Fever Dream (24 page)

“Of arrests. No 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.

Sarasota, Florida

T
HREE 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.

T
HE 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.

A moment later the hawk tumbled from the sky, a few feathers drifting along after her, carried off on the wind.

The shooter folded away the bipod, picked up and re-counted all the shells, put the gun back in its case, packed away his
lunch and thermos, and hefted his pack. He gave the area one last look-over, but the only sign of his presence was a patch
of matted grass.

He turned back toward the Range Rover with a deep feeling of satisfaction. Now, at least for a while, he could give free vent
to his feelings, allow them to flow through his body, spiking his adrenaline, preparing him for the killing to come.

Port Allen, Louisiana