“You saved her life?”
He nodded. “I took her in, fixed her up, nursed her back to health.”
“What kind of injury?”
“A compound displaced fracture of the right femur.”
“The lady still has a limp.”
“I fixed her up as well as anyone could under the, ah, circumstances.”
“You were in love with her?”
Coming out of the blue, this question surprised Coldmoon almost as much as it did the doctor. But it had the desired effect; on the heels of a sustained assault, the old man’s defenses cracked under this unexpected blow. He sank back in his chair with an almost indistinct nod. “We loved each other. Very much.”
“But she left. Why?”
He shook his head.
“Let me help you: She was in trouble, she was an outlaw, she had committed a serious crime. To protect you and herself, she had to leave, establish a new identity. And so she disappeared from your life.”
He nodded.
“What was her crime?”
A long silence ensued. “She’d stolen something.”
“It must have been quite valuable.”
“I suppose. But the big crime was not stealing it, but how she stole it.”
“What was it?”
“Some sort of computer, or device, in a briefcase. She said it was going to make her fortune.”
“What did it do?”
“She never explained, except in veiled hints. Something about time.”
“Time?”
“She made an odd comment about the flow of time. That’s all I know.”
“How did she steal this item?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the question I’m not going to answer—the one at the heart of my promise. If I told you, the FBI would come down on both of us like a ton of bricks. We’d go to prison for sure.”
Pendergast sighed. “In that case, I have nothing further to ask.” And he signaled to Coldmoon that it was time to leave.
“Hold on!” the doctor said again as Pendergast prepared to rise. “You haven’t told me her new name.”
Pendergast looked at him. “And you haven’t told me her old one.”
The man frowned, sitting up again, pugnacity flaring in his rheumy eyes.
“Now it’s your turn to go first,” said Pendergast.
Quincy’s white knuckles gripped his chair. Coldmoon could see him struggling. “Alicia Rime,” he finally said.
“Her name now is Felicity Winthrop Frost. The hotel she owns in Savannah is called the Chandler House. An excellent establishment. And she is a most formidable woman, if a bit frail—and quite lonely.”
After a moment, Quincy nodded. “No doubt.”
Pendergast rose, followed by Coldmoon. He began to turn toward the door. Then he stopped. “One other thing,” he said. “Is it possible she used this mysterious instrument you mentioned to pay off your mortgage and cover your medical school tuition?”
“I’ve got no idea,” Quincy said. “I’ve said too much already. I think it’s time for you to leave—right now.”
That was it. Coldmoon followed Pendergast out of the farmhouse, down the steps, and back to the waiting vehicle. And the whole time, Dr. Quincy stood on the steps in his long underwear, silent and motionless, a look of infinite sorrow on his lined face.
44
GANNON HEARD A VOICE raised in complaint, as she’d known she would eventually, from the end of the hall where Betts was reviewing the daily rushes. She already had a good idea of what he was going to say, but she’d learned it was better to let him mansplain “his” ideas to her rather than come up with them independently and try to sell them to him.
“Gannon?” she heard. “Gannon! You around?”
She headed down the hall and into the editing room. Moller was in the chair next to Betts, a dour presence.
“Come in,” Betts said, gesturing. “Take a look.”
She came in and stood behind them. On the computer screen was the last of the footage from the previous day.
“This is great,” Betts said. “Love your angles. You really nailed it.”
Gannon couldn’t help but blush. Normally, Betts was stingy with his compliments.
“Moller, you look good, too. Right? I hope you’re happy.”
Moller bowed his head in grave affirmation. He never looked happy, but that, Gannon realized, was part of his shtick.
“But here’s the thing,” Betts went on. “We’ve got all this footage of Moller, the crazy mob scene, the press—all great stuff. But you know what we don’t have?”