Fever Dream p-10

by Douglas Preston;Lincoln Child

"Thank you, Maurice, we're fine for the moment," said Pendergast.

  "Very good, sir."

  "What have you come up with?" D'Agosta asked.

  For a moment, Pendergast did not respond. Then, very slowly, he interlaced his fingers, placed his hands in his lap. "I visited the Bayou Grand Hotel, formerly the site of the Meuse St. Claire sanatorium, where Audubon painted the Black Frame. My wife had been there, asking about the painting. This was, perhaps, a few months after she first met me. Another man--an art collector or dealer, apparently of dubious repute--had also made inquiries about the painting, a year or so before Helen."

  "So others were curious about the Black Frame."

  "Very curious, it would seem. I also managed to find a few odd papers of interest in the basement of the sanatorium. Discussing the course of Audubon's illness, his treatment, that sort of thing." Pendergast reached for a leather portfolio, opened it, and pulled out an ancient sheet of paper enclosed in plastic, stained and yellow, missing its lower half to rot. "Here's a report on Audubon written by Dr. Arne Torgensson, his attending physician at the sanatorium. I'll read the relevant part." The patient is much improved, both in the strength of his limbs and in his mental state. He is now ambulatory and has been amusing the other patients with stories of his adventures along the Frontier. Last week he sent out for paints, a stretcher and canvas, and began painting. And what a painting it is! The vigor of the brush strokes, the unusual palette, is quite remarkable. It depicts a most unusual...

  Pendergast returned the sheet to the portfolio. "As you can see, the critical section is missing: a description of the painting. No one knows the subject."

  D'Agosta took a sip of the tea, wishing it was a Bud. "Seems like a no-brainer to me. The painting was of the Carolina Parakeet."

  "Your reasoning, Vincent?"

  "That's why she stole the birds from Oakley Plantation. To trace--or, more likely, identify--the painting."

  "The logic is faulty. Why steal the birds? Simply observing a specimen would be sufficient."

  "Not if you're in competition, it wouldn't," D'Agosta said. "Others wanted the painting, too. In a high-stakes game, any edge you can give yourself--or deny others--you're gonna grab. In fact, that just might point to who mur--" But here he stopped abruptly, unwilling to voice this new speculation aloud.

  Pendergast's penetrating glance showed he had divined his meaning. "With this painting, we just might have something that so far has escaped us." And here his voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Motive."

  The room went quiet.

  At last, Pendergast stirred. "Let us not get ahead of ourselves." He opened the portfolio again, withdrew another tattered scrap of paper. "I also recovered this, part of what is apparently Audubon's discharge report. Again, it is a mere fragment." ... was discharged from care on the fourteenth day of November, 1821. On his departure he gave a painting, only just completed, to Dr. Torgensson, director of Meuse St. Claire, in gratitude for nursing him back to health. A small group of doctors and patients attended the discharge and many farewells were...

  Pendergast dropped the fragment back into the portfolio and closed it with an air of finality.

  "Any idea where the painting is now?" D'Agosta asked.

  "The doctor retired to Port Royal, which will be my next stop." He paused. "There is one other item of at least tangential interest. Do you recall Helen's brother, Judson, mentioning that Helen once took a trip to New Madrid, Missouri?"

  "Yes."

  "New Madrid was the site of a very powerful earthquake in 1812, greater than eight point zero on the Richter scale--so powerful that it created a series of new lakes and changed the course of the Mississippi River. Approximately half the town was destroyed. There is one other salient fact."

  "And that is--?"

  "John James Audubon was in New Madrid at the time of the earthquake."

  D'Agosta sat back in his chair. "Meaning?"

  Pendergast spread his hands. "Coincidence? Perhaps."

  "I've been trying to find out more about Audubon," said D'Agosta, "but to tell the truth I was never a good student. What do you know about him?"

  "Now, a great deal. Let me give you a precis." Pendergast paused, composing his thoughts. "Audubon was the illegitimate son of a French sea captain and his mistress. Born in Haiti, he was raised in France by his stepmother and sent to America at the age of eighteen to escape conscription in Napoleon's army. He lived near Philadelphia, where he took an interest in studying and drawing birds and married a local girl, Lucy Bakewell. They moved to the Kentucky frontier where he set up a store, but he spent most of his time collecting, dissecting, stuffing, and mounting birds. He drew and painted them as a hobby, but his early work was weak and tentative, and his sketches--many of which survive--were as lifeless as the dead birds he was drawing.

  "Audubon proved to be an indifferent businessman, and in 1820, when his shop went bankrupt, he moved his family to a shabby Creole cottage on Dauphine Street, New Orleans, where they lived in penury."

  "Dauphine Street," murmured D'Agosta. "So that's how he got to know your family?"

  "Yes. He was a charming fellow, dashing, handsome, a superb shot and expert swordsman. He and my great-great-grandfather Boethius became friends and often went shooting together. In early 1821, Audubon fell gravely ill--so ill he had to be taken by horse-drawn cart, comatose, to Meuse St. Claire. There he had a long convalescence. As you already know, during his recovery he painted the work called the Black Frame, subject unknown.

  "When he recovered, still flat broke, Audubon suddenly conceived the idea to depict America's entire avifauna in life size--every bird species in the country--compiled into a grand work of natural history. While Lucy supported the family as a tutor, Audubon traipsed off with his gun and a box of artist's colors and paper. He hired an assistant and floated down the Mississippi. He painted hundreds of birds, creating brilliantly vibrant portraits of them in their native settings--something that had never been done before."

  Pendergast took a sip of tea, then continued. "In 1826, he went to England, where he found a printer to make copper-plate engravings from his watercolors. Then he crisscrossed America and Europe, finding subscribers for the book that would ultimately become The Birds of America. The last print was struck in 1838, by which time Audubon had achieved great fame. A few years later, he began work on another highly ambitious project, The Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America. But his mind began to fail, and the book had to be completed by his sons. The poor man suffered a hideous mental decline and spent his last years in raving madness, dying at sixty-five in New York City."

  D'Agosta gave a low whistle. "Interesting story."

  "Indeed."

  "And nobody has any idea what became of the Black Frame?"

  Pendergast shook his head. "It's the Holy Grail of Audubon researchers, it seems. I'll visit Arne Torgensson's house tomorrow. It's an easy drive, a few miles west of Port Allen. I hope to pick up the trail of the painting from there."

  "But based on the dates you've mentioned, you believe--" D'Agosta stopped, searching for the most tactful way to phrase the question. "You believe your wife's interest in Audubon and the Black Frame... started before she met you?"

  Pendergast did not reply.

  "If I'm going to help you," D'Agosta said, "you can't clam up every time I broach an awkward subject."

  Pendergast sighed. "You are quite right. It does seem that Helen was fascinated--perhaps obsessed--by Audubon from early in life. This desire to learn more about Audubon, to be closer to his work, led--in part--to our meeting. It seems she was particularly interested in finding the Black Frame."

  "Why keep her interest a secret from you?"

  "I believe--" he paused, his voice hoarse, "--she did not wish me to know that our relationship was not founded on a happy accident, but rather a meeting that she had intentionally--perhaps even cynically--engineered." Pendergast's face was so dark, D'Agosta was almost sorry he'd asked the question.


  "If she was racing someone else to find the Black Frame," D'Agosta said, "she might have felt herself in danger. In the weeks before her death, did her behavior change? Was she nervous, agitated?"

  Pendergast answered slowly. "Yes. I always assumed it was some work-related complication, getting ready for the safari." He shook his head.

  "Did she do anything out of the ordinary?"

  "I wasn't around Penumbra much those last few weeks."

  Over his shoulder, D'Agosta heard the clearing of a throat. Maurice again.

  "I just wanted to inform you that I'm turning in for the night," the retainer said. "Will there be anything else?"

  "Just one thing, Maurice," Pendergast said. "In the weeks leading up to my final trip with Helen, I was away a good deal of the time."

  "In New York," Maurice said, nodding. "Making preparations for the safari."

  "Did my wife say, or do, anything out of the ordinary while I was away? Get any mail or telephone calls that upset her, for example?"

  The old manservant thought. "Not that I can remember, sir. Though she did seem rather agitated, especially after that trip."

  "Trip?" Pendergast asked. "What trip?"

  "One morning, her car woke me up as it headed down the drive--you recall how loud it was, sir. No note, no warning, nothing. It was around seven o'clock on a Sunday morning, I recall. Two nights later she came back. Not a word about where she'd been. But I recollect she wasn't herself. Upset about something, but wouldn't say a word about it."

  "I see," Pendergast said, exchanging glances with D'Agosta. "Thank you, Maurice."

  "Not at all, sir. Good night." And the old factotum turned and vanished down the hall on silent feet.

  22

  D'AGOSTA EXITED I-10 ONTO THE BELLE CHASSE Highway, barreling along the nearly empty road. It was another warm February day, and he had the windows down and the radio set to a classic rock-and-roll station. He felt better than he had in days. As the car sang along the highway, he guzzled a Krispy Kreme coffee and snugged the cup back into the holder. The two pumpkin spice doughnuts had really hit the spot, calories be damned. Nothing could dampen his spirits.

  The evening before he'd spent an hour talking to Laura Hayward. That started the upswing. Then he'd enjoyed a long, dreamless sleep. He woke up to find Pendergast already gone and Maurice waiting for him with a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and grits. Next, he'd driven into town, where he'd scored big with the Sixth District of the New Orleans Police Department. At first, on learning of his connection to the Pendergast family, they'd been suspicious, but when they found he was a regular guy, their attitude changed. He was given free use of their computer facilities, where it took less than ninety minutes to track down the dealer long interested in the Black Frame: John W. Blast, current residence Sarasota, Florida. He was an unsavory character indeed. Five arrests over the past ten years: suspicion of blackmail; suspicion of forgery; possession of stolen property; possession of prohibited wildlife products; assault and battery. Either he had money or good lawyers, or both, because he'd beaten the rap every time. D'Agosta had printed out the details, stuffed them into his jacket pocket, and--hungry again despite breakfast--hit the local Krispy Kreme before heading back to Penumbra.

  Pendergast, he knew, would be eager to hear about this.

  As he pulled up the drive of the old plantation, he saw that Pendergast had beaten him home: the Rolls-Royce sat in the shade of the cypress trees. Parking beside it, D'Agosta crunched his way across the gravel, then climbed the steps to the covered porch. He stepped into the entry hall, closing the front door behind him.

  "Pendergast?" he called.

  No reply.

  He walked down the hallway, peering into the various public rooms. They were all dark and empty.

  "Pendergast?" he called once more.

  Perhaps he's gone out for a stroll, D'Agosta thought. Nice enough day for it.

  He went briskly up the stairs, turned sharply at the landing, then stopped abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a familiar silhouette sitting silently in the parlor. It was Pendergast, occupying the same chair he'd sat in the previous night. The parlor lights were off, and the FBI agent was in darkness.

  "Pendergast?" D'Agosta said. "I thought you were out, and--"

  He stopped when he saw the agent's face. It carried an expression of blankness that gave him pause. He took the adjoining seat, his good mood snuffed out. "What's going on?" he asked.

  Then Pendergast took a slow breath. "I went to Torgensson's house, Vincent. There's no painting."

  "No painting?"

  "The house is now a funeral home. The interior was gutted--right down to the structural studs and beams--to make way for the new business. There's nothing. Nothing." Pendergast's lips tightened. "The trail simply ends."

  "Well, what about the doctor? He must have moved someplace else; we can pick up the trail there."

  Another pause, longer than before. "Dr. Arne Torgensson died in 1852. Destitute, driven mad by syphilis. But not before he'd sold off the contents of his house, piecemeal, to innumerable unknown buyers."

  "If he sold the painting, there should be a record of it."

  Pendergast fixed him with a baleful stare. "There are no records. He might have traded the painting to pay for coal. He might have torn it to shreds in his insanity. It might have outlived him and perished in the renovations. I've hit a brick wall."

  And so he'd given up, D'Agosta thought. Come home, to sit in the dark parlor. In all the years he'd known Pendergast, he'd never seen the agent so low. And yet the facts didn't warrant this sort of despair.

  "Helen was tracking the painting, too," D'Agosta said, rather more sharply than he intended. "You've been searching for it--what, a couple of days? She didn't give up for years."

  Pendergast did not respond.

  "All right, let's take another approach. Instead of tracking the painting, we'll track your wife. This last trip she took, where she was gone for two or three days? Maybe it had something to do with the Black Frame."

  "Even if you're right," Pendergast said. "That trip is a dozen years in the past."

  "We can always try," D'Agosta said. "And then we can pay a visit to Mr. John W. Blast, retired art dealer, of Sarasota."

  The faintest spark of interest flickered in Pendergast's eyes.

  D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. "That's right. He's the other guy who was chasing for the Black Frame. You're wrong when you say we've hit a wall."

  "She could have gone anywhere in those three days," Pendergast said.

  "What the hell? You're just giving up?" D'Agosta stared at Pendergast. Then he turned, stuck his head out into the hall. "Maurice? Yo! Maurice!" Where was the man when you finally needed him?

  For a moment, silence. Then, a faint banging in the far spaces of the mansion. A minute later, feet sounded on the back stairway. Maurice appeared around the bend of the corridor. "I beg your pardon?" he panted as he approached, his eyes wide.

  "That trip of Helen's you mentioned last evening. When she left without warning, was gone for two nights?"

  "Yes?" Maurice nodded.

  "Isn't there anything more about it you can tell us? Gas station receipts, hotel bills?"

  Maurice fell into a silent study, then said: "Nothing, sir."

  "She didn't say anything at all after her return? Not a word?"

  Maurice shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir."

  Pendergast sat, utterly motionless, in his chair. A silent pall settled over the parlor.

  "Come to think of it, there is one thing," Maurice said. "Although I don't think you'll find it of use."

  D'Agosta pounced. "What was it?"

  "Well..." The old servant hesitated. D'Agosta wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him.

  "It's just that... I recollect now that she called me, sir. That first morning, from the road."

  Pendergast slowly rose. "Go on, Maurice," he said quietly.

  "It was getting on toward nine. I was havi
ng coffee in the morning room. The phone rang, and it was Mrs. Pendergast on the line. She'd left her AAA card in her office. She'd had a flat tire and needed the member number." Maurice glanced at Pendergast. "You recall she never could do anything with cars, sir."

  "That's it?"

  Maurice nodded. "I got the card and read her the number. She thanked me."

  "Nothing else?" D'Agosta pressed. "Any background noise? Conversation, maybe?"

  "It was so long ago, sir." Maurice thought hard. "I believe there were traffic noises. Perhaps a honk. She must have been calling from an outdoor phone booth."

  For a moment, nobody spoke. D'Agosta felt hugely deflated.

  "What about her voice?" Pendergast asked. "Did she sound tense or nervous?"

  "No, sir. In fact, now I do recollect--she said it was lucky, her getting the flat where she did."

  "Lucky?" Pendergast repeated. "Why?"

  "Because she could have an egg cream while she waited."

  There was a moment of stasis. And then Pendergast exploded into action. Ducking past D'Agosta and Maurice, he ran to the landing without a word and went tearing down the stairs.

  D'Agosta followed. The central hallway was empty, but he could hear sounds from the library. Stepping into the room, he saw the agent feverishly searching the shelves, throwing books to the floor with abandon. He seized a volume, strode to a nearby table, cleared the surface with a violent sweep of his arm, and flipped through the pages. D'Agosta noticed the book was a Louisiana road atlas. A ruler and pencil appeared in Pendergast's hand and he hunched over the atlas, taking measurements and marking them with a pencil.

  "There it is," he whispered under his breath, stabbing a finger at the page. And without another word he raced out of the library.

  D'Agosta followed the agent through the dining room, the kitchen, the larder, the butler's pantry, and the back kitchen, to the rear door of the plantation house. Pendergast took the back steps two at a time and charged through an expansive garden to a white-painted stable converted to a garage with half a dozen bays. He threw open the doors and disappeared into darkness.