Fever Dream

by Douglas Preston

  “Stand over there, in front of the painting,” said Pendergast. “I need your candid reaction.”

  D’Agosta stood directly before it.

  Pendergast stepped to one side, took hold of the shroud, and lifted it from the painting.

  D’Agosta stared, flabbergasted. The painting was not of a Carolina Parakeet, or even of a bird or nature subject. Instead, it depicted a middle-aged woman, nude, gaunt, lying on a hospital bed. A shaft of cool light slanted in from a tiny window high up in the wall behind her. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, and her hands were folded over her breasts, almost in the attitude of a corpse. The outlines of her ribs protruded through skin the color of parchment, and she was clearly ill and, perhaps, not entirely sane. And yet there was something repugnantly inviting about her. A small deal table holding a water pitcher and some dressings sat beside the bed. Her black hair spread across a pillow of coarse linen. The painted plaster walls; the slack, dry flesh; the weave of the bed linens; even the motes in the dusty air were meticulously observed, rendered with pitiless clarity and confidence—spare, stark, and elegiac. Although D’Agosta was no expert, the painting struck him with an enormous visceral impact.

  “Vincent?” Pendergast asked him quietly.

  D’Agosta reached out, let the fingertips of one hand slide along the painting’s black frame. “I don’t know what to think,” he said.

  “Indeed.” Pendergast hesitated. “When I began to clean the painting, that is the first thing that came to light.” And he pointed at the woman’s eyes, staring out of the plane of the painting toward the viewer. “After seeing that, I realized all our assumptions were wrong. I needed time, alone, to clean the rest of it. I didn’t want you to see it exposed bit by bit: I wanted you to see the entire painting, all at once. I needed a fresh, immediate opinion. That is why I excluded you so abruptly. Once again, my apologies.”

  “It’s amazing. But… are you sure it’s even by Audubon?”

  Pendergast pointed to one corner, where D’Agosta could just see a dim signature. Then he pointed silently to another, dark corner of the painted room—where a mouse was crouching, as if waiting. “The signature is genuine, but more to the point, nobody but Audubon could have painted that mouse. And I’m certain it was painted from life—at the sanatorium. It’s too beautifully observed to be anything but real.”

  D’Agosta nodded slowly. “I thought for sure it was going to be a Carolina Parrot. What does a naked woman have to do with anything?”

  Pendergast merely opened his white hands in a gesture of mystery, and D’Agosta could see the frustration in his eyes. Turning away from the easel, the agent said, “Glance over these, Vincent, if you please.” A refectory table nearby was spread with a variety of prints, lithographs, and watercolors. On the left side were arranged various sketches of animals, birds, insects, still lifes, quick portraits of people. Lying on top was a watercolor of a mouse.

  A gap separated the drawings laid out on the right side. They were a different matter entirely. These consisted almost entirely of birds, so life-like and detailed they seemed ready to strut off the paper, but there were also some mammals and woodland scenes.

  “Do you note a difference?”

  “Sure. The stuff on the left sucks. On the right—well, it’s just beautiful.”

  “I took these from my great-great-grandfather’s portfolios,” Pendergast said. “These”—he gestured to the rude sketches on the left—“were given to my ancestor by Audubon when he was staying at the Dauphine Street cottage in 1821, just before he got sick. That is how Audubon painted before he entered the Meuse St. Claire sanatorium.” He turned to the work that lay to the right. “And this is how he painted later in life. After he left the sanatorium. Do you see the conundrum?”

  D’Agosta was still stunned by the image within the black frame. “He improved,” he said. “That’s what artists do. Why’s that a conundrum?”

  Pendergast shook his head. “Improved? No, Vincent, this is a transformation. Nobody improves that much. These early sketches are poor. They are workman-like, literal, awkward. There is nothing there, Vincent, nothing to indicate the slightest spark of artistic talent.”

  D’Agosta had to agree. “What happened?”

  Pendergast raked the artwork with his pale eyes, then slowly walked back to an armchair he’d placed before the easel and sat down before the Black Frame. “This woman was clearly a patient at the sanatorium. Perhaps Dr. Torgensson grew enamored of her. Perhaps they had a relationship of some kind. That would explain why he clung to the painting so anxiously, even when sunk into deepest poverty. But that still doesn’t explain why Helen would be so desperately interested in it.”

  D’Agosta glanced back at the woman, reclining—in an attitude almost of resignation—on the plain infirmary bed. “Do you suppose she might have been an ancestor of Helen’s?” he asked. “An Esterhazy?”

  “I thought of that,” Pendergast replied. “But then, why her obsessive search?”

  “Her family left Maine under a cloud,” D’Agosta said. “Maybe there was some blemish in their family history this painting could help clear up.”

  “Yes, but what?” Pendergast gestured at the figure. “I would think such a controversial image would tarnish, rather than polish, the family name. At least we can now speculate why the subject of the painting was never mentioned in print—it is so very disturbing and provocative.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Why would Blast have wanted it so badly?” D’Agosta wondered aloud. “I mean, it’s just a painting. Why search for so many years?”

  “That, at any rate, is easily answered. He was an Audubon, he considered it his birthright. For him it became an idée fixe—in time, the chase became its own reward. I expect he would have been as astonished as we are at the subject.” Pendergast tented his fingers, pressed them against his forehead.

  Still, D’Agosta stared at the painting. There was something, a thought that wouldn’t quite rise into consciousness. The painting was trying to tell him something. He stared at it.

  Then, all of a sudden, he realized what it was.

  “This painting,” he said. “Look at it. It’s like those watercolors on the table. The ones he did later in life.”

  Pendergast did not look up. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  “You said it yourself. The mouse in the painting—it’s clearly an Audubon mouse.”

  “Yes, very similar to the ones he painted in Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America.”

  “Okay. Now look at that mouse on that pile of early drawings.”

  Slowly, Pendergast raised his head. He looked at the painting and then the drawings. He glanced toward D’Agosta. “Your point, Vincent?”

  D’Agosta gestured toward the refectory table. “That early mouse. I’d never have thought Audubon drew it. Same for all that early stuff, those still lifes and sketches. I’d never have thought those were by Audubon.”

  “That’s precisely what I said earlier. Therein lies the conundrum.”

  “But I’m not so sure it’s a problem.”

  Pendergast looked at him, curiosity kindling in his eyes. “Go on.”

  “Well, we have those early, mediocre sketches. And then we have this woman. What happened in between?”

  The glimmer in Pendergast’s eyes grew brighter. “The illness happened.”

  D’Agosta nodded. “Right. The illness changed him. What other answer is there?”

  “Brilliant, my dear Vincent!” Pendergast smacked the arms of his chair and leapt to his feet, pacing about the room. “The brush with death, the sudden encounter with his own mortality, somehow changed him. It filled him with creative energy, it was the transformative moment of his artistic career.”

  “We’d always assumed Helen was interested in the subject of the painting,” D’Agosta said.

  “Precisely. But remember what Blast said? Helen didn’t want to own the painting. She only wanted to study it. She w
anted to confirm when Audubon’s artistic transformation took place.” Pendergast fell silent and his pacing slowed and finally halted. He seemed stuck in a kind of stasis, his eyes turned within.

  “Well,” said D’Agosta. “Mystery solved.”

  The silvery eyes turned on him. “No.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why would Helen hide all this from me?”

  D’Agosta shrugged. “Maybe she was embarrassed by the way you met and the little white lie she told about it.”

  “One little white lie? I don’t believe that. She kept this hidden for a far more significant reason than that.” Pendergast sank back into the plush chair and stared at the painting again. “Cover it up.”

  D’Agosta draped the cloth over it. He was beginning to get worried. Pendergast did not look completely sane himself.

  Pendergast’s eyes closed. The silence in the library grew, along with the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. D’Agosta took a seat himself; sometimes it was best to let Pendergast be Pendergast.

  The eyes slowly opened.

  “We’ve been looking at this problem in entirely the wrong way from the very beginning.”

  “And how is that?”

  “We’ve assumed Helen was interested in Audubon, the artist.”

  “Well? What else?”

  “She was interested in Audubon, the patient.”

  “Patient?”

  A slow nod. “That was Helen’s passion. Medical research.”

  “Then why search for the painting?”

  “Because he painted it right after his recovery. She wanted to confirm a theory she had.”

  “And what theory is that?”

  “My dear Vincent, do we know what illness Audubon actually suffered from?”

  “No.”

  “Correct. But that illness is the key to everything! It was the illness itself she wanted to know about. What it did to Audubon. Because it seems to have transformed a thoroughly mediocre artist into a genius. She knew something had changed him—that’s why she went to New Madrid, where he’d experienced the earthquake: she was searching, far and wide, to understand that agent of change. And when she hit upon his illness, she knew her search was complete. She wanted to see the painting only to confirm her theory: that Audubon’s illness did something to his mind. It had neurological effects. Marvelous neurological effects!”

  “Whoa, you’re losing me here.”

  Pendergast sprang to his feet. “And that is why she hid it from me. Because it was potentially an extremely valuable, proprietary pharmacological discovery. It had nothing to do with our personal relationship.” With a sudden, impulsive movement he grasped D’Agosta by both arms. “And I would still be stumbling around in the dark, my dear Vincent—if not for your stroke of genius.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say—”

  Releasing his hold, Pendergast turned away and strode quickly toward the library door. “Come on—there’s no time to lose.”

  “Where are we going?” D’Agosta asked, hurrying to follow, his mind still in a whirl of confusion, trying to piece together Pendergast’s chain of logic.

  “To confirm your suspicions—and to learn, once and for all, what it all must mean.”

  41

  THE SHOOTER SHIFTED POSITION IN THE DAPPLED shade, took a swig of water from the camouflaged canteen. He dabbed the sweatband around his wrist against each temple in turn. His movements were slow, methodical, completely hidden in the labyrinth of brush.

  It wasn’t really necessary to be so careful. There was no way the target would ever see him. However, years of hunting the other kind of prey—the four-legged variety, sometimes timid, sometimes preternaturally alert—had taught him to use exquisite caution.

  It was a perfect blind, a large deadfall of oak, Spanish moss thrown across its face like spindrift, leaving only a few tiny chinks, through one of which he had poked the barrel of his Remington 40-XS tactical rifle. It was perfect because it was, in fact, natural: one of the results of Katrina still visible everywhere in the surrounding forests and swamps. You saw so many that you stopped noticing them.

  That’s what the shooter was counting on.

  The barrel of his weapon protruded no more than an inch beyond the blind. He was in full shade, the barrel itself was sheathed in a special black nonreflective polymer, and his target would emerge into the glare of the morning sun. The gun would never be spotted even when fired: the flash hider on the muzzle would ensure that.

  His vehicle, a rented Nissan four-by-four pickup with a covered bed, had been backed up to the blind; he was using the bed as a shooting platform, lying inside it with the tailgate down. The nose pointed down an old logging trail running east. Even if someone saw him and gave chase, it would be the work of thirty seconds to slide from the truck bed into the cab, start the engine, and accelerate down the trail. The highway, and safety, were just two miles away.

  He wasn’t sure how long he would have to wait—it could be ten minutes, it could be ten hours—but that didn’t matter. He was motivated. Motivated, in fact, like he’d never been in his life. No, that wasn’t quite true: there had been one other time.

  The morning was hazy and dew-heavy, and in the darkness of the blind the air felt sluggish and dead. So much the better. He dabbed at his temples again. Insects droned sleepily, and he could hear the fretful squeaking and chattering of voles. They must have a nest nearby: it seemed the damn things were everywhere in the lowland swamps these days, ravenous as lab rabbits and almost as tame.

  He took another swig of water, did another check of the 40-XS. The bipod was securely placed and locked. He eased the bolt open; made sure the .308 Winchester was seated well; snicked the bolt home again. Like most dedicated marksmen, he preferred the stability and accuracy of a bolt-action weapon; he had three extra rounds in the internal magazine, just in case, but the point of a Sniper Weapon System was to make the first shot count and he didn’t plan on having to use them.

  Most important was the Leupold Mark 4 long-range M1 scope. He looked through it now, targeting the dot reticule first on the front door of the plantation house, then the graveled path, then the Rolls-Royce itself.

  Seven hundred, maybe seven hundred fifty yards. One shot, one kill.

  As he stared at the big vehicle, he felt his heart accelerate slightly. He went over the plan once again in his mind. He’d wait until the target was behind the wheel, the engine started. The automobile would roll forward along the semicircular drive, pausing a moment before turning onto the main carriage road. That’s where he would take the shot.

  He lay absolutely still, willing his heart to slow once again. He could not allow himself to grow excited, or for that matter allow any emotion—impatience, anger, fear—to distract him. Utter calm was the answer. It had served him well before, in the veldt and the long grass, in circumstances more dangerous than these. He kept his eye glued to the scope, his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. Once again, he reminded himself this was an assignment. That was the best way to look at it. Get this last job out of the way and he’d be done—and this time, once and for all…

  As if to reward his self-discipline, the front door of the plantation house opened and a man stepped out. He caught his breath. It was not his target, it was the other, the cop. Slowly—so slowly it seemed not to move—his finger drifted from the trigger guard to the trigger itself, its pull weight feather-light. The stocky man paused on the wide porch, looking around a little guardedly. The shooter did not flinch: he knew his cover was perfect. Now his target emerged from the gloom of the house, and together the two walked along the porch and down the steps to the gravel drive. The shooter followed them with the scope, the bead of his reticule centered on the target’s skull. He willed himself not to shoot prematurely: he had a good plan, he should stick with it. The two were moving quickly, in a hurry to get somewhere. Stick with the plan.

  Through the crosshairs of the scope, he watched a
s they approached the car, opened its doors, got in. The target seated himself behind the wheel, as expected; started the engine; turned to say a few words to his companion; then eased the car out into the drive. The shooter watched intently, letting his breath run out, willing his heart to slow still further. He would take the shot between its beats.

  The Rolls took the gentle curve of the gravel drive at about fifteen miles per hour, then slowed as it approached the intersection with the carriage road. This is it, the shooter thought. All the preparation, discipline, and past experience fused together into this single moment of consummation. The target was in position. Ever so slightly, he applied pressure to the trigger: not squeezing it, but caressing it, more, a little more…

  That was when—with a squeak of surprise followed by a violent scrabbling—a gray-brown vole darted over the knuckles of his trigger hand. At the same time, a large ragged shadow, black against black, seemed to flit quickly over his blind.

  The Remington went off with a bang, kicking slightly in his grasp. With a curse he brushed the scampering vole away and peered quickly through the scope, working the bolt as he did so. He could see the hole in the windshield, about six inches above and to the left of where he’d planned it. The Rolls was moving ahead fast now, escaping, the tires spinning as it sheared through the turn, gravel flying up behind in a storm of white, and being careful not to panic the shooter led it with his scope, waited for the heartbeat, once again applied pressure to the trigger.

  … But even as he did so he saw furious activity inside the vehicle: the stocky man was darting forward, lunging for the wheel, filling the windshield with his bulk. At the same moment the rifle fired again. The Rolls slewed to a stop at a strange angle, cutting across the carriage path. A triangular corona of blood now covered the inside of the windshield, obscuring the view within.

  Whom had he hit?

  Even as he stared he saw a puff of smoke from the vehicle, followed by the crack of a gunshot. A millisecond later, a bullet snipped through the brush not three feet from where he was hidden. A second shot, and this one struck the Nissan with a clang of metal.