Fever Dream

by Douglas Preston

  Pendergast frowned. “The Audubon double elephant folio?”

  “That’s the one. I’d bring her tea and she wouldn’t even notice I was here. She’d sit turning the pages for hours.”

  Pendergast put down his glass rather abruptly. “Did she ever talk to you about this interest in Audubon? Ask you questions, perhaps?”

  “Now and then, sir. She was fascinated with great-great-grandfather’s friendship with Audubon. It was nice to see her taking such an interest in the family.”

  “Grandfather Boethius?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “When was this, Maurice?” Pendergast asked after a moment.

  “Oh, shortly after you were married, sir. She wanted to see his papers.”

  Pendergast allowed himself a contemplative sip. “Papers? Which ones?”

  “The ones in there, in the drawer below the prints. She was always going through those old documents and diaries. Those, and the book.”

  “Did she ever say why?”

  “I expect she admired those pictures. Those are some lovely birds, Mr. Pendergast.” Maurice took another sip of his sherry. “Say—wasn’t that where you first met her? At the Audubon Cottage on Dauphine Street?”

  “Yes. At a show of Audubon prints. But she exhibited little interest in them at the time. She told me she’d only come for the free wine and cheese.”

  “You know women, sir. They like their little secrets.”

  “So it would seem,” Pendergast replied, very quietly.

  15

  Rockland, Maine

  UNDER ORDINARY CONDITIONS, THE SALTY DOG Tavern would have been just the kind of bar Vincent D’Agosta liked: honest, unassuming, working class, and cheap. But these were not ordinary conditions. He had flown or driven among four cities in as many days; he missed Laura Hayward; and he was tired, bone-tired. Maine in February was not exactly charming. The last thing he felt like doing at the moment was hoisting beers with a bunch of fishermen.

  But he was becoming a little desperate. Rockland had turned out to be a dead end. The old Esterhazy house had changed hands numerous times since the family moved out twenty years ago. Of all the neighbors, only one old spinster seemed to remember the family—and she had shut the door in his face. Newspapers in the public library had no mention of the Esterhazys, and the public records office held nothing pertinent but tax rolls. So much for small-town gossip and nosiness.

  And so D’Agosta found himself resorting to the Salty Dog Tavern, a waterfront dive where—he was informed—the oldest of the old salts hung out. It proved to be a shabby shingled building tucked between two warehouses on the landward end of the commercial fishing wharf. A squall was fast approaching, a few preliminary flakes of snow whirling in from the sea, the wind lashing up spume from the ocean and sending abandoned newspapers tumbling across the rocky strand. Why the hell am I here, anyway? he wondered. But he knew the reason—Pendergast had explained it himself. I’m afraid you’ll have to go, he’d said. I’m too close to the subject. I lack the requisite investigative distance and objectivity.

  Inside the bar it was dark, and the close air smelled of deep-fried fish and stale beer. As D’Agosta’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the bar’s denizens—a bartender and four patrons in peacoats and sou’westers—had stopped talking and were staring at him. Clearly, this was an establishment that catered to regulars. At least it was warm, heat radiating from a woodstove in the middle of the room.

  Taking a seat at the far end of the bar, he nodded to the bartender and asked for a Bud. He made himself inconspicuous, and the conversation gradually resumed. From it, he quickly learned that the four patrons were all fishermen; that the fishing was currently bad; that the fishing was, in fact, always bad.

  He took in the bar as he sipped his beer. The decor was, unsurprisingly, early nautical: shark jaws, huge lobster claws, and photos of fishing boats covered the walls, and nets with colored glass balls hung from the ceiling. A heavy patina of age, smoke, and grime coated every surface.

  He downed one beer, then a second, before deciding it was time to make his move. “Mike,” he said—using the bartender’s Christian name, which he had earlier gleaned from listening to the conversation—“let me buy a round for the house. Have one yourself, while you’re at it.”

  Mike stared at him a moment, then with a gruff word of thanks he complied. There were nods and grunts from the patrons as the drinks were handed out.

  D’Agosta took a big swig of his beer. It was important, he knew, to seem like a regular guy—and in the Salty Dog, that meant not being a piker when it came to drinking. He cleared his throat. “I was wondering,” he said out loud, “if maybe some of you men could help me.”

  The stares returned, some curious, some suspicious. “Help you with what?” said a grizzled man the others had referred to as Hector.

  “There’s a family used to live around here. Name of Esterhazy. I’m trying to track them down.”

  “What’s your name, mister?” asked a fisherman called Ned. He was about five feet tall, with a wind-and sun-wizened face and forearms thick as telephone poles.

  “Martinelli.”

  “You a cop?” Ned asked, frowning.

  D’Agosta shook his head. “Private investigator. It’s about a bequest.”

  “Bequest?”

  “Quite a lot of money. I’ve been hired by the trustees to locate any surviving Esterhazys. If I can’t find them, I can’t give them their inheritance, can I?”

  The bar was silent a minute while the regulars digested this. More than one pair of eyes brightened at the talk of money.

  “Mike, another round, please.” D’Agosta took a generous swig from the foamy mug. “The trustees have also authorized a small honorarium for those who help locate any surviving family members.”

  D’Agosta watched as the fishermen glanced at one another, then back at him. “So,” he said, “can anybody here tell me anything?”

  “Aren’t no Esterhazys in this town anymore,” said Ned.

  “Aren’t no Esterhazys in this entire part of the world anymore,” said Hector. “There wouldn’t be any—not after what happened.”

  “What was that?” D’Agosta asked, trying not to show too much interest.

  More glances among the fishermen. “I don’t know a whole lot,” said Hector. “But they sure left town in a big hurry.”

  “They kept a crazy aunt locked up in the attic,” said the third fisherman. “Had to, after she began killing and eating the dogs in town. Neighbors said they could hear her up there at night, crying and banging on the door, demanding dog meat.”

  “Come on, now, Gary,” said the bartender, with a laugh. “That was just the wife screaming. She was a real harpy. You’ve been watching too many late-night movies.”

  “What really happened,” said Ned, “was the wife tried to poison the husband. Strychnine in his cream of wheat.”

  The bartender shook his head. “Have another beer, Ned. I heard the father lost his money in the stock market—that’s why they blew town in a hurry, owed money all over.”

  “A nasty business,” Hector said, draining his beer. “Very nasty.”

  “What kind of a family were they?” D’Agosta asked.

  One or two of the fishermen looked longingly at the empty glasses they’d downed with frightening rapidity.

  “Mike, set us up again, if you please,” D’Agosta asked the bartender.

  “I heard,” said Ned as he accepted his glass, “that the father was a real bastard. That he beat his wife with an electrical cord. That’s why she poisoned him.”

  The stories just seemed to get wilder and less likely; the one fact Pendergast had been able to pass on was that Helen’s father had been a doctor.

  “That’s not what I heard,” said the bartender. “It was the wife who was crazy. The whole family was afraid of her, tiptoed around for fear of setting her off. And the husband was away a lot. Always traveling. South America, I think.”


  “Any arrests? Police investigations?” D’Agosta already knew the answer: the Esterhazy police record was clean as a whistle. There were no records anywhere of brushes with the law or police responses to domestic trouble. “You mentioned family. There was a son and daughter, wasn’t there?”

  A brief silence. “The son was kind of strange,” said Ned.

  “Ned, the son was junior-class valedictorian,” said Hector.

  Class valedictorian, thought D’Agosta, at least that can be checked out. “And the daughter? What was she like?”

  He was met with shrugs all around. He wondered if the high school would still have the records. “Anybody know where they might be now?”

  Glances were exchanged. “I heard the son was down south somewhere,” said Mike the bartender. “No idea what happened to the daughter.”

  “Esterhazy isn’t a common name,” offered Hector. “Ever think of trying the Internet?”

  D’Agosta looked around at a sea of blank faces. He couldn’t think of any other questions that wouldn’t lead to another chorus of conflicting rumors and unhelpful advice. He also realized—with dismay—that he was slightly drunk.

  He stood, holding the bar to steady himself. “What do I owe you?” he asked Mike.

  “Thirty-two fifty,” came the reply.

  D’Agosta fished two twenties from his wallet and placed them on the bar. “Thank you all for your help,” he said. “Have a good evening.”

  “Say, what about that honorarium?” asked Ned.

  D’Agosta paused, then turned. “Right, the honorarium. Let me give you my cell number. Any of you think of something else—something specific, not just rumors—you give me a call. If it leads to something, you might just get lucky.” He pulled a napkin toward him and wrote down his number.

  The fishermen nodded at him; Hector raised a hand in farewell.

  D’Agosta clutched his coat up around his collar and staggered out of the bar into the stinging blizzard.

  16

  New Orleans

  DESMOND TIPTON LIKED THIS TIME OF DAY more than any other, when the doors were shut and barred, the visitors gone, and every little thing in its place. It was the quiet period, from five to eight, before the drink tourists descended on the French Quarter like the Mongolian hordes of Genghis Khan, infesting the bars and jazz joints, swilling Sazeracs to oblivion. He could hear them outside every night, their boozy voices, whoops, and infantile caterwaulings only partly muffled by the ancient walls of the Audubon Cottage.

  On this particular evening, Tipton had decided to clean the waxwork figure of John James Audubon, who was the centerpiece of and motive purpose behind the museum. In the life-size diorama, the great naturalist sat in his study by the fireplace, sketchboard and pen in hand, making a drawing of a dead bird—a scarlet tanager—on a table. Tipton grabbed the DustBuster and feather duster and climbed over the Plexiglas barrier. He began cleaning Audubon’s clothing, running the little vacuum up and down, and then he turned it on the figure’s beard and hair while whisking bits of dirt from the handsome waxwork face with the feather duster.

  There came a sound. He paused, switching off the DustBuster. It came again: a knock at the front door.

  Irritated, Tipton jammed the switch back on and continued—only to hear a more insistent knocking. This went on almost every night: inebriated morons who, having read the historic plaque affixed beside the door, for some reason decided to knock. For years it had been like that, fewer and fewer visitors during the day, more knocking and revelry at night. The only respite had been the few months after the hurricane.

  Another insistent set of knocks, measured and loud.

  He put down the hand vacuum, climbed back out, and marched over to the door on creaky bow legs. “We’re closed!” he shouted through the oaken door. “Go away or I’ll call the police!”

  “Why, that isn’t you, is it, Mr. Tipton?” came the muffled voice.

  Tipton’s white eyebrows shot up in consternation. Who could it be? The visitors during the day never paid any attention to him, while he assiduously avoided engaging with them, sitting dourly at his desk with his face buried in research.

  “Who is it?” asked Tipton, after he had recovered from his surprise.

  “May we carry on this conversation inside, Mr. Tipton? It’s rather chilly out here.”

  Tipton hesitated, then unbolted the door to see a slender gentleman in a dark suit, pale as a ghost, his silvery eyes gleaming in the twilight of the darkening street. There was something instantly recognizable about the man, unmistakable, and it gave Tipton a start.

  “Mr…. Pendergast?” he ventured, almost in a whisper.

  “The very same.” The man stepped in and took Tipton’s hand, giving it a cool, brief shake. Tipton just stared.

  Pendergast gestured toward the visitor’s chair opposite Tipton’s desk. “May I?”

  Tipton nodded and Pendergast seated himself, throwing one leg over the other. Tipton silently took his own chair.

  “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” said Pendergast.

  “Well, Mr. Pendergast…” Tipton began, his mind awhirl, “I thought—I thought the family was gone… I had no idea…” His voice stammered into silence.

  “The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated.”

  Tipton fumbled in the vest pocket of his dingy three-piece woolen suit, extracted a handkerchief, and patted his brow. “Delighted to see you, just delighted…” Another pat.

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “What brings you back here, if I may ask?” Tipton made an effort to recover himself. He had been curator of the Audubon Cottage for almost fifty years, and he knew a great deal about the Pendergast family. The last thing he’d expected was to see one of them again, in the flesh. He remembered the terrible night of the fire as if it were yesterday: the mob, the screams from the upper stories, the flames leaping into the night sky… Although he’d been a trifle relieved when the surviving family members left the area: the Pendergasts had always given him the willies, especially that strange brother, Diogenes. He had heard rumors that Diogenes had died in Italy. He’d also heard that Aloysius had disappeared. He believed it only too well: it was a family that seemed destined for extinction.

  “Just paying a visit to our little property across the street. Since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d drop in and pay my respects to an old friend. How is the museum business these days?”

  “Property? You mean…”

  “That’s right. The parking lot where Rochenoire once stood. I’ve never been able to let it go, for—for sentimental reasons.” This was followed by a thin smile.

  Tipton nodded. “Of course, of course. As for the museum, you can see, Mr. Pendergast, the neighborhood has changed much for the worse. We don’t get many visitors these days.”

  “It has indeed changed. How pleasant to see the Audubon Cottage museum is still exactly the same.”

  “We try to keep it that way.”

  Pendergast rose, clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you mind? I realize that you’re closed at present, but nevertheless I’d love to take a turn through. For old times’ sake.”

  Tipton hastily rose. “Of course. Please excuse the Audubon diorama, I was just cleaning it.” He was mortified to see that he had laid the DustBuster in Audubon’s lap, with the feather duster propped up against his arm, as if some jokester had tried to turn the great man into a charwoman.

  “Do you recall,” Pendergast said, “the special exhibition you mounted, fifteen years ago, for which we loaned you our double elephant folio?”

  “Of course.”

  “That was quite a festive opening.”

  “It was.” Tipton remembered it all too well: the stress and horror of watching crowds of people wandering about his exhibits with brimming glasses of wine. It had been a beautiful summer evening, with a full moon, but he’d been too harassed to notice it much. That was the first and last special exhibit he had e
ver mounted.

  Pendergast began strolling through the back rooms, peering into the glass cases with their prints and drawings and birds, the Audubon memorabilia, the letters and sketches. Tipton followed in his wake.

  “Did you know this is where my wife and I first met? At that very opening.”

  “No, Mr. Pendergast, I didn’t.” Tipton felt uneasy. Pendergast seemed strangely excited.

  “My wife—Helen—I believe she had an interest in Audubon?”

  “Yes, she certainly did.”

  “Did she… ever visit the museum afterward?”

  “Oh, yes. Before and afterward.”

  “Before?”

  The sharpness of the question brought Tipton up short. “Why, yes. She was here off and on, doing her research.”

  “Her research,” Pendergast repeated. “And this was how long before we met?”

  “For at least six months before that opening. Maybe longer. She was a lovely woman. I was so shocked to hear—”

  “Quite,” came the reply, cutting him off. Then the man seemed to soften, or at least get control of himself. This Pendergast is a strange one, thought Tipton, just like the others. Eccentricity was all well and good in New Orleans, the city was known for it—but this was something else altogether.

  “I never knew much about Audubon,” Pendergast continued. “And I never really quite understood this research of hers. Do you remember much about it?”

  “A little,” said Tipton. “She was interested in the time Audubon spent here in 1821, with Lucy.”

  Pendergast paused at a darkened glass case. “Was there anything about Audubon in particular she was curious about? Was she perhaps planning to write an article, or a book?”

  “You would know that better than I, but I do recall she asked more than once about the Black Frame.”

  “The Black Frame?”

  “The famous lost painting. The one Audubon did at the sanatorium.”

  “Forgive me, my knowledge of Audubon is so limited. Which lost painting is that?”

  “When Audubon was a young man, he became seriously ill. While convalescing, he made a painting. An extraordinary painting, apparently—his first really great work. It later disappeared. The curious thing is that nobody who saw it mentioned what it depicted—just that it was brilliantly life-like and set in an unusual black-painted frame. What he actually painted seems to have been lost to history.” On familiar ground now, Tipton found his nervousness receding slightly.