Fever Dream (34 page)

“Incinerated?”
Hayward repeated.

“Standard procedure. Any samples taken would also have been ultimately incinerated.”

“Why? If the Doane family was infected, they could just spread it to others. Burning the bird would be like shutting the barn
door after the horse has escaped.”

“Not quite. You see, avian flus jump easily from bird to human, but they have great difficulty passing from human to human.
The neighbors would be safe. Of course, for the Doane family it was too late.” Pendergast took a last sip of coffee, then
put the cup aside. “But this still leaves us with a central mystery: where did the Doanes’ parrot escape from? And, even more
importantly,
how
did it become a carrier?”

Despite her skepticism, Hayward felt herself intrigued. “Perhaps you’re wrong. Maybe the virus lay dormant all this time.
The parrot caught it naturally.”

“Unlikely. Recall the parrot had been banded. No: the viral genome would have been painstakingly sequenced and rebuilt in
a laboratory—using viral material from the stolen Carolina Parakeets. And then live birds were inoculated with it.”

“So the bird escaped from a lab.”

“Precisely.”
Pendergast stood up. “The biggest question of all remains: what does this have to do with Helen’s murder and the recent killings
and attacks on us—if anything?”

“Isn’t there another question you’re forgetting?” Hayward asked.

Pendergast looked at her.

“You say Helen stole the parrots Audubon studied—the ones that supposedly sickened him. Helen also visited the Doane family
and stole their parrot—because, as you also say, she knew it was infected. By inference, Helen is the common thread that binds
the two events. So aren’t you curious what role
she
might have had in the sequencing and inoculation?”

Pendergast turned away, but not before a look of pain lanced across his face. Hayward almost regretted asking the question.

A long pause settled over the library. At last, Pendergast turned toward her again. “We must pick up where Vincent and I left
off.”

“ ‘We’?”

“You’re going to grant Vincent’s request, I assume. I need a competent partner. And as I recall, you’re from this region originally.
You’ll do well, I assure you.”

His assumptions, his patronizing attitude, were irritating in the extreme. She knew all too well of Pendergast’s unorthodox
investigative techniques, his breezy neglect for rules and procedures, his skirtings of the law. She would find that annoying,
if not intolerable. It might even damage her career. She returned his steady gaze. If it weren’t for this man, Vinnie wouldn’t
be in a hospital right now, critically wounded, in need of a new heart valve.

At the same time… Vinnie had asked her. Twice.

She realized she had already made the decision.

“All right. I’ll help you see this thing through. For Vinnie’s sake, not yours. But—” She hesitated. “I’ve got one condition.
And it’s non-negotiable.”

“Of course, Captain.”

“When—if—we find the person responsible for your wife’s death, you must promise me
not
to kill him.”

Pendergast went very still. “You realize this is the cold-blooded murderer of my wife we’re discussing.”

“I don’t believe in vigilante justice. Too many of your perps end up dead before they even reach a courtroom. This time, we’re
going to let justice take its course.”

There was a pause. “What you are asking—is difficult.”

“It’s the price of the dance,” Hayward said simply.

Pendergast held her gaze for a long moment. And then—almost imperceptibly—he nodded.

I
N THE DIM GARAGE, A MAN CROUCHED BEHIND
a vehicle draped in a white canvas shroud. The time was seven in the evening, and the sun had set. The air smelled of car
wax, motor oil, and mold. Sliding a 9mm Beretta semi-automatic pistol out of his belt, the man eased open the magazine, checked
again that it was full. After snugging the gun back into his waistband, he opened and closed his hands three times, alternately
stretching and clenching the fingers. The target would be arriving at any moment. The sweat crept down the nape of the man’s
neck and a tendon began to jump in his thigh, but he was unaware of either distraction, so concentrated was he on what was
to come.

Frank Hudson had been scouting the grounds of Penumbra Plantation for the past two days, learning the movements and habits
of the place. He had been surprised at how lax the security was: a single dotty, half-blind servant opening the house in the
morning and shutting it up again at night on a schedule so regular you could set your watch by it. The entrance gates were
left closed but unlocked during the day, and they were apparently unwatched. A diligent search had turned up no sign of security
cameras, alarm systems, motion sensors, or infrared beams. The decrepit old plantation was so far off
the beaten track that
Hudson had little to fear from regular police patrols. There were few people at the plantation house besides the target and
the servant: only a rather attractive woman with a great figure he’d seen a few times.

Hudson’s target, the man named Pendergast, was the only irregularity in the timeless cycle of Penumbra Plantation. He came
and went at the most unpredictable hours. But Hudson had observed long enough to see the beginning of a small pattern in his
comings and goings, and it centered on wine. When the shuffling old servant began preparing dinner and uncorked a bottle of
wine, Pendergast would be home no later than seven thirty in the evening to partake. If the servant did not uncork wine, it
meant Pendergast would not be dining at home and would arrive much later in the evening, if at all.

This evening an uncorked bottle of wine stood on the sideboard, clearly visible through the dining room windows.

Hudson checked his watch. He rehearsed in his mind how it would go, what he would do. And then he froze: outside, he heard
the sound of wheels crunching on gravel. This was it. Hudson waited, his breathing shallow. The car came to a halt outside
the garage, the engine idling. A car door opened, followed by the sound of feet. The garage doors swung open, first one, then
the other—they were not automatic—and the footsteps went back to the car. The engine revved slightly. The nose of the Rolls
eased into the garage, the lights momentarily filling the space, blinding him. A moment later the lights went out, the engine
died, and the garage was dark again.

He blinked, waiting for his eyes to readjust. His hand closed on the pistol grips and he eased the weapon from his belt, carefully
thumbing off the safety.

He waited for the sound of the opening door, for his target to turn on the lights in the garage, but nothing happened. Pendergast
seemed to be waiting in the car. What for? Feeling his heart accelerate in his chest, Hudson tried to control his breathing,
maintain his lucidity. He knew he was well hidden, having adjusted the shroud on the vehicle so that it reached all the way
to the ground, ensuring that even his feet were invisible.

Perhaps Pendergast was on his cell phone, finishing up a call. Or he was taking a rare opportunity to sit quietly, as people
sometimes did, before getting out of the vehicle.

With infinite caution, Hudson raised his head ever so slightly to peer over the edge of the shroud; the dim form of the Rolls
rested quietly in the dark, the only sound the ticking of the cooling engine. It was impossible to see inside the smoked windows.

He waited.

“Lose a button?” came a voice from right behind him.

With a grunt of surprise Hudson leapt up, his hand jerking instinctively, the gun going off with a loud crash in the enclosed
space. As he tried to pivot he felt the gun wrenched from his hand and a wiry arm wrap around his neck. His body was spun
around, then shoved up hard against the sheeted vehicle.

“In the great game of human life,” the voice said, “one begins by being a dupe and ends up by being a rogue.”

Hudson struggled ineffectually.

“Where are you, my friend, on that happy spectrum?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Hudson finally managed to gasp out.

“If you get a grip on yourself, I’ll release you. Now: relax.”

Hudson stopped fighting. As he did so, he felt the pressure release, his limbs freed. He turned to find himself face-to-face
with his target, Pendergast: a tall man in black with a face and hair so pale they seemed to glow in the darkness, like a
specter. He had Hudson’s own Beretta in hand, pointed at him. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced. My name is Pendergast.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ve always found that a curious expression when used pejoratively.” Pendergast looked him up and down, then slid the gun
into the waist of his own suit. “Shall we continue this conversation in the house?”

The man stared at him.

“Please.” Pendergast gestured for him to walk toward the side door ahead of him. After a moment, Hudson complied. There might
be a way to retrieve something out of this, after all.

He passed through the open garage door, Pendergast following,
crossed the graveled drive, and mounted the steps to the shabby
mansion. The servant held open the door.

“Is the gentleman to come in?” he asked, in a voice that made it clear he hoped not.

“Only for a few minutes, Maurice. We’ll have a glass of sherry in the east parlor.”

Pendergast gestured the man down the central hall and into a small sitting room. A fire was burning in the grate.

“Sit down.”

Hudson gingerly took a seat on an old leather sofa. Pendergast seated himself opposite, checked his watch. “I have just a
few minutes. Now once again: your name, please?”

Hudson struggled to collect himself, to adapt to this sudden and unexpected reversal. He could still pull this off. “Forget
the name. I’m a private investigator, and I worked for Blast. That’s all you need to know—and I’ll bet it’s more than enough.”

Pendergast looked him up and down again.

“I know you have the painting,” Hudson went on. “The Black Frame. And I know you killed Blast.”

“How very clever of you.”

“Blast owed me a lot of money. All I’m doing is collecting what’s due. You pay me and I forget all I know about Blast’s death.
You understand?”

“I see. You’re here on a sort of improvised blackmail scheme.” The man’s pale face broke into a ghastly grin, exposing white,
even teeth.

“Just collecting what’s owed me. And helping you out at the same time—if you get my meaning.”

“Mr. Blast had poor judgment in personnel matters.”

Uncertain what was meant by that, Hudson watched as Pendergast took the Beretta out of his black suit, checked the magazine,
slapped it back in, and pointed the gun at him. At the same time, the servant arrived with a silver tray with two little glasses
full of brown liquid, which he placed down, one after the other.

“Maurice, the sherry won’t be necessary after all. I’m going to take this gentleman out into the swamp, shoot him in the back
of the head with his own gun, and let the alligators dispose of the evidence. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“As you wish, sir,” said the servant, taking up the drinks he had just set out.

“Don’t bullshit me,” said Hudson, feeling an uncomfortable twinge. Maybe he’d overplayed his hand.

Pendergast didn’t seem to hear him. He rose, pointed the gun. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t be a fool, you’ll never get away with it. My people are expecting me. They know where I am.”

“Your people?” The ghastly smile returned. “Come now, we both know you’re strictly freelance and that you’ve told no one where
you went tonight. To the swamp!”

“Wait.” Hudson felt a sudden surge of panic. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Do you think that—having killed one man already—I wouldn’t be eager to kill another who has learned about the crime and now
wishes to extort money? On your feet!”

Hudson jumped up. “Listen to me, please. Forget about the money. I was just trying to explain.”

“No explanations necessary. You haven’t even told me your name, for which I thank you. It always gives me a twinge to remember
the names of those I’ve killed.”

“It’s Hudson,” he said quickly. “Frank Hudson. Please don’t do this.”

Pendergast pushed the barrel of the gun into his side and spun him toward the door with a hard shove. Like a zombie, Hudson
stumbled out into the hall, through the front door, and onto the porch. The night rose before him, black and damp, filled
with the croaking of frogs and the trilling of insects.

“No. God, no.” Hudson knew now he’d made a terrible miscalculation.

“Keep moving, if you please.”

Hudson felt his knees buckling and he sank down on the floorboards. “Please.” The tears coursed down his face.

“I’ll do it right here, then.” Hudson felt the cold barrel of the gun touch the nape of his neck. “Maurice will just have
to clean up.”

“Don’t do it,” Hudson moaned. He heard Pendergast cock the Beretta.