After listening to some more back-and-forth, Drayton started to lose his temper. “I want to talk to her personally,” he told Adair. “Hand me the damn radio.”
The sergeant, his face growing red, spoke to the dispatcher. Drayton took the radio. “This is Senator Drayton. I want to speak to the commander, now.”
After a long moment, he was finally put through.
“Commander? I’m wondering why you’re not here in person, supervising security for the rally. Don’t you realize there are people out there threatening to protest and maybe even cause violence? I’ve got almost half a million dollars invested in this rally.”
“Senator, let me assure you, we’ve got over a hundred officers working security, we’ve set up portable scans at six entry points—we’ve got everything under control.”
Drayton listened impatiently to the commander’s cool voice. “How do you know that if you’re not here? I want you here, do you understand?”
There was a short silence. “All right, then, I’ll be down in about half an hour to review security measures personally. But I assure you again, there’s no cause for concern.”
“Commander, I can’t imagine what’s more important than security for the largest political rally in Savannah in years.”
“I will be there, Senator. But to your point, I just might mention we have a rather involved homicide investigation in progress—one that you’ve taken a personal interest in.”
“Yes, and whose fault is it that it hasn’t been solved?”
The commander signed off and Drayton handed the radio to the sergeant. He turned to his chief of staff. “I thought you had this under control.”
“Yes, sir. It will be, sir.”
“Christ, what a bunch of numb-nuts. Let’s get back to the bus. Makeup’s supposed to be here by now, and I’ve got to start getting ready.”
Drayton climbed back on the bus just as the makeup artist arrived with her two assistants and gear.
“Come aboard,” Drayton called, “and let’s get the show on the road.”
They set up a portable makeup chair and table, and Drayton settled down with care and plucked at the creases of his pants to keep them crisp. He leaned his head back against the headrest. “Pay particular attention to my nose and under my eyes,” he told the makeup artist. “Cover up those veins. There are going to be cameras from every angle, and hot lights, so make sure it’s able to last a couple of hours.”
“Of course, Senator.”
He closed his eyes and let the woman work over his face, covering up the varicose veins, the dark circles under his eyes, painting and whisking and brushing away his wrinkles and liver spots.
As she worked, he tried to relax and focus on the speech ahead, instead of thinking about that ass-clown running against him, who the polls indicated was creeping ahead. This rally would nip that in the bud. In his mind’s eye, he could already hear the roar of approval, see the sea of shining faces and waving placards, the band playing as he walked out on the stage. That moment was always one of the biggest thrills of his life.
47
IT WAS 7:30 PM WHEN Constance was summoned to Pendergast’s bedroom, accessible through a common door that joined their two suites. It was ascetic and clean, as his sleeping chambers always were: no doubt he’d asked the staff to remove items of furniture or decoration he deemed objectionable.
“Constance?” Pendergast said. “In here, if you please.”
The voice came from an open door on the far side of the bedroom. Constance knew Pendergast had taken this suite for himself specifically because it contained this extra room—a space originally intended, according to hotel legend, as a sniper’s nest from which to pick off approaching Yankees. She crossed the bedroom and entered it curiously.
Pendergast had turned it into a sort of private war room. The walls were of the darkest ocher, and there was only a single, narrow window—lending credence to the sniper story. The room was small and piled with books: volumes on local history, astrophysics, the supernatural beliefs of Eastern Europe, and a dozen other subjects that seemed to have no common thread among them. There were also maps of Savannah pinned to the walls, both old and new, with several locations marked with highlighter. When and how Pendergast had amassed all this, she had no idea.
But it was Pendergast himself who gave her the greater shock. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his skin even paler than usual. He was tense and appeared excited. He sat at a desk, a vintage Emeralite lamp throwing an absinthe-colored pool of light over the clutter of books and maps. Despite the room’s disorder, the desk itself held only a bottle of Lagavulin, a half-full glass, and a pill container. This, along with his demeanor, disturbed Constance.