Fever Dream (40 page)

Pendergast stood beside her, motionless. He hadn’t said a word during the entire exchange.

Phillips licked his lips, wet them with the martini, exhaled. “What is it you want to know, exactly?”

“Tell us about the avian flu experiments at Longitude.”

The ice chips in the martini tinkled as Phillips’s hand shook.

“Mr. Phillips?” Hayward prompted.

“Captain, if I spoke to you of that, and the fact got out, it would result in my death.”

“Nothing’s going to get out. Nothing will come back to haunt you. You have my word.”

Phillips nodded.

“But you have to tell us the whole truth. That’s the deal.”

A silence ensued.

“And you’ll help him?” Phillips asked at last. “Clear his record, on both the local and federal level?”

Hayward nodded. “I’ll see to it personally.”

“Very well. I’ll tell you what I know. Which isn’t much, I’m afraid. I wasn’t part of the avian group. Apparently they—”

“ ‘They’?”

“It was a secret cell within Longitude. Formed thirteen or fourteen years ago. The names were kept secret—the only one I knew
was Dr. Slade. Charles J. Slade, the CEO. He headed it. They were trying to develop a new drug.”

“What kind of drug?”

“A mind-enhancement drug or treatment of some sort, developed from a strain of avian flu. Very hush-hush. They poured a huge
amount of money and time into it. Then everything fell apart. The company got into financial trouble, began to cut corners,
safety protocols weren’t observed. There were accidents. The project was shut down. Then, just when it looked like the worst
had passed, a fire broke out that destroyed Complex Six and killed Slade, and—”

“Just a minute,” Pendergast interrupted, speaking for the first time. “You mean Dr. Slade is dead?”

The man looked at him and nodded. “And that was only the beginning. Not long after, his secretary committed suicide and the
company went bankrupt. Chapter Eleven. It was a disaster.”

There was a brief silence. Glancing at Pendergast, Hayward noticed a look of surprise and—what, disappointment?—on the normally
expressionless face. Clearly, this was an unexpected development.

“Was Slade a medical doctor?” Pendergast asked.

“He had a PhD.”

“Do you have a picture of him?”

Phillips hesitated. “It would be in my old annual report file.”

“Please get it.”

The man rose, disappeared through a door leading to a library. A few moments later he returned with an annual report, which
he opened and handed to Pendergast. The agent gazed at the picture printed in the front, above the CEO’s message, and passed
it to Hayward. She found herself gazing at a strikingly handsome man: chiseled face, a shock of white hair over a pair of
intense brown eyes, jutting brow, and cleft chin, looking more like a movie star than a CEO.

After a moment, Hayward laid the report aside and resumed. “If the project was hush-hush, why’d they bring you in?”

A hesitation. “I mentioned the accident. They were using parrots at the lab to culture and test the virus. One of the parrots
escaped.”

“And flew across the Black Brake swamp to infect a family in Sunflower. The Doanes.”

Phillips looked at her sharply. “You seem to know a lot.”

“Keep going, please.”

He took another gulp of his drink, his hands still shaking. “Slade and the group decided… to let the, ah,
spontaneous
experiment take its course. By the time they tracked down the bird, you see, it was too late anyway—the family was infected.
So they let it play out, to see if the new strain of virus they had developed would work.”

“And it didn’t.”

Phillips nodded. “The family died. Not right away, of course. That was when they brought me in, after the fact, to advise
on the legal ramifications. I was horrified. They were guilty of egregious violations of the law, multiple felonies up to
and including negligent homicide. The legal and criminal exposure was catastrophic. I told them there wasn’t any viable legal
avenue for them to take that would end up in a place they’d like. So they buried it.”

“You never reported it?”

“It all fell under attorney–client privilege.”

Pendergast spoke again. “How did the fire start? The one Slade died in?”

Phillips turned toward him. “The insurance company did a
thorough investigation. It was an accident, improper storage of chemicals.
As I said, at the time the company was cutting corners to save money any way they could.”

“And the others in the avian group?”

“I didn’t know their names, but I’ve heard they’re dead, too.”

“And yet someone threatened your life.”

He nodded. “It was a phone call, just days ago. The caller didn’t identify himself. It seems your investigation has stirred
the pot.” He took a deep breath. “That’s all I know. I’ve told you everything. I was never part of the experiment or the death
of the Doane family. I was brought in after the fact to clean up—that’s all.”

“What can you tell us of June Brodie?” Hayward asked.

“She was Slade’s executive secretary.”

“How would you characterize her?”

“Youngish. Attractive. Motivated.”

“Good at her job?”

“She was Slade’s right hand. She seemed to have a finger in every pie.”

“What does that mean?”

“She was heavily involved in running the day-to-day business of the company.”

“Does that mean she knew about the secret project?”

“As I said, it was highly confidential.”

“But she was Slade’s executive secretary,” Pendergast interjected. “Heavily motivated. She’d see everything that went across
his desk.”

Phillips didn’t reply.

“What kind of a relationship did she have with her employer?”

Phillips hesitated. “Slade never discussed that with me.”

“But you heard rumors,” Pendergast continued. “Was the relationship more than just professional?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“What kind of a man was Slade?” Hayward asked after a moment.

At first, it appeared as if Phillips wouldn’t answer. Then the defiant look on his face softened and he fetched a sigh of
resignation. “Charles Slade was an amazing combination of visionary brilliance and extraordinary caring—mingled with unbelievable
greed, even cruelty. He
seemed to embody both the best and the worst—as many CEOs do. One minute he could be weeping over
the bed of a dying boy… the next minute, slashing ten million from the budget and thus orphaning the development of a drug
that would have saved thousands.”

There was a brief silence.

Pendergast was looking steadily at the lawyer. “Does the name Helen Pendergast or Helen Esterhazy ring a bell?”

The lawyer looked back, not the slightest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “No. I’ve never heard either of those names
before. At least, not until you showed up at my door, Agent Pendergast.”

Pendergast held the door of the Buick open for Hayward. She paused before getting in. “See how smoothly that went?”

“Indeed.” He closed the door, walked around the vehicle, and slipped in himself. The irritation she had noted earlier seemed
to have disappeared. “And yet I’m rather curious.”

“What about?”

“About your representations about me to our friend Phillips. Telling the man I would have threatened him, used his son’s criminal
record against him. How do you know I wouldn’t have handled him as you did?”

Hayward started the car. “I know you. You would’ve hammered the poor man down to within an inch of his life. I’ve seen you
do it before. Instead of a hammer, I used a carrot.”

“Why?”

“Because it works, especially with a man like that. And it’ll help me sleep better at night.”

“I hope you don’t find the beds at Penumbra disagreeable, Captain?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good. Personally, I find them most satisfactory.” And as he turned his face forward, Hayward thought she saw the ghost of
a smile flit across it. All of a sudden she realized she might have been mistaken in assuming how he’d have handled Denison
Phillips IV. But, she mused, now she never would know.

Itta Bena, Mississippi

T
HE ROAD RAN FLAT THROUGH THE SWAMP
outside the small town, cypress trees on either side, a weak morning sun filtering through their branches. A faded sign,
almost lost in the landscape, announced:

Longitude Pharmaceuticals, Inc.

Established 1966

“Greeting the Future with Better Drugs”

The Buick bumped and vibrated on the poor road, the tires slapping the asphalt. In the rearview mirror, Hayward could see
a dot approaching that soon resolved itself into Pendergast’s Rolls-Royce. He had insisted they take two cars that morning,
claiming to have various research errands of his own, but she was pretty sure he was just looking for an excuse to get out
of her rented Buick and back into his more comfortable Rolls.

The Rolls rapidly approached, exceeding the speed limit by a generous margin, moved into the left lane, and flashed past her,
rattling the Buick as it went. She got just a glimpse of a black-cuffed, pale hand raised in greeting as it passed.

The road went into a long curve and Hayward soon caught up
to the Rolls again, idling at the gate to the plant, Pendergast
speaking with the guard inside the adjoining guardhouse. After a lengthy exchange in which the guard went back and forth to
the telephone several times, both cars were waved through.

She drove past a sign reading
LONGITUDE PHARMACEUTICALS, INC, ITTA BENA FACILITY
and into the parking lot in time to see Pendergast checking his Les Baer .45. “You’re not expecting trouble?” she asked.

“One never knows,” said Pendergast, returning the gun to its holster and patting his suit.

A crabgrass lawn led to a complex of low, yellow brick buildings surrounded on three sides by the fingers of a marshy lake,
full of swamp lilies and floating duckweed. Through a screen of trees, Hayward could see more buildings, some of which looked
to be overgrown with ivy and in ruins. And beyond everything lay the steamy fastness of Black Brake swamp. Staring toward
the wetland, dark even in the bright light of day, Hayward shivered slightly. She had heard plenty of legends about the place,
growing up: legends of pirates, ghosts, and things even stranger. She slapped away a mosquito.

She followed Pendergast into the main building. The receptionist had already laid out two badges, one for
MR. PENDERGAST
and the other for
MS. HAYWARD
. Hayward plucked her badge and attached it to her lapel.

“Take the elevator to the second floor, last door on your right,” said the gray-haired receptionist with a big smile.

As they got into the elevator, Hayward said: “You didn’t tell them we were cops. Again.”

“It is sometimes useful to see the reaction before that information is known.”

Hayward shrugged. “Anyway, doesn’t this seem just a little too easy to you?”

“Indeed it does.”

“Who’ll do the talking?”

“You did so well last time, would you care to do the honors again?”

“Delighted. Only this time I might not be so nice.” She could feel the reassuring weight of her own service piece, snugged
tight under her arm.

The elevator creaked up a single floor, and they emerged to find themselves in a long linoleum hallway. They strolled down
to the far end and came to a door, open, beyond which a secretary worked in a spacious office. A faded but still-elegant oak
door stood closed at the far end.

Hayward entered first. The secretary, who was quite young and pretty, with a ponytail and red lipstick, looked up. “Please
take a seat.”

They sat on a taupe sofa, beside a glass table piled with dog-eared trade magazines. The woman spoke from her desk in a brisk
manner. “I’m Joan Farmer, Mr. Dalquist’s personal secretary. He’s going to be tied up all day and asked me to find out how
we can help you.”

Hayward leaned toward her. “I’m afraid you can’t help us, Ms. Farmer. Only Mr. Dalquist can.”

“As I said, he’s busy. Perhaps if you explained to me what you needed?” Her tone had dropped a few degrees.

“Is he in there?” Hayward nodded toward the shut door.

“Ms. Hayward, I hope I’ve made myself clear that he is not to be disturbed. Now: one more time, how can we assist you?”

“We’ve come about the avian flu project.”

“I’m not familiar with that project.”

Hayward finally reached into her pocket, removed the shield billfold, laid it on the table, and opened it. The secretary started
momentarily, leaned forward, looked at it, and then examined Pendergast’s shield, which he had removed as well, following
Hayward’s lead.

“Police—and FBI? Why didn’t you say so up front?” Her startled look was quickly replaced by undisguised annoyance. “Please
wait here.” She stood up and knocked softly on the closed door before opening it and disappearing, shutting it firmly behind
her.

Hayward glanced over at Pendergast. They both rose simultaneously, walked over to the doorway, and pushed through.