“Productive. But first, how’s Vinnie?”
“Doing quite well. The move to the private hospital was accomplished without incident. And the second operation, replacing the valve in his aorta with a pig valve, went beautifully and he is on the road to recovery.”
She eased back, feeling a huge weight lifted. “Thank God. I want to see him.”
“As I mentioned before, that would be unwise. Even calling him might be a bad idea. We seem to be dealing with a very clever killer—who, I believe, has some inside source of information about us.” Pendergast took a sip of his sherry. “In any case, I just received the lab report about the feathers I purloined from Oakley Plantation. The birds were indeed infected with an avian influenza virus, but the very small sample I was able to obtain was simply too degraded to cultivate. Nevertheless, the researcher I employed made an important observation. The virus is neuroinvasive.”
Hayward sighed. “You’re going to have to explain that.”
“It hides in the human nervous system. It’s highly neurovirulent. And that, Captain, is the final piece of the puzzle.”
The tea came and Maurice poured out a cup. “Go on.”
Pendergast rose and paced before the fire. “The parrot virus makes you sick, just like any flu virus. And like many viruses, it hides in the nervous system as a way of avoiding the bloodstream and thus the human immune system. But that’s where the similarities end. Because this virus also has an effect on the nervous system. And that effect is most unusual: it enhances brain activity, triggers a flowering of the intellect. My researcher—an exceedingly clever fellow—tells me that this could be caused by a simple loosening of neural pathways. You see, the virus makes the nerve endings slightly more sensitive—making them fire more quickly, more easily, with less stimuli. Trigger-happy nerves, as it were. But the virus also inhibits production of acetylcholine in the brain. And it seems this combination of effects ultimately unbalances the system, eventually overwhelming the victim with sensory input.”
Hayward frowned. This seemed like a reach, even for Pendergast. “Are you sure about this?”
“Additional research would be needed to confirm the theory, but it’s the only answer that fits.” He paused. “Think of yourself for a moment, Captain Hayward. You are sitting on a couch. You are aware of the pressure of the leather against your back. You are aware of the warmth of the teacup in your hand. You can smell the roast saddle of lamb that we will be having for dinner. You can hear a variety of sounds: crickets, songbirds in the trees, the fire in the fireplace, Maurice in the kitchen.”
“Of course,” Hayward said. “What’s your point?”
“You are aware of those sensations and probably a hundred more, if you were to stop and take note of them. But that’s the point: you don’t take note. A part of your brain—the thalamus, to be exact—is acting as a traffic cop, making sure you are only aware of the sensations that are important at the moment. Imagine what it would be like if there were no traffic cop? You would be continually bombarded by sensation, unable to ignore any of it. While it might in the short run enhance cognitive function and creativity, in the long run it would drive you mad. Literally. That is what happened to Audubon. And it happened to the Doane family—only much more rapidly and powerfully. We already suspected the madness shared by Audubon and the Doanes was more than coincidence—we just didn’t have the link. Until now.”
“The Doanes’ parrot,” Hayward said. “It had the virus, too. Just like the parrots stolen from Oakley Plantation.”
“Correct. My wife must have discovered this extraordinary effect by accident. She realized that Audubon’s illness seemed to have profoundly changed him, and as an epidemiologist she had the tools to figure out why. Her leap of genius was in realizing it wasn’t just a psychic change caused by a brush with death; it was a physical change. You asked what her role in all this was: I have reason to believe she might, through the best of intentions, have taken her discovery to a pharmaceutical company, which tried to develop a drug from it. A mind-enhancement drug, or what I believe today is called a ‘smart’ drug.”
“So what happened to that drug? Why wasn’t it developed?”
“When we learn that, I think we will be much closer to understanding why my wife was killed.”
Hayward spoke again, slowly. “I learned today that Blackletter was a consultant for several pharmaceutical companies after leaving Doctors With Wings.”
“Excellent.” Pendergast resumed pacing. “I’m ready for your report.”
Hayward briefly summarized her visits to Florida and St. Francisville. “Both Blast and Blackletter were killed by a professional wielding a 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot. He entered the premises, killed the victims, then tossed the place and took a few things to make it look like a robbery.”
“Which pharmaceutical companies did Blackletter consult for?”
Hayward opened her briefcase, slid out a manila envelope, extracted a sheet, and handed it to him.
Pendergast walked over and took it. “Did you dig up any of Blackletter’s former contacts or associates?”
“Just one—a snapshot of an old flame.”
“An excellent start.”
“Speaking of Blast, there’s something I don’t understand.”
Pendergast put the photo aside. “Yes?”
“Well—it’s pretty obvious the person who killed Blackletter also killed him. But why? He didn’t have anything to do with this avian flu—did he?”
Pendergast shook his head. “No, he didn’t. And that is a very good question. I believe it must concern the conversation Helen once had with Blast. Blast told me that, when he confronted her about the Black Frame and her reasons for wanting it, she said: ‘I don’t want to own it, I just want to examine it.’ We now know Blast was telling the truth about this. But of course, whoever arranged for my wife’s murder cannot have known what transpired in that conversation. She might have told him more—perhaps much more. About Audubon and the avian flu, for example. And so, for safety’s sake, Blast had to die. He wasn’t a big loose end—but he was a loose end nonetheless.”
Hayward shook her head. “That’s cold.”
“Cold indeed.”
At that moment Maurice came in, a look of distaste on his face. “Mr. Hudson is here to see you, sir.”
“Send him in.”
Hayward watched as a short, stocky, obsequious-looking fellow came into the room, all trench coat, fedora, pinstripes, and wingtips. He looked every inch the film noir caricature of a private investigator, which is what he evidently thought he was. She was amazed that Pendergast would have any truck with such a person.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, ducking his head and removing his hat.
“Not at all, Mr. Hudson.” She noticed Pendergast didn’t introduce her. “You have the list of pharmaceutical companies I asked for?”
“Yes, sir. And I visited each one—”
“Thank you.” Pendergast took the list. “Please wait in the east parlor, where I will take your report in good time.” He nodded to Maurice. “Make sure Mr. Hudson is comfortable with a nonalcoholic beverage.” The old servant led the man back out into the hallway.
“What in the world did you do to make him so…” Hayward searched for the right word. “Meek?”
“A variant of the Stockholm syndrome. First you threaten his life, then with great magnanimity you spare him. The poor fellow made the mistake of hiding in my garage with a loaded gun, in a rather ill-considered blackmail attempt.”
Hayward shuddered, remembering afresh why she found Pendergast’s methods so distasteful.
“Anyway, he’s working for us now. And the first assignment I gave him was to compile a list of all the pharmaceutical companies within fifty miles of the Doane house—reasoning fifty miles to be the outside limit of how far an escaped parrot would fly. All that remains is to compare it to your list of the companies Blackletter consulted for.” Pe
ndergast held up the two sheets of paper, glancing back and forth between them. His face suddenly hardened. He lowered the sheets and his eyes met hers.
“We have a match,” he said. “Longitude Pharmaceuticals.”
51
Baton Rouge
THE HOUSE, OF CHEERFUL YELLOW STUCCO with white trim, stood in a gentrified neighborhood at the fringes of Spanish Town in Baton Rouge, with a tiny front garden overflowing with tulips. Laura Hayward followed Pendergast up the brick walk to the front door. She eyed the large sign that read NO SOLICITING. That did not seem like a good omen, and she was miffed that Pendergast had turned down her suggestion they call ahead to set up an appointment.
A small man with wispy hair opened the door, peering at them through round glasses. “May I help you?”
“Is Mary Ann Roblet at home?” Pendergast asked in his most mellifluous southern accent, irritating Hayward further. She reminded herself again that she was doing this not for him, but for Vinnie.
The man hesitated. “Whom may I say is calling?”
“Aloysius Pendergast and Laura Hayward.”
Another hesitation. “Are you, ah, religious folk?”
“No, sir,” said Pendergast. “Nor are we selling anything.” He waited, with a pleasant smile on his face.
The man, after a moment of further hesitation, called over his shoulder. “Mary Ann? Two people to see you.” He waited at the door, not inviting them in.
A moment later a vivacious woman bustled to the door, plump, ample-breasted, her silver hair coiffed, makeup tastefully applied. “Yes?”
Pendergast introduced themselves once again while at the same time removing the FBI shield from his suit, opening it in front of her with a smooth motion, and then closing it and restoring it somewhere inside the black material. Hayward noticed with a start that tucked inside the shield was the snapshot she had retrieved in Blackletter’s house.
A blush crept up on Mary Ann Roblet’s face.
“May we speak with you in private, Mrs. Roblet?”
She was flustered, unable to reply, her blush growing deeper.
The man, evidently her husband, hovered suspiciously in the background. “What is it?” he asked. “Who are these people?”
“They’re FBI.”
“FBI? FBI? What the heck is this about?” He turned to them. “What do you want?”
Pendergast spoke up. “Mr. Roblet, it’s purely routine, nothing to be concerned about. But it is confidential. We need to speak with your wife for a few minutes, that’s all. Now, Mrs. Roblet, may we come in?”
She backed away from the door, her face now entirely red.
“Is there a place inside where we can talk in private?” asked Pendergast. “If you don’t mind.”
Mrs. Roblet recovered her voice. “We can go into the den.”
They followed Mrs. Roblet into a small television room, with two overstuffed chairs and a sofa, white wall-to-wall carpeting, and a huge plasma television at one end. Pendergast firmly shut the door as Mr. Roblet hung about in the hall, frowning. Mrs. Roblet seated herself primly on the sofa, adjusting the hem of her dress. Instead of taking one of the chairs, Pendergast sat down beside her on the sofa.
“My apologies for disturbing you,” said Pendergast in a low, pleasant voice. “We hope to take up only a few minutes of your time.”
After a silence, Mrs. Roblet said, “I assume you’re looking into the… death of Morris Blackletter.”
“That’s correct. How did you know?”
“I read about it in the papers.” Her carefully constructed face already looked like it was beginning to fall apart.
“I’m very sorry,” said Pendergast, extracting a small packet of tissues from his suit and offering her one. She took one, dabbed her eyes. She was making a heroic effort to hold herself together.
“We’re not here to pry into your past life or disturb your marriage,” Pendergast went on in a kindly voice. “I imagine it must be difficult to grieve secretly for someone you once cared about a great deal. Nothing we say in here will get back to your husband.”
She nodded, dabbing again. “Yes. Morris was… was a wonderful man,” she said quietly, then her voice changed, hardened. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Hayward shifted uncomfortably. Damn Pendergast and his methods, she thought. This kind of an interview should take place in a formal setting: a police station with recording devices.
“Of course. You met Dr. Blackletter in Africa?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Under what circumstances?”
“I was a nurse with the Libreville Baptist Mission in Gabon. That’s in West Africa.”
“And your husband?”
“He was the mission’s senior pastor,” she said in a low voice.
“How did you meet Dr. Blackletter?”
“Is this really necessary?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“He ran a small clinic next to the mission for Doctors With Wings. Whenever there was an outbreak of disease in the western part of the country, he used to fly into the bush to inoculate the villagers. It was very, very dangerous work, and when he needed help, sometimes I would go with him.”
Pendergast laid a kindly hand on hers. “When did your relationship with him begin?”
“Around the middle of our first year there. That would be twenty-two years ago.”
“And when did it end?”
A long silence. “It didn’t.” Her voice faltered.
“Tell us about his work back here in the States, after he left Doctors With Wings.”
“Morris was an epidemiologist. A very good one. He worked for a number of pharmaceutical companies as a consultant, helping them design and develop vaccines and other drugs.”
“Was one of them Longitude Pharmaceuticals?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever tell you anything about his work with them?”
“He kept quiet about most of his consulting work. It was pretty hush-hush, industrial secrets and all that. But it’s funny you should mention that company, because he did talk about it a few times. More than most of them.”
“And?”
“He worked there for about a year.”
“When was that?”
“Maybe eleven years ago. He quit abruptly. Something happened there he didn’t like. He was angry and frightened—and believe me, Morris was not an easily frightened man. I remember one evening he talked about the company CEO. Slade was his name. Charles J. Slade. I remember him saying the man was evil, and that the sign of a truly evil man was his ability to draw good people into his maelstrom. That was the word he used, maelstrom. I remember having to look it up. Morris abruptly stopped talking about Longitude shortly after he quit, and I never heard him speak of it again.”
“He never worked for them again?”
“Never. The company went into bankruptcy almost immediately after Morris left. Fortunately, he had been paid by then.”
Hayward leaned forward. “Excuse me for interrupting, but how do you know he was paid?”
Mary Ann Roblet turned gray eyes on her, damp and red. “He loved fine silverwork. Antiques. He went out and spent a fortune on a private collection, and when I asked him how he afforded it he told me he’d received a large bonus from Longitude.”
“A large bonus. After a year of work.” Pendergast thought a moment. “What else did he say about this man, Slade?”
She thought for a moment. “He said he’d brought down a good company. Wrecked it with his own thoughtlessness and arrogance.”
“Did you ever meet Slade?”
“Oh, no. Never. Morris and I never had any kind of public relationship. It was always… private. I did hear that everyone was in deathly fear of Slade. Except for June, that is.”
“June?”
“June Brodie. Slade’s executive secretary.”
Pendergast thought about this for a moment. Then he turned to Hayward. “Do you have any further qu
estions?”
“Did Dr. Blackletter ever indicate what he was working on at Longitude or whom he worked with?”
“He never talked about the confidential research. But from time to time he did mention a few of the people he worked with. He liked to tell funny stories about people. Let’s see… My memory isn’t what it used to be. There was June, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?” Pendergast asked.
“Because June was so important to Slade.” She paused, opened her mouth to speak again, then colored slightly.
“Yes?” Pendergast pressed.
Roblet shook her head.
After a brief silence, Hayward continued. “Who else did Dr. Blackletter work with at Longitude?”
“Let me think. The senior VP of science, Dr. Gordon Groebel, whom Morris reported to directly.”
Hayward quickly jotted down the name. “Anything about this Dr. Groebel in particular?”
“Let me think… Morris called him misguided a few times. Misguided and greedy, if I remember.” She paused. “There was someone else. A Mr. Phillips. Denison Phillips, I believe. He was the firm’s general counsel.”
A silence fell in the little sitting room. Mary Ann Roblet dried her eyes, took out a compact case and touched up her face, plumped her hair, and added a touch of lipstick.
“Life goes on, as they say,” she said. “Will that be all?”
“Yes,” said Pendergast, rising. “Thank you, Mrs. Roblet.”
She didn’t answer. They followed her out the door and into the hall. Her husband was in the kitchen, drinking coffee. He jumped up and came to the front hall as they prepared to leave.
“Are you all right, dear?” he asked, looking at her with concern.
“Quite all right. You remember that nice Dr. Blackletter who used to work at the mission years ago?”
“Blackletter, the flying doctor? Of course I remember him. Fine fellow.”
“He was killed in St. Francisville in a burglary a few days ago. These FBI agents are investigating.”
“Good heavens,” said Roblet, looking more relieved than anything else. “That’s terrible. I didn’t even know he lived in Louisiana. Hadn’t thought of him in years.”
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