Fever Dream

by Douglas Preston

  “Madman,” June Brodie interrupted. She almost spat out the word. “That’s what you call him. But he was more than that—much more. He was a good man. He did good work—wonderful work. If I could have cured him, he would have done it again. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t listen…” Her voice broke, and she struggled to master herself.

  “His condition was incurable,” Pendergast said, not unkindly. “And I’m afraid there’s no way his experimental putterings could make up for cold-blooded murder.”

  “Putterings! Putterings? He did this!” And she stabbed her own breast with a finger.

  “This?” Pendergast said. A look of surprise came over his mud-smeared face. Then, suddenly, the surprise disappeared.

  “If you know so much about me, you must have known of my condition,” she said.

  Pendergast nodded. “Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Now I understand. That clarifies the last question in my mind—why you moved into the swamp before Slade went mad.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Hayward.

  “Lou Gehrig’s disease.” Pendergast turned toward Mrs. Brodie. “You don’t appear to be suffering any symptoms at present.”

  “I have no symptoms because I no longer have the disease. After his recovery, Charles had a period of… genius. Amazing genius. That’s what it does to you, the avian flu. He had ideas… wonderful ideas. Ideas to help me… and others, as well. He created a treatment for ALS, utilizing complex proteins grown in vats of living cells. The first of the so-called biologics. Charles developed them first, by himself, ten years ahead of his time. He had to retreat from the world to do his work. He did it—all of it—right here.”

  “I see now why this room appears to be far more than a clinic,” Pendergast said. “It’s an experimental laboratory.”

  “It is. Or was. Before… before he changed.”

  Hayward turned to her. “This is extraordinary. Why haven’t you shared this with the world?”

  “Impossible,” Mrs. Brodie said, almost in a whisper. “It was all in his head. We begged him but he never wrote it down. He grew worse, and then it was too late. That’s why I wanted to restore him to his old self. He loved me. He cured me. And now the secret of that cure has died with him.”

  Heavy clouds veiled the moon as they pulled away from Spanish Island. There was little light—either for a sniper, or for a pilot—and Pendergast kept the boat to a crawl, the engine barely audible as they nosed through the thick vegetation. Hayward sat in the bow, a pair of crutches appropriated from the lodge at her side. She was thinking quietly.

  For perhaps half an hour, not a word was exchanged. Finally, Hayward roused herself and glanced back at Pendergast, piloting from the rear console.

  “Why did Slade do it?” she asked.

  Pendergast’s eyes shone faintly as he glanced at her.

  “Disappear, I mean,” she went on. “Hide himself away in this swamp.”

  “He must have known he was infected,” Pendergast replied after a moment. “He’d seen what had happened to the others; he realized he was going to go mad… or worse. He wanted to make sure he could exercise some kind of control over his care. Spanish Island was the perfect choice. If it hadn’t been discovered yet, it never would be. And because it had been used as a lab, they already had much of the equipment he’d need. No doubt he harbored hopes for a cure. Perhaps it was while trying to discover one that he managed to cure June Brodie.”

  “Yes, but why such an elaborate setup? Stage his own death, stage Mrs. Brodie’s death. I mean, he wasn’t on the run from the law or anything like that.”

  “No, not from the law. It does seem like an extreme reaction. But then a man isn’t likely to be thinking clearly under those circumstances.”

  “Anyway, he’s dead now,” she went on. “So can you find some peace? Some resolution?”

  For a moment, the agent did not respond. When at last he spoke, his voice was flat, uninflected. “No.”

  “Why not? You’ve solved the mystery, avenged your wife’s murder.”

  “Remember what Slade said: there’s a surprise in my future. He could only have meant the second shooter—the one who’s still out there, somewhere. As long as he is loose, he remains a danger to you, to Vincent, and to me. And…” He paused a moment. “There’s something else.”

  “Go on.”

  “As long as there is even one more person out there who bears responsibility for Helen’s death, I cannot rest.”

  She looked at him, but his gaze had suddenly shifted. Pendergast appeared to be strangely transfixed by the full moon—which had emerged from the clouds and was finally setting into the swamp. His face was briefly illuminated by slivers of light as the orb sank through the dense vegetation, and then, as the moon finally disappeared below the horizon, the glow was snuffed out, the swamp plunged again into darkness.

  79

  Malfourche, Mississippi

  THE NAVY UTILITY BOAT, WITH PENDERGAST AT the wheel, slid into an unoccupied boat slip across the inlet from the docks beyond Tiny’s Bait ’n’ Bar. The sun, rising toward noon, was pouring unseasonable heat and humidity into every corner of the muddy waterfront.

  Hopping out, Pendergast tied up and helped Hayward onto the dock, then handed her the pair of crutches.

  Though it was only late morning, the twang of country-and-western music came from the ramshackle Bait ’n’ Bar on the far side of the docks. Pendergast removed June Brodie’s 12-gauge pump-action shotgun and raised it over his head.

  “What are you doing?” Hayward asked, balancing on the crutches.

  “Getting everyone’s attention. As I alluded to before, we have unfinished business here.” An enormous boom sounded as Pendergast fired the shotgun into the air. A moment later people came spilling out of the Bait ’n’ Bar like hornets from a hive, many with beers in their hands. Tiny and Larry were nowhere to be seen, but the rest of the crew, Hayward noticed, were there in force. Hayward remembered their leering, sweating faces with a trace of nausea. The large group stared silently at the two figures. They had washed up before leaving Spanish Island, and June Brodie had given Hayward a clean blouse, but she knew they must both be muddy sights.

  “Come on down, boys, and watch the action!” Pendergast called out, walking across the landing toward Tiny’s and the second set of docks.

  Haltingly, warily, the crowd worked its way down toward them. Finally one man, more courageous than the rest, stepped forward. He was large and mean looking, with a small, ferret-like face atop a large amorphous body. He stared at them with squinty blue eyes. “What the hell you want now?” he said, advancing while tossing his can of beer into the water. Hayward recognized him as one of the ones cheering the loudest when her brassiere was cut in two.

  “You said you were gonna leave us alone,” someone else called out.

  “I said I wouldn’t arrest you. I didn’t say I wouldn’t come back to bother you.”

  The man hitched up his pants. “You already bothering me.”

  “Excellent!” Pendergast stepped onto the docks behind Tiny’s, crowded with boats of various descriptions. Hayward recognized most of them from the previous day’s ambush. “And now: which of these fine vessels belongs to Larry?”

  “None of your business.”

  Pendergast casually tilted the shotgun down, pointing it into a nearby boat, and pulled the trigger. A massive boom echoed across the lake, the boat shuddering with the discharge, a gout of water shooting up, leaving a twelve-inch hole ripped out of its welded aluminum hull. Muddy water came swirling in, the nose of the boat tipping downward.

  “What the hell?” a man in the crowd yelled. “That’s my boat!”

  “Sorry, I thought it was Larry’s. Now, which is Larry’s? This one?” Pendergast aimed the gun at the next boat, discharged it. Another geyser of water rose up, showering the crowd, and the boat jumped and began to settle immediately.

  “Son of a bitch!” another man screamed. �
�Larry’s is the 2000 Legend! That one over there!” He gestured to a bass boat at the far end of the slip.

  Pendergast strolled over and inspected it. “Nice. Tell Larry this is for tossing my badge into the swamp.” Another blast from the shotgun, which punched through the outboard engine, the cover flying off. “And this one’s because he’s such a low fellow.” A second shot holed the boat at the transom, kicking up a geyser. The stern filled with water, the boat tilted up by the nose, the engine sinking.

  “Christ! This bastard’s crazy!”

  “Indeed.” Pendergast strolled down the dock, racked a fresh round into the shotgun, and casually aimed at the next boat. “This one’s for giving us incorrect directions.” Boom.

  Another casual step. “This is for the double punch to the solar plexus.”

  Boom.

  “And this is for expectorating on me.”

  Boom. Boom. Two more boats went down.

  Removing his .45, Pendergast handed it to Hayward. “Keep an eye on them while I reload.” He pulled a handful of shells from his pocket and inserted them.

  “And this is most especially for humiliating and exposing my esteemed colleague to your vulgar, lascivious gaze. As I said before, that was no way to treat a lady.” As he strolled down the dock, he fired into the bottom of each remaining boat, one after the other, pausing only to reload. The crowd stared, shocked into absolute silence.

  Pendergast halted before the group of sweating, shaking, beery men. “Anybody else in the bar?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “You can’t do this,” a man said, his voice cracking. “This ain’t legal.”

  “Perhaps somebody should call the FBI,” said Pendergast. He strolled toward the door into the Bait ’n’ Bar, cracked it open, glanced inside. “Ma’am?” he said. “Please step out.”

  A flustered woman with bleached-blond hair and enormous red fingernails came bustling out and broke into a run toward the parking lot.

  “You’ve lost a heel!” Pendergast called after her, but she kept going, hobbling like a lame horse.

  Pendergast disappeared inside the bar. Hayward, pistol in hand, could hear him opening and closing doors and calling out. He emerged. “Nobody home.” He walked around to the front and faced the crowd. “Everyone, please withdraw to the parking lot and take cover behind those parked cars.”

  Nobody moved.

  Boom! Pendergast unloaded the shotgun over their heads and they hastily shuffled to the dirt parking lot. Pendergast backed away from the building, racked a fresh round into the shotgun, and aimed at the large propane tank snugged up against the side of the bait shop. He turned to Hayward.

  “Captain, we might need the penetrative power of that .45 ACP, so let us both fire on the count of three.”

  Hayward took a stance with the .45. I could get used to the Pendergast “method,” she thought, aiming at the big white tank.

  “One…”

  “Holy shit, no!” wailed a voice.

  “Two…

  “Three!”

  They fired simultaneously, the .45 kicking hard. A gigantic explosion erupted, and a massive wave of heat and overpressure swept over them. The entire building disappeared, engulfed in a boiling fireball. Soaring out of the fireball, trailing streamers of smoke, came thousands of bits and pieces of debris that rained down around them—writhing nightcrawlers, bugs, burning maggots, pieces of wood, reels, streamers of fishing line, shattered fishing rods, broken liquor bottles, pigs’ trotters, pickles, lime wedges, coasters, and exploded beer cans.

  The fireball rose in a miniature mushroom cloud while the debris continued to patter down. Gradually, as the smoke cleared, the burning stub of the building came into view. There was virtually nothing left.

  Pendergast slung the shotgun over his shoulder and strolled down the dock toward Hayward. “Captain, shall we go? I think it’s time we paid a visit to Vincent. Police guard or not, I’ll feel better once we’ve moved him to new quarters—perhaps a place more private, not far from New York City, where we can keep an eye on him ourselves.”

  “Amen to that.” And with a certain relief, Hayward thought that it was a good thing she wouldn’t be working with Pendergast much longer. She had enjoyed that just a little too much.

  80

  New York City

  DR. JOHN FELDER SAT IN HIS CONSULTING OFFICE in the Lower Manhattan building of the New York City Department of Health. It was on the seventh floor, where the Division of Mental Hygiene was located. He glanced around the small, tidy space, mentally assuring himself that everything was in order: the medical references in the bookshelves lined up and dusted, the impersonal paintings on the wall all perfectly level, the chairs before his desk set at just the right angle, the surface of his desk free of any unnecessary items.

  Dr. Felder did not normally receive many guests in his office. He did most of his work—so to speak—in the field: in locked wards and police holding tanks and hospital emergency rooms, and he carried out his small private practice in a consulting room on lower Park Avenue. But this appointment was different. For one thing, Felder had asked the gentleman to see him, not the other way around. The psychiatrist had done a background check on the man—and what he learned was rather disconcerting. Perhaps the invitation would prove to be a mistake. Even so, this man seemed to be the key, the only key, to the mystery of Constance Greene.

  A quiet double tap sounded at the door. Felder glanced at his watch: ten thirty precisely. Punctual. He rose and opened the door.

  The apparition that stood in the doorway did little to relieve Felder’s misgivings. He was tall, thin, and immaculately dressed, his pallid skin a shocking contrast to the black suit. His eyes were as pale as his skin, and they seemed to regard Felder with a combination of keen discernment, mild curiosity, and—perhaps—just a little amusement.

  Felder realized he was staring. “Come in, please,” he said quickly. “You’re Mr. Pendergast?”

  “I am.”

  Felder showed the man to one of the consultation seats and then took his place behind the desk. “I’m sorry, but it’s actually Dr. Pendergast, isn’t it? I took the liberty of looking into your background.”

  Pendergast inclined his head. “I have two PhDs, but, frankly, I prefer my law enforcement title of special agent.”

  “I see.” Felder had interviewed his share of cops, but never an FBI agent, and he wasn’t quite sure how to begin. The straightforward approach seemed as good as any.

  “Constance Greene is your ward?”

  “She is.”

  Felder leaned back in his chair, casually throwing one leg over the other. He wanted to make sure he gave the impression of relaxation and informality. “I wondered if you could tell me a little more about her. Where she was born, what her early life was like… that sort of thing.”

  Pendergast continued to regard him with the same neutral expression. For some reason Felder began to find it irritating.

  “You are the committing psychiatrist in the case, are you not?” Pendergast asked.

  “My evaluation was submitted as evidence at the involuntary-commitment hearing.”

  “And you recommended commitment.”

  Felder smiled ruefully. “Yes. You were invited to the court hearing, but I understand that you declined to—”

  “What, precisely, was your diagnosis?”

  “It’s rather technical—”

  “Indulge me.”

  Felder hesitated a second. “Very well. Axis One: schizophrenia of the paranoid type, continuous, with a possible premorbid Axis Two state of schizotypal personality disorder, along with psyphoria and indications of dissociative fugue.”

  Pendergast nodded slowly. “And you base this finding on what evidence?”

  “Simply put, on the delusion that she is Constance Greene: a girl who was born almost a century and a half ago.”

  “Let me ask you something, Doctor. Within the context of her, ah, delusion, have you noticed any discontinuity or no
nconformity?”

  Felder frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Are her delusions internally consistent?”

  “Beyond the belief that her child was evil, of course, her delusions have been remarkably consistent. That’s one of the things that interests me.”

  “What has she told you, exactly?”

  “That her family moved from an upstate farm to Water Street, where she was born in the early 1870s, that her parents died of tuberculosis and her sister was killed by a serial murderer. That she, an orphan, was taken in by a former resident of 891 Riverside Drive, about whom we have no record. That you ultimately inherited that house and, by extension, the responsibility for her well-being.” Felder hesitated.

  Pendergast seemed to pick up on Felder’s hesitation. “What else did she say about me?”

  “That your becoming her guardian was due to guilt.”

  There was a silence.

  “Tell me, Dr. Felder,” Pendergast asked at length. “Did Constance tell you of her existence between this earlier period and her very recent crossing on the ship?”

  “No.”

  “No details at all?”

  “None.”

  “Then I submit to you that, under a diagnosis of 295.30, schizotypal personality disorder cannot be assumed. At the very most, you should have specified a schizophreniform disorder for the Axis Two diagnosis. The fact is, Doctor, you have no prior history of her condition—for all you know, these delusions could have been of recent origin, perhaps as recent as her Atlantic crossing.”

  Felder sat forward. Pendergast had quoted the precise DSM-IV diagnostic code for paranoid schizophrenia. “Have you studied psychiatry, Special Agent Pendergast?”

  Pendergast shrugged. “One has one’s interests.”

  Despite everything, Felder found his irritation getting the better of himself. Why was Pendergast showing such interest now, when before he’d seemed almost indifferent? “I must tell you,” he said, “I would categorize your conclusions as amateurish and superficial.”