“Dr. Suarez,” said Pendergast, “I fear your conclusions may require some additional thinking.”
Suarez raised his eyebrows. “And why is that?”
“The abuse of the dog you just described would have taken a certain amount of time. But this dog was killed instantly.”
“Agent Pendergast, even without medical training you can see how extensive these injuries are. It simply isn’t possible for them to happen simultaneously—unless, as I said, the dog was hit by a truck.” He spread his hands and smiled. “But…out here, in the woods?”
“I respect your observations, Dr. Suarez. Nevertheless, according to everyone interviewed, the dog was killed so quickly it made virtually no sound. It was barking hysterically—and then there was sudden silence. The dog had a GPS collar, which was found within minutes of the cessation of barking.”
“That’s pretty damn mystifying, then,” said Suarez. “Look at the forensic evidence: This dog has numerous broken bones, multiple internal injuries, and it’s been ripped apart with some sort of hook or hatchet. See these ragged cuts in the abdomen, here, and the place where the head was severed? None of that’s clean—just a frenzy of ripping and tearing.”
“I do see them,” said Pendergast. “The witnesses, however, are quite clear in stating they reached the clearing only moments after the dog stopped barking. There was no one, or no thing, there. The attacker was gone.”
The vet smiled. “I would like to hear your theory, Agent Pendergast.”
But Pendergast didn’t answer. Something in the direction of the river had attracted his attention. He rose and wandered off, disappearing into the trees.
Suarez shook his head. “He’s an odd duck. Never met an FBI agent like him.”
“And you never will again,” said Coldmoon, irritated. “He’s the very best.”
After a short silence, Commander Delaplane said: “If you’re asking about theories, I’ve got one. We have a person who kills two people and steals their blood. Then he disembowels a dog. There’s only one explanation for this: we’ve got a maniac on our hands, someone big and powerful enough to tear apart a dog. The question is: why?”
Delaplane rounded on Coldmoon. “Is there anything in your criminal databases like this?”
Coldmoon rose and pulled off his gloves. “There was a situation in Russia in the 1990s,” he said, “of a gang who killed homeless people passed out in parks in Moscow, and drained their blood to sell on the black market. But obviously that’s not likely the case here.”
Delaplane frowned. “We need a break in this case, fast. The senior senator from Georgia is on the warpath, or so I’m told.” She looked around, glaring. “All right,” she said. “Load the remains of the dog into evidence bags and bring them back to the lab for further analysis. We’ve done all we can here.”
At this juncture, Coldmoon heard his radio crackle. “Agent Coldmoon?” came Pendergast’s voice. “Please come to the shore. And bring the others.”
Delaplane turned. “Is that your partner?”
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
“I don’t know.” Coldmoon set off in the direction of the voice, with Delaplane, Sheldrake, the M.E., and the vet following. They left the clearing and headed through the trees, toward the river.
“This way,” came the faint voice.
The trees gave way to an embankment covered with marsh grass, leading to a mudflat along the river. Pendergast stood ten yards out in the mud, knee deep. Amazingly, the Wellies had managed to keep his cream-colored suit still immaculate. He was taking photographs.
“Take care to preserve the marks, there, in front of me,” he said, pointing to a disturbed area in the mud. “I believe they are significant.”
Coldmoon peered in the indicated direction. There was a large, irregular depression in the mud, as if something had swiped across its surface, leaving an unclear, confused impression.
“What is it?” Delaplane called out, standing next to Coldmoon and peering at the smear. “Why’s this significant?”
“Because,” said Pendergast, “when you approach you will see, in the section closest to my left, a small plug of bloody fur—which, unless I’m very much mistaken, came from the back of our unfortunate bloodhound.”
24
IT’S VERY STRANGE,” SAID McDuffie breathily as he led the way into a small conference room to one side of the M.E. lab. “Very strange,” he repeated as Coldmoon and the others all took seats around the central table. “Dr. Kumar will explain it.”