Douglas Child - Fever Dream

A silence fell in the car. D'Agosta was stunned. What would this mean for his career, his relationship with Laura Hayward... his future? It was irresponsible. No--it was more than that. It was utterly crazy.

"Is this an official investigation?"

"No. It would be just you and me. The killer might be anywhere in the world. We will operate completely outside the system-- any system."

"And when we find the killer? What then?"

"We will see to it that justice is served."

"Meaning?"

Pendergast sloshed more brandy into the glass with a fierce gesture, gulped it down, and fixed D'Agosta once again with those cold, platinum eyes.

"We kill him."

7

THE ROLLS-ROYCE TORE UP PARK AVENUE, LATE-CRUISING cabs flashing by in blurs of yellow. D'Agosta sat in the back with Pendergast, feeling awkward, trying not to turn a curious eye toward the FBI agent. This Pendergast was impatient, unkempt, and--most remarkable--openly emotional.

"When did you find out?" he ventured to ask.

"This afternoon."

"How'd you figure it out?"

Pendergast did not answer immediately, glancing out the window as the Rolls turned sharply onto 72nd Street, heading toward the park. He placed the empty brandy glass--which he had been holding, unheeded, the entire uptown journey--back into its position in the tiny bar. Then he took a deep breath. "Twelve years ago, Helen and I were asked to kill a man-eating lion in Zambia--a lion with an unusual red mane. Just such a lion had wreaked havoc in the area forty years before."

"Why did you get asked?"

"Part of having a professional hunting license. You're obligated to kill any beasts menacing the villages or camps, if the authorities request it." Pendergast was still looking out the window. "The lion had killed a German tourist at a safari camp. Helen and I drove over from our own camp to put it down."

He picked up the brandy bottle, looked at it, put it back into its holder. The big car was now moving through Central Park, the skeletal branches overhead framing a threatening night sky. "The lion charged us from deep cover, attacked me and the tracker. As he ran back into the bush, Helen shot at him and apparently missed. She went to attend to the tracker..." His voice wavered and he stopped, composing himself. "She went to attend to the tracker and the lion burst out of the brush a second time. It dragged her off. That was the last time I saw her. Alive, anyway."

"Oh, my God." D'Agosta felt a thrill of horror course through him.

"Just this afternoon, at our old family plantation, I happened to examine her gun. And I discovered that--on that morning, twelve years ago--somebody had taken the bullets from her gun and replaced them with blanks. She hadn't missed the shot--because there was no shot."

"Holy shit. You sure?"

Now Pendergast looked away from the window to fix him with a stare. "Vincent, would I be telling you this--would I be here now--if I wasn't absolutely sure?"

"Sorry."

There was a moment of silence.

"You just discovered it this afternoon in New Orleans?"

Pendergast nodded tersely. "I chartered a private jet back."

The Rolls pulled up before the 72nd Street entrance of the Dakota. Almost before the vehicle had come to a stop Pendergast was out. He strode past the guardhouse and through the vaulted stone archway of the carriage entrance, ignoring the fat drops of rain that were now splattering the sidewalk. D'Agosta followed at a jog as the agent strode across a wide interior courtyard, past manicured plants and muttering bronze fountains, to a narrow lobby in the southwest corner of the apartment building. He pressed the elevator button, the doors whispered open, and they ascended in silence. A minute later the doors opened again on a small space, a single door set into the far wall. It had no obvious locking mechanism, but when Pendergast moved his fingertips across the surface in an odd gesture D'Agosta heard the unmistakable click of a deadlock springing free. Pendergast pushed the door open, and the reception room came into view: dimly lit, with three rose-painted walls and a fourth wall of black marble, covered by a thin sheet of falling water.

Pendergast gestured at the black leather sofas arrayed around the room. "Take a seat. I'll be back shortly."

D'Agosta sat down as the FBI agent slipped through a door in one of the walls. He sat back, taking in the soft gurgle of water, the bonsai plants, the smell of lotus blossoms. The walls of the building were so thick, he could barely hear the opening peals of thunder outside. Everything about the room seemed designed to induce tranquility. Yet tranquil was the last thing he felt. He wondered again just how he'd swing a sudden leave of absence--with his boss, and especially with Laura Hayward.

It was ten minutes before Pendergast reappeared. He had shaved and changed into a fresh black suit. He also seemed more composed, more like the old Pendergast--although D'Agosta could still sense a great tension under the surface.

"Thank you for waiting, Vincent," he said, beckoning. "Let us proceed."

D'Agosta followed the agent down a long hallway, as dimly lit as the reception room. He glanced curiously left and right: at a library; a room hung with oil paintings floor-to-ceiling; a wine cellar. Pendergast stopped at the only closed door in the hallway, opening it with the same strange movement of his fingers against the wood. The room beyond was barely large enough for the table and two chairs that it contained. A large steel bank-style vault, at least four feet in width, dominated one of the side walls.

Again Pendergast motioned D'Agosta to take a seat, then vanished into the hall. Within moments he returned, a leather Gladstone bag in one hand. He set this on the table, opened it, and drew out a rack of test tubes and several glass-stoppered bottles, which he arrayed carefully on the polished wood. His hand trembled once--only once--and the test tubes clinked quietly in response. After the apparatus was unpacked, Pendergast turned to the vault and with five or six turns of the dial unlocked it. As he swung the heavy door open, D'Agosta could see a grid of metal-fronted containers within, not unlike safe-deposit boxes. Pendergast selected one, withdrew it, and placed it on the table. Then, closing the vault, he took the seat opposite D'Agosta.

For a long moment, he remained motionless. Then came another rumble of thunder, muffled and distant, and it seemed to rouse him. He removed a white silk handkerchief from the Gladstone bag and spread it on the table. Then he slid the steel box closer, lifted its lid, and took from it two items: a tuft of coarse red hair and a gold ring, set with a beautiful star sapphire. He took away the tuft of hair with a set of forceps; the ring he gently removed with his bare hand, in a gesture so unconsciously tender D'Agosta felt himself pierced to the heart.

"These are the items I took from Helen's corpse," Pendergast said. The indirect lighting exaggerated the hollows of his drawn face. "I haven't looked at these in almost twelve years. Her wedding ring... and the tuft of mane she tore from the lion as it devoured her. I found it clutched in her severed left hand."

D'Agosta winced. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"I'm going to play a hunch." Opening the glass-stoppered bottles, Pendergast poured a selection of different powders into the test tubes. Then, using the forceps, he pulled bits of mane from the reddish tuft and dropped a few strands carefully into each tube in turn. Finally, he pulled a small brown bottle from the bag, its top sealed with a rubber eyedropper. He unscrewed the eyedropper from the bottle and let several drops of clear liquid fall into each tube. There was no obvious reaction in the first four test tubes. But in the fifth, the liquid immediately turned a pale green, the color of green tea. Pendergast stared intently at this tube for a moment. Then, using a pipette, he removed a small sample of the liquid and applied it to a small strip of paper he took from the bag.