“Help me get him to the boat.”
Brokenhearts assisted as Pendergast half dragged, half carried his partner to the airboat. Laying him on the rear seat, he used a life preserver as a pillow and covered him with a boat tarp. Then he grabbed the helm and revved up the engine. “Push us off.”
Brokenhearts pushed the boat away from the mud and hopped back in, finding a spot in the bow, while Pendergast swung the wheel around and headed back toward Paradise Landing at high speed, weaving frantically through the cypresses and saw grass, throwing up a massive wake and doing his best not to tear out the bottom of the craft on submerged mangrove roots.
Arriving at the dock, he leapt off and ran to the Mustang, pulled open the door, grabbed the radio mike, and called in an “agent down” message, giving coordinates. This accomplished, he went back to the boat and bent down over Coldmoon, giving him a more thorough examination. The man was barely alive, with a fast, thready heartbeat, but still breathing. His skin was cold and clammy. The bullet wound was bleeding, but not badly — most of the bleeding would be internal. Better not to disturb him further, but rather leave him in place until the paramedics arrived.
“Can... can I help more?” asked Brokenhearts.
“Yes.” Pendergast reached for Coldmoon’s belt, unclipped a pair of handcuffs, and tossed them over. “Put those on. You’re under arrest.”
The young man fumbled with the cuffs for a moment before figuring out how to lock them around his wrists. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words abruptly beginning to spill out. “I know you understand. You said so on that television show, when you told people I wasn’t a monster. But even you can’t fathom the depth of my sorrow. I mean, what you said back there — about violence, about atonement.” The sudden flow stopped for a moment. “I can’t put my grief into words. I’ve tried, but I can’t. Stephen Crane did, though. I could read you—”
“Later,” Pendergast said quietly. He tucked the tarp more tightly around Coldmoon as the faint sound of an approaching helicopter reached them from beyond the trees.
48
Pendergast watched the medevac chopper rise into the air above Paradise Landing, carrying his comatose partner to the University of Miami Hospital. The chopper was departing, but the rest of the cavalry would be here soon enough. A temporary silence descended over the shabby docks as he led Brokenhearts to the Mustang and put him in the backseat. The young man paused to ask if he could retrieve some object from his own vehicle, which was hidden in the grass just off the dirt road. The object turned out to be a book of poems. Brokenhearts got into the backseat, mumbling to himself, over and over, rocking back and forth, the book clutched in his cuffed hands. Pendergast recognized the mumbling as verse.
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Pendergast slipped behind the wheel, turned on the LED emergency dash lights, and started the car with a roar. He backed it around and, with a spray of dirt, accelerated down the dusty road, putting on the siren. Reaching the paved asphalt, he pressed the pedal down and pushed the Shelby to over a hundred miles an hour. It shot along the road, walls of vegetation flashing by in a blur of green.
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
In the distance, Pendergast could see flashing lights coming toward him; the Miami Homicide flying squad, on their way to Canepatch for evidence collection and to recover whatever remained of the body of Commander Grove — if anything. Pendergast checked in with them by radio as they flashed by: squad cars, Crime Scene Unit vans, sirens Doppler-shifting down as he blew by.
Ten minutes later his radio buzzed; he pulled it down and listened. The dispatcher told him that Coldmoon had arrived at U Miami and was heading into surgery. His condition was critical.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
The road merged onto Tamiami Trail and Pendergast passed more police cruisers. The Shelby was now traveling at 120 miles per hour, Pendergast’s silvery eyes looking far ahead, his mind focused only on speed and the long straight road. In the backseat, Mister Brokenhearts kept up his monotonic recital.
“It is bitter — bitter,” he answered;
The radio hissed again and he pulled it down. “Pendergast here.”
“Lieutenant Sandoval. Have I got it right that you’re bringing in Brokenhearts?”
“Yes.”
“We’re liaising with the FBI. You’re to bring him straight to the FBI HQ.”
“Understood. And Coldmoon?”
“In surgery. I’m sorry — they doubt they can save him. That son of a bitch Grove, hard to believe... ”
Pendergast hung up the radio and pressed the accelerator further, the Shelby’s speedometer inching toward 130.
He shot past a succession of shabby roadside attractions, siren wailing, cars pulling off on both sides to make way. In the backseat, Brokenhearts continued to rock slowly and mutter. Now more cars were appearing as he approached the western suburbs. He slowed to 100, then 90. Passing the Everglades boundary, he entered the suburb of Tamiami, then Sweetwater, where he was forced to a crawl by heavy traffic.
“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
They inched through traffic until he reached the Reagan Turnpike, where he headed north. In another twenty minutes he joined I-75 as far as the exit to FBI headquarters. As he passed through the gates, he was met by two cars and a van. Swinging around to the processing bay in the back, he was met by a mass of agents, Miami police, squad cars, and vans. He pulled to a stop as half a dozen people surrounded the car and opened the doors, removing Brokenhearts, who submitted meekly.
Sandoval came over, grasped Pendergast’s arm, and helped him out of the car. Agents, support staff, MPD brass — everyone was there. Brokenhearts stood in the hot glare of the sun, hands clasping the book, head bowed.
“Agent Pendergast, allow me to congratulate you,” said Lieutenant Sandoval. Brokenhearts’s handcuffs were now being reinforced with leg irons. “If I may ask — who the hell is he? I mean, his real name.”
“His name is Vance.” Pendergast looked around. “Get me on a helicopter for U Miami Hospital.”
Nearby agents began shouting orders and gesturing. Brokenhearts, now in chains, was being led away. As he passed Pendergast, he glanced over and muttered one final line:
“And because it is my heart.”
The FBI chopper took Pendergast from HQ to the helipad on the roof of U Miami, where he was met with more agents from the Miami Field Office and several MPD detectives. Speaking to no one, he sprinted as fast as his wounded leg allowed from the helicopter, past the group, and into the building, bypassing the elevator and taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the main surgical floor. He arrived at a small waiting area outside the surgical bay, guarded by a pair of FBI agents.
“Coldmoon,” he said. “How is he?”
“We’ll get a doctor to talk to you, Agent Pendergast.”
Pendergast nodded. Then he began pacing the small waiting area, the only sound the faint whisper of his footfalls echoing off the linoleum floor.
Finally a doctor came out, still in scrubs, blood smeared on her gown. “Mr. Pendergast? I’m Dr. Webern.” She did not offer her hand.
“Doctor. How is he?”