Fever Dream Page 8

  “The Gunks?”

  “The Shawangunk Mountains. She was living in New York then, for a time. She did a lot of traveling. Part of it was for Doctors With Wings, of course—Burundi, India, Ethiopia. But part of it was just for adventure. I still remember bumping into her one afternoon, it must have been—oh, fifteen, sixteen years ago. She was packing frantically, on her way to New Madrid, of all places.”

  “New Madrid?” Pendergast said.

  “New Madrid, Missouri. She wouldn’t tell me why she was going—said I’d just laugh. She could be a very private person in her own way. You must know that better than anyone, Aloysius.”

  D’Agosta stole another private glance at Pendergast. That would make two, he thought. He could not imagine anyone more private, more reluctant to share his thoughts, than Pendergast.

  “I wish I could help you more. If I recall the last name of that old boyfriend, I’ll let you know.”

  Pendergast stood up. “Thank you, Judson. It’s most kind of you to see us like this. And I’m sorry you had to learn the truth this way. I’m afraid there—well, there simply wasn’t time for me to break it in a gentler fashion.”

  “I understand.”

  The doctor saw them through the hallway and into the front passage. “Wait,” he began, then hesitated, front door half open. For a moment the mask of stoic anger dropped, and D’Agosta saw the handsome face disfigured by a mixture of emotions—what? Raw fury? Anguish? Devastation? “You heard what I said earlier. I want to—I have to…”

  “Judson,” Pendergast said quickly, taking his hand. “You need to let me handle this. I understand the grief and rage you feel, but you need to let me handle this.”

  Judson frowned, gave his head a brief, savage shake.

  “I know you,” Pendergast went on, his voice gentle but firm. “I must warn you—don’t take the law into your own hands. Please.”

  Esterhazy took a deep breath, then another, not replying. At last Pendergast gave a slight nod and stepped out into the evening.

  After closing the door, Esterhazy stood in the darkened front hall, still breathing hard, for perhaps five minutes. When at last he had mastered his fearful anger and shock, he turned and walked quickly back into the den. Moving straight to the gun case, he unlocked it, dropping the key twice in his agitation. He moved his hands over the beautifully polished rifles, then selected one: a Holland & Holland Royal Deluxe .470 NE with a Leupold VX-III custom scope. He pulled it from the case, turned it with hands that trembled slightly, then put it back and carefully relocked the case.

  Pendergast could preach all he wanted to about the rule of law, but the fact was it was time to take matters into his own hands. Because Judson Esterhazy had learned that the only way to do something right was to do it yourself.

  13

  New Orleans

  PENDERGAST TURNED THE ROLLS-ROYCE INTO the private parking lot on Dauphine Street, harshly lit with sodium lamps. The attendant, a man with thick ears and heavy pouches below his eyes, lowered the gate behind them and handed Pendergast a ticket, which the agent tucked in the visor.

  “In the back on the left, slot thirty-nine!” the man bawled in a heavy Delta accent. He examined the Rolls with bug eyes. “On second thought, take slot thirty-two—it’s bigger. And we ain’t responsible for damage. You might want to think of parking in LaSalle’s on Toulouse, where they got a covered garage.”

  “Thank you, I prefer this one.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Pendergast maneuvered the massive car through the tight lot and eased it into the designated space. They both got out. The lot was large, yet it felt claustrophobic, surrounded on all sides by a motley collection of old buildings. It was a mild winter night, and despite the extreme lateness of the hour, groups of young men and women, some carrying foaming beers in plastic glasses, could be seen stumbling along the sidewalks, calling out to one another, laughing and making noise. A muffled din wafted into the parking lot from the streets beyond, a mixture of shouts and cries, honking cars, and Dixieland jazz.

  “A typical night in the French Quarter,” said Pendergast, leaning against the car. “Bourbon is the next street over—nexus of the nation’s public display of moral turpitude.” He inhaled the night air, and a strange half smile seemed to spread over his pale features.

  D’Agosta waited, but Pendergast didn’t move. “Are we going?” he finally asked.

  “In a moment, Vincent.” Pendergast closed his eyes and slowly inhaled again, as if absorbing the spirit of the place. D’Agosta waited, reminding himself that Pendergast’s odd mood shifts and strange ways were going to require patience—a lot of it. But the drive from Savannah had been long and exhausting—it seemed Pendergast kept another Rolls down here identical to the one in New York—and D’Agosta was famished. On top of that, he had been looking forward to a beer for some time, and seeing revelers going past with frosty brews was not improving his mood.

  A minute passed, and D’Agosta cleared his throat. The eyes opened.

  “Aren’t we going to see your old digs?” D’Agosta asked. “Or at least what’s left of them?”

  “Indeed we are.” Pendergast turned. “This is one of the oldest parts of Dauphine Street, right here, the very heart of the French Quarter—the real French Quarter.”

  D’Agosta grunted. He noticed the attendant, across the lot, watching them with a certain amount of suspicion.

  Pendergast pointed. “That lovely Greek Revival town house, for example, was built by one of the most famous of the early New Orleans architects, James Gallier Senior.”

  “Seems they turned it into a Holiday Inn,” said D’Agosta, eyeing the sign in front.

  “And that magnificent house, there, is the Gardette–Le Prêtre House. Built for a dentist who came here from Philadelphia when this was a Spanish city. A planter named Le Prêtre bought it in 1839 for over twenty thousand dollars—an immense fortune at the time. The Le Prêtres owned it until the ’70s, but the family sadly declined… It is now, I believe, luxury apartments.”

  “Right,” said D’Agosta. The attendant was now walking over, a frown on his face.

  “And right across the street,” said Pendergast, “is the old Creole cottage where John James Audubon stayed with his wife, Lucy Bakewell, for a time. It’s now a curious little museum.”

  “Excuse me,” the attendant said, his eyes narrowed to frog-like slits. “No loitering allowed.”

  “My apologies!” Pendergast reached into his suit and flipped out a fifty-dollar bill. “How careless of me not to offer you a gratuity. I commend you on your vigilance.”

  The man broke into a smile. “Well, I wasn’t… but that’s much appreciated, sir.” He took the bill. “You take your time, no rush.” Nodding and smiling, he headed back to his booth.

  Pendergast still seemed in no hurry to move on. He loitered about, hands clasped behind his dark suit, gazing this way and that as if he were in a museum gallery, his expression a curious mixture of wistfulness, loss, and something harder to identify. D’Agosta tried to suppress his growing irritation. “Are we going to find your old house now?” he finally asked.

  Pendergast turned to him and murmured, “But we have, my dear Vincent.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here. This was Rochenoire.”

  D’Agosta swallowed and looked about the asphalt parking lot with a fresh eye. A stray breeze kicked up a piece of greasy trash, whirling it around and around. Somewhere, a cat howled.

  “After the house was burned,” said Pendergast, “the underground crypts were moved, the basement filled in, and the remains bulldozed. It was a vacant lot for years, until I leased it to the company that runs this parking lot.”

  “You still own this land?”

  “The Pendergasts never sell real estate.”

  “Oh.”

  Pendergast turned. “Rochenoire was set well back from the street, formal gardens in front, originally a monastic retreat, a big stone structure with or
iel windows, battlements, and a widow’s walk. Gothic Revival, rather unusual for the street. My room was in the corner, on the second floor, up there.” He pointed into space. “It looked over the Audubon cottage to the river, and the other window looked toward the Le Prêtre house. Ah, the Le Prêtres… I used to watch them for hours, the people going back and forth in the lit windows, listening to the histrionics.”

  “And you met Helen at the Audubon museum across the street?” D’Agosta hoped to steer the conversation back to the task at hand.

  Pendergast nodded. “Some years ago I loaned them our double elephant folio for an exhibition, and I was invited to the opening. They were always keen to get their hands on our family copy, which my great-great-grandfather subscribed to directly from Audubon.” Pendergast paused, his face spectral in the stark light of the parking lot. “When I entered the little museum, I immediately saw a young woman across the room, staring at me.”

  “Love at first sight?” D’Agosta asked.

  The ghostly half smile returned. “It was as if the world suddenly vanished, no one else existed. She was utterly striking. Dressed in white. Her eyes were so blue they verged on indigo, flecked throughout with violet. Most unusual—in fact, in my experience, unique. She came straight over and introduced herself, taking my hand even before I could collect myself…” He hesitated. “There was never any coyness about Helen; she was the only person I could trust implicitly.”

  Pendergast’s voice seemed to thicken and he fell silent. Then he roused himself. “Except perhaps for you, my dear Vincent.”

  D’Agosta was startled by this sudden praise thrown his way. “Thanks.”

  “What indulgent rubbish I’ve been spouting,” said Pendergast briskly. “The answers lie in the past, but we mustn’t wallow there ourselves. Even so, I think it was important for us—for both of us—to start from this place.”

  “Start,” D’Agosta repeated. Then he turned. “Say, Pendergast…”

  “Yes?”

  “Speaking of the past, there’s something I’ve been wondering. Why did they—whoever they were—go to all the trouble?”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Acquiring the trained lion. Setting up the death of the German photographer in order to lure you and Helen to the camp. Buying off all those people. That took a lot of time and money. It’s an awfully elaborate plot. Why not just stage a kidnapping, or a car accident back here in New Orleans? I mean, that would have been a much easier way to…” His voice trailed off.

  For a moment Pendergast didn’t reply. Then he nodded slowly. “Quite. It’s a very curious thought. But don’t forget our friend Wisley said one of the conspirators he heard speak was German. And that tourist who the lion killed first was also German. Perhaps that first murder was more than just a diversion.”

  “I’d forgotten that,” D’Agosta said.

  “If so, the trouble and expense become more justifiable. But let’s hold that thought for the time being, Vincent. I’m convinced our own first step must be to learn more—if we can—about Helen herself.” He reached into his pocket and took out a folded paper, handing it to D’Agosta.

  D’Agosta unfolded it. Written in Pendergast’s elegant hand was an address:

  214 Mechanic Street

  Rockland, Maine

  “What’s this?” D’Agosta asked.

  “The past, Vincent—the address where she grew up. That is your next task. My own… lies here.”

  14

  Penumbra Plantation

  WOULD YOU CARE FOR ANOTHER CUP OF TEA, sir?”

  “No thank you, Maurice.” Pendergast regarded the remains of an early dinner—succotash, field peas, and ham with redeye gravy—with as much complacency as he could muster. Outside the tall windows of the dining room, dusk was gathering among the hemlocks and cypresses, and somewhere in the shadows a mockingbird was singing a long and complex dirge.

  Pendergast dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a white linen napkin, then rose from the table. “Now that I’ve eaten, I wonder if I couldn’t see the letter that arrived for me this afternoon.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Maurice stepped out of the dining room into the hall, returning shortly with a letter. It was much battered, and had been re-addressed more than once. Judging by the postmark, it had taken almost three weeks to ultimately reach him. Even if he hadn’t recognized the elegant, old-fashioned handwriting, the Chinese stamps would have indicated the sender: Constance Greene, his ward, who was currently residing at a remote monastery in Tibet with her infant son. He slit the envelope with his knife, pulled out the single sheet of paper within, and read the note.

  Dear Aloysius,

  I do not know precisely what trouble you are in, but in dreams I see that you are—or soon will be—in great distress. I am very sorry. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

  I am coming home soon. Try to rest easy, everything is under control. And what isn’t, soon will be.

  Know that you are in my thoughts. You are in my prayers, as well—or would be, if I prayed.

  Constance

  Pendergast re-read the letter, frowning.

  “Is there something wrong, sir?” Maurice asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Pendergast seemed to consider the letter a moment longer. Then he put it aside and turned toward his factotum. “But in any case, Maurice, I was hoping you could join me in the library.”

  The elderly man paused in the act of clearing the table. “Sir?”

  “I thought perhaps we could have a postprandial glass of sherry, reminisce about the old days. I find myself in a nostalgic frame of mind.”

  This was a most unusual invitation, and the look on Maurice’s face implied as much. “Thank you, sir. Let me just finish clearing away here.”

  “Very good. I’ll head down to the cellar and find us a nice moldy bottle.”

  The bottle was, in fact, more than nice: a Hidalgo Oloroso Viejo VORS. Pendergast took a sip from his glass, admiring the sherry’s complexity: woody and fruity, with a finish that seemed to linger forever on the palate. Maurice sat on an ottoman across the old Kashan silk carpet, very erect and stiff in his butler’s uniform, almost comically uncomfortable.

  “Sherry to your liking?” Pendergast asked.

  “It’s very fine, sir,” the butler replied.

  “Then drink up, Maurice—it will help drive out the damp.”

  Maurice did as requested. “Would you like me to place another log on the fire?”

  Pendergast shook his head, then looked around again. “Amazing, how being back here brings on such a flood of memories.”

  “I’m sure it must, sir.”

  Pendergast pointed at a large freestanding globe, set into a wooden framework. “For example, I recall having a violent argument with Nurse over whether Australia was a continent or not. She insisted it was only an island.”

  Maurice nodded.

  “And the exquisite set of Wedgwood plates that used to sit on the top shelf of that bookcase.” Pendergast indicated the spot with a nod. “I remember the day that my brother and I were reenacting the Roman assault on Silvium. The siege engine Diogenes built proved rather too effective. The very first volley landed directly on that shelf.” Pendergast shook his head. “No cocoa for a month.”

  “I recall it only too clearly, sir,” Maurice said, finishing his glass. The sherry seemed to be growing on him.

  Quickly Pendergast made to refill their glasses. “No, no, I insist,” he said when Maurice tried to demur.

  Maurice nodded and murmured his thanks.

  “This room was always the focal point of the house,” Pendergast said. “This was where we held the party after I won top honors at Lusher. And Grandfather used to practice his speeches here—do you remember how we’d all sit around, acting as audience, cheering and whistling?”

  “Like it was yesterday.”

  Pendergast took another sip. “And this was where we held the recepti
on, after our wedding ceremony in the formal garden.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sharp edge of reserve had dulled somewhat, and Maurice appeared to sit more naturally on the ottoman.

  “Helen loved this room, too,” Pendergast went on.

  “Indeed she did.”

  “I remember how she’d often sit here in the evenings, working on her research or catching up on the technical journals.”

  A wistful, reflective smile crossed Maurice’s face.

  Pendergast examined his glass and the autumn-colored liquid within it. “We could spend hours here without speaking, simply enjoying each other’s company.” He paused and said, casually, “Did she ever speak to you, Maurice, of her life before she met me?”

  Maurice drained his glass, set it aside with a delicate gesture. “No, she was a quiet one.”

  “What’s your strongest memory of her?”

  Maurice thought a moment. “Bringing her pots of rose hip tea.”

  Now it was Pendergast’s turn to smile. “Yes, that was her favorite. It seemed she could never get enough. The library always smelled of rose hips.” He sniffed the air. Now the room smelled only of dust, damp, and sherry. “I fear I was away from home rather more frequently than was good. I often wonder what Helen did for amusement in this drafty old house while I was out of town.”

  “She sometimes went on trips for her own work, sir. But she spent a lot of time right in here,” Maurice said. “She used to miss you so.”

  “Indeed? She always put on such a brave face.”

  “I used to come across her in here all the time in your absences,” Maurice said. “Looking at the birds.”

  Pendergast paused. “The birds?”

  “You know, sir. Your brother’s old favorite, back before… before the bad times started. The great book with all the bird prints in that drawer there.” He nodded toward a drawer in the base of an old chestnut armoire.