The cheering began all over again as he waited, waved a little, waited some more, waved again, and finally cleared his throat to signal the beginning of his speech. He heard, in the far distance, some catcalls and jeers, but they were faint. He’d made it clear to his advance team that those bastards were to be kept well at bay, and none too gently, either.
“My fellow Georgians,” he began, the towers of speakers echoing his voice back from the buildings surrounding the park. “Now is the time of decision. Now is the time of firmness. Now is the time of…” He went on and on, reading his speech from the teleprompter, although he’d practiced it so many times he had it memorized. He paused at particularly well-turned points to allow more cheering and applause, the audience obliging every time.
This was fine. So very, very fine. His enemies and detractors could eat shit and die—with support like this, there was no way he was going to lose this election.
58
AS THEY LEFT THE library, Coldmoon felt a slight buzz from the Lagavulin—or was it from the mind-bending concept of a machine that had, somehow, opened a hole in the universe? The idea was absurd, impossible…but since he’d first partnered with Pendergast, the absurd and impossible seemed to have grown commonplace. The world according to Pendergast, he realized, was a far stranger place than he’d ever imagined.
As they entered the foyer of the hotel, Coldmoon noticed a television blaring in a lounge area. On its screen was Drayton, standing live on an elevated stage, thrusting his finger into the air and bellowing to a roaring crowd.
“Look at that wasichu,” snorted Coldmoon as they passed. And then he halted. “Hold on a minute.”
“That so many of you have braved the crime wave to come out tonight is a testament to your courage and conviction—”
Now Pendergast and Constance paused.
“—I have been dismayed by the FBI’s inability to solve these crimes, but I can assure you in my role as senator—”
“Hey,” Coldmoon said. “He’s talking about us.”
“—In the face of their ineffectiveness, I am bringing all state and local resources to bear in catching the monstrous criminal or criminals behind these savage killings—”
“He’s blaming us, the jackoff!”
“Not just us, my dear friend, but ADC Pickett, who it seems has been shielding us from the senator’s wrath all this time—and whose career will suffer for it.”
After listening a moment longer, Pendergast and Constance continued on, and Coldmoon hurried after them. There was nobody behind the desk, and they slipped past toward the offices beyond.
“What are we going to do about it?” Coldmoon asked.
“Does the FBI involve itself in politics?” asked Pendergast as they reached the door to the cellar.
“It’s not supposed to.”
“You have your answer.”
The door to the basement was locked. Pendergast slipped a little tool out of his pocket, and with a brief twist of his wrist, the door swung open.
They descended into the gloom. At the bottom of the stairs, Pendergast paused to remove his jacket. “You might want to check your sidearm, Agent Coldmoon.”
“Right.”
Pendergast took the Les Baer from his shoulder holster, ejected the magazine, checked it, palmed it back in. Coldmoon wasn’t sure why this precaution was necessary just to examine a machine in the basement, but he made sure his Browning had a round in the chamber. He noticed that Constance, not to be outdone, had slid her stiletto out of one sleeve: a vicious little device, he thought as he watched the thin, wicked blade spring out at lightning speed. She knew how to use it, too; he’d seen some demonstrations that he’d just as soon forget. Noticing his stare, she gave him a wry wink, then slid the blade home.
“This way,” she said, taking the lead. She led them past Ellerby’s trading office and deeper into the basement, heading away from the central corridor and making for an area that was roped off and marked STRUCTURALLY UNSOUND.
“One way to deter attention,” drawled Pendergast as they passed by it.
Just as it was growing too dark to see well, Constance touched a light switch and some naked bulbs came on ahead, casting baleful shadows. There was a strange, almost industrial smell in the air, Coldmoon noticed, like burnt rubber. Dead insects crunched under their feet as they walked. Constance led them past a double row of old storerooms, wooden doors splitting from dry rot.
“Did Miss Frost give you such precise directions, or are you just a modern-day Natty Bumppo?” Coldmoon asked.