Fever Dream p-10

by Douglas Preston;Lincoln Child

  Mike stared at him a moment, then with a gruff word of thanks he complied. There were nods and grunts from the patrons as the drinks were handed out.

  D'Agosta took a big swig of his beer. It was important, he knew, to seem like a regular guy--and in the Salty Dog, that meant not being a piker when it came to drinking. He cleared his throat. "I was wondering," he said out loud, "if maybe some of you men could help me."

  The stares returned, some curious, some suspicious. "Help you with what?" said a grizzled man the others had referred to as Hector.

  "There's a family used to live around here. Name of Esterhazy. I'm trying to track them down."

  "What's your name, mister?" asked a fisherman called Ned. He was about five feet tall, with a wind-and sun-wizened face and forearms thick as telephone poles.

  "Martinelli."

  "You a cop?" Ned asked, frowning.

  D'Agosta shook his head. "Private investigator. It's about a bequest."

  "Bequest?"

  "Quite a lot of money. I've been hired by the trustees to locate any surviving Esterhazys. If I can't find them, I can't give them their inheritance, can I?"

  The bar was silent a minute while the regulars digested this. More than one pair of eyes brightened at the talk of money.

  "Mike, another round, please." D'Agosta took a generous swig from the foamy mug. "The trustees have also authorized a small honorarium for those who help locate any surviving family members."

  D'Agosta watched as the fishermen glanced at one another, then back at him. "So," he said, "can anybody here tell me anything?"

  "Aren't no Esterhazys in this town anymore," said Ned.

  "Aren't no Esterhazys in this entire part of the world anymore," said Hector. "There wouldn't be any--not after what happened."

  "What was that?" D'Agosta asked, trying not to show too much interest.

  More glances among the fishermen. "I don't know a whole lot," said Hector. "But they sure left town in a big hurry."

  "They kept a crazy aunt locked up in the attic," said the third fisherman. "Had to, after she began killing and eating the dogs in town. Neighbors said they could hear her up there at night, crying and banging on the door, demanding dog meat."

  "Come on, now, Gary," said the bartender, with a laugh. "That was just the wife screaming. She was a real harpy. You've been watching too many late-night movies."

  "What really happened," said Ned, "was the wife tried to poison the husband. Strychnine in his cream of wheat."

  The bartender shook his head. "Have another beer, Ned. I heard the father lost his money in the stock market--that's why they blew town in a hurry, owed money all over."

  "A nasty business," Hector said, draining his beer. "Very nasty."

  "What kind of a family were they?" D'Agosta asked.

  One or two of the fishermen looked longingly at the empty glasses they'd downed with frightening rapidity.

  "Mike, set us up again, if you please," D'Agosta asked the bartender.

  "I heard," said Ned as he accepted his glass, "that the father was a real bastard. That he beat his wife with an electrical cord. That's why she poisoned him."

  The stories just seemed to get wilder and less likely; the one fact Pendergast had been able to pass on was that Helen's father had been a doctor.

  "That's not what I heard," said the bartender. "It was the wife who was crazy. The whole family was afraid of her, tiptoed around for fear of setting her off. And the husband was away a lot. Always traveling. South America, I think."

  "Any arrests? Police investigations?" D'Agosta already knew the answer: the Esterhazy police record was clean as a whistle. There were no records anywhere of brushes with the law or police responses to domestic trouble. "You mentioned family. There was a son and daughter, wasn't there?"

  A brief silence. "The son was kind of strange," said Ned.

  "Ned, the son was junior-class valedictorian," said Hector.

  Class valedictorian, thought D'Agosta, at least that can be checked out. "And the daughter? What was she like?"

  He was met with shrugs all around. He wondered if the high school would still have the records. "Anybody know where they might be now?"

  Glances were exchanged. "I heard the son was down south somewhere," said Mike the bartender. "No idea what happened to the daughter."

  "Esterhazy isn't a common name," offered Hector. "Ever think of trying the Internet?"

  D'Agosta looked around at a sea of blank faces. He couldn't think of any other questions that wouldn't lead to another chorus of conflicting rumors and unhelpful advice. He also realized--with dismay--that he was slightly drunk.

  He stood, holding the bar to steady himself. "What do I owe you?" he asked Mike.

  "Thirty-two fifty," came the reply.

  D'Agosta fished two twenties from his wallet and placed them on the bar. "Thank you all for your help," he said. "Have a good evening."

  "Say, what about that honorarium?" asked Ned.

  D'Agosta paused, then turned. "Right, the honorarium. Let me give you my cell number. Any of you think of something else--something specific, not just rumors--you give me a call. If it leads to something, you might just get lucky." He pulled a napkin toward him and wrote down his number.

  The fishermen nodded at him; Hector raised a hand in farewell.

  D'Agosta clutched his coat up around his collar and staggered out of the bar into the stinging blizzard.

  16

  New Orleans

  DESMOND TIPTON LIKED THIS TIME OF DAY more than any other, when the doors were shut and barred, the visitors gone, and every little thing in its place. It was the quiet period, from five to eight, before the drink tourists descended on the French Quarter like the Mongolian hordes of Genghis Khan, infesting the bars and jazz joints, swilling Sazeracs to oblivion. He could hear them outside every night, their boozy voices, whoops, and infantile caterwaulings only partly muffled by the ancient walls of the Audubon Cottage.

  On this particular evening, Tipton had decided to clean the waxwork figure of John James Audubon, who was the centerpiece of and motive purpose behind the museum. In the life-size diorama, the great naturalist sat in his study by the fireplace, sketchboard and pen in hand, making a drawing of a dead bird--a scarlet tanager--on a table. Tipton grabbed the DustBuster and feather duster and climbed over the Plexiglas barrier. He began cleaning Audubon's clothing, running the little vacuum up and down, and then he turned it on the figure's beard and hair while whisking bits of dirt from the handsome waxwork face with the feather duster.

  There came a sound. He paused, switching off the DustBuster. It came again: a knock at the front door.

  Irritated, Tipton jammed the switch back on and continued--only to hear a more insistent knocking. This went on almost every night: inebriated morons who, having read the historic plaque affixed beside the door, for some reason decided to knock. For years it had been like that, fewer and fewer visitors during the day, more knocking and revelry at night. The only respite had been the few months after the hurricane.

  Another insistent set of knocks, measured and loud.

  He put down the hand vacuum, climbed back out, and marched over to the door on creaky bow legs. "We're closed!" he shouted through the oaken door. "Go away or I'll call the police!"

  "Why, that isn't you, is it, Mr. Tipton?" came the muffled voice.

  Tipton's white eyebrows shot up in consternation. Who could it be? The visitors during the day never paid any attention to him, while he assiduously avoided engaging with them, sitting dourly at his desk with his face buried in research.

  "Who is it?" asked Tipton, after he had recovered from his surprise.

  "May we carry on this conversation inside, Mr. Tipton? It's rather chilly out here."

  Tipton hesitated, then unbolted the door to see a slender gentleman in a dark suit, pale as a ghost, his silvery eyes gleaming in the twilight of the darkening street. There was something instantly recognizable about the man, unmistakable, and it g
ave Tipton a start.

  "Mr.... Pendergast?" he ventured, almost in a whisper.

  "The very same." The man stepped in and took Tipton's hand, giving it a cool, brief shake. Tipton just stared.

  Pendergast gestured toward the visitor's chair opposite Tipton's desk. "May I?"

  Tipton nodded and Pendergast seated himself, throwing one leg over the other. Tipton silently took his own chair.

  "You look like you've just seen a ghost," said Pendergast.

  "Well, Mr. Pendergast..." Tipton began, his mind awhirl, "I thought--I thought the family was gone... I had no idea..." His voice stammered into silence.

  "The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated."

  Tipton fumbled in the vest pocket of his dingy three-piece woolen suit, extracted a handkerchief, and patted his brow. "Delighted to see you, just delighted..." Another pat.

  "The feeling is mutual."

  "What brings you back here, if I may ask?" Tipton made an effort to recover himself. He had been curator of the Audubon Cottage for almost fifty years, and he knew a great deal about the Pendergast family. The last thing he'd expected was to see one of them again, in the flesh. He remembered the terrible night of the fire as if it were yesterday: the mob, the screams from the upper stories, the flames leaping into the night sky... Although he'd been a trifle relieved when the surviving family members left the area: the Pendergasts had always given him the willies, especially that strange brother, Diogenes. He had heard rumors that Diogenes had died in Italy. He'd also heard that Aloysius had disappeared. He believed it only too well: it was a family that seemed destined for extinction.

  "Just paying a visit to our little property across the street. Since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I'd drop in and pay my respects to an old friend. How is the museum business these days?"

  "Property? You mean..."

  "That's right. The parking lot where Rochenoire once stood. I've never been able to let it go, for--for sentimental reasons." This was followed by a thin smile.

  Tipton nodded. "Of course, of course. As for the museum, you can see, Mr. Pendergast, the neighborhood has changed much for the worse. We don't get many visitors these days."

  "It has indeed changed. How pleasant to see the Audubon Cottage museum is still exactly the same."

  "We try to keep it that way."

  Pendergast rose, clasped his hands behind his back. "Do you mind? I realize that you're closed at present, but nevertheless I'd love to take a turn through. For old times' sake."

  Tipton hastily rose. "Of course. Please excuse the Audubon diorama, I was just cleaning it." He was mortified to see that he had laid the DustBuster in Audubon's lap, with the feather duster propped up against his arm, as if some jokester had tried to turn the great man into a charwoman.

  "Do you recall," Pendergast said, "the special exhibition you mounted, fifteen years ago, for which we loaned you our double elephant folio?"

  "Of course."

  "That was quite a festive opening."

  "It was." Tipton remembered it all too well: the stress and horror of watching crowds of people wandering about his exhibits with brimming glasses of wine. It had been a beautiful summer evening, with a full moon, but he'd been too harassed to notice it much. That was the first and last special exhibit he had ever mounted.

  Pendergast began strolling through the back rooms, peering into the glass cases with their prints and drawings and birds, the Audubon memorabilia, the letters and sketches. Tipton followed in his wake.

  "Did you know this is where my wife and I first met? At that very opening."

  "No, Mr. Pendergast, I didn't." Tipton felt uneasy. Pendergast seemed strangely excited.

  "My wife--Helen--I believe she had an interest in Audubon?"

  "Yes, she certainly did."

  "Did she... ever visit the museum afterward?"

  "Oh, yes. Before and afterward."

  "Before?"

  The sharpness of the question brought Tipton up short. "Why, yes. She was here off and on, doing her research."

  "Her research," Pendergast repeated. "And this was how long before we met?"

  "For at least six months before that opening. Maybe longer. She was a lovely woman. I was so shocked to hear--"

  "Quite," came the reply, cutting him off. Then the man seemed to soften, or at least get control of himself. This Pendergast is a strange one, thought Tipton, just like the others. Eccentricity was all well and good in New Orleans, the city was known for it--but this was something else altogether.

  "I never knew much about Audubon," Pendergast continued. "And I never really quite understood this research of hers. Do you remember much about it?"

  "A little," said Tipton. "She was interested in the time Audubon spent here in 1821, with Lucy."

  Pendergast paused at a darkened glass case. "Was there anything about Audubon in particular she was curious about? Was she perhaps planning to write an article, or a book?"

  "You would know that better than I, but I do recall she asked more than once about the Black Frame."

  "The Black Frame?"

  "The famous lost painting. The one Audubon did at the sanatorium."

  "Forgive me, my knowledge of Audubon is so limited. Which lost painting is that?"

  "When Audubon was a young man, he became seriously ill. While convalescing, he made a painting. An extraordinary painting, apparently--his first really great work. It later disappeared. The curious thing is that nobody who saw it mentioned what it depicted--just that it was brilliantly life-like and set in an unusual black-painted frame. What he actually painted seems to have been lost to history." On familiar ground now, Tipton found his nervousness receding slightly.

  "And Helen was interested in it?"

  "Every Audubon scholar is interested in it. It was the beginning of that period of his life that culminated in The Birds of America, by far the greatest work of natural history ever published. The Black Frame was--so people who saw it said--his first work of true genius."

  "I see." Pendergast fell silent, his face sinking into thoughtfulness. Then he suddenly started and examined his watch. "Well! How good it was to see you, Mr. Tipton." He grasped the man's hand in his own, and Tipton was disconcerted to find it even colder than when he had entered, as if the man were a cooling corpse.

  Tipton followed Pendergast to the door. As Pendergast opened it, he finally screwed up the courage to ask a question of his own. "By any chance, Mr. Pendergast, do you still have the family's double elephant folio?"

  Pendergast turned. "I do."

  "Ah! If I may be so bold to suggest, and I hope you will forgive my directness, that if for any reason you wish to find a good home for it, one where it would be well taken care of and enjoyed by the public, naturally we would be most honored..." He let his voice trail off hopefully.

  "I shall keep it in mind. A good evening to you, Mr. Tipton."

  Tipton was relieved he did not extend his hand a second time.

  The door closed and Tipton turned the lock and barred it, then stood for a long time at the door, thinking. Wife eaten by a lion, parents burned to death by a mob... What a strange family. And clearly the passage of years had not made this one any more normal.

  17

  THE DOWNTOWN CAMPUS OF TULANE UNIVERSITY Health Sciences Center, on Tulane Street, was housed in a nondescript gray skyscraper that would not have looked out of place in New York's financial district. Pendergast exited the elevator at the thirty-first floor, made his way to the Women's Health Division, and--after a few inquiries--found himself before the door of Miriam Kendall.

  He gave a discreet knock. "Come in," came a strong, clear voice.

  Pendergast opened the door. The small office beyond clearly belonged to a professor. Two metal bookcases were stuffed full of textbooks and journals. Stacks of examination bluebooks were arranged on the desktop. Sitting on the far side of the desk was a woman of perhaps sixty years of age. She rose as Pendergast entered.

  "Dr. Penderg
ast," she said, accepting the proffered hand with a certain reserve.

  "Call me Aloysius," he replied. "Thanks for seeing me."

  "Not at all. Please take a seat."

  She sat back behind her desk and looked him over with a detached--almost clinical--manner. "You haven't aged a day."

  The same could not be said of Miriam Kendall. Haloed in yellow morning light from the tall, narrow windows, she nevertheless looked a great deal older than she had during the time she shared an office with Helen Esterhazy Pendergast. Yet her manner was just as Pendergast remembered it: crisp, cool, professional.

  "Looks can be deceiving," Pendergast replied. "However. I thank you. How long have you been at Tulane?"

  "Nine years now." She laid her hands on the desk, tented her fingers. "I have to say, Aloysius, I'm surprised you didn't take your inquiries directly to Helen's old boss, Morris Blackletter."

  Pendergast nodded. "I did, actually. He's retired now--as you probably know, after Doctors With Wings he went on to consulting positions with various pharmaceutical companies--but at present he's on vacation in England, not due back for several days."

  She nodded. "And what about Doctors With Wings?"

  "I was there this morning. The place was a madhouse, everybody mobilizing for Azerbaijan."

  Kendall nodded. "Ah, yes. The earthquake. Many feared dead, I understand."

  "There wasn't a face there over thirty--and nobody who took a minute to speak with me had the least recollection of my wife."

  Kendall nodded again. "It's a job for the young. That's one of the reasons I left DWW to teach women's health issues." The desk phone rang. Kendall ignored it. "In any case," she said briskly, "I'm more than happy to share my memories of Helen with you, Aloysius--though I find myself curious as to why you should approach me now, after all these years."

  "Most understandable. The fact is, I'm planning to write a memoir of my wife. A sort of celebration of her life, brief as it was. Doctors With Wings was Helen's first and only job after she obtained her MS in pharmaceutical biology."