His eye fell to the control knob. It had been twisted to its farthest clockwise extent: past the first mark, past the second mark, past even the setting Ellerby had used to inadvertently summon the creature. Someone had redlined the machine: whether to sabotage it so it could no longer be used, or simply to fulfill its purpose one last time, Coldmoon could not guess. It had been pushed far past its limits and was now little more than a hulk.
Pendergast, after a brief inspection, had gone to the nearby worktable and picked up a crisp, unmarked envelope. As Coldmoon watched, he tore it open with a trembling hand, plucked out the single sheet within, and read it. After a minute, his hand fell to his side, and the letter—released by nerveless fingers—fluttered to the ground.
“Pendergast?” Coldmoon asked.
Pendergast neither moved nor acknowledged his voice. Coldmoon knelt and picked up the letter. On it, a short message had been written in an elegant feminine hand.
I am going back to save my sister, Mary. I belong with her, anyway. This machine has given me that opportunity—and Miss Frost herself made it clear why I must take it. In her, I see my own lonely, loveless future. It is anything but pretty. And so I will return to my past—the destiny I was meant to have. I will make of it what I can—what I must. If I can’t have you on my terms, I can’t have you at all.
Goodbye, Aloysius. Thank you for everything—most particularly for not coming after me, even were it possible. That I could not endure; I’m sure you comprehend my meaning.
I love you.
Constance
79
IT WAS JUST AFTER ten in the morning when the bus from Atlanta pulled into the Greyhound terminal on West Oglethorpe Avenue. There was a hiss of air brakes, and the gleaming metal door slid open. One after another, the passengers descended the steps into bright sunlight. Last to emerge was a thin elderly man with a battered suitcase and a mackintosh that had seen more than its share of weather. He began to step down, then stopped, holding one hand up against the sun.
“Jesus H. Particular Christ!” he said in a pained voice.
The bus driver looked down with an amused but affectionate smile. The old man had ridden in the seat directly behind him, and they’d gotten to talking on the trip from Atlanta. “First time in Savannah?” he asked.
“First time east of the Mississippi,” the old man replied.
“You don’t say.”
“Hell—first time south of the Mason-Dixon, too.” He descended the last few steps, squinting, then waved goodbye to the driver. As the bus pulled away, the man set down his suitcase, shrugged out of his mackintosh with some effort, folded it carefully, and placed it on the suitcase. He wiped his brow with the back of a hand and looked around.
He hadn’t known what to expect of Savannah. For a moment, he tried comparing it to the places he knew: Yakima, Olympia, Seattle. But there was no applicable frame of reference. There were no mountains in the distance. Everything was flat. The buildings looked old and decrepit. The sky didn’t hold the continual threat of rain he’d lived with all his life. On the other hand, there was plenty of water around…in the form of humidity. He’d never imagined that a place could be so hot and so moist at the same time.
He asked for directions, then struck out, heading east on Oglethorpe. The streets were busy with traffic, the sidewalks teeming with pedestrians. More than one of the latter glanced with surprise at the old man with the Santa Claus beard. But he paid no attention: he’d been stared at before. After about ten minutes he stopped again, took off his plaid work shirt, and carefully rolled it up inside his mackintosh, which he snugged back under the handle of the suitcase. Now he was down to a T-shirt and faded coveralls, but it was a uniform that seemed to blend better with the locals. Opening a zipper and reaching into the case, he pulled out a waxed bucket hat, crumpled and shapeless, which he stretched and massaged until it fit upon his head. It was a Stetson he’d used to keep the rain off his pate for forty years; now maybe it would protect him from sunstroke.
The man turned south on Barnard and walked through a small area of grass and trees, bounded on all sides by buildings. This was more like it. At the far end was a plaque, telling him the domesticated little park was named Orleans Square. Ahead now, over the roofs of the city, many with scaffolding, he could see dust rising and hear the familiar noise of construction.
At the sight, and the sound, he felt his throat constrict involuntarily.
Living as he did away from civilization, he didn’t make it a practice to read the paper or watch the news. What happened beyond his property line wasn’t his business, and he’d grown sick of the steady drumbeat of depressing and irritating news about which he could do nothing. His bus trip had taken him first from Seattle to Chicago, and then Chicago to Atlanta, and in the Chicago bus station he’d caught a glimpse of screaming headlines about the Savannah disaster. He’d picked up some papers and read about how the city had suffered some kind of attack, fire and explosions—the stories were baffling—with numerous casualties. This had heightened his anxiety, which was already at a high level. But he reassured himself that above all, she was a survivor—and a most formidable woman.