Fever Dream p-10

by Douglas Preston;Lincoln Child

  "A parrot," D'Agosta muttered. "Now, what are the chances of that?"

  Pendergast began flipping pages, more slowly now, until he reached the end of the book. He took down the next volume and began methodically examining the dates of the entries--until he came to one. D'Agosta heard a small intake of breath.

  "Vincent, here is the entry she wrote on February ninth--the day Helen paid them a visit."The worst day of my life!!! After lunch a lady came and knocked on our front door. She was driving a red sports car and was all dressed up with fashionable leather gloves. She said she'd heard we had a parrot and wanted to know if she could see it. Dad showed Muffin to her (still inside her cage) and she asked how we got it. She asked a lot of questions about the bird, when we got it, where it came from, if it was tame, if it let us handle it, who played with it the most. Stuff like that. She spent all sorts of time looking at it and asking questions. The woman wanted to see the band up close but my father asked her first if she was the bird's owner. She said yes and wanted the parrot back. My dad was suspicious. He asked if she could name the number on the parrot's bracelet. She couldn't. And she wasn't able to show us any kind of proof that she owned it, either, but told us a story that she was a scientist and it had escaped from her lab. Dad looked like he didn't believe a word of it and said firmly that when she brought back some proof he'd be glad to give up the bird, but until then Muffin would stay with us. The lady didn't seem too surprised and then she looked at me with a sad expression on her face. "Is Muffin your pet?" I said yes. She seemed to think for a while. Then she asked if Dad could recommend a good hotel in town. He said there was only one, and that he'd get her the number. He walked back into the kitchen for the phone book. No sooner had he gone than the woman grabbed Muffin's cage, stuffed it into a black garbage bag she took from her purse, ran out the door, threw the bag in her car, and took off down the driveway! Muffin was screeching loudly the whole time. I ran outside screaming and Dad came running out and we got in the car and chased her, but she was gone. Dad called the sheriff but he didn't seem all that interested in finding a stolen bird, especially since it might have been her bird to begin with. Muffin was gone, just like that. I went up to my room and I just couldn't stop crying.

  Pendergast closed the diary and slipped it into his jacket pocket. As he did so, a flash of lightning illuminated the black trees beyond the window and a rumble of thunder shook the house.

  "Unbelievable," said D'Agosta. "Helen stole the parrot. Just like she stole those stuffed parrots of Audubon's. What in the world was she thinking?"

  Pendergast said nothing.

  "Did you ever see the parrot? Did she bring it back to Penumbra?"

  Pendergast shook his head wordlessly.

  "What about this scientific lab she talked about?"

  "She had no lab, Vincent. She was employed by Doctors With Wings."

  "Do you have any idea what the hell she was doing?"

  "For the first time in my life I am completely and utterly at a loss."

  The lightning flickered again, illuminating an expression on Pendergast's face of pure shock and incomprehension.

  26

  New York City

  CAPTAIN LAURA HAYWARD, NYPD HOMICIDE, liked to keep the door of her office open to signal she hadn't forgotten her roots as a lowly TA cop patrolling the subways. She had risen far and fast in the department, and while she knew she was good and deserved the promotions, she was also uncomfortably aware that being a woman hadn't hurt at all, especially after the sex discrimination scandals of the previous decade.

  But on this particular morning, when she arrived at six, she reluctantly shut the door even though no one else was in. The investigation into a string of Russian mafia drug killings on Coney Island had been dragging its ass around the department, generating huge amounts of paperwork and meetings. It had finally reached the point where someone--her--needed to sit down with the files and go through them all so at least one person could get on top of the case and move it forward.

  Toward noon, her brain almost fried from the senseless brutality of it all, she rose from her desk and decided to get some air by taking a stroll in the small park next to One Police Plaza. She opened her door and exited the outer office, running into a gaggle of cops hanging out in the hall.

  They greeted her with a little more effusion than usual, with several sidelong, embarrassed glances.

  Hayward returned the greetings and then paused. "All right, what is it?"

  A telling silence.

  "I've never seen a worse bunch of fakers," she said lightly. "Honestly, if you sat down to a game of Texas Hold 'Em, you'd all lose."

  The joke fell flat, and after a moment's hesitation, a sergeant spoke up. "Captain, it's sort of about that, ah, FBI agent. Pendergast."

  Hayward froze. Her disdain for Pendergast was well known in the department, as was her relationship with his sometime partner D'Agosta. Pendergast always managed to drag Vincent into deep shit, and she had a growing premonition that the present excursion to Louisiana would end as disastrously as the earlier ones. In fact, maybe it just had... As these thoughts flashed through her mind, Hayward tried to control her features, keep them neutral. "What about Special Agent Pendergast?" she asked coolly.

  "It isn't Pendergast exactly," said the sergeant. "It's a relative of his. Woman named Constance Greene. She's down in central booking, gave Pendergast as her next-of-kin. Apparently she's his niece or something."

  Another awkward silence.

  "And?" Hayward prompted.

  "She's been abroad. She booked passage on the Queen Mary Two from Southampton to New York, boarded with her baby."

  "Baby?"

  "Right. A couple months old at most. Born abroad. Anyway, after the ship docked she was held at passport control because the baby was missing. INS radioed NYPD and we've taken her into custody. They're booking her for homicide."

  "Homicide?"

  "That's right. Seems she threw her baby off the ship somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean."

  27

  Gulf of Mexico

  THE DELTA 767 SEEMED ALMOST TO HOVER AT thirty-four thousand feet, the sky serene and cloudless, the sea an unbroken expanse of blue far below, sparkling in the afternoon light.

  "May I get you another beer, sir?" the stewardess asked, bending over D'Agosta solicitously.

  "Sure," he replied.

  The stewardess turned to D'Agosta's seatmate. "And you, sir? Is everything all right?"

  "No," Pendergast said. He gestured dismissively toward the small dish of smoked salmon that sat on his seat-back tray. "I find this to be room temperature. Would you mind bringing me a chilled serving, please?"

  "Not at all." The woman whisked the plate away with a professional gesture.

  D'Agosta waited until she returned, then settled back in the wide, comfortable seat, stretching out his legs. The only times he'd flown first-class were traveling with Pendergast, but it was something he could get used to.

  A chime sounded over the PA system, and the captain announced that the plane would be landing at Sarasota Bradenton International Airport in twenty minutes.

  D'Agosta took a sip of his beer. Sunflower, Louisiana, was already eighteen hours and hundreds of miles behind them, but the strange Doane house--with that single, jewel-like room of wonders surrounded by a storm of decay and furious ruin--had never been far from his mind. Pendergast, however, had seemed disinclined to discuss it, remaining thoughtful and silent.

  D'Agosta tried once again. "I got a theory."

  The agent glanced toward him.

  "I think the Doane family is a red herring."

  "Indeed?" Pendergast took a tentative bite of the salmon.

  "Think about it. They went nuts many months after Helen's visit. How could the visit have anything to do with what happened later? Or a parrot?"

  "Perhaps you're right," said Pendergast, vaguely. "What puzzles me is this sudden flowering of creative brilliance before... the end. For all
of them."

  "It's a well-known fact that madness runs in families--" D'Agosta thought better of concluding this observation. "Anyway, it's always the gifted ones that go crazy."

  " 'We poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.' " Pendergast turned toward D'Agosta. "So you think their creativity led to madness?"

  "It sure as hell happened to the Doane daughter."

  "I see. And Helen's theft of the parrot had nothing to do with what happened to the family later, is that your hypothesis?"

  "More or less. What do you think?" D'Agosta hoped to smoke out Pendergast's opinion.

  "I think that coincidences do not please me, Vincent."

  D'Agosta hesitated. "Look, another thing I've been wondering... was, or I mean did, Helen--sometimes act weird, or... odd?"

  Pendergast's expression seemed to tighten. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

  "It's just these..." D'Agosta hesitated again. "These sudden trips to strange destinations. The secrets. This stealing of birds, first two dead ones from a museum, then a live one from a family. Is it possible Helen was under some kind of strain, maybe--or was, you know, suffering from some nervous condition? Because back in Rockland I heard rumors that her family was not exactly normal..."

  He fell silent when the ambient temperature around their seats seemed to fall about ten degrees.

  Pendergast's expression did not alter, but when he spoke there was a distant, formal edge to his voice. "Helen Esterhazy may have been unusual. But she was also one of the most rational, the most sane people I ever encountered."

  "I'm sure she was. I wasn't implying--"

  "And she was also the least likely to crack under pressure."

  "Right," D'Agosta said hastily. Bringing this up was a bad idea.

  "I think our time would be better spent discussing the subject at hand," Pendergast said, forcing the conversation onto a new track. "There are a few things you ought to know about him." He plucked a thin envelope from his jacket pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. "John Woodhouse Blast. Age fifty-eight. Born in Florence, South Carolina. Current residence Forty-one Twelve Beach Road, Siesta Key. He's had several occupations: art dealer, gallery owner, import/export--and he was also an engraver and printer." He put back the sheet of paper. "His engravings were of a rather specialized kind."

  "What kind is that?"

  "The kind that features portraits of dead presidents."

  "He was a counterfeiter?"

  "The Secret Service investigated him. Nothing was ever proven. He was also investigated for smuggling elephant ivory and rhinoceros horn--both illegal since the 1989 Endangered Species Convention. Again, nothing was proven."

  "This guy is slipperier than an eel."

  "He is clearly resourceful, determined--and dangerous." Pendergast paused a moment. "There is one other relevant aspect... his name: John Woodhouse Blast."

  "Yeah?"

  "He's the direct descendant of John James Audubon through his son, John Woodhouse Audubon."

  "No shit."

  "John Woodhouse was an artist in his own right. He completed Audubon's final work, Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America, painting nearly half the plates himself after his father's sudden decline."

  D'Agosta whistled. "So Blast probably feels the Black Frame is his birthright."

  "That was my assumption. It would appear he spent much of his adult life searching for it, although in recent years he apparently gave up."

  "So what's he doing now?"

  "I've been unable to find out. He's keeping his present dealings close to his vest." Pendergast glanced out the window. "We shall have to be careful, Vincent. Very careful."

  28

  Sarasota, Florida

  SIESTA KEY WAS A REVELATION TO D'AGOSTA: narrow, palm-lined avenues; emerald lawns leading down to jewel-like azure inlets; sinuous canals on which pleasure boats bobbed lazily. The beach itself was wide, its sand white and fine as sugar, and it stretched north and south into mist and haze. On one side rolled creamy ocean; on the other sat a procession of condos and luxury hotels, punctuated by swimming pools and haciendas and restaurants. It was sunset. As he watched, the sunbathers and sand-castle builders and beachcombers all seemed to pause, as if at some invisible signal, to look west. Beach chairs were reoriented; video cameras were held up. D'Agosta followed the general gaze. The sun was sinking into the Gulf of Mexico, a semicircle of orange fire. He had never before seen a sunset unimpeded by cityscapes or New Jersey, and it surprised him: one minute the sun was there, falling, measurably falling behind the endless flat line of the horizon... and then it was gone, strewing pink bands of afterglow in its wake. He licked his lips, tasted the faint sea air. It wasn't much of a stretch to imagine himself and Laura moving to a place like this once he'd put in his twenty.

  Blast's condo was on the top floor of a luxury high-rise overlooking the beach. They took the elevator up, and Pendergast rang the bell. There was a long delay, then a faint scratching sound as the peephole cover was swiveled aside. Another, briefer delay, followed by the unlocking and opening of the door. A man stood on the far side, short, slightly built, with a full head of brilliantined black hair combed straight back. "Yes?"

  Pendergast offered his shield and D'Agosta did the same. "Mr. Blast?" Pendergast inquired.

  The man looked from one shield to the other, then at Pendergast. There was no fear or anxiety in his eyes, D'Agosta noted--only mild curiosity.

  "May we come in?"

  The man considered this a moment. Then he opened the door wider.

  They passed through a front hall into a living room that was opulently if gaudily decorated. Heavy gold curtains framed a picture window looking out over the ocean. Thick white shag carpeting covered the floor. A faint smell of incense hung in the air. Two Pomeranians, one white and one black, glared at them from a nearby ottoman.

  D'Agosta turned his attention back to Blast. The man looked nothing like his ancestor Audubon. He was small and fussy, with a pencil mustache and--given the climate--a remarkable lack of tan. Yet his movements were quick and lithe, betraying none of the languid decadence of the surrounding decor.

  "Would you care to sit down?" he said, motioning them toward a brace of massive armchairs upholstered in crimson velvet. He spoke with the faintest of southern drawls.

  Pendergast took a seat, and D'Agosta did the same. Blast sank into a white leather sofa across from them. "I assume you're not here about my rental property on Shell Road?"

  "Quite correct," Pendergast replied.

  "Then how can I help you?"

  Pendergast let the question hang in the air for a moment before answering. "We're here about the Black Frame."

  Blast's surprise manifested itself only in a faint widening of the eyes. After a moment he smiled, displaying brilliant little white teeth. It was not a particularly friendly smile. The man reminded D'Agosta of a mink, sleek and ready to bite. "Are you offering to sell?"

  Pendergast shook his head. "No. We wish to examine it."

  "Always preferable to know one's competition," said Blast.

  Pendergast threw one leg over the other. "Odd you should mention competition. Because that's another reason we're here."

  Blast cocked his head to one side quizzically.

  "Helen Esterhazy Pendergast." The FBI agent slowly enunciated each word.

  This time Blast remained absolutely still. He looked from Pendergast to D'Agosta, then back. "I'm sorry, as long as we're on the subject of names: may I have yours, please?"

  "Special Agent Pendergast," he said. "And this is my associate, Lieutenant D'Agosta."

  "Helen Esterhazy Pendergast," Blast repeated. "A relative of yours?"

  "She was my wife," said Pendergast coldly.

  The little man spread his hands. "Never heard the name in my life. Desolee. Now, if that's all...?" He stood.

  Pendergast rose abruptly as well. D'Agosta stiffened, but instead of physically confronting Blast,
as he feared, the agent clasped his hands behind his back, walked over to the picture window, and gazed out of it. Then he turned and roamed about the room, examining the various paintings, one after the other, as if he were in a museum gallery. Blast remained where he was, motionless, only his eyes moving as they followed the agent. Pendergast moved into the front hall, paused a moment in front of a closet door. His hand suddenly dipped into his black suit, removed something, touched the closet door; and then quite suddenly he threw it open.

  Blast started for him. "What the devil--?" he cried angrily.

  Pendergast reached into the closet, shoved aside several items, and pulled out a long fur coat from the back; it bore the familiar yellow-and-black stripes of a tiger.

  "How dare you invade my privacy!" Blast said, still advancing.

  Pendergast shook out the coat, gazing up and down. "Fit for a princess," he said, turning to Blast with a smile. "Absolutely genuine." He reached in the closet again, pushing aside more coats while Blast stood there, red with anger. "Ocelot, margay... quite a gallery of endangered species. And they are new, certainly more recent than the CITES ban of 1989, not to mention the '72 ESA."