Fever Dream

by Douglas Preston

  “And when we find the killer? What then?”

  “We will see to it that justice is served.”

  “Meaning?”

  Pendergast sloshed more brandy into the glass with a fierce gesture, gulped it down, and fixed D’Agosta once again with those cold, platinum eyes.

  “We kill him.”

  7

  THE ROLLS-ROYCE TORE UP PARK AVENUE, LATE-CRUISING cabs flashing by in blurs of yellow. D’Agosta sat in the back with Pendergast, feeling awkward, trying not to turn a curious eye toward the FBI agent. This Pendergast was impatient, unkempt, and—most remarkable—openly emotional.

  “When did you find out?” he ventured to ask.

  “This afternoon.”

  “How’d you figure it out?”

  Pendergast did not answer immediately, glancing out the window as the Rolls turned sharply onto 72nd Street, heading toward the park. He placed the empty brandy glass—which he had been holding, unheeded, the entire uptown journey—back into its position in the tiny bar. Then he took a deep breath. “Twelve years ago, Helen and I were asked to kill a man-eating lion in Zambia—a lion with an unusual red mane. Just such a lion had wreaked havoc in the area forty years before.”

  “Why did you get asked?”

  “Part of having a professional hunting license. You’re obligated to kill any beasts menacing the villages or camps, if the authorities request it.” Pendergast was still looking out the window. “The lion had killed a German tourist at a safari camp. Helen and I drove over from our own camp to put it down.”

  He picked up the brandy bottle, looked at it, put it back into its holder. The big car was now moving through Central Park, the skeletal branches overhead framing a threatening night sky. “The lion charged us from deep cover, attacked me and the tracker. As he ran back into the bush, Helen shot at him and apparently missed. She went to attend to the tracker…” His voice wavered and he stopped, composing himself. “She went to attend to the tracker and the lion burst out of the brush a second time. It dragged her off. That was the last time I saw her. Alive, anyway.”

  “Oh, my God.” D’Agosta felt a thrill of horror course through him.

  “Just this afternoon, at our old family plantation, I happened to examine her gun. And I discovered that—on that morning, twelve years ago—somebody had taken the bullets from her gun and replaced them with blanks. She hadn’t missed the shot—because there was no shot.”

  “Holy shit. You sure?”

  Now Pendergast looked away from the window to fix him with a stare. “Vincent, would I be telling you this—would I be here now—if I wasn’t absolutely sure?”

  “Sorry.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “You just discovered it this afternoon in New Orleans?”

  Pendergast nodded tersely. “I chartered a private jet back.”

  The Rolls pulled up before the 72nd Street entrance of the Dakota. Almost before the vehicle had come to a stop Pendergast was out. He strode past the guardhouse and through the vaulted stone archway of the carriage entrance, ignoring the fat drops of rain that were now splattering the sidewalk. D’Agosta followed at a jog as the agent strode across a wide interior courtyard, past manicured plants and muttering bronze fountains, to a narrow lobby in the southwest corner of the apartment building. He pressed the elevator button, the doors whispered open, and they ascended in silence. A minute later the doors opened again on a small space, a single door set into the far wall. It had no obvious locking mechanism, but when Pendergast moved his fingertips across the surface in an odd gesture D’Agosta heard the unmistakable click of a deadlock springing free. Pendergast pushed the door open, and the reception room came into view: dimly lit, with three rose-painted walls and a fourth wall of black marble, covered by a thin sheet of falling water.

  Pendergast gestured at the black leather sofas arrayed around the room. “Take a seat. I’ll be back shortly.”

  D’Agosta sat down as the FBI agent slipped through a door in one of the walls. He sat back, taking in the soft gurgle of water, the bonsai plants, the smell of lotus blossoms. The walls of the building were so thick, he could barely hear the opening peals of thunder outside. Everything about the room seemed designed to induce tranquility. Yet tranquil was the last thing he felt. He wondered again just how he’d swing a sudden leave of absence—with his boss, and especially with Laura Hayward.

  It was ten minutes before Pendergast reappeared. He had shaved and changed into a fresh black suit. He also seemed more composed, more like the old Pendergast—although D’Agosta could still sense a great tension under the surface.

  “Thank you for waiting, Vincent,” he said, beckoning. “Let us proceed.”

  D’Agosta followed the agent down a long hallway, as dimly lit as the reception room. He glanced curiously left and right: at a library; a room hung with oil paintings floor-to-ceiling; a wine cellar. Pendergast stopped at the only closed door in the hallway, opening it with the same strange movement of his fingers against the wood. The room beyond was barely large enough for the table and two chairs that it contained. A large steel bank-style vault, at least four feet in width, dominated one of the side walls.

  Again Pendergast motioned D’Agosta to take a seat, then vanished into the hall. Within moments he returned, a leather Gladstone bag in one hand. He set this on the table, opened it, and drew out a rack of test tubes and several glass-stoppered bottles, which he arrayed carefully on the polished wood. His hand trembled once—only once—and the test tubes clinked quietly in response. After the apparatus was unpacked, Pendergast turned to the vault and with five or six turns of the dial unlocked it. As he swung the heavy door open, D’Agosta could see a grid of metal-fronted containers within, not unlike safe-deposit boxes. Pendergast selected one, withdrew it, and placed it on the table. Then, closing the vault, he took the seat opposite D’Agosta.

  For a long moment, he remained motionless. Then came another rumble of thunder, muffled and distant, and it seemed to rouse him. He removed a white silk handkerchief from the Gladstone bag and spread it on the table. Then he slid the steel box closer, lifted its lid, and took from it two items: a tuft of coarse red hair and a gold ring, set with a beautiful star sapphire. He took away the tuft of hair with a set of forceps; the ring he gently removed with his bare hand, in a gesture so unconsciously tender D’Agosta felt himself pierced to the heart.

  “These are the items I took from Helen’s corpse,” Pendergast said. The indirect lighting exaggerated the hollows of his drawn face. “I haven’t looked at these in almost twelve years. Her wedding ring… and the tuft of mane she tore from the lion as it devoured her. I found it clutched in her severed left hand.”

  D’Agosta winced. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “I’m going to play a hunch.” Opening the glass-stoppered bottles, Pendergast poured a selection of different powders into the test tubes. Then, using the forceps, he pulled bits of mane from the reddish tuft and dropped a few strands carefully into each tube in turn. Finally, he pulled a small brown bottle from the bag, its top sealed with a rubber eyedropper. He unscrewed the eyedropper from the bottle and let several drops of clear liquid fall into each tube. There was no obvious reaction in the first four test tubes. But in the fifth, the liquid immediately turned a pale green, the color of green tea. Pendergast stared intently at this tube for a moment. Then, using a pipette, he removed a small sample of the liquid and applied it to a small strip of paper he took from the bag.

  “A pH of three point seven,” he said, examining the strip of paper. “Precisely the kind of mild acid required to release the lawsone molecules from the leaf.”

  “The leaf of what?” D’Agosta asked. “What is it?”

  Pendergast glanced from the strip of paper to him and back again. “I could do further tests, but there seems little point. The mane of the lion that killed my wife had been treated with molecules originally from the plant Lawsonia inermis. More commonly known as henna.”<
br />
  “Henna?” D’Agosta repeated. “You mean the mane was dyed red?”

  “Precisely.” And Pendergast looked up again. “Proctor will drive you home. I can spare you three hours to make the necessary arrangements—not a minute more.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Vincent, we’re headed for Africa.”

  8

  D’AGOSTA STOOD, A LITTLE UNCERTAINLY, IN THE hallway of the tidy two-bedroom he shared with Laura Hayward. It was technically her apartment, but recently he’d finally begun splitting the rent with her. Just getting her to concede to that had taken months. Now he fervently hoped this sudden turn of events wouldn’t undo all the hard work he’d put into repairing their relationship.

  He stared through the doorway into the master bedroom. Hayward was sitting up in bed, delicious looking despite having been roused from a sound sleep a quarter of an hour earlier. The clock on the dresser read ten minutes to six. Remarkable, how his whole life had been turned upside down in just ninety minutes.

  She returned his look, her expression unreadable. “So that’s it?” she said. “Pendergast arrives out of nowhere with some crazy story, and, wham, you’re going to let him spirit you off?”

  “Laura, he’s just found out his wife was murdered. He feels I’m the only one who can help him do this.”

  “Help? What about helping yourself? You know, you’re still pulling yourself out of the hole you got in over the Diogenes case—a hole that, by the way, Pendergast dug for you.”

  “He’s my friend,” D’Agosta replied. It sounded lame even to his own ears.

  “This is unbelievable.” She shook out her long black hair. “When I go to sleep, you’re called out on a routine homicide. Now I wake up to find you packing for a trip—and you can’t even tell me when you’ll be back?”

  “Honey, it won’t be that long. My job here is important to me, too.”

  “And me? What about me? The job isn’t the only thing you’re walking out on here.”

  D’Agosta stepped into the room, sat down on the edge of the bed. “I swore I’d never lie to you, ever again. That’s why I’m telling you everything. Look—you’re the most important thing in my life.” He took a breath. “If you tell me to stay, I’ll stay.”

  For a minute, she just stared back at him. Then her expression softened and she shook her head. “You know I can’t do that. I couldn’t put myself between you and this—this task.”

  He took her hand. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. And I’ll call you every day.”

  With a fingertip she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Have you told Glen yet?”

  “No. I came here directly from Pendergast’s apartment.”

  “Well, you’d better call him and break the news that you’re taking a leave of absence, date of return unknown. You realize he might say no—and then what?”

  “It’s something I’ve just got to do.”

  Hayward pulled back the covers, swung her legs out of the bed. As his eyes drifted to them, D’Agosta felt a sudden sting of desire. How could he leave this beautiful woman, even for a day—let alone a week, a month… a year?

  “I’ll help you pack,” she said.

  He cleared his throat. “Laura—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “It’s better if you don’t say any more.”

  He nodded.

  She leaned toward him, kissed him lightly. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself. I don’t much mind if Pendergast gets himself killed on this wild goose chase. But if anything happens to you, I’ll be very angry. And you know how ugly that can get.”

  9

  THE ROLLS, PROCTOR AGAIN AT THE WHEEL, hummed along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway south of the Brooklyn Bridge. D’Agosta watched a pair of tugboats pushing a giant barge heaped with cubed cars up the East River, leaving a frothy wake behind. It had all happened so fast, he still wasn’t quite able to wrap his head around it. They were heading for JFK, but first—Pendergast explained—they would have to make a brief, but necessary, detour.

  “Vincent,” said Pendergast, sitting across from him, “we must prepare ourselves for a deterioration. They tell me Great-Aunt Cornelia has been poorly of late.”

  D’Agosta shifted in his seat. “I’m not sure I get why it’s so important to see her.”

  “It’s just possible she can shed some light on the situation. Helen was a great favorite of hers. Also, I wish to consult her on a few points regarding some family history that may—I fear—have bearing on the murder.”

  D’Agosta grunted. He didn’t care much about Great-Aunt Cornelia—in fact he couldn’t stand the murderous old witch—and his few visits to the Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane had not exactly been pleasant. But it was always better, when working with Pendergast, to go with the flow.

  Exiting the expressway, they worked their way through various side streets and eventually crossed a narrow bridge over to Little Governor’s Island, the road meandering through marshland and meadows, hung with morning mists that drifted among the cattails. A colonnade of old oaks appeared on either side of the road, once part of the magnificent approach to a grand estate, the trees now reduced to a series of dead claws held against the sky.

  Proctor stopped at a guardhouse, and the uniformed man stepped out. “Why, Mr. Pendergast, that was quick.” He waved them through without the usual formalities of signing them in.

  “What’d he mean by that?” D’Agosta asked, looking over his shoulder at the guard.

  “I have no idea.”

  Proctor parked in the small lot and they got out. Passing through the front door, D’Agosta was mildly surprised to see the attendant missing from the ornate reception desk, with some evidence of hurry and confusion. As they cast about for someone to speak with, a rattling gurney approached down the marble transverse hall, carrying a body draped in a black sheet, being wheeled by two burly attendants. D’Agosta could see an ambulance pulling into the porte cochere, with no siren or flashing lights to indicate any hurry.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pendergast!” Dr. Ostrom, Great-Aunt Cornelia’s attending physician, appeared in the foyer and hastened over, his hand extended, a look of surprise and consternation blooming on his face. “This is… well, I was just about to telephone you. Please come with me.”

  They followed the doctor down the once-elegant hallway, somewhat reduced now to institutional austerity. “I have some unfortunate news,” he said as they walked along. “Your great-aunt passed away not thirty minutes ago.”

  Pendergast stopped. He let out a slow breath, and his shoulders slumped visibly. D’Agosta realized with a shudder that the body they had seen was probably hers.

  “Natural causes?” Pendergast asked in a low monotone.

  “More or less. The fact is, she’d been increasingly anxious and delusional these past few days.”

  Pendergast seemed to consider this a moment. “Any delusions in particular?”

  “Nothing worth repeating, the usual family themes.”

  “Nevertheless, I should like to hear about them.”

  Ostrom seemed reluctant to proceed. “She believed… believed that a fellow named, ah, Ambergris was coming to Mount Mercy to exact revenge on her for an atrocity she claims to have committed years ago.”

  Once again, they resumed walking down the corridor. “Did she go into any detail on this atrocity?” Pendergast asked.

  “It was all quite fantastical. Something about punishing some child for swearing by…” A second hesitation. “Well, by splitting his tongue with a razor.”

  An ambiguous head movement from Pendergast. D’Agosta felt his own tongue curling at the thought.

  “At any rate,” Ostrom continued, “she became violent—more violent, that is, than usual—and had to be completely restrained. And medicated. At the time of this alleged appointment with Ambergris, she had a series of seizures and pas
sed away abruptly. Ah, here we are.”

  He entered a small room, windowless and sparely furnished with antique, unframed paintings and various soft knickknacks—nothing, D’Agosta noted, that could be fashioned into a weapon or cause harm. Even the stretchers had been removed from the canvases, the paintings hung on the wall with kite string. As D’Agosta looked around at the bed, the table, silk flowers in a basket, a peculiar butterfly-shaped stain on the wall, it all seemed so forlorn. He suddenly felt sorry for the homicidal old lady.

  “There is the question of the disposition of the personal effects,” the doctor went on. “I understand these paintings are quite valuable.”

  “They are,” said Pendergast. “Send them over to the nineteenth-century painting department at Christie’s for public auction, and consider the proceeds a donation to your good work.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Pendergast. Would you care to order an autopsy? When a patient dies in custody, you have the legal right—”

  Pendergast interrupted him with a brusque wave of his hand. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “And the funeral arrangements—?”

  “There will be no funeral. The family attorney, Mr. Ogilby, will be in touch with you about disposition of the remains.”

  “Very well.”

  Pendergast looked around the room for a moment, as if committing its details to memory. Then he turned to D’Agosta. His expression was neutral, but his eyes spoke of sorrow, even desolation.

  “Vincent,” he said. “We have a plane to catch.”

  10

  Zambia

  THE SMILING, GAP-TOOTHED MAN AT THE DIRT airstrip had called the vehicle a Land Rover. That description, D’Agosta thought as he hung on for dear life, was more than charitable. Whatever it might have been, now it barely deserved to be called an automobile. It had no windows, no roof, no radio, and no seat belts. The hood was fixed to the grille by a tangle of baling wire. He could see the dirt road below through giant rust holes in the chassis.