pulled the photos from the police folder again. The agent seemed to be lingering over one shot in particular: a full-frame view of the woman hanging from the curtain rod, the top of one ankle resting on the edge of the tub, head askew, tangled hair not quite able to mask the bulging eyes.

“What about it?” Coldmoon asked.

It took Pendergast a moment to reply. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“What you said to Pickett yesterday — that it seemed unlikely Ms. Montera and Elise Baxter were both randomly chosen.”

“Doesn’t it seem that way to you? That one of them must have been chosen deliberately?”

“Indeed.” Pendergast put the photo aside. “I agree the likelihood of both women being randomly selected is practically nil. But there is a third possibility.”

Coldmoon thought a moment. “You mean that both women, not just one, were deliberately chosen.”

“Yes. And if that’s the case, I fear it makes our task either much easier — or much harder.”

Already, Coldmoon was growing used to Pendergast’s Buddha-like pronouncements. As of yet, there was zero sign that Baxter’s death had been anything but a suicide, or that — to be honest — there was any real connection between the deaths at all. He gave a neutral grunt. He felt, more than saw, the agent glance at him a moment before turning his attention to the road.

There were a surprising number of cars parked in the lot that doglegged the Lowly Mackerel. When they went inside the lobby, the reason became apparent: in a blizzard the previous week, a fallen tree had taken out an electrical substation, leaving a few dozen homes without electricity. The families who had no relatives in the area had been forced to come here for accommodation. No, the owner said, there were no more rooms: he’d even opened up the second floor, which was usually mothballed for the winter.

Coldmoon watched while, in a feat of combined persuasion, threat, supplication, and bribery, Pendergast talked the owner out of his own room: 101, with two double beds, a color TV, and no Wi-Fi. “Guess I can always stay with my cousin Tom,” the man said as he pocketed a thick wad of folded bills. “You just wait in the lounge while I make up the beds and get my things stowed. Won’t be but a minute.”

The lounge was a sad-looking room with curling linoleum floors, a small kitchen, and a bumper pool table, currently unused. The manager went off to fix the room while Pendergast and Coldmoon approached one of the tables.

“Let’s divide the police material,” Pendergast said, tapping Waintree’s folder. “Then compare notes.”

“What’s there to compare? The autopsy and forensic reports total five pages. The interviews about the same. And the photos speak for themselves.”

“It is precisely because of the paucity of the report that we must think — to use a peculiar expression — ‘outside the box.’ Reviewing the material from a fresh, even random, perspective may result in unsuspected discoveries.”

Resisting an urge to shake his head, Coldmoon gestured at the folder. “Have at it.”

Pendergast quickly sorted the papers into two small piles, then took a seat at the table, drew one pile toward him, and began silently leafing through it. Coldmoon meanwhile made a circuit of the room, inspecting the beat-up board games, shelves of paperback books, and other time-wasting detritus typically found in such a place. Going through the kitchen cabinets, he was happy to find a hot pot sitting on one of the shelves.

At that moment, the manager came in. “Room’s ready,” he said. “Want to take a look?”

“Sure,” said Coldmoon, scooping up a random paperback, the hot pot, and his share of the papers.

Pendergast didn’t look up from his reading. “I’ll follow later, thank you.”

The manager opened the door to 101 and Coldmoon walked in. It seemed clean enough — Coldmoon wasn’t particular — and the manager bid him good night. Dumping his satchel and windbreaker on the floor, Coldmoon gratefully slipped off his holster and service piece and dropped them on one of the beds. He plugged in the hot pot to make sure it worked. While he’d picked up ramen for dinner, that could wait — what he felt right now was seriously undercaffeinated. He filled the dinged-up pot with water, let it come to a boil, and threw in a couple handfuls of coffee grounds. Then he turned it down to a simmer, grabbed the papers and the Twinkies, and lay down on the empty bed, pushing off his boots with a sigh.

It was two hours and three packs of Twinkies later that a key sounded in the lock. Then Pendergast appeared in the doorway. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, then stopped again. He looked around the room — at the double beds with their stained coverlets; at the faded wallpaper, marked here and there with crayon; at the tiny bathroom with its single towel — then glanced at Coldmoon, who was lying on the bed in his socks, paperback in his lap, a scattering of photocopies and Twinkie wrappers around him. Pendergast’s nostrils flared.

“There it is again,” he said.

“What?”

“That peculiar aroma. Something between a burnt cigarette filter and Drano.”

Coldmoon sniffed. It wasn’t his feet — at least, he didn’t think so. “You mean the coffee?”

“Coffee?”

Coldmoon nodded toward the hot pot. “Coffee. I made it when I got in.”

Pendergast looked over and waved his hand through the air as if to clear it. “Unfortunately, you’ve allowed it to boil, and now it’s ruined.”

“Well, that’s how I make it. I boil it for a couple of hours.” It was the way Coldmoon’s father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather had made coffee, and it was the only way he liked it. Growing up on Pine Ridge Reservation, there had always been a blue-flecked enamel pot of coffee simmering on the woodstove. As necessary, more grounds were thrown in and additional water added. The idea of filters or percolators was ridiculous. To his palate, a batch of coffee wasn’t really good until the grounds had been simmering at least a week.

Pendergast shuddered. He looked around once more, and as he did so a strange expression passed across his face almost too quickly for Coldmoon to register. Then the pale visage went neutral again. He unzipped his parka, hung it on the hanger screwed into the door, then sat down on the other bed, where Coldmoon had dropped his service piece. To Coldmoon’s vast surprise, Pendergast picked up the holster. Then, even more surprisingly, he pulled out the handgun.

“Browning Hi-Power,” he said as he hefted Coldmoon’s 9mm gun. “Nice balance. John Browning’s last design before his death, I believe. Not so different in functionality from my own Les Baer.” He fingered the cartridge disconnect, and the loaded magazine slid out into the palm of his left hand. “It appears to have seen a lot of action. A family heirloom, perhaps?”

It had in fact belonged to Coldmoon’s great-uncle, who’d carried it through the Second World War. But Coldmoon wasn’t thinking of this. He sat up in sudden outrage, a shower of papers falling away as he did so. A person’s gun, especially a law officer’s gun, was his most personal possession. Nobody else touched it — certainly not without asking, and not in this casual way.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

Pendergast looked at him. “I’d have thought it obvious. I’m inspecting your weapon.”

Coldmoon held out his hand. “Give me that. Right now.”

Pendergast’s gaze fell on the hand for a moment before returning to Coldmoon’s face. Something in those cold cat’s eyes set off an instinctual alarm in the younger agent.

The two stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Then Pendergast slid the magazine back into its chamber. “Agent Coldmoon,” he said. “We find ourselves in this remote and barren region, forced against our will to share unpleasantly close quarters. Under the circumstances, this bed — with its lone pillow — is the only spot in the entire state of Maine that I can call my own. You and your paperwork have taken up residence on the other bed. Now, since you have deliberately left your handgun on my bed — and since we, as gun owners and enthusiasts, know there is no greater transgression than handling another’s weapon without permission — your placing it here can only mean one thing: that you wished me to examine and appreciate it. I have now done so. And a fine vintage firearm it is.”

And with this he slipped the weapon back into its holster and, saying nothing more, held it out to Coldmoon.

Coldmoon took it and, equally silent, put it on the nightstand on the far side of the bed. It occurred to him that he had just been given a righteous dressing-down by his senior partner. As he got up to refill his coffee cup from the bubbling pot, it further occurred to him that he deserved it. Not only was Pendergast dealing with an obstinate boss and uncomfortable surroundings, but the case wasn’t going exactly as planned. The last thing he needed was being disrespected by his own partner.

He picked up one of the case files and sat back down on his bed with a soft grunt. He supposed he should cut the guy a little slack.

Coldmoon woke suddenly out of a dreamless sleep. The first thing he felt was confusion: it was not dark, but light. Then, blinking, he realized where he was: in room 101 of the Lowly Mackerel. He’d fallen asleep, fully dressed, while reading from the case file of the Katahdin police: a piece of paper was still clutched in one of his hands. Blinking, he could see Pendergast, sitting on the edge of the other bed, back to him. He was apparently still ruminating over the photographs of the death scene.

Another ring, and Coldmoon realized it was his phone that had woken him. He dug it out of his pocket, noticed the time was quarter past twelve. “Yes?”

“Agent Coldmoon?”

Coldmoon’s remaining sleepiness vanished as he recognized the voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Where are you?”

“In a motel outside Millinocket.”

“Okay,” came the brisk voice of Pickett. “Listen to me very carefully. I want you both to pack up your stuff. And then I want you to get on the earliest plane back down to Miami. I don’t care if you have to drive to Boston to catch it — you find that plane and get on it.”

From his perch on the edge of the bed, Pendergast had swiveled around and was listening intently.

“Will do,” Coldmoon said as he sat up and began pushing his feet into his boots. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Pickett echoed with a furious iciness. “There’s just been a second murder in Miami — and my lead investigators are over a thousand miles away, chasing a wild goose. Now get the hell out of that motel and onto the road.”

The phone went dead.