She took a photo out of the folder and placed it on the desk in front of them. Once again Coldmoon eagerly snapped it up and examined it before passing it on to Pendergast.

“That’s a silver toe ring displaying an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, of a form and style typically worshiped by the Maya people of Guatemala. And engraved on the ring—” she pulled out another close-up photo— “is the name of a town in Guatemala called San Miguel Acatán.”

“Where’s that?” Coldmoon asked.

“A village in the western highlands, close to the Mexican border, with a mostly Maya population.” She paused. “Well, that about summarizes it.”

Coldmoon put down the photo. “The obvious inference is we’re dealing with a group of migrants, all from the same town—San Miguel Acatán.”

Crossley nodded.

“You know how it is,” Coldmoon said. “A group of people from the town get together and decide to head north to the United States. Economic refugees. And you’d expect a lot of people in a small town like that to be related. I would imagine that on their journey north they got waylaid by some bad guys, and then…well, something terrible happened to them and they got their feet chopped off.”

“As Agent Pendergast brought to my attention, it appears they each amputated one of their own feet,” said Crossley.

At this Coldmoon sat back. “Holy shit. They cut their own feet off?”

“Yes.”

“Were they shackled? Was this a way to escape?”

“A good guess, but they weren’t shackled. There aren’t any abrasions, bruises, or scratches around their ankles you’d get from shackling. They self-amputated for some other reason.”

“What could possibly make someone chop off their own foot?” Coldmoon asked incredulously.

At this Pendergast spoke. “How excellent it is that Agent Coldmoon is finally here to pose the truly arduous question.”

This was followed by a brief silence.

“Is there anything else, Dr. Crossley?” Pendergast asked.

“That’s all for now.”

The two of them rose, and Coldmoon followed Pendergast out. A moment later, with the closing of the hall door, the lab fell silent. Moira Crossley sat in the quiet for some time. The final question Coldmoon had posed, which she had asked herself many times, seemed to have no possible answer—none at all.

23

OUTSIDE, COLDMOON FOLLOWED Pendergast into the parking lot.

“Do you have a car, Agent Coldmoon?” Pendergast asked.

“Nope.” Coldmoon had anticipated this. He had no intention of playing chauffeur, as he had during the Brokenhearts investigation.

“Pity. However, managing to anticipate that answer, I’ve acquired a vehicle myself that should prove suitable. Not only is it equipped to go across any terrain imaginable—including swamps, beaches, and bayous—but it will do so in comfort.”

Coldmoon looked around the lot but didn’t see any official-looking vehicle among the Ford Explorers and Jeep Cherokees that met these qualifications. Then his gaze fell on something parked at the far end of the lot.

“No,” he said, staring.

“Yes,” Pendergast said, slipping him the key fob.

Glistening in the sun was a factory-fresh Range Rover, an “Autobiography” edition in off-white pearl with a beautiful satin matte finish. It seemed to have every available option for arriving at an opera premiere, or the top of Everest, in style: LED headlights and desaturated taillights, rear fog lights, a badge announcing the 5.0 liter, 557-horsepower supercharged LR-V8 that sat beneath the hood—and those were just the externally visible attributes.

Coldmoon whistled. “Nice ride.”

While he had been taking in the Rover’s features, Pendergast had walked around the rear of the vehicle and was now getting into the passenger seat. Coldmoon looked down, saw the key fob Pendergast had put into his hand. Son of a bitch, he thought. But instead of refusing outright, he put his bag in the back and got into the driver’s seat, immediately sinking into creamy leather. Once he’d figured out how to start the engine, he saw the car had less than fifty miles on it. In the driver’s side pocket was a folded dealer’s sheet, and as the interior cooled off he pulled it out curiously. The sheet ticked off such items as electronic air suspension, wade-sensing technology, hill descent control, roll stability control, and a laundry list too long to read through. At the bottom was a price: $189,500.

Coldmoon took another look at the dealer sheet, recognizing it for what it was. “Hold on,” he said. “You just bought this?”

“Leased, actually. After all, we don’t have Axel on hand to take us around anymore, and that confiscated Mustang of yours was about as comfortable as the rail they used to ride one out of town on. When I learned you were willing to join the investigation, I decided the least we could do was prosecute the case with a degree of luxury.”

Now Coldmoon understood: he was still expected to play chauffeur, but Pendergast had sweetened the deal by providing almost three tons of rolling opulence. He shrugged, then twisted the large round knob that put the vehicle in gear.

“I’d like to introduce you to the oceanographer I’ve privately engaged to work on the case,” said Pendergast. “She’s trying to backtrack the feet to where they entered the ocean—without much success yet, unfortunately.”

“Sure, I’d love to meet her.”

“But before that, why don’t we drop off your luggage at the lodgings I’ve rented for the duration? My ward, Constance Greene, will be staying with us, but I think you’ll find the house both commodious and private.”

“Uh, sure.” Ward? That sounded a little odd, but then, nothing about Pendergast was normal.

Pendergast gave him the address and—after some fiddling with the touch screen on the central panel of the dashboard—he managed to punch it into the GPS.

“A/C?” Coldmoon asked.

“No, thank you.” Pendergast rolled down his window and Coldmoon did the same. As they drove out of Fort Myers, taking SR 867 south, Coldmoon observed with curiosity the neighborhoods they were passing through. They were a mixture typical to Florida: some wealthy, some shabby, many in between—but all high density. It was amazing how many damn people there were in this state. In South Dakota there were stretches of highway where you could drive a hundred miles without seeing a house.

And then, quite suddenly, they passed by a checkpoint and emerged onto a causeway that curved like a scimitar over a shallow bay, the sun glittering off the water, with the low outline of Sanibel Island growing on the horizon. Considering its size and weight, the Range Rover was surprisingly responsive, and it accelerated effortlessly, sending a warm breeze coursing through the interior. For a moment, however brief, Coldmoon could understand why someone might want to live in Florida.

Once on the island, the houses moved upscale, and the farther he drove, the wealthier it got. Toward the north end of the island they came to a line of stopped cars.

“I’m afraid there’s another checkpoint up ahead,” said Pendergast.

But the traffic went quickly, and soon they had flashed their badges and were through. A short bridge led them across an inlet to Captiva Island. The beach and parking lot to their left had been turned into a staging ground, it seemed, with tents, trailers, container offices, and a van with satellite dishes on top. Two Coast Guard patrol boats plied the ocean beyond the line of breaking surf.