Fever Dream

by Douglas Preston

  Pendergast seemed particularly annoyed that the first two names on Mary Ann Roblet’s list hadn’t panned out: one was long dead, the other non compos mentis and, on top of that, in a hospital on life support. They were now on their way to the third and last. He was Denison Phillips IV, former general counsel of Longitude, retired and living a quiet life on Bonvie Drive in the Bayou Glades Country Club area of Sulphur. The name and address had already created a picture in Hayward’s mind of a member of a certain minor southern gentry: pompous, self-important, alcoholic, cunning, and above all uncooperative. From her days at LSU she knew the type all too well.

  She saw the exit sign for Sulphur and slowed, moving into the right lane.

  “I’m glad we ran a file on our Mr. Phillips,” Pendergast said.

  “He came up clean.”

  “Indeed,” came the curt reply. “I’m referring to the file on Mr. Denison Phillips the Fifth.”

  “His son? You mean, that drug conviction on his rap sheet?”

  “It’s rather serious: possession of more than five grams of cocaine with intent to sell. I also noted in the file that he’s pre-law at LSU.”

  “Yeah. I’d like to see him get into law school with that on his record. You can’t qualify for the bar with a felony.”

  “One would assume,” Pendergast drawled, “that the family is connected and has reason to believe the record will be expunged when Denison the Fifth attains twenty-one. At least, I feel confident that’s their intention.”

  Hayward took her eyes off the road long enough to glance at Pendergast. There was a hard gleam in his eyes as he spoke these last words. She could just imagine how he was planning to handle this. He’d put the screws on, threaten to obstruct any attempt to expunge the conviction, perhaps even threaten to call the press, and in every way make it impossible for Denison Phillips V to join his father’s law firm… unless the old man talked, and talked effusively. More than ever, she wished Vinnie were here instead of recuperating in Caltrop Hospital. Handling Pendergast was exhausting work. For the hundredth time, she wondered exactly why Vinnie—an old-school cop like herself—held Pendergast and his supreme unorthodoxy in such high regard.

  She took a deep breath. “Say, Pendergast, I wonder if you’d do me a favor.”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  “Let me take first crack at this particular interview.”

  She felt the FBI agent’s eyes on her.

  “I know his type well,” she went on. “And I’ve got an idea for how best to handle him.”

  There was a brief and to Hayward’s mind somewhat frosty silence before Pendergast replied, “I shall observe with interest.”

  Denison Phillips IV met them at the door of his spacious golf-club development home, old enough that the trees planted around had attained quasi-stately proportions. He was so exactly what Hayward had imagined, so exquisitely the type, that she was instantly disgusted. The seersucker jacket with the paisley handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket, the monogrammed pale yellow shirt unbuttoned at the top, green golfing slacks, and afternoon martini in hand completed the picture.

  “May I ask what this is in reference to?” he drawled, in a faux-genteel accent in which all traces of servile ancestry had been carefully removed several generations before.

  “I am Captain Hayward of the New York City Police Department, formerly of the New Orleans Police Department,” she said, switching into the bland, neutral tone she used when dealing with potential informants. “And this is my associate, Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.” As she spoke, she removed her shield, swept it past Phillips. Pendergast didn’t bother doing the same.

  Phillips glanced from one to the other. “You are aware this is Sunday?”

  “Yes, sir. May we come in?”

  “Perhaps I need to speak to my attorney first,” said Phillips.

  “Naturally,” Hayward replied, “that would be your right, sir, and we’d wait as long as it took for him to arrive. But we’re here informally with only a few quick questions. You’re not in any way a target of our investigation. All we need is ten minutes of your time.”

  Phillips hesitated and then stepped aside. “In that case, come in.”

  Hayward followed Phillips into the house, all white carpeting, white brick, white leather, gold and glass. Pendergast silently brought up the rear. They came into a living room with picture windows overlooking a fairway.

  “Please sit down.” Phillips took a seat, setting his martini on a leather coaster on a side table. He did not offer them one.

  Hayward cleared her throat. “You were a partner in the law firm of Marston, Phillips, and Lowe, is that right?”

  “If this is about my law firm, I really can’t answer any questions.”

  “And you were the general counsel to the Longitude corporation, up to and through the period of its bankruptcy some eleven years ago?”

  A long silence. Phillips smiled and placed his hands on his knees, rising. “I’m sorry, but we’re already beyond where I’m comfortable going without legal representation. I would suggest you return with a subpoena. I will gladly answer questions with counsel present.”

  Hayward rose. “As you wish. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Phillips.” She paused. “Give our regards to your son.”

  “You know my son?” came the easy reply, with no hint of anxiety.

  “No,” said Hayward. They moved toward the front hall.

  As her hand touched the doorknob, Phillips finally asked, his voice very calm, “Then why did you mention him just now?”

  Hayward turned. “I can see, Mr. Phillips, that you are a gentleman of the Old South. A forthright man of old-fashioned values who appreciates directness.”

  Phillips greeted this with a certain wariness.

  Hayward went on, subtly modulating her voice into the southern inflections that she usually suppressed. “Which is why I’ll be straight with you. I’m here on a special errand. We need information. And we’re in a position to help your son. About that matter of the drug conviction, I mean.”

  This was greeted with a dead silence. “All that’s been taken care of,” Phillips said at last.

  “Well, you see—that depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On just how forthright you prove to be.”

  Phillips frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re in possession of information that’s very important to us. Now, my associate here, Agent Pendergast—let’s just say that the two of us are in disagreement on how best to elicit that information. He, and the Bureau, are in a position to make sure that your son’s record is not expunged. And he’s of the opinion that this is the easiest way to guarantee your help. By keeping your son’s record dirty, by preventing him from attending law school—or at least threatening to prevent him from attending—he believes he can force your hand.”

  Hayward paused. Phillips looked at them in turn. A vein in his temple throbbed.

  “I, on the other hand, would prefer to cooperate. See, I’m in with the local constabulary. I used to be one of them myself. I’m in a position to help clear your son’s record. Help make sure he gets into law school, passes the bar, joins your firm. Seems to me that would be good for everyone. What do you think?”

  “I see: the classic good-cop, bad-cop routine,” said Phillips.

  “A tried-and-true approach.”

  “What do you want to know?” Phillips asked, voice thin.

  “We’re working on an old case, and we have reason to believe you can help us. As I mentioned, it involves Longitude Pharmaceuticals.”

  A veiled expression came over Phillips’s face. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the company.”

  “That’s really a shame. And I’ll tell you why. Because hearing this obstructionist attitude—and hearing it from your own lips—is just going to reinforce my associate’s notion that his way of handling this is the right way to go. I’ll be embarrassed—and your son will never, ever get a law d
egree.”

  Phillips did not reply.

  “It’s also a shame because Agent Pendergast here is in a position to help, as well as to hurt.” Hayward paused briefly to let this sink in. “You see, you’ll need the FBI’s help if you want to correct your son’s record. With a drug conviction like that… well, as you might imagine, there will be a federal file to take care of, in addition to the local paperwork.”

  Phillips swallowed. “We’re talking about a small-time drug conviction. The FBI would have no interest in that.”

  “Possession with intent to sell. That automatically generates a federal file.” She nodded slowly. “Being a corporate lawyer, perhaps you didn’t know that. Trust me, that file is sitting in a cabinet somewhere, a time bomb waiting to blow up your son’s future.”

  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 th
e 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.

  56

  Itta Bena, Mississippi

  THE 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.