If one looked deep enough into the death records of late-nineteenth-century New York City, one could learn that a young married couple had died during a cholera epidemic ravaging the docklands slums. But the death certificates did not tell the full story. After the husband, a stevedore, died of the disease, his wife—out of her head with fever and despair—either fell or jumped into the East River. Two little girls, Mary and Constance, were there to see their mother’s body being hoisted from the foul water with grappling hooks.

She had never told anyone, even Dr. Leng. But the memory was with her always, and she did not wish to have a hundred waterlogged feet sharpening the edges of those memories.

And so she had begun playing the role of tourist, wandering the streets, peering into shops, visiting the historical society, or sitting on the veranda of the Mortlach House, gazing toward the gulf and reading To the Lighthouse. She despised the book and had never been able to finish it, but now it was a martyrdom she was grimly determined to see through, like Henry IV of Germany enduring a hair shirt along the Walk to Canossa—

Constance’s train of thought came to an abrupt stop.

She lay perfectly still. There it was again: a rapping sound, faint but discernible. And it wasn’t from outside; it was in the house, down below—perhaps the basement, which Constance had not yet explored.

And now, lying in bed, Constance realized what she had been waiting for: evidence of the Mortlach ghost.

She sat up with a mixture of thrill and fear. Her eyes were already accustomed to the dark, and reaching over, she picked up the antique Italian stiletto that she always carried with her. She swung her legs out of the bed, rising to her feet in perfect silence while slipping into a silk robe. With equal stealth she crept to the door, then—very slowly—opened it.

The hall was empty, lit only by a single small lamp. Weapon at the ready, Constance paused again to listen.

Another tap, followed shortly by yet another: stealthy and hollow with a sense of purpose. They were definitely coming from the basement, and they sounded to Constance like someone tapping on the walls of the old mansion with a bony hand. It reminded her of the Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane, where an inmate had been infamous for…

The breeze shifted and a sudden gust of wind caught the curtains of her windows, slamming her door shut with a thunderous bang.

Constance froze. She waited, motionless, listening for a long time, but there was no more tapping.

At last she turned and—as silently as she had risen from it—she returned to her bed, laid her head back on the down pillows, and once again stared at the continuing journey of the sliver of moonlight across the ceiling.

22

THE FINAL LAB results had arrived the previous evening, just as Moira Crossley was about to close up. She had stayed until nine o’clock going through them and then returned to the office that morning at seven to finish up before that strange FBI agent, Pendergast, was due to arrive for another update. She knew he would be punctual, and there was something about him that made her nervous, giving her the feeling that she should be very careful, not make a mistake, and be ready to answer any question.

The buzzer rang just as the second hand on the clock was sweeping across twelve: OCD-level punctuality. How did he manage it with the hideous and unpredictable traffic? Did he arrive early and wait with a stopwatch? She wondered why she was so concerned about his approval. With most people, she didn’t give a rip.

She opened the door and Pendergast stepped in, wearing a beautiful lemon-colored silk suit with the same Panama hat he had worn before. He tipped his hat in an old-fashioned way, then hung it on a coat rack by the door.

“A lovely morning, Dr. Crossley,” he said. “Do I need to gown up?”

“Not necessary,” she said. “We can go over the new results in my office. Please come with me.”

Pendergast followed and she unlocked her office.

“Take a chair,” she said as they entered.

Pendergast slipped into a seat. Crossley went to her safe and punched in the combination, removing a couple of file folders. At Pendergast’s suggestion, she was taking extra care with security. She placed the folders in a stack. “I’ll be sending these to the FBI later today, but if you wish, we can go over them now.”

“I do wish.”

“Fine.” She passed him the top folder, opened the second on her desk. “There’s some, shall we say, unusual new information.”

“Excellent.”

At that moment the buzzer sounded again. Irritated, Crossley looked at her watch: 9:05. It wasn’t Paul; he had his own key. Probably one of those goddamn reporters.

“Excuse me while I get rid of whoever that is,” she said.

She went to the door. Through the wire-glass window she could see a very tall man standing ramrod straight, in a crisp blue suit, clean-shaven with a fresh buzz cut, lean and chiseled, with brown skin and striking green eyes.

This was no reporter.

“Who is it?” she asked through the microphone.

In response, the man held up a badge. “Special Agent Coldmoon, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Oh.” Unlike Pendergast, this one looked every inch a fed. She buzzed him in. “I was just about to go over the lab results with Agent Pendergast. Are you also assigned to the case—?”

“We’re partners.” His dazzling smile just about bowled her over.

As she led him in, Pendergast rose.

“Good to see you, Agent Pendergast,” said Coldmoon. “I see I’ve arrived just in time.”

“I rather expected you later, Agent Coldmoon.” Pendergast eyed him keenly.

An easy laugh. “We have an old Lakota saying: the early bird gets the worm.”

“Indeed. And I see this early bird has new feathers.”

Coldmoon tugged on his lapels. “Walmart. One hundred twenty-nine bucks.”

A look of undisguised distaste flitted across Pendergast’s face.

Coldmoon took an empty seat, while Crossley resumed her place behind the desk, passed another of the folders to Coldmoon, and then began her summary. “As I was about to explain to Agent Pendergast, we’ve completed the DNA testing and the results are rather interesting. Earlier we determined that most of the feet came from the genetic heritage you typically find in Central and South America—mostly Native American with some European from the Iberian Peninsula, and a small portion of African. We’ve refined those results, and here’s what we’ve got.” She removed a large folded chart. “Many of these individuals are related, in widely varying degrees. We’ve got some brothers and sisters, a few parents and grown children, along with first cousins, second, third, fourth, and even fifth cousins.” She slid the diagram over. “This is an attempt to show relatedness. Of course, it’s extremely complicated because some first cousins are also third and fourth cousins to others, and so forth.”

Coldmoon leaned forward eagerly and drew the diagram toward him, examined it, then passed it on to Pendergast.

“We’re now going to submit the DNA results to several large commercial genetic testing databases to see if we can identify any of these individuals by name. That’s a complicated process, but we’re pushing it forward as fast as we can and should have those results soon.” She cleared her throat. “In addition to the DNA results, six individuals had partial or complete tattoos, which we’ve now analyzed. We’ve identified a few as symbols related to gang or religious affiliations common to the western highlands of Guatemala. The ink used is consistent with crudely formulated tattoo inks commonly used in Central America. Unfortunately, with the proliferation of such gangs, obtaining verifiable, current information on them is difficult. We’ve brought in a specialist and are doing what we can. The toenail polish present on some of the feet was identifiable—cheap brands common to Central America. But perhaps the most important evidence we found is this.”