Fever Dream

by Douglas Preston

  She passed into the interrogation room—one of the nicer ones, designed for questioning cooperative witnesses, not grilling uncooperative suspects. It had a coffee table, a desk, and a couple of chairs. The AV man was already there and he nodded, giving her a thumbs-up.

  “Thanks,” said Hayward. “Much appreciated, especially on such short notice.” Her New Year’s resolution had been to control her irritable temper with those below her on the totem pole. Those above still got the unvarnished treatment: Kick up, kiss down, that was her new motto.

  She leaned her head out the door. “Send the first one in, please.”

  The sergeant brought in the first witness, who was still in uniform. She indicated a seat.

  “I know you’ve already been questioned, but I hope you won’t mind another round. I’ll try to keep it short. Coffee, tea?”

  “No thank you, Captain,” the ship’s officer said.

  “You’re the vessel’s security director, is that correct?”

  “Correct.”

  The security director was a harmless elderly gentleman with a shock of white hair and a pleasing British accent who looked like a retired police inspector from some small town in England. And that’s probably, she thought, exactly what he is.

  “So, what happened?” she asked. She always liked starting with general questions.

  “Well, Captain, this first came to my attention shortly after sail-away. I had a report that one of the passengers, Constance Greene, was acting strangely.”

  “How so?”

  “She’d brought on board her child, a baby of three months. This in itself was unusual—I can’t recall a single case of a passenger ever bringing a baby quite that young aboard ship. Especially a single mother. I received a report that just after she boarded, a friendly passenger wanted to see her baby—and maybe got too close—and that Ms. Greene apparently threatened the passenger.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I interviewed Ms. Greene in her cabin and concluded that she was nothing more than an overprotective mother—you know how some can be—and no real threat was intended. The passenger who complained was, I thought, a bit of a prying old busybody.”

  “How did she seem? Ms. Greene, I mean.”

  “Calm, collected, rather formal.”

  “And the baby?”

  “There in the room with her, in a crib supplied by housekeeping. Asleep during my brief visit.”

  “And then?”

  “Ms. Greene shut herself up in her cabin for three or four days. After that, she was seen about the ship for the rest of the voyage. There were no other incidents that I’m aware of—that is, until she couldn’t produce her baby at passport control. The baby, you see, had been added to her passport, as is customary when a citizen gives birth abroad.”

  “Did she seem sane to you?”

  “Quite sane, at least on my one interaction with her. And unusually poised for a young lady of her age.”

  The next witness was a purser who confirmed what the security director had said: that the passenger boarded with her baby, that she was fiercely protective of him, and that she had disappeared into her cabin for several days. Then, toward the middle of the crossing, she was seen taking meals in the restaurants and touring the ship without the baby. People assumed she had a nanny or was using the ship’s babysitting service. She kept to herself, spoke to nobody, rebuffed all friendly gestures. “I thought,” said the purser, “that she was one of these extremely rich eccentrics, you know, the kind who have so much money they can act as they please and there’s no one to say otherwise. And…” He hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  “Toward the end of the voyage, I began to think she was maybe just a little bit… mad.”

  Hayward paused at the door to the small holding cell. She had never met Constance Greene but had heard plenty from Vinnie. He had always spoken of her as if she were older, but when the door swung open Hayward was astonished to see a young woman of no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, her dark hair cut in a stylish if old-fashioned bob, sitting primly on the fold-down bunk, still formally dressed from the ship.

  “May I come in?”

  Constance Greene looked at her. Hayward prided herself on being able to read a person’s eyes, but these were unfathomable.

  “Please do.”

  Hayward took a seat on the lone chair in the room. Could this woman really have thrown her own child into the Atlantic? “I’m Captain Hayward.”

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Captain.”

  Under the circumstances, the antique graciousness of the greeting gave Hayward the creeps. “I’m a friend of Lieutenant D’Agosta, whom you know, and I have also worked on occasion with your, ah, uncle, Special Agent Pendergast.”

  “Not uncle. Aloysius is my legal guardian. We’re not related.” She corrected Hayward primly, punctiliously.

  “I see. Do you have any family?”

  “No,” came the quick, sharp reply. “They are long dead and gone.”

  “I’m sorry. First, I wonder if you could help me out with a detail here—we’re having a little trouble locating your legal records. Do you happen to know your Social Security number?”

  “I don’t have a Social Security number.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Here in New York City. On Water Street.”

  “The name of the hospital?”

  “I was born at home.”

  “I see.” Hayward decided to give up this particular line; their legal department would eventually straighten it out, and, if the truth be admitted, she was just avoiding the difficult questions to come.

  “Constance, I’m in the homicide division, but this isn’t my case. I’m just here on a fact-finding mission. You’re under no obligation to answer any of my questions and this is not official. Do you understand?”

  “I understand perfectly, thank you.”

  Once again Hayward was struck by the old-fashioned cadence of her speech; something about the way she held herself; something in those eyes, so old and wise, that seemed out of place in such a young body.

  She took a deep breath. “Did you really throw your baby into the ocean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was evil. Like his father.”

  “And the father is…?”

  “Dead.”

  “What was his name?”

  Silence fell in the room. The cool violet eyes never wavered from her own, and Hayward understood, better than from anything Greene might have said, that she would never, ever answer the question.

  “Why did you come back? You were abroad—why come home now?”

  “Because Aloysius will need my help.”

  “Help? What sort of help?”

  Constance remained motionless. “He is unprepared to face the betrayal that awaits him.”

  30

  Savannah, Georgia

  JUDSON ESTERHAZY STOOD AMID THE ANTIQUES and overstuffed furniture of his den, looking out one of the tall windows facing Whitfield Square, now deserted. A chill rain dripped from the palmettos and central cupola, collecting in puddles on the brick pavements of Habersham Street. To D’Agosta, standing beside him, Helen’s brother seemed different on this visit. The easygoing, courtly manner had vanished. The handsome face appeared troubled, tense, its features drawn.

  “And she never mentioned her interest in parrots, the Carolina Parakeet in particular?”

  Esterhazy shook his head. “Never.”

  “And the Black Frame? You never heard her mention it, even in passing?”

  Another shake of the head. “This is all new to me. I’m as much at a loss to explain it as you are.”

  “I know how painful this must be.”

  Esterhazy turned from the window. His jaw worked in what to D’Agosta seemed barely controlled rage. “Not nearly as painful as learning of this fellow Blast. You say he has a record?”

  “Of arrests. N
o convictions.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s innocent,” Esterhazy said.

  “Quite the opposite,” said D’Agosta.

  Esterhazy glanced his way. “And not just things like blackmail and forgery. You mentioned assault and battery.”

  D’Agosta nodded.

  “And he was after this—this Black Frame, too?”

  “As bad as anybody ever wanted anything,” said D’Agosta.

  Esterhazy’s hands clenched; he turned back to the window.

  “Judson,” Pendergast said, “remember what I told you—”

  “You lost a wife,” Esterhazy said over his shoulder, “I lost a little sister. You never quite get over it but at least you can come to terms with it. But now, to learn this…” He drew in a long breath. “And not only that, but this criminal might have been involved in some way—”

  “We don’t know that for a fact,” Pendergast said.

  “But you can be damn sure we’re going to find out,” said D’Agosta.

  Esterhazy did not respond. He merely continued looking out the window, his jaw working slowly, his gaze far away.

  31

  Sarasota, Florida

  THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY MILES TO THE south, another man was staring out another window.

  John Woodhouse Blast looked down at the beachcombers and sunbathers ten stories below; at the long white lines of surf curling in toward the shore; at the beach that stretched almost to infinity. He turned away and walked across the living room, pausing briefly before a gilt mirror. The drawn face that stared back at him reflected the agitation of a sleepless night.

  He’d been careful, so very careful. How could this be happening to him now? That pale death’s-head of an avenging angel, appearing on his doorstep so unexpectedly… He had always played a conservative game, never taking risks. And it had worked, until now…

  The stillness of the room was broken by the ring of a telephone. Blast jumped at the sudden sound. He strode over to it, plucked the handset from the cradle. From the ottoman, the two Pomeranians watched his every move.

  “It’s Victor. What’s up?”

  “Christ, Victor, it’s about time you called back. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Out,” a rough, gravelly voice replied. “Is there a problem?”

  “You bet there’s a problem. A monstrous big fucking problem. An FBI agent came sniffing around last night.”

  “Anybody we know?”

  “Name of Pendergast. Had an NYPD cop with him, too.”

  “What did they want?”

  “What do you think they wanted? He knows too much, Victor—way too much. We’re going to have to take care of this, and right away.”

  “You mean…” The gravelly voice hesitated.

  “That’s right. It’s time to roll everything up.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything. You know what to do, Victor. See that it gets done. See that it gets done right away.” Blast slammed down the phone and stared out the window at the endless blue horizon.

  32

  THE DIRT TRACK WOUND THROUGH THE PINEY forest and came out in a big meadow at the edge of a mangrove swamp. The shooter parked the Range Rover in the meadow and removed the gun case, portfolio, and backpack from the rear. He carried them to a small hillock in the center of the field, setting them down in the matted grass. He took a paper target from the portfolio and walked down the field to the swamp, counting his strides. The noonday sun pierced through the cypress trees, casting flecks of light across the green-brown water.

  Selecting a smooth, broad trunk, the shooter pinned a target to the wood, tacking it down with an upholstery hammer. It was a warmish day for winter, in the low sixties, the smell of water and rotting wood drifting in from the swamp, a flock of noisy crows croaking and screeching in the branches. The nearest house was ten miles away. There wasn’t a breath of wind.

  He walked back up to where he had left his gear, counting his steps again, satisfied that the target was about a hundred yards away.

  He opened the hard Pelican case and removed the rifle from it: a Remington 40-XS tactical. At fifteen pounds, it was a heavy son of a bitch, but the trade-off was a better-than-0.75 MOA accuracy. The shooter hadn’t fired the weapon in quite some time, but it was now cleaned and oiled and ready to go.

  He knelt, laying it over his knee, and flipped down the bipod, adjusting and locking it in place. Then he lay down in the matted grass, set the rifle in front of him, moving it around until it was stable and solid. He closed one eye and peered through the Leupold scope at the target affixed to the tree. So far, so good. Reaching into his back pocket, he removed a box of .308 Winchester rounds and placed it in the grass to his right. Plucking out a round, he pushed it into the chamber, then another, until the four-round internal magazine was full. He closed the bolt and looked again through the scope.

  He aimed at the target, breathing slowly, letting his heart rate subside. The faint trembling and movement of the weapon, as evident from the motion of the target in the crosshairs, subsided as he allowed his entire body to relax. He placed his finger on the trigger and tightened slightly, let his breath run out, counted the heartbeats, and then squeezed between them. A crack, a small kick. He ejected the shell, resumed breathing, relaxed again, and gave the trigger another slow squeeze. Another crack and kick, the sound rolling away quickly over the swampy flatlands. Two more shots finished the magazine. He rose to his feet, gathered the four shells, put them in his pocket, and walked down to inspect the target.

  It was a fairly tight grouping, the rounds close enough to have cut an irregular hole to the left and slightly below the center of the target. Removing a plastic ruler from his pocket, he measured the offset, turned and walked back across the meadow, moving slowly to keep his exertion down. He lay down again, gathered the rifle into his hands, and adjusted the elevation and windage knobs on the scope to take his measurements into account.

  Once again, with great deliberation, he fired four rounds at the target. This time the grouping lay dead center, all four rounds more or less placed in the same hole. Satisfied, he pulled the target off the tree trunk, balled it up, and stuffed it in his pocket.

  He walked back to the center of the field and resumed firing position. It was now time for a little fun. When he first began firing, the flock of crows had risen in noisy flight and settled about three hundred yards away at the far edge of the field. Now he could see them on the ground under a tall yellow pine, strutting about in the needle duff and picking out seeds from a scattering of cones.

  Peering through the scope, the man selected a crow and followed it in the crosshairs as it pecked and jabbed at a cone, shaking it with its beak. His forefinger tightened on the curved steel; the shot rang out; and the bird disappeared in a spray of black feathers, splattering the nearby tree trunk with bits of red flesh. The rest of the flock rose in an uproar, bursting into the blue and winging away across the treetops.

  The man looked about for another target, this time aiming the scope down toward the swamp. Slowly, he swept the edge of the swamp until he found it: a massive bullfrog about 150 yards off, resting on a lily pad in a little patch of sun. Once again he aimed, relaxed, and fired; a pink cloud flew up, mingled with green water and bits of lily pad, arcing through the sunlight and gracefully falling back into the water. His third round clipped the head off a water moccasin, thrashing through the water in a frightened effort to get away.

  One more round. He needed something really challenging. He cast about, looking around the swamp with a bare eye, but the shooting had disturbed the wildlife and there was nothing to be seen. He would have to wait.

  He went back to the Range Rover and removed a soft-canvas shotgun case from the rear, unzipped it, and took out a CZ Bobwhite side-by-side 12-gauge with a custom-carved stock. It was the cheapest shotgun he owned, but it was still an excellent weapon and he hated what he was now about to do. He rummaged around in the Rover, removing a portable vise
and a hacksaw with a brand-new blade.

  He laid the shotgun over his knees and stroked the barrels, rubbed them down with a little gun oil, and laid a paper tape measure alongside. Marking off a spot with a nail, he put the hacksaw to it and went to work.

  It was a long, tedious, exhausting business. When he was finished, he filed the burr off the end with a rattail, gave it a quick bevel, brushed it with steel wool, and then oiled it again. He broke the action and carefully cleaned out loose filings, then dunked in two shotgun shells. He strolled down to the swamp with the gun and the sawed-off barrels, flung the barrels as far out into the water as he could, braced the gun at his waist, and pulled the front trigger.

  The blast was deafening and it kicked like a mule. Crude, vile—and devastatingly effective. The second barrel discharged perfectly as well. He broke the action again, put the shells in his pocket, wiped it clean, and reloaded. It worked smoothly a second time around. He was pained, but satisfied.

  Back at the car, he slid the shotgun back in its case, put the case away, and removed a sandwich and thermos from his pack. He ate slowly, savoring the truffled fois gras sandwich while sipping a cup of hot tea with milk and sugar from the thermos. He made an effort to enjoy the fresh air and sun and not think about the problem at hand. As he was finishing, a female red-tailed hawk rose up from the swamp, no doubt from a nest, and began tracing lazy circles above the treetops. He estimated her distance at about two hundred fifty yards.

  Now this, finally, was a challenge worthy of his skill.

  He once more assumed a shooting position with the sniper rifle, aiming at the bird, but the scope’s field of view was too narrow and he couldn’t keep her in it. He would have to use his iron sights instead. He now peered at the hawk using those fixed sights, trying to follow her as she moved. Still no go: the rifle was too heavy and the bird too fast. She was tracing an ellipsis, and the way to hit her, he decided, was to pre-aim for a point on that ellipsis, wait until the hawk circled around toward it, and time the shot.