Almost against her will, she closed her eyes.

“Take a slow, deep breath…Inhale…”

She did so.

“Now slowly, exhale.”

She did as he guided, five times. Remarkably, she could feel annoyance and tension draining away, her mind quieting down.

He continued to murmur directions in a soothing tone. Then, after a few minutes, he began reciting the grotesque details of the amputations in the same calm, neutral voice, asking her to visualize in slow motion the hatchet descending from above; the repeated blows; the flesh being cut; the bones fracturing and splintering; the foot coming free; the gushing blood…It was almost too horrible to imagine: she had literally spent years learning to think of the autopsy as a job to be done on an inert object, rather than on beings who had once lived and suffered—there was no other way to keep her emotional equilibrium. But under Pendergast’s gentle tutelage, she found at last that she was able to bring the human subject to life at the moment of the amputation.

Her eyes popped open in shocking realization. “Oh, no!” she gasped.

For a moment she couldn’t speak. Pendergast looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

She found her voice. “These amputations were self-inflicted,” she said. “Good Lord, these people chopped their own feet off!”

“That is indeed what they did,” said Pendergast. “In the crudest and clumsiest way imaginable. The question is: why?”

20

PENDERGAST DROVE THE rental car northeast along Route 1, also known as the Overseas Highway. This latter moniker seemed particularly apt—in the hour it had taken him to drive up from the Key West airport, Route 1 had been more bridge than highway. Now and then it would pass over solid ground—some islands large enough to support a village, others barely more than a nubbin with palms and grass—and then the land would fall away and the road would once again stretch out over the greenish-blue ocean.

After one long stretch of water, Route 1 passed through Marathon Key and then, a few miles later, approached Islamorada. The lower Florida Keys had a tropical feel, like a land apart: a lived-in, sleepy, and weather-beaten environment that, while still reliant on tourism, was a far cry from the manicured luxury of Palm Beach. Islamorada seemed slightly more upscale than some of the other keys; as he drove, Pendergast passed several resorts monopolizing the island’s beaches. The northern end, however, seemed more for locals, with a school, residential streets stretching away from the ocean, and the occasional trailer half-hidden among the trees.

Pendergast checked the GPS on his phone, and then, just before the highway arced out over the water again, he turned left and headed down one of the narrow roads cut through the scrub, half blacktop and half sand. No resorts here: just trailers and houses in various states of decrepitude; outboard motor repair shops; and small businesses, signs bleached by the sun.

Within half a dozen blocks the road ended in the gravel parking lot of a commercial fishery. Pendergast pulled up beside a row of pickup trucks and got out, glancing around. To the south, rusting hulks of old working boats had been laid on their beam-ends, forming a fence of sorts. To the north, where the land led down into a swampy shoreland area, he saw a motley collection of dwellings: lean-to sheds with corrugated roofs; shabby Airstreams with cinder blocks for wheels; one or two tiki-style huts that Gauguin might have enjoyed painting. The beach community seemed to have grown willy-nilly, like barnacles on the hull of a ship. Pendergast checked his GPS again, then made his way toward the little collection of houses.

He drew close, then stopped. Amid the scents of diesel oil, dead fish, and stagnant water, a new odor had wafted in: acrid, bitter, more appropriate for a chemical plant than a tropical island. Burnt coffee—but burnt hardly did it justice: coffee that had been boiled and boiled far past any trace of appeal or dignity. Pendergast put his phone away and—gingerly—began tracking the stench to its source. It was coming from one of the huts at the edge of the cleared area, where the trees ended at a strip of shoreland marsh. Beyond lay nothing but green water, the occasional sandbar, and the Gulf of Mexico.

Pendergast walked around to the front of the hut. There, reclining on a deck chair, was a young man, unshaven and unkempt. He wore a pair of cheap sunglasses and ragged sun-bleached jeans cut off midthigh. He was shirtless, displaying a muscled, bronze chest. A large scar, the stitches recently removed, ran in a thin line across his abdomen, like a stripe of pale paint against olive-colored skin. His jet-black hair had been pulled back into a tight ponytail and a red bandanna was rolled and tied around his neck. On one side of the chair stood a large mug of coffee, and on the other a half-empty bottle of Corona, beads of moisture sweating on the glass. The crackle of a police scanner sounded faintly from within the darkness of the hut.

The man, alerted to Pendergast’s presence, glanced over. For a moment, the two merely exchanged a look. Then the man in the deck chair nodded. “Kemosabe,” he said.

“Agent Coldmoon.”

“Nice weather we’re having.”

“Perfectly delightful.”

The man named Coldmoon gestured toward one of several empty oil drums scattered around. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you very much, but I’d prefer to stand.”

“Have it your way. Some coffee, then?” He gestured toward a large steel pot that was simmering on an old ring stove in the darkness of the hut.

Pendergast didn’t reply.

Coldmoon took a long pull on his beer. “Funny. I didn’t expect to see you again. At least, not down here in Florida.”

“I was unavoidably detained. And I might say the same about you. As I recall, you were discharged from the hospital a week ago. Why are you still here?”

Coldmoon shrugged. “I’m recuperating. The snows of Colorado can wait.”

“And how did you end up in this picturesque locale?” Pendergast waved a hand at the engineless RVs, the piles of outboard motors, the sand and swamp grass.

“Just lucky, I guess. Rent’s practically nothing. I got on a Greyhound headed south from Miami, looking for a place to clear my head of Mister Brokenhearts and his murders. Decided to get off here.”

The capriciousness of that decision had made the search for him a great deal more difficult than it might have been.

“So you decided to finish your convalescence by going native,” Pendergast said.

“Careful with that word choice, Pendergast. I’m already native—Lakota.”

“Of course. But let us not forget your dear Italian mother.”

Pendergast knew that Coldmoon was ambivalent about his Indian heritage being tainted by European blood.

“Non mi rompere i coglioni,” Coldmoon replied, making an insulting Italian gesture.

“Allow me to get to the point. Have you been following the case of the curious flotsam that recently washed up on the beaches of Captiva Island?”

“The feet? What I read in the newspapers. Hear on that scanner.”

Pendergast took a breath. “I have taken an interest in the matter.”

“And?”

“I’ve found it a most baffling case indeed, perhaps even unique. Since you’re still here, and knowing how you might appreciate additional experience to add to your jacket, I thought you’d find it interesting to take a day or two to observe the situation. Informally, of course. And—”