Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(7)
In the silence that followed, the SUV took the interchange onto I-16 toward downtown Savannah. Pickett opened his briefcase and removed a slim folder.
“Three days ago,” he said, “the body of a local hotel manager was found washed up on the bank of the Wilmington River. His body was completely drained of blood.”
“How completely?” asked Constance.
Pickett looked up at her with an expression of surprise. “A mortician couldn’t have done a better job. Initially, the local authorities thought it to be the work of a madman or a cult—or possibly a vengeance killing by a gang. But just this morning, another body was found in a courtyard of a house on Abercorn Street. It, too, was drained of every last drop of blood.” He glanced at his watch. “The reason for the rush is they’ve been holding the new crime scene for us to examine.”
Coldmoon glanced over at Pendergast. As usual, the man’s face gave nothing away—except, possibly, an unnatural sparkle in his eyes. The SUV had left the freeway, and they were now driving down a narrow lane named Gaston Street. Creepy brick houses lined both sides, and the road was so bumpy it felt cobbled—perhaps it was cobbled. They passed a park on the right, dense with massive old trees draped so heavily with Spanish moss they appeared to be dripping. It was like something out of a horror movie. Coldmoon had grown heartily sick of Florida: the heat, the humidity, the crowds, the southernness of it all. But this—this spooky city with its gnarled trees and crooked houses—this was even worse.
Why wasn’t Pendergast objecting? After all, he was the senior agent. A saying his Lakota grandfather was fond of came into his mind: Beware the dog that does not bark, and the man who does not talk.
“Unci Maka, Grandmother Earth, give me strength,” he murmured to himself as the Escalade drove farther and farther into the heart of what seemed to him a malign and alien town.
6
THE ESCALADE EASED THROUGH a police barricade and checkpoint on Abercorn Street, coming to a stop before a magnificent mansion built of reddish stone with a pillared entryway. Coldmoon exited the SUV, getting hit by a blast of humid air, and took in the surroundings. The house faced another square of mossy oaks, with a statue of a long-forgotten man in a tricorn hat, sword drawn, standing high on a marble pedestal. Coldmoon felt awkward in his old jeans and shirt; everyone else was wearing uniforms or crisp dark suits. Pickett could at least have given him advance warning he’d be assigned another case—if, indeed, that’s what this was. The thought put him in an even sourer mood.
A cop—not in uniform, but nevertheless unmistakable—was standing at the gate to the mansion’s front garden, which was enclosed by a stone balustrade. Next to him was a woman in full police uniform with decorations, whom Coldmoon took to be the chief of police.
“This is homicide detective Benny Sheldrake of the Savannah PD,” Pickett said as they arrived at the gate, “and Commander Alanna Delaplane of the Southwest Precinct—”
“The crime scene is waiting,” Pendergast interrupted smoothly. “Perhaps we can save the introductions for later? Now, if you please, show the way.”
Coldmoon felt a slight thrill at Pendergast’s dismissal. The quicker he made their presence unwelcome, the sooner they might leave—he hoped.
“Of course,” said Commander Delaplane. “If you’ll follow me, please? The body was found in the back courtyard, next to the slave quarters.”
“Slave quarters?” Pendergast asked.
“Correct. The Owens-Thomas House—this is one of Savannah’s historic mansions, if you weren’t aware—retains a remarkably preserved set of slave quarters. The body was found in their old work area. We have to walk through the house and gardens to get there.”
“Who found the body?” Pendergast asked.
“The director of the museum, when he came in to work early. He’s in the house.”
“I should like to see him when we’re done out here.”
“Very well.”
They strode through a spectacular marble entranceway and passed down a main corridor sporting richly furnished rooms on both sides before coming out on a portico at the back of the mansion. It overlooked a severely symmetrical garden with a fountain. Delaplane led them down some stairs and across the garden—Coldmoon struggling to keep up—then through a back gate and into a brick courtyard. Before them lay a plain two-story brick building with small windows, evidently the slave quarters.
The body of a young man lay in the courtyard, on its back with arms thrown out, almost as if it had dropped from the sky.
“The CSI team have finished their work,” said Delaplane. “The crime scene is all yours.”
“Thank you most kindly,” said Pendergast in a more genteel tone. He approached the body, hands clasped behind his back.
Coldmoon wondered if he should follow, then decided not to—let Pendergast do his thing. “Where did Pickett go?” he asked, looking around. “And Constance?”
Pendergast was too absorbed to answer. He made a circuit around the body, peering down as intently as if he were examining a rare Persian rug. The victim looked to be in his thirties. Coldmoon had never seen a face so pale, or hands so white. The contrast was made more striking by the dead man’s curly black hair and bright blue eyes, staring fixedly upward. The corpse made even Pendergast seem almost ruddy in comparison. The face was frozen in a contortion of horror. The right pant leg had been lacerated, as if raked by a knife or garden tool, but there was no blood to be seen in or around the wound. Not a drop.