Coldmoon nodded.
“I’ve read Pendergast’s too, of course. Everything that I didn’t observe myself, in fact, I read. Read carefully. I realize that, in the mayhem of that night, given the nature of that rogue military encampment, your memory might not be crystal clear. But one thing has been troubling me.”
“What might that be, sir?”
“It’s—well, it’s Constance Greene.”
A look came over Coldmoon’s face that Pickett hadn’t seen on the man before, but he continued anyway. “She’s the one variable in the equation I can’t figure out. First responders mentioned a young woman among your party, dressed in filthy tactical clothes. I also heard reports that someone matching her description was on the rescue helicopter that brought all of you back to Fort Myers. Oddly enough, post-landing records for your group do not include such a person.”
“No?” asked Coldmoon.
“Not only that, but a heavy machine gun was found near your exit point that—on trying to reconstruct exactly what happened during your final escape—we can’t quite factor in. Who was manning that? It had recently run through over three hundred rounds.”
“It was so chaotic, I really can’t recall.”
“Right. And another thing—Chief Perelman explained how, knowing only that Pendergast had been kidnapped, he undertook a rescue mission with his boat. But the tornado that wrecked that boat and almost killed him has brought on a degree of amnesia of a different sort than Dr. Gladstone’s. He can’t recall much that happened leading up to the tornado—in particular, whether he was alone on the boat or had a passenger.” He paused. “Meanwhile, you were flying in from Mexico, forced to land at Tallahassee. Any idea where Ms. Greene was in all of this?”
“I don’t know. At home?”
“Right. Well, let’s say I’d hate to be the one who ever had to interrogate that woman.” Even though the overlook was deserted, Pickett glanced around before continuing. “This isn’t an avenue anybody else is following up, you understand. But I know you, and I know Pendergast better, and…well, I just like the cases under my command to add up.”
“I understand, sir.”
“And so do I.” Pickett’s eyes met Coldmoon’s in a curious gaze that was interrupted by a chorus of voices from behind them.
“Those must be the island staff,” Coldmoon said with something like relief. “Making their way down to the helipad with our luggage.”
“Of course,” Pickett said. “Let’s not keep them waiting any longer.”
Ten minutes later, both helicopters were warming up, their blades whipping the humid air. Constance got into the plush, leather-lined interior of the AgustaWestland first, keeping her hat in place with one hand while shaking Pickett’s with the other. Coldmoon—whom they would be dropping off on the mainland for his flight to Colorado—followed next. Last was Pendergast.
“Well, sir,” he said to Pickett, leaning in at the door. “Last time you were here, it was with a request to ‘have a look at the scene.’ I hope you found my perusal to be helpful.”
“Helpful? You solved the case.”
“I’ll say farewell, then. Agent Coldmoon is eager to get to his new post. And, in return for your kind words just now, I would only add that Constance and I are eager to get back to New York…without further delay.” He gave the last three words an unmistakable emphasis.
“Then I’d be the last person to detain you.” And Pickett stepped back while the luggage was loaded into the rear of the passenger compartment. A moment later, the door closed; the chopper rose swiftly and then, with a roar of its powerful engines, it banked to the northwest and sped away.
Pickett watched the bird vanish into the brilliant blue sky. Then, stepping back from the prop wash of his own helicopter, he reached for his phone and dialed.
“Dispatch One?” he said when it was answered. “This is ADC Pickett. The craft I told you about is an AW109, tail number Z-513227. Yes, that’s right. Please forward my instructions to divert it to Savannah, as discussed earlier. If necessary, I’ll talk to the pilot myself.”
And without saying anything further, he slipped his phone back into his suit; took one final look around at the unreal paradise that rose behind him; then, folding his copy of the Miami Herald, he ducked under the rotors and got into his own helicopter. A minute later, it rose into the pearlescent sky, following Pendergast’s ride at a more dignified, stately, government-approved rate of speed.
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The authors wish to thank Wes Miller, Kallie Shimek, Eric Simonoff, Michael Pietsch, Ben Sevier, Nadine Waddell, and Claudia Rülke. They would also like to underscore that all characters depicted in the book are imaginary, and that in places they have taken liberties with the geography of Florida and its cities to accommodate the novel’s logistical demands. Finally, they wish to praise Sanibel and Captiva, both for their beauty and for their efforts to preserve the natural ecology and wildlife of the barrier islands. The authors in particular recommend the magnificent beaches on which—in their personal experience—the only things of note to have washed ashore are the beautiful shells in their private collections.