Fever Dream p-10

by Douglas Preston;Lincoln Child

  Doctors, nurses, and staff passed in a blur as she walked steadily on, toward the pair of double doors leading into surgery. She pushed through them, taking care to keep her pace slow and deliberate. The admissions kiosk was to her right but she passed by, ignoring the polite "May I help you?" from the nurse. She headed straight into the waiting room--and there saw a lone figure sitting at the far end, rising from his seat now and taking a step toward her, face grim, arm extended.

  She walked up to him and in one smooth motion raised her right arm, drew it back, and cold-cocked him across the jaw. "Bastard!"

  He staggered back but made no effort to defend himself. She hit him again.

  "Selfish, arrogant bastard! It wasn't enough that you almost ruined his career. Now you've killed him, you son of a bitch!"

  She drew back and swung at him a third time, but this time he caught her arm in a vise-like grip and drew her toward him, turning and gently--but firmly--pinning her. She struggled briefly. And then, as quickly as it had come, she felt all the anger, all the hatred, collapse inside her. She sagged in his grip, utterly drained. He helped her to a chair. Somewhere, she was dimly aware of a commotion, the sound of running footsteps, shouts. She looked up and found them surrounded by three security guards shouting various contradictory questions and commands, the receiving nurse standing behind them, hand over her mouth.

  Pendergast stood up, removed his shield, and held it up at them. "I'll take care of this. No reason to be alarmed."

  "But there's been an assault," said one of the security officers. "Sir, you're bleeding."

  Pendergast took an aggressive step forward. "I will handle it, Officer. I thank you and these others for the swift response, and I bid you good evening."

  After a few moments of confusion, the security officers departed, leaving one behind, who took a position at the waiting room door, hands clasped in front, staring hard and suspiciously at Hayward.

  Pendergast sat down beside Hayward. "He's been in exploratory surgery for several hours. I understand it's very serious. I've asked to be briefed on his situation as soon as they've got anything to--ah, here's a surgeon now."

  A doctor entered the waiting room, his face grave. He looked from Hayward to Pendergast, whose face was bleeding, but made no comment. "Special Agent Pendergast?"

  "Yes. And this is Captain Hayward, NYPD, a close friend of the patient. You may speak freely with both of us."

  "I see." The surgeon nodded, consulted a clipboard in his hand. "The bullet entered at an angle from behind and grazed the heart before lodging against the back of a rib."

  "The heart?" Hayward asked, struggling to comprehend, even as she managed to collect herself, organize her thoughts.

  "Among other things, it partially tore the aortic valve as well as blocking the blood supply to part of the heart. Right now we're trying to fix the valve and keep the heart going."

  "What are his chances of... of survival?" she asked.

  The surgeon hesitated. "Every case is different. The good news is that the patient did not lose too much blood. If the bullet had been even half a millimeter closer, it would have ruptured the aorta. It did, however, do significant damage to the heart. If the operation is successful, he has an excellent chance of a full recovery."

  "Look," said Hayward, "I'm a cop. You don't have to beat around the bush with me. I want to know what his chances are."

  The surgeon looked at her with pale, faded eyes. "This is a difficult and complex procedure. We have a team of the best surgeons in Louisiana working on it as we speak. But even under the best of circumstances, a healthy patient, no complications... well, it's not often successful. It's like trying to rebuild a car engine--while it's running."

  "Not often?" She felt suddenly sick. "What do you mean by that?"

  "I don't know that any controlled studies have been done, but my best guess as a surgeon would put a successful outcome at five percent... or less."

  This was followed by a long silence. Five percent or less.

  "What about a heart transplant?"

  "If we had a heart, all matched up and ready to go, it would be a possibility. But we don't."

  Hayward felt around for the arm of the chair and sank down into it.

  "Does Mr. D'Agosta have any relatives who should be notified?"

  Hayward didn't answer for a moment. Then she said, "An ex-wife and a son... in Canada. There's no one else. And that's Lieutenant D'Agosta."

  "My apologies. Now, forgive me, but I need to get back to the OR. The operation will continue for at least eight more hours--if all goes well. You're welcome to stay here, but I doubt there will be any more news until the end."

  Hayward nodded vaguely. She couldn't wrap her mind around it all. She seemed to have lost all power of ratiocination.

  She felt the surgeon's light touch on her shoulder. "May I ask if the lieutenant is a religious man?"

  She tried to focus on the question, finally nodding. "Catholic."

  "Would you like me to ask the hospital priest to come?"

  "The priest?" She glanced at Pendergast, unsure how to answer.

  "Yes," said Pendergast, "we would very much like the priest to come. We would like to speak to him. And please tell him to be prepared to administer extreme unction, given the circumstances."

  A soft beeping went off on the doctor's person and in an automatic motion he reached down, detached a pager from his belt, and looked at it. At the same time the public address system chimed and a smooth female voice sounded from a hidden speaker:

  "Code blue, OR two-one. Code blue, OR two-one. Code team to OR two-one."

  "Excuse me," said the surgeon, a faint hurry in his voice, "but I have to go now."

  44

  THE PA SYSTEM CHIMED, THEN FELL SILENT. Hayward sat where she was, suddenly frozen. Her mind reeled. She couldn't bring herself to look at Pendergast, at the nurses, anywhere but at the floor. All she could think of was the look in the surgeon's eyes as he had hurried away.

  A few minutes later a priest arrived carrying a black bag, looking almost like a doctor himself, a small man with white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked from her to Pendergast with bright bird-like eyes.

  "I'm Father Bell." He set his bag down and extended a small hand. Hayward took it but instead of shaking her hand, he held it comfortingly. "And you are--?"

  "Captain Hayward. Laura Hayward. I'm a... a close friend of Lieutenant D'Agosta."

  His eyebrows rose slightly. "You're a police officer, then?"

  "NYPD."

  "Was this a line-of-duty injury?"

  Hayward hesitated, and Pendergast smoothly picked up the flow. "In a way. I'm Special Agent Pendergast, FBI, the lieutenant's associate."

  A crisp nod and a handshake. "I'm here to administer the sacraments to Lieutenant D'Agosta, specifically one that we call Anointing the Sick."

  "Anointing the Sick," Hayward repeated.

  "We used to call it the Last Rites, but that was always an awkward and inaccurate term. You see, it's a sacrament for the living, not the dying, and it's a healing sacrament." His voice was light and musical.

  Hayward inclined her head, swallowed.

  "I hope you don't mind me explaining these things in detail. My presence can sometimes be alarming. People think I'm only called in when someone's expected to die, which is not the case."

  Even though she wasn't a Catholic, Hayward found his directness steadying. "That code we just heard." She paused. "Does that mean...?"

  "There's a fine team of doctors working on the lieutenant. If there's a way to pull him out of this, they will find it. If not, then God's will be done. Now, does either of you think the lieutenant might have any reason to wish that I not administer the sacraments?"

  "To tell you the truth, he was never a very observant Catholic..." Hayward hesitated. She couldn't remember the last time Vinnie had gone to church. But something about the idea of having the priest there seemed comforting, and she sensed that he'd appreciate i
t. "I would say yes. I think Vincent would approve."

  "Very well." The priest squeezed her hand. "Is there anything I can do for either of you? Arrangements? Phone calls?" He paused. "Confession? We have a chapel here in the hospital."

  "No thank you," said Hayward. She glanced at Pendergast, but he said nothing.

  Father Bell nodded at them in turn, then picked up his black bag and walked down the corridor toward the operating suites at a brisk and confident pace, perhaps even with a slight hurry in his step.

  She put her face in her hands. Five percent... or less. One chance in twenty. The brief sense of comfort the priest had brought with him dissolved. She'd better get used to the idea that Vinnie wasn't going to make it. It was so useless, such a waste of a life. He wasn't even forty-five. Memories welled up in her mind, fragmented, torturous, the bad memories lacerating, the good memories even worse.

  Somewhere in the background, she heard Pendergast speaking. "I want you to know, if things go badly, that Vincent did not throw his life away."

  She stared through her fingers down the empty corridor where the priest had vanished, not responding.

  "Captain. A police officer puts his life on the line every day. You can be killed anytime, anywhere, for anything. Breaking up a domestic quarrel, thwarting a terrorist attack. Any death in the line is honorable. And Vincent was engaged in the most honorable job there is: helping right a wrong. His effort has been vital, absolutely crucial to solving this murder."

  Hayward said nothing. Her mind went back to the code. That had been a quarter hour ago. Perhaps, she thought, the priest was already too late.

  45

  South Mountain, Georgia

  THE TRAIL BROKE FREE OF THE WOODS AND came out atop the mountain. Judson Esterhazy halted at the edge of the open meadow just in time to see the sun set over the pine-clad hills, suffusing the misty evening with a ruddy glow, a distant lake shimmering white-gold in the dying light.

  He paused, breathing lightly. The so-called mountain was one in name only, being more of a bump than anything else. The summit itself was long and narrow and ridge-like, covered with tall grass, with a granite bald spot on which stood the remains of a fire tower.

  Esterhazy glanced around. The summit was empty. He made his way out of the yellow pines and walked along an overgrown fire road toward the tower, finally coming up beneath its looming form. He leaned on one of the rusted metal struts, fumbled in his pocket, removed his pipe and a tobacco pouch. Inserting the pipe into the pouch, he slowly packed it with tobacco, using his thumb, the scent of Latakia rising to his nostrils. When it was filled to his liking he removed it, cleaned a few stray bits from the rim, gave it a final pack, removed a lighter from the same pocket, flicked it on, and sucked flame into the bowl in a series of slow, even movements.

  The blue smoke drifted off into the twilight. As he smoked, Esterhazy saw a figure emerge from the far end of the field at the top of the south trail. There were several trails to the top of South Mountain, each arriving from a different road in a different direction.

  The fragrance of the expensive tobacco, the soothing effects of the nicotine, the comforting ritual, steadied his nerves. He did not watch the figure approach, but instead kept his eyes focused on the west, at the orange diffusion above the hills where the sun had been moments before. He kept his eyes there until he heard the sweep of boots through grass, the faint rasp of breathing. Then he turned toward the man--a man he hadn't seen in a decade. The man looked little different than he remembered: slightly jowlier, hair somewhat receded, but he was still strongly built and sinewy. He wore an expensive pair of swamp boots and a chambray shirt.

  "Evening," the man said.

  Esterhazy removed his pipe and gave it a lift by way of greeting. "Hello, Mike," he replied.

  The man stood against the afterglow, and his features were indistinct. "So," he began, "sounds like you took it upon yourself to clean up a little mess, and instead it turned into a rather bigger mess."

  Esterhazy wasn't going to be talked to like that--not by Michael Ventura. "Nothing involving this man Pendergast is a 'little mess,' " he said harshly. "This is precisely what I've been dreading all these years. Something had to be done and I did it. Nominally, the job belonged to you. But you would undoubtedly have made a bigger hash of it."

  "Not likely. That's the kind of job I do best."

  A long silence. Esterhazy took in a thin stream of smoke, let it leak out, trying to regain his equilibrium.

  "It's been a long time," Ventura said. "Let's not get off on the wrong foot."

  Esterhazy nodded. "It's just that... Well, I thought it was all long past. Buried."

  "It'll never be long past. Not as long as there's Spanish Island to deal with."

  A look of concern crossed Esterhazy's face. "Everything's all right, isn't it?"

  "As well as could be expected."

  Another silence.

  "Look," Ventura said in a milder tone. "I know this can't be easy for you. You made the ultimate sacrifice; we're very grateful to you for that."

  Esterhazy drew on his pipe. "Let's get down to it," he said.

  "Okay. So just let me understand. Instead of killing Pendergast, you killed his partner."

  "D'Agosta. A happy accident. He was a loose end. I also took care of a couple of other loose ends--Blast and Blackletter. Two people who should have been removed from circulation a long time ago."

  Ventura spat into the grass by way of answer. "I don't agree, and I never have. Blackletter was well paid for his silence. And Blast is only indirectly connected."

  "Nevertheless, he was a loose end."

  Ventura just shook his head.

  "Now D'Agosta's girlfriend is down here. A girlfriend who just happens to be the youngest homicide captain in the NYPD."

  "So?"

  Esterhazy took the pipe from his mouth and spoke coldly. "Mike, you have no idea--and I mean no idea--how dangerous this man Pendergast is. I know him well. I needed to act immediately. Unfortunately, I failed to kill him on the first attempt. Which will make the second all that much more difficult. You do understand, don't you, that it's either him or us?"

  "How much could he possibly know?"

  "He's found the Black Frame, he knows about Audubon's illness, and somehow he knows about the Doane family."

  A sharp intake of breath. "You're shitting me. How much about the Doane family?"

  "Hard to say. He was in Sunflower. He visited the house. He's tenacious and clever. You can assume he knows--or will know--everything."

  "Son of a bitch. How in the world did they find out?"

  "No idea. Not only is Pendergast a brilliant investigator, but this time around he's motivated--uniquely motivated."

  Ventura shook his head.

  "And I've little doubt he's busy filling the ear of this homicide captain with his suspicions, just as he did with that partner of his, D'Agosta. I'm afraid it's only a matter of time before they pay our mutual friend a visit."

  A pause. "You think this investigation's official?"

  "It doesn't seem so. I think they're working ex cathedra. I doubt others are involved."

  Ventura thought for a moment before speaking again. "So now we finish the job."

  "Exactly. Take out Pendergast and that captain. Do it now. Kill them all."

  "The cop you hit, D'Agosta--are you sure he's dead?"

  "I think so. He took a .308 round in the back." Judson frowned. "If he doesn't die of his own accord, we'll have to extend a helping hand. Leave that to me."

  Ventura nodded. "I'll keep the rest in line."

  "You do that. Need any help? Money?"

  "Money's the last of our worries. You know that." And Ventura walked away across the field, toward the pink sky of evening, until his dark silhouette disappeared into the pines at the far end.

  Judson Esterhazy spent the next fifteen minutes leaning against the fire tower, smoking his pipe and thinking. Finally he reamed it out and knocked the dottle o
nto the iron strut. Then he stuck the pipe back into his pocket, took one last look at the light dying away in the west, then turned and made his way down the trail toward the road on the other side of the hill.

  46

  Baton Rouge

  EXACTLY HOW MUCH TIME HAD PASSED--FIVE hours or fifty--Laura Hayward wasn't sure. The slow succession of minutes blended with a strange fugue of loudspeaker announcements, rapid hushed voices, the bleating of instrumentation. At times, Pendergast was at her side. Other times she would find him gone. At first she willed the time to pass as quickly as possible. Then--as the wait grew longer--she only wanted time to slow down. Because the longer Vincent D'Agosta lay on that surgical table, she knew, the more his chances of survival dwindled.

  Then--quite abruptly--the surgeon was standing before them. His scrub blues were creased and wrinkled, and his face looked pale and drawn. Behind him stood Father Bell.

  At the sight of the priest, Hayward's heart gave a dreadful lurch. She had known this moment would come. And yet--now that it was here--she did not think that she could bear it. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no... She felt Pendergast take her hand.

  The surgeon cleared his throat. "I've come to let you know the operation was successful. We closed forty-five minutes ago and we've been monitoring closely since. The signs are promising."

  "I'll take you to see him now," said Father Bell.

  "Only for a moment," the surgeon added. "He's barely conscious and very weak."

  For a moment, Hayward sat motionless, stunned, trying to take it in. Pendergast was speaking but she couldn't understand the words. Then she felt herself being raised--the FBI agent on one side, the priest on the other--and she was walking down the corridor. They turned left, then right, past closed doors and halls full of stretchers and empty wheelchairs. Through an open doorway they came to a small area enclosed by movable privacy screens. A nurse pulled one of the screens away and there was Vinnie. A dozen machines were attached to him, and his eyes were closed. Tubes snaked beneath the sheets: one containing plasma, another saline. Despite D'Agosta's hefty build, he looked fragile, papery almost.