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  “In that case, name your own poison.”

  “Campari and soda, please, if it’s at hand.”

  “It is. And it will be in your own in a jif.” The old woman fussed around for a few minutes, then returned with two glasses—one pink within, the other a pallid, milky green.

  “A votre santé.” And, lifting her glass, Frost toasted Constance.

  They drank a moment in silence.

  “Campari,” Frost mused. “An interesting choice for one of your age.”

  “Perhaps I could say the same of you and absinthe.”

  “Perhaps. It was made illegal before even I was born.”

  “Outlawed in 1915,” Constance said.

  “I’ll take your word for it. In any case, wormwood seems to agree with me. As someone said, ‘the dose makes the poison.’”

  With this, the old woman sat back, observing Constance with an arched eyebrow. Constance began to say Paracelsus, but decided against it. Instead, she said: “I meant to compliment you on your piano playing.” She nodded in the direction of the music room. “That piece the other night is one of my favorite nocturnes.”

  “Mine as well,” Frost said. She took a sip of her drink. “Do you play?”

  Constance nodded. “But I’m partial to the harpsichord.”

  Frost smiled. “And very accomplished, no doubt. But I’d have thought someone of your temperament would prefer an instrument with more dynamics.”

  “That’s what the choir stops are for,” Constance said.

  “No doubt.” And with another smile, Frost finished her drink. “Next time, I’ll have to ask you for dinner,” she said. “I have a decent wine cellar up here. Not what you’re used to, I imagine, but serviceable.” Once again, she fixed Constance with a quizzical look. “You’re used to drinking the finest wines, are you not? Just as I’m sure your harpsichord is of the highest quality. And your snickersnee is a rare antique.”

  “Thank you,” Constance said, trying to suppress a growing annoyance. “But I doubt my blade is much rarer than the Luger you pointed at me the other evening.”

  Miss Frost waved this away. “I only mention wine because we were speaking of music,” she said. “The older I get, the more I find myself thinking of composers in terms of wine. To me, Mozart is like a bottle of Château d’Yquem: sweet and silky, but more complex than it initially seems. Beethoven is like a petite sirah: ill-bred, brutish, chewy, but once tasted, never forgotten. And Scarlatti”—she laughed—“Scarlatti is like a cheap prosecco, full of bubbles that bother your nose.”

  “And Brahms?” Constance asked, irritated at the aspersion cast on her beloved Scarlatti, but not wishing to be impolite.

  “Ah, Brahms! Brahms is like…one of the best Barolos.”

  And with this, Frost rose and, moving to the sideboard, helped herself to more absinthe. While her back was turned, Constance took the opportunity to reach out and flip through the paperback on Frost’s side table.

  She sat back as Frost finished diluting her drink, holding it up to examine the louche, and then turning back toward her.

  “It’s a curious thing, but as you get older, as I’m sure you know, you find yourself more and more stuck in an endless do-loop.”

  “Pardon?” This as I’m sure you know phrase unsettled Constance.

  Frost smiled. “That’s the old programmer in me talking.”

  This was the most direct reference yet to Frost’s past. Constance realized any further dancing around was pointless. She paused to take a breath. “I’d like to hear more from the old programmer.”

  Frost began to laugh: a low, breathy laugh, wry but genuine. “And so we come to it at last.”

  “Come to what?”

  “The real reason you’re here.”

  “I’m here because you invited me.”

  The proprietress batted this away impatiently. “Persiflage. I’d hoped perhaps you were different.”

  “Different?”

  “Interested in stimulating conversation, rather than my past.”

  “Your past is only interesting because you’re so mysterious about it.”

  But the old lady barely seemed to hear this. Her gaze had gone past Constance to some indistinct point. She sighed. “I always thought this might happen.”

  When she said nothing more, Constance prompted: “What, exactly?”

  “Someone might come along acute enough to beat me at my own game. Maybe ten or twenty years ago, I would have found such parrying amusing—even challenging. But I’m tired now…old and tired.” Her gaze returned to Constance. Leaning forward, she picked up her glass, drained it, and set it back down on the tea table. “So let’s finish the game.”

  There was an edge in her voice that put Constance on guard. The elderly woman had proven a surprise: far sharper than she’d expected.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” Frost went on. “You’re a perspicacious creature. You’ll make a statement about me that you think might be true. If it’s true, I will say as much and you can make another statement. But once you make a statement that’s wrong, the roles are reversed…and I get to make statements about you on the same terms. Agreed?”

  Constance hesitated. She had the vague feeling she’d just been outmaneuvered in a chess game. But after a moment, she nodded.

  The old woman sat back. “Proceed.”

  “Very well.” Constance considered. “You were very fond of Patrick Ellerby.”

  Frost tut-tutted, as if this were hardly deserving of an opening gambit. “True.”

  “Yet he was disobedient. He disappointed you, even betrayed you.”

  A shadow crossed the proprietress’s face, but she nodded. “True.”

  Constance paused. She did not want to try Frost’s patience with trivial observations, but blind guessing was even more dangerous.

  “You have, at least once in your life, reinvented yourself.”

  Now it was Frost’s turn to pause. “True.”

  “In some respects, you have an outlaw personality. The normal rules don’t apply to you.”

  A hesitation and she colored slightly. “True.”

  “You have a deep knowledge of science: particularly mathematics, programming, physics.”

  “True.”

  Constance continued probing, using her own past as a guide. “You had a difficult childhood.”

  “False!” Frost laughed in triumph. “My childhood was quiet and unremarkable, thank you very much.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “None of that!” Miss Frost resettled herself on the chaise longue. “It’s my turn.”

  Again, something in the way this was said made Constance wary.

  “I’ll give you a handicap,” Frost said. “I’ll make only a single observation about you. If I’m wrong, you win. But if I’m right…then you have to explain.”

  Constance waited, uneasy.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re older than you look,” Miss Frost said. “And not just measured in weeks, or months, or years…but much, much older.”

  Constance said nothing.

  “Don’t care to answer?” the old lady prodded. “Or perhaps you’re wondering how I know. Because I do know; there’s no guessing involved. At first, I thought it was some caprice of my imagination. After all, how could your knowledge be as deep as, or deeper than, my own, which I’ve spent eight decades acquiring? So I began salting our conversation with little traps. ‘Springes to catch woodcocks,’ as Shakespeare put it.”

  “What traps were those?” Constance asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “You not only knew the exact year absinthe was declared illegal, but you understood what I meant by ‘smothering a parrot’—an expression that hasn’t been used in a hundred years. You use archaic words. The very structure of your sentences is nineteenth-century, and you knew what I meant by a ‘snickersnee.’ You recognized who crafted my antiques, who painted my paintings—even when you di
dn’t voice a name, I could see it in your expression. You can run circles around me in Latin and ancient Greek.” The old lady leaned in slightly. “No one can absorb so much knowledge in twenty-odd years. But what really betrayed you, my dear, were your eyes.”

  “What about them?”

  “They are not the eyes of a young woman. Your eyes could be those of an old woman—they could be mine—except they reflect even deeper experience. They are the eyes of…a sphinx.”

  Constance had no answer.

  “So,” Miss Frost went on, “I’m fascinated. Captivated. Entranced. I want to know the mechanism. I want to know how you did it.”

  Quite abruptly, Constance stood up.

  “Are you forfeiting, Miss Greene?” she asked. “There’s still so much we can learn—from each other.”

  Constance remained motionless. Then, slowly, she sat down again.

  “You owe me an answer, my dear,” Frost said.

  “The answer is…” Constance stopped for a moment. “True.”

  The old woman’s eyes went wide. “Really!”

  Constance volunteered nothing else.

  “Go on. As I said, I want to know the mechanism.” When silence was the only reply, she said: “It’s only fair—”

  “My life span was unnaturally extended by a scientific experiment—one that took place over a century ago.”

  This was said in a completely expressionless voice. Frost’s eyes went wider still. She looked like a medium who’d just discovered that her fake crystal ball did, in fact, have magical properties. “Oh, my good Lord.” Then, summoning her wits again, she asked: “And were you grateful for this gift?”

  “The doctor who extended my life killed my sister while perfecting his experiments. He was…more successful with me.” And with that, Constance stood up again—even more abruptly—turned her back on Frost, and exited the woman’s chambers.

  39

  WE’VE GOT A BIT of a shitshow on our hands,” Delaplane told the group assembled in the Savannah PD briefing room. Sheldrake was at her side, and Coldmoon sat unobtrusively with Pendergast in the back as the commander reviewed the case. “You saw, or heard about, the scene at the cemetery. And no doubt you saw the national news this morning, with those ghost photos on every news channel. We need to show some progress here, people.”

  They were pretty damn unsettling pictures, Coldmoon thought, and he wondered how that German guy, Moller, had pulled off that level of fakery. Assuming they were fakes. He’d caught the beginning of Moller’s dog-and-pony show in the cemetery, before Pendergast had dragged him away. Now he wished they’d stuck around.

  Delaplane went through a brief summary of the case so far, making notations on a whiteboard. Sheldrake spoke for a few minutes about its unusual and contradictory aspects—including a brief mention of the logistics of moving the victims from where they were attacked to where the bodies were found.

  As they were finishing up, there was a stir at the door. Coldmoon glanced over. A group of men in dark suits had walked in, led by a boss man in dark glasses. He’s either a politician or mobbed up, thought Coldmoon as the man strode toward the front of the room as if he owned the place. A camera crew also appeared in the doorway and were filming—not the jackasses doing the documentary, but another crew evidently towed in by the boss guy.

  Delaplane stared at the intruders and then—in a voice that wasn’t exactly warm with welcome—said: “Welcome, Senator.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” said the man, turning to the group of police officers and flashing a smile of the whitest, straightest teeth Coldmoon had ever seen. He sported an artificial tan, hair implants, and, Coldmoon guessed, a face lift. The man was built like a linebacker, his suit straining at the seams, movie-star handsome, midfifties. His only drawback was a nose with a spiderweb of veins. “I’m here in my capacity as the senior senator of the great state of Georgia to offer our assistance in getting this heinous case solved.” He looked at the camera with a smile. “I’m a strong supporter of local law enforcement, one hundred percent.” He turned again and addressed Delaplane. “How is the investigation going, Commander?”

  “We were just finishing a briefing on new developments in the case,” she said.

  “Are there new developments?”

  “We’re working on a number of lines of inquiry,” said Delaplane evenly.

  “I’m glad to hear that, because naturally I’ve been concerned.” He paused. “As you know, I’ll be holding an outdoor campaign rally in Forsyth Park tomorrow night.”

  “We’re well aware of that, Senator. We’re providing security.”

  “That’s the issue right there: security. I know you’ve all been working overtime on this case, but as you can see, it’s now become a national story, and it isn’t exactly casting a favorable light on either your city or our state. We need to see some real progress on getting this solved—before the rally. Am I clear, ladies and gentlemen?”

  Coldmoon could see that the rank and file of the SPD were not at all happy with the senator barging into their meeting. A chilly silence filled the room.

  “I just wanted to say that you’ve got my support,” the senator went on, raising his voice. “I’m going to make sure that, up in Washington, we’re going to throw all our resources into solving these heinous murders. So whatever you need, Commander, just call and let me know. We’ve got your back, I promise you that.”

  “Thank you, Senator,” said Delaplane.

  “Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen of law enforcement: God bless you all!”

  He made a quick hand gesture and the cameras stopped filming. The smile instantly vanished. He turned and headed back toward the door with his entourage. But instead of leaving, the senator detoured and came up to where Pendergast and Coldmoon were sitting. “Could I see you two gentlemen outside?”

  Pendergast rose without a word and Coldmoon did likewise. They exited the police station into the parking lot, baking in the heat. The senator’s black SUV was parked illegally in front of the station, along with several other staff cars.

  Once outside, the senator turned to Pendergast. “So you’re the two agents Pickett’s assigned to this case.” He looked at them, one after the other. “You must be Agent Pendergast.”

  Pendergast inclined his head.

  “They tell me you’re the best. That you always solve your cases. That there’s no smarter agent in the Bureau to handle this sort of thing.”

  Pendergast remained still, face betraying nothing.

  “To be frank, all I’ve seen so far is a whole lot of zilch. No arrests, no leads, no nothing. Oh: except, of course, for the raid on a bunch of old swingers wallowing in duck blood. And when I woke up yesterday, what did I see on the morning news? Pictures of ghosts, and Savannah the laughingstock of the nation. ‘The Savannah Vampire’—Christ. May I ask, Agent Pendergast, what you and your partner have been doing in the past ten days or so?”

  “You may ask,” said Pendergast.

  Drayton waited, but Pendergast apparently had finished speaking.

  The senator stepped closer. “Let me explain something to you, Pendergast. You heard what I said back there. I’ve got a rally coming up that’s crucial to my re-election. I can’t have anything interfering with or depressing attendance. I can’t do anything to reprimand you about your failure to move this case forward, you or your partner here. Frankly, you’re too low-level, and I can’t reach down that far. But your boss, Pickett—who assured me you’d solve the case, who sang your praises, and who’s been covering for you—well, he was up for promotion to associate deputy director. Note my use of the past tense.”

  Coldmoon felt his blood rise up. While he didn’t like Pickett, he felt a loyalty to the Bureau, and he took deep offense at this political hack making threats. But Pendergast said nothing.

  “You understand what I’m saying, Pendergast?”

  “Naturally.”

  This was too much. “I’m sorry to hear, Senator,�
� Coldmoon said, “that your re-election campaign isn’t going well.”

  Drayton turned two small, squinty, rage-filled eyes on him. “You insolent bastard. Maybe I can do something about squashing a low-level bug like you.”

  “Go ahead,” said Coldmoon.

  Drayton gave a smile, exposing his rack of snowy teeth. “You’re both going to find out what it means to disrespect a sitting U.S. senator, that I can tell you.”

  “If you’re still sitting after the election,” said Coldmoon.

  “Oh, believe me, the shit’s going to rain on you sooner than that, Agent—” He paused and picked up the ID hanging on his lanyard, then let it drop. “Coldmoon.”

  At this, Drayton snapped his fingers over his head and spun around. The gesture sent his minions rushing to the SUV, some opening the door for him while he climbed inside as the rest of the retinue swarmed into the other vehicles.

  Coldmoon tried to take a few measured breaths and calm himself down. He glanced at Pendergast, but the man’s face was as distant and neutral as ever.

  “There goes the Lord of the Douchebags,” said Coldmoon as they watched the entourage pull out of the parking lot, light bar flashing.

  “You should meet my friend Lieutenant D’Agosta of the NYPD,” said Pendergast mildly. “He, too, has a remarkable store of colorful expressions.”

  “And here I’ve been holding back.” Coldmoon was still watching the receding vehicles. “You know, that guy really needs to be struck by lightning.”

  “Patience, Agent Coldmoon.”

  He swiveled toward Pendergast. “What does that mean?”

  “Someone with his level of hubris and narcissism almost inevitably orchestrates their own downfall.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Coldmoon asked.

  “Then I shall have to arrange for him to be caught en dasha belle.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a rather rude expression. Let me put it this way: you are named Armstrong because one of your ancestors supposedly killed General Custer. Right?”

  “There’s no ‘supposedly’ about it.”

  “As you wish. The point is: if Squire Drayton does not manage to disgrace himself, then I’ll personally make sure he meets his own Little Bighorn.”