“And the significance?”
“Hell is the ultimate atonement.”
Coldmoon waited for further explanation, but it wasn’t forthcoming. Typical of Pendergast: he stated that the note was revelatory, but would only dance around the perimeter of why. He decided to offer up an observation of his own. “The P.S. seems to be addressed to us, you realize. That’s a change.”
“Indeed. Although I don’t think he’s stirring the pot — I believe he’s trying to explain.”
Coldmoon almost said Explain what? but decided he didn’t want to give Pendergast another opportunity to be coy.
They watched in silence as CSU continued to comb the scene. Coldmoon could hear, in the distance, the low roar of the media that had gathered at the edge of the columbarium grounds, beyond the police cordon. This third murder had burst the dam; the Brokenhearts story had gone national and everyone was out there, clamoring for information: CNN, Dateline NBC, the whole shebang.
“I wonder how that reporter, Smithback, got the Brokenhearts name,” he said. “Wasn’t that information privileged?”
Instead of answering, Pendergast approached the niche. “Mary S. Adler,” he said, reading the name engraved on the plaque. “April fourteenth, 1980, to July seventh, 2006. We already know she died in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, of suicide by strangulation. And that the date of her suicide is four months before Baxter’s and eight months before Flayley’s.”
“I don’t see how the records are going to tell us anything. Brokenhearts has obviously selected these people because they’re suicides. All we’ll find out from them is what we already know. What I’d ask instead is: why is the killer apparently selecting suicides that occurred within a certain narrow time frame?”
Pendergast turned to him, a not unkindly look in his eye. “Agent Coldmoon, that question is indeed highly germane, and does need to be asked. Yet I sense our killer is operating on a higher plane of logic.”
“What does that mean?”
“Recall my allusion to the Doctor Faustus quote. I sense our killer feels personally responsible for these deaths, which by the way may — or may not — be suicides.”
Coldmoon repressed an urge to roll his eyes. “If they’re not suicides, what are they? According to the profile our guy was, like, fourteen years old at most when those deaths occurred.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then what possible link could he have?”
“I’m not necessarily saying he’s physically linked. But the question you just raised about the time line is, in fact, a mystery at the very heart of this case. Our man has been killing with alarming regularity and rapidity. We need to exhume Elise Baxter.”
Oh no. Not again. “Pickett’s going to have a fit if you ask him to do that a second time.”
“We have higher loyalties than a man’s ill temper, do we not, Agent Coldmoon?”
“You really want to piss him off like that?”
“What choice do we have? The only other option is to wait for Mary Adler’s autopsy records. And I would guess they will be about as helpful as the previous ones — which is, not at all. Once the police conclude suicide, that’s all the medical examiner can see.”
Pendergast waited until they got back to their temporary office at Miami FBI before he made the call. Coldmoon could hear only one side of the conversation, but it was short and contained no surprises. Pendergast lowered his phone.
“Pickett has refused — again.”
“So much for that idea.”
“Quite the contrary. I’m the agent in charge, and as such I have the authority to exhume Baxter — despite Pickett, and despite the parents’ wishes.”
“Are you serious? That’s direct insubordination.”
To Coldmoon’s vast surprise, Pendergast smiled. “You shall learn, if you haven’t already, that in life insubordination is not only necessary but even, at times, exhilarating.”
Later that evening, while alone in his hotel room, Coldmoon got the message he’d been both expecting and dreading: Call me now.
He made the call, sweeping empty Twinkie wrappers off the bed, and found Pickett in a state of irritation. “Coldmoon? I’ve been waiting to hear from you ever since my conversation with Pendergast.”
Fact was, Coldmoon had been intending, all afternoon, to make just such a call. He knew he had to inform Pickett about Pendergast’s intentions. And he had every reason to do it. Pendergast’s idea was just another harebrained scheme that would yield nothing and end in disaster. He remembered Pickett’s warning: You’re a promising agent. You’ve already come far, against some damned long odds. I admire your ambition. But you have more to lose here than anyone.
“Sir, I—” Coldmoon began.
“No need to explain.” Pickett’s tone softened. “Look, I know you’re in a tough position. I get it: loyalty to your partner and all that. But that last time we talked, you told me that a storm was coming — and now I think I can guess what it is. Did you get the autopsy records from North Carolina on that latest suicide? What’s her name — Mary Adler?”
“Not yet. It seems they’re having trouble locating them. Something about a mix-up while everything was being digitized.”
“So he’s going for the Baxter exhumation, despite my orders. Isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it. Okay. Now, don’t try to talk him out of it. Understand?”
Coldmoon didn’t answer.
“Look. It’s all on him — nothing’s going to blow back on you as junior partner. With this clear insubordination, I can transfer the guy out of my hair, send him to some nice, quiet midwestern backwater — and you’ll be senior partner in the case. So just go along with his plan — all right?”
Coldmoon swallowed. “All right.”
25
The Elise Baxter exhumation, while not as disastrous as Agatha Flayley’s, presented its own difficulties. It was scheduled for 6:00 AM, so as not to disturb normal visiting hours, and Coldmoon woke to the sound of rain drumming on his hotel window. Bayside Cemetery was soggy beneath a torrential downpour, and despite all precautions — high-tech lifting equipment, waterproof tarp, a temporary tent erected over the worksite — the hole began flooding and Coldmoon ended up sliding around in the mud, ruining his Walmart suit. By the time they had loaded the coffin into the back of the hearse, Pendergast also was a fright: his black suit soaked, shoes and pant cuffs caked with mud, and a streak of mud on his face that made him look like a freshly exhumed corpse himself. What was worse, Pendergast insisted they accompany the coffin to the morgue and begin the autopsy immediately, without allowing time to change. For some reason, he was in a god-awful hurry. Coldmoon, feeling guiltier than he’d expected, wondered if perhaps some sixth sense of Pendergast’s anticipated the betrayal he was walking into.
They arrived in the basement receiving area of the morgue, rain still pounding on the car roof. The morgue assistants worked quickly, sliding the coffin out of the hearse, getting it on an electric rolling rack, moving it to a special receiving bay, washing and cleaning the coffin, then at last opening it and transferring the corpse onto a gurney. The entire process took less than half an hour and Coldmoon watched, fascinated at the efficiency. The corpse, moreover, was the opposite of Flayley’s: aside from being a strange color, it looked as if Baxter might have died a week ago.