“There was one thing…” Pickett began.
Coldmoon felt his spine stiffen. For a terrible moment, he thought they might be shanghaied once again…but after a moment Pickett shook his head and said, “Never mind.” Without another word, he stepped to one side and let them pass out of the conference room and toward the waiting elevators.
78
AS HE TURNED OFF MONTGOMERY and headed east on Taylor, Coldmoon almost had to restrain himself from pulling ahead of Pendergast’s uncharacteristically slow and painful walk. The debriefing he’d been dreading most—the one with Pickett—had gone more smoothly than he could have hoped. Pickett was a smarter guy than Coldmoon had given him credit for. He’d been cleared to leave for Denver. His bags were packed. He’d even taken the precaution of ordering an Uber the night before, although Pendergast had offered to give him a lift with an FBI pool car. Truth was, he didn’t want to broadcast the fact that he’d arranged to get to the airport three hours early. He couldn’t take the chance of getting dragged at the last moment into some bizarre new assignment. You never knew with Pendergast.
He glanced at his watch: right on schedule. He’d pop into the hotel, grab his bags, and soon Savannah and Pendergast would be dwindling specks in the rearview mirror of his career.
As they walked along, he couldn’t help but notice all the activity. Trucks were parked along the curbs, some with beds full of rubble being cleared by heavy machinery, while others were unloading lumber, bricks, and construction materials. Regular citizens were pitching in, shoveling debris into dumpsters and cleaning up. The inhabitants of Savannah, it seemed, having received no explanation for the attack visited upon them beyond a wash of crazy conspiracy theories, had decided to move on as quickly as possible.
Now up ahead, Coldmoon made out the ancient fa?ade of the Chandler House. It still looked a fright: surrounded by scaffolding, numerous windows boarded up, and the ruined upper floor covered in a superstructure of pipe and plastic. Most of the staff had returned once the building was fully stabilized, to help direct renovations.
As they came through the lobby doors, Coldmoon caught a glimpse of Chatham Square and the cluster of trailers and temporary Quonset huts he’d privately dubbed Fedville. A car was idling at the curb outside the lobby, an Uber sign posted inside the driver’s window.
Early, Coldmoon thought. Good omen.
As they mounted the wide main staircase, Pendergast turned to him. “I see you plan to leave for the airport immediately.”
Did nothing escape Pendergast’s notice? “Yes, well, I thought it’d be a good idea to get a jump on things.”
“Given past experience, that’s probably wise.”
They turned off at the second-floor landing, walked a few steps down the corridor, then stopped at the door to Pendergast’s suite. “Well, let’s find Constance and say our goodbyes,” Pendergast said. “We have a little something to give you.”
“Will it take long?”
“Just as much time as it takes to pass from my hand to yours.” Pendergast gave him a slim smile. “My precipitate friend, I dislike maudlin farewells as much as you do. It will be quick and painless.”
Coldmoon grunted in return. This was, after all, what he wanted. Still, he realized he’d been hoping for the opportunity to say no to a glass of cognac or a final heart-to-heart. Chagrin turned to curiosity as he wondered what token of thanks Pendergast was going to give him. Hopefully it would be something negotiable at a bank.
The suite had been spared damage, and sunlight flooded the spacious, orderly rooms. The doors were all open, and as he walked into the parlor Coldmoon could see the two studies with attached private bedrooms, their armoire doors thrown open and luggage set upon the beds in the universal language of travelers about to check out. Pendergast had wandered off briefly, but now he returned.
“This is curious,” Pendergast said. “Where is Constance?”
“Packing?” Coldmoon asked.
Pendergast shook his head. He headed to his own set of rooms, returning a moment later. He picked up the house phone.
“Maybe she’s taking a final turn around the city,” Coldmoon said. “For nostalgia’s sake.”
Pendergast ignored this sarcastic comment as he dialed. “She’s been rather out of sorts the last few days.”
A voice answered the phone—apparently, from the front desk—and Pendergast made some brief inquiries. Nobody had seen Constance Greene. If she’d left the hotel while Pendergast was gone, the doorman would know, as there was a system now in place for checking people in and out of the building.