Fever Dream

by Douglas Preston

  “ ‘We poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.’ ” Pendergast turned toward D’Agosta. “So you think their creativity led to madness?”

  “It sure as hell happened to the Doane daughter.”

  “I see. And Helen’s theft of the parrot had nothing to do with what happened to the family later, is that your hypothesis?”

  “More or less. What do you think?” D’Agosta hoped to smoke out Pendergast’s opinion.

  “I think that coincidences do not please me, Vincent.”

  D’Agosta hesitated. “Look, another thing I’ve been wondering… was, or I mean did, Helen—sometimes act weird, or… odd?”

  Pendergast’s expression seemed to tighten. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “It’s just these…” D’Agosta hesitated again. “These sudden trips to strange destinations. The secrets. This stealing of birds, first two dead ones from a museum, then a live one from a family. Is it possible Helen was under some kind of strain, maybe—or was, you know, suffering from some nervous condition? Because back in Rockland I heard rumors that her family was not exactly normal…”

  He fell silent when the ambient temperature around their seats seemed to fall about ten degrees.

  Pendergast’s expression did not alter, but when he spoke there was a distant, formal edge to his voice. “Helen Esterhazy may have been unusual. But she was also one of the most rational, the most sane people I ever encountered.”

  “I’m sure she was. I wasn’t implying—”

  “And she was also the least likely to crack under pressure.”

  “Right,” D’Agosta said hastily. Bringing this up was a bad idea.

  “I think our time would be better spent discussing the subject at hand,” Pendergast said, forcing the conversation onto a new track. “There are a few things you ought to know about him.” He plucked a thin envelope from his jacket pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. “John Woodhouse Blast. Age fifty-eight. Born in Florence, South Carolina. Current residence Forty-one Twelve Beach Road, Siesta Key. He’s had several occupations: art dealer, gallery owner, import/export—and he was also an engraver and printer.” He put back the sheet of paper. “His engravings were of a rather specialized kind.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “The kind that features portraits of dead presidents.”

  “He was a counterfeiter?”

  “The Secret Service investigated him. Nothing was ever proven. He was also investigated for smuggling elephant ivory and rhinoceros horn—both illegal since the 1989 Endangered Species Convention. Again, nothing was proven.”

  “This guy is slipperier than an eel.”

  “He is clearly resourceful, determined—and dangerous.” Pendergast paused a moment. “There is one other relevant aspect… his name: John Woodhouse Blast.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s the direct descendant of John James Audubon through his son, John Woodhouse Audubon.”

  “No shit.”

  “John Woodhouse was an artist in his own right. He completed Audubon’s final work, Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America, painting nearly half the plates himself after his father’s sudden decline.”

  D’Agosta whistled. “So Blast probably feels the Black Frame is his birthright.”

  “That was my assumption. It would appear he spent much of his adult life searching for it, although in recent years he apparently gave up.”

  “So what’s he doing now?”

  “I’ve been unable to find out. He’s keeping his present dealings close to his vest.” Pendergast glanced out the window. “We shall have to be careful, Vincent. Very careful.”

  28

  Sarasota, Florida

  SIESTA KEY WAS A REVELATION TO D’AGOSTA: narrow, palm-lined avenues; emerald lawns leading down to jewel-like azure inlets; sinuous canals on which pleasure boats bobbed lazily. The beach itself was wide, its sand white and fine as sugar, and it stretched north and south into mist and haze. On one side rolled creamy ocean; on the other sat a procession of condos and luxury hotels, punctuated by swimming pools and haciendas and restaurants. It was sunset. As he watched, the sunbathers and sand-castle builders and beachcombers all seemed to pause, as if at some invisible signal, to look west. Beach chairs were reoriented; video cameras were held up. D’Agosta followed the general gaze. The sun was sinking into the Gulf of Mexico, a semicircle of orange fire. He had never before seen a sunset unimpeded by cityscapes or New Jersey, and it surprised him: one minute the sun was there, falling, measurably falling behind the endless flat line of the horizon… and then it was gone, strewing pink bands of afterglow in its wake. He licked his lips, tasted the faint sea air. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine himself and Laura moving to a place like this once he’d put in his twenty.

  Blast’s condo was on the top floor of a luxury high-rise overlooking the beach. They took the elevator up, and Pendergast rang the bell. There was a long delay, then a faint scratching sound as the peephole cover was swiveled aside. Another, briefer delay, followed by the unlocking and opening of the door. A man stood on the far side, short, slightly built, with a full head of brilliantined black hair combed straight back. “Yes?”

  Pendergast offered his shield and D’Agosta did the same. “Mr. Blast?” Pendergast inquired.

  The man looked from one shield to the other, then at Pendergast. There was no fear or anxiety in his eyes, D’Agosta noted—only mild curiosity.

  “May we come in?”

  The man considered this a moment. Then he opened the door wider.

  They passed through a front hall into a living room that was opulently if gaudily decorated. Heavy gold curtains framed a picture window looking out over the ocean. Thick white shag carpeting covered the floor. A faint smell of incense hung in the air. Two Pomeranians, one white and one black, glared at them from a nearby ottoman.

  D’Agosta turned his attention back to Blast. The man looked nothing like his ancestor Audubon. He was small and fussy, with a pencil mustache and—given the climate—a remarkable lack of tan. Yet his movements were quick and lithe, betraying none of the languid decadence of the surrounding decor.

  “Would you care to sit down?” he said, motioning them toward a brace of massive armchairs upholstered in crimson velvet. He spoke with the faintest of southern drawls.

  Pendergast took a seat, and D’Agosta did the same. Blast sank into a white leather sofa across from them. “I assume you’re not here about my rental property on Shell Road?”

  “Quite correct,” Pendergast replied.

  “Then how can I help you?”

  Pendergast let the question hang in the air for a moment before answering. “We’re here about the Black Frame.”

  Blast’s surprise manifested itself only in a faint widening of the eyes. After a moment he smiled, displaying brilliant little white teeth. It was not a particularly friendly smile. The man reminded D’Agosta of a mink, sleek and ready to bite. “Are you offering to sell?”

  Pendergast shook his head. “No. We wish to examine it.”

  “Always preferable to know one’s competition,” said Blast.

  Pendergast threw one leg over the other. “Odd you should mention competition. Because that’s another reason we’re here.”

  Blast cocked his head to one side quizzically.

  “Helen Esterhazy Pendergast.” The FBI agent slowly enunciated each word.

  This time Blast remained absolutely still. He looked from Pendergast to D’Agosta, then back. “I’m sorry, as long as we’re on the subject of names: may I have yours, please?”

  “Special Agent Pendergast,” he said. “And this is my associate, Lieutenant D’Agosta.”

  “Helen Esterhazy Pendergast,” Blast repeated. “A relative of yours?”

  “She was my wife,” said Pendergast coldly.

  The little man spread his hands. “Never heard the name in my life. Désolée. Now, if that’s all…?” He sto
od.

  Pendergast rose abruptly as well. D’Agosta stiffened, but instead of physically confronting Blast, as he feared, the agent clasped his hands behind his back, walked over to the picture window, and gazed out of it. Then he turned and roamed about the room, examining the various paintings, one after the other, as if he were in a museum gallery. Blast remained where he was, motionless, only his eyes moving as they followed the agent. Pendergast moved into the front hall, paused a moment in front of a closet door. His hand suddenly dipped into his black suit, removed something, touched the closet door; and then quite suddenly he threw it open.

  Blast started for him. “What the devil—?” he cried angrily.

  Pendergast reached into the closet, shoved aside several items, and pulled out a long fur coat from the back; it bore the familiar yellow-and-black stripes of a tiger.

  “How dare you invade my privacy!” Blast said, still advancing.

  Pendergast shook out the coat, gazing up and down. “Fit for a princess,” he said, turning to Blast with a smile. “Absolutely genuine.” He reached in the closet again, pushing aside more coats while Blast stood there, red with anger. “Ocelot, margay… quite a gallery of endangered species. And they are new, certainly more recent than the CITES ban of 1989, not to mention the ’72 ESA.”

  He returned the furs to the closet, closed the door. “The US Fish and Wildlife law enforcement office would no doubt take an interest in your collection. Shall we call them?”

  Blast’s response surprised D’Agosta. Instead of protesting further, he visibly relaxed. Baring his teeth in another smile, he looked Pendergast up and down with something like appreciation. “Please,” he said with a gesture. “I see we have more to talk about. Sit down.”

  Pendergast returned to his seat and Blast resumed his own.

  “If I am able to help you… what about the fate of my little collection?” Blast nodded toward the closet.

  “It depends on how well the conversation goes.”

  Blast exhaled: a long, slow hissing sound.

  “Allow me to repeat the name,” said Pendergast. “Helen Esterhazy Pendergast.”

  “Yes, yes, I remember your wife well.” He folded his manicured hands. “Please forgive my earlier dissembling. Long experience has taught me to be reticent.”

  “Proceed,” Pendergast replied coldly.

  Blast shrugged. “Your wife and I were competitors. I wasted the better part of twenty years looking for the Black Frame. I heard she was sniffing around, asking questions about it, too. I wasn’t pleased, to say the least. As you are no doubt aware, I am Audubon’s great-great-great-grandson. The painting was mine—by birthright. No one should have the right to profit from it—except me.

  “Audubon painted the Black Frame at the sanatorium but did not take it with him. The most likely scenario, I postulated, was that he gave it to one of the three doctors who treated him. One of them disappeared completely. Another moved back to Berlin—if he’d had the painting, it was either destroyed by war or irretrievably lost. I focused my search on the third doctor, Torgensson—more out of hope than anything else.” He spread his hands. “It was through this connection I ran into your wife. I met her only once.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Fifteen years ago, maybe. No, not quite fifteen. At Torgensson’s old estate on the outskirts of Port Allen.”

  “And what happened, exactly, at this meeting?” Pendergast’s voice was taut.

  “I told her exactly what I just told you: that the painting was mine by birthright, and I expressed my desire that she drop her search.”

  “And what did Helen say?” Pendergast’s voice was even icier.

  Blast took a deep breath. “That’s the funny thing.”

  Pendergast waited. The air seemed to freeze.

  “Remember what you said earlier about the Black Frame? ‘We wish to examine it,’ you said. That’s exactly what she said. She told me she didn’t want to own the painting. She didn’t want to profit from it. She just wanted to examine it. As far as she was concerned, she said, the painting could be mine. I was delighted to hear it and we shook hands. We parted friends, you might say.” Another thin smile.

  “What was her exact wording?”

  “She said to me, ‘I understand you’ve been looking for this a long time. Please understand, I don’t want to own it, I just want to examine it. I want to confirm something. If I find it I’ll turn it over to you—but in return you have to promise that if you find it first, you’ll give me free rein to study it.’ I was delighted with the arrangement.”

  “Bullshit!” D’Agosta said, rising from his chair. He could contain himself no longer. “Helen spent years searching for the painting—just to look at it? No way. You’re lying.”

  “So help me, it’s the truth,” Blast said. And he smiled his ferret-like smile.

  “What happened next?” Pendergast asked.

  “That was it. We went our separate ways. That was my one and only encounter with her. I never saw her again. And that is the God’s truth.”

  “Never?” Pendergast asked.

  “Never. And that’s all I know.”

  “You know a great deal more,” said Pendergast, suddenly smiling. “But before you speak further, Mr. Blast, let me offer you something that you apparently don’t know—as a sign of trust.”

  First a stick, now a carrot, D’Agosta thought. He wondered where Pendergast was going with this.

  “I have proof that Audubon gave the painting to Torgensson,” said Pendergast.

  Blast leaned forward, his face suddenly interested. “Proof, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  A long silence ensued. Blast sat back. “Well then, now I’m more convinced than ever that the painting is gone. Destroyed when his last residence burned down.”

  “You mean, his estate outside Port Allen?” Pendergast asked. “I wasn’t aware there was a fire.”

  Blast gave him a long look. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Mr. Pendergast. Port Allen was not Dr. Torgensson’s final residence.”

  Pendergast was unable to conceal a look of surprise. “Indeed?”

  “In the final years of his life, Torgensson fell into considerable financial embarrassment. He was being hounded by creditors: banks, local merchants, even the town for back taxes. Ultimately he was evicted from his Port Allen house. He moved into a shotgun shack by the river.”

  “How do you know all this?” D’Agosta demanded.

  In response, Blast stood up and walked out of the room. D’Agosta heard a door open, the rustling of drawers. A minute later he returned with a folder in one hand. He handed it to Pendergast. “Torgensson’s credit records. Take a look at the letter on top.”

  Pendergast pulled a yellowed sheet of ledger paper, roughly torn along one edge, from the folder. It was a letter scrawled on Pinkerton Agency letterhead. He began to read. “ ‘He has it. The fellow has it. But we find ourselves unable to locate it. We’ve searched the shanty from basement to eaves. It’s as empty as the Port Allen house. There’s nothing left of value, and certainly no painting of Audubon’s.’ ”

  Pendergast replaced the sheet, glanced through other documents, then closed the folder. “And you, ah, purloined this report so as to frustrate your competition, I presume.”

  “No point in helping one’s enemies.” Blast retrieved the folder, placed it on the sofa beside him. “But in the end it was all moot.”

  “And why is that?” Pendergast asked.

  “Because a few months after he moved into the tenement, it was hit by lightning and burned down to its foundations—with Torgensson inside. If he hid the Black Frame elsewhere, the location is long forgotten. If he had it in the house somewhere, it burned up with everything else.” Blast shrugged. “And that’s when I finally gave up the search. No, Mr. Pendergast, I’m afraid the Black Frame no longer exists. I know: I wasted twenty years of my life proving it.”

  * * *

  “I don’t believe a word of
it,” D’Agosta said as they rode the elevator to the lobby. “He’s just trying to make us believe Helen didn’t want the painting to erase his motive for doing her harm. He’s covering his ass, he doesn’t want us to suspect him of her murder—it’s as simple as that.”

  Pendergast didn’t reply.

  “The guy’s obviously smart, you’d think he could come up with something a little less lame,” D’Agosta went on. “They both wanted the painting and Helen was getting too close. Blast didn’t want anybody else taking his rightful inheritance. Open and shut. And then there’s the big-game connection, the ivory and fur smuggling. He’s got contacts in Africa, he could have used them to set up the murder.”

  The elevator doors opened, and they walked through the lobby into the sea-moist night. Waves were sighing onto the sand, and lights twinkled from a million windows, turning the dark beach to the color of reflected fire. Mariachi music echoed faintly from a nearby restaurant.

  “How did you know about that stuff?” D’Agosta asked as they walked toward the road.

  Pendergast seemed to rouse himself. “I’m sorry?”

  “The stuff in the closet? The furs?”

  “By the scent.”

  “Scent?”

  “As anyone who has owned one will confirm, big-cat furs have a faint scent, not unpleasant, a sort of perfumed musk, quite unmistakable. I know it well: my brother and I as children used to hide in our mother’s fur closet. I knew the fellow smuggled ivory and rhino horn; it wasn’t a big leap to think he was also trading in illegal furs.”

  “I see.”

  “Come on, Vincent—Caramino’s is only two blocks from here. The best stone crab claws on the Gulf Coast, I’m told: excellent when washed down with icy vodka. And I feel rather in need of a drink.”

  29

  New York City

  WHEN CAPTAIN HAYWARD ENTERED THE shabby waiting area outside the interrogation rooms in the basement of One Police Plaza, the two witnesses she had called in leapt to their feet.

  The homicide sergeant also rose, and Hayward frowned. “Okay, everyone sit down and relax. I’m not the president.” She realized that all the gold on her shoulders probably was a bit intimidating, especially for someone who worked on a ship, but this was too much and it made her uncomfortable. “Sorry to call you out like this on a Sunday. Sergeant, I’ll take one at a time, no particular order.”