Bloodless
- Автор: Чайлд Линкольн, Престон Дуглас
- Серия: Пендергаст #20
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Grand Central Publishing
- ISBN: 978-1-5387-3670-8
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «Bloodless». Краткое содержание книги:
A brutal crime steeped in legend and malevolence:
Fifty years later, Agent Pendergast takes on a bizarre and gruesome case: in the ghost-haunted city of Savannah, Georgia, bodies are found with no blood left in their veins — sowing panic and reviving whispered tales of the infamous Savannah Vampire.
A case like no other:
As the mystery rises along with the body count, Pendergast and his partner, Agent Coldmoon, race to understand how — or if — these murders are connected to the only unsolved skyjacking in American history. Together, they uncover not just the answer... but an unearthly evil beyond all imagining.
The last thing he remembered was taking off his hat and placing it carefully in his lap.
A hand was grasping his shoulder, shaking him gently but firmly. And there was a voice calling out: distant at first, then more distinct. “Doctor? Dr. Quincy?”
The old man raised his head at the sound. A person was standing over him; someone with a vaguely familiar voice.
He blinked several times, clearing his vision. His hat was in his lap, and his suitcase lay between his legs, where he’d apparently dropped it.
And then everything came back to him.
He heard the voice, calling his name again, and this time Quincy was able to focus. It was that FBI agent — what was his name, Coldmoon? — who’d visited him at Berry Patch.
“My ass hurts,” he said.
“I’m not surprised,” the FBI agent said. “I think you’ve been sitting on that fireplug for an hour.”
Quincy looked down. “Jesus.”
“I first saw you fifteen minutes ago. Thought it best to leave you with your thoughts. But come on — let’s get you to your feet. I’ll bet you could use something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, you won’t say no to coffee, I’ll bet.” And retrieving his suitcase, the FBI agent helped him up, then began escorting him down the sidewalk.
Quincy fended off the helping hand. “Where’s that meddlesome partner of yours?”
“He’s occupied.”
“Well, I want to talk to him. I want some goddamned answers.”
“He isn’t talking to anyone right now — even me.”
They walked a few blocks, and the stiffness in Quincy’s limbs eased. Coldmoon ushered him into a diner. A waitress was standing behind the register, checking the morning’s tabs. When she looked up and saw Coldmoon, she frowned.
“You’ve got your nerve!” she said, glaring at him. “Coming back in here!”
“Nice to see you again, too,” Coldmoon said placidly.
Even though the restaurant was almost empty, Quincy noticed that she guided the two of them to the back, to the table closest to the restrooms.
“Coffee please, doll,” Coldmoon said.
“I’m not your ‘doll.’ And don’t try to sweet-talk me.” The waitress glanced at Coldmoon’s western-style shirt with its mother-of-pearl buttons on the front pockets. “That’s a nice blouse. Do they make one for men?”
“She doesn’t like you very much,” Quincy said as the waitress walked away.
“That’s why I’m here.”
Quincy rubbed his forehead wearily. He was going to have to deal with this revelation at some point, but not now. God, not now.
“See that fresh pot of coffee, over there?” Coldmoon said. “Now: see that other one beside it, almost empty, with scorch marks on its sides, that’s probably been there since six AM?”
“Yes.”
“I guarantee she’ll give me what remains of the one pot, and pour you a fresh cup from the other.”
Quincy, uncomprehending, looked at Coldmoon, wondering what the hell he was talking about.
“She was very brave, you know. You would have been proud of her. She fought to the end.”
“Tell me,” Quincy said simply.
And Coldmoon began talking. He spoke for a long time as Quincy listened. It was an amazing story, bizarre, convoluted, and at times incredible. But that was Alicia — nothing about her was ordinary. He heard about how she created a new identity, bought and restored the hotel, used the machine, what had happened between her and Ellerby, and then the crazy thing at the end. Some of it was so outrageous he was disinclined to believe it, except that Coldmoon was a grounded and rational FBI agent. In a strange way, he sensed that Coldmoon had known he was coming and had already thought through what he would tell him.
Finally, the agent fell silent, the story over. When he did, Quincy took in a deep, slow breath, like an astronaut testing the atmosphere on an unknown world. It was going to take him a while to process the story, make some sense out of it — if he ever would. Nevertheless, he felt an invisible weight had been lifted.
“There’s something else,” Coldmoon said. He rummaged in a small day pack, brought something out, and handed it to Quincy.
The old doctor took the thin package wrapped in paper. As he unwrapped it, an odor of smoke reached his nostrils. Inside was a copy of Spoon River Anthology, deeply charred along its lower edge. But even flame could not conceal the years of wear that the battered cover, the dog-eared pages, spoke of so clearly.
Without a word, he opened the cover and saw the inscription he’d written almost fifty years ago:
From Z.Q. to A.R.
To me, you’ll always be “that great social nomad, who prowls on the confines
of a docile, frightened order.”
Berry Patch, 4/22/72
The sight of the inscription, the memories it brought back, overwhelmed him with emotion. And he saw, below the faded words, much fresher ones:
I was once a nomad. But over these many years of wandering,
you were always, always, my lodestar.
“Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.”