Fever Dream

"I'll help you pack," she said.

He cleared his throat. "Laura--"

She put a finger to his lips. "It's better if you don't say any more."

He nodded.

She leaned toward him, kissed him lightly. "Just promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"Promise me that you'll take care of yourself. I don't much mind if Pendergast gets himself killed on this wild goose chase. But if anything happens to you, I'll be very angry. And you know how ugly that can get."

9

THE ROLLS, PROCTOR AGAIN AT THE WHEEL, hummed along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway south of the Brooklyn Bridge. D'Agosta watched a pair of tugboats pushing a giant barge heaped with cubed cars up the East River, leaving a frothy wake behind. It had all happened so fast, he still wasn't quite able to wrap his head around it. They were heading for JFK, but first--Pendergast explained--they would have to make a brief, but necessary, detour.

"Vincent," said Pendergast, sitting across from him, "we must prepare ourselves for a deterioration. They tell me Great-Aunt Cornelia has been poorly of late."

D'Agosta shifted in his seat. "I'm not sure I get why it's so important to see her."

"It's just possible she can shed some light on the situation. Helen was a great favorite of hers. Also, I wish to consult her on a few points regarding some family history that may--I fear--have bearing on the murder."

D'Agosta grunted. He didn't care much about Great-Aunt Cornelia--in fact he couldn't stand the murderous old witch--and his few visits to the Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane had not exactly been pleasant. But it was always better, when working with Pendergast, to go with the flow.

Exiting the expressway, they worked their way through various side streets and eventually crossed a narrow bridge over to Little Governor's Island, the road meandering through marshland and meadows, hung with morning mists that drifted among the cattails. A colo

Proctor stopped at a guardhouse, and the uniformed man stepped out. "Why, Mr. Pendergast, that was quick." He waved them through without the usual formalities of signing them in.

"What'd he mean by that?" D'Agosta asked, looking over his shoulder at the guard.

"I have no idea."

Proctor parked in the small lot and they got out. Passing through the front door, D'Agosta was mildly surprised to see the attendant missing from the ornate reception desk, with some evidence of hurry and confusion. As they cast about for someone to speak with, a rattling gurney approached down the marble transverse hall, carrying a body draped in a black sheet, being wheeled by two burly attendants. D'Agosta could see an ambulance pulling into the porte cochere, with no siren or flashing lights to indicate any hurry.

"Good morning, Mr. Pendergast!" Dr. Ostrom, Great-Aunt Cornelia's attending physician, appeared in the foyer and hastened over, his hand extended, a look of surprise and consternation blooming on his face. "This is... well, I was just about to telephone you. Please come with me."

They followed the doctor down the once-elegant hallway, somewhat reduced now to institutional austerity. "I have some unfortunate news," he said as they walked along. "Your great-aunt passed away not thirty minutes ago."

Pendergast stopped. He let out a slow breath, and his shoulders slumped visibly. D'Agosta realized with a shudder that the body they had seen was probably hers.

"Natural causes?" Pendergast asked in a low monotone.

"More or less. The fact is, she'd been increasingly anxious and delusional these past few days."

Pendergast seemed to consider this a moment. "Any delusions in particular?"

"Nothing worth repeating, the usual family themes."

"Nevertheless, I should like to hear about them."

Ostrom seemed reluctant to proceed. "She believed... believed that a fellow named, ah, Ambergris was coming to Mount Mercy to exact revenge on her for an atrocity she claims to have committed years ago."

Once again, they resumed walking down the corridor. "Did she go into any detail on this atrocity?" Pendergast asked.

"It was all quite fantastical. Something about punishing some child for swearing by..." A second hesitation. "Well, by splitting his tongue with a razor."

An ambiguous head movement from Pendergast. D'Agosta felt his own tongue curling at the thought.

"At any rate," Ostrom continued, "she became violent--more violent, that is, than usual--and had to be completely restrained. And medicated. At the time of this alleged appointment with Ambergris, she had a series of seizures and passed away abruptly. Ah, here we are."

He entered a small room, windowless and sparely furnished with antique, unframed paintings and various soft knickknacks--nothing, D'Agosta noted, that could be fashioned into a weapon or cause harm. Even the stretchers had been removed from the canvases, the paintings hung on the wall with kite string. As D'Agosta looked around at the bed, the table, silk flowers in a basket, a peculiar butterfly-shaped stain on the wall, it all seemed so forlorn. He suddenly felt sorry for the homicidal old lady.

"There is the question of the disposition of the personal effects," the doctor went on. "I understand these paintings are quite valuable."

"They are," said Pendergast. "Send them over to the nineteenth-century painting department at Christie's for public auction, and consider the proceeds a donation to your good work."

"That's very generous of you, Mr. Pendergast. Would you care to order an autopsy? When a patient dies in custody, you have the legal right--"

Pendergast interrupted him with a brusque wave of his hand. "That won't be necessary."

"And the funeral arrangements--?"

"There will be no funeral. The family attorney, Mr. Ogilby, will be in touch with you about disposition of the remains."

"Very well."

Pendergast looked around the room for a moment, as if committing its details to memory. Then he turned to D'Agosta. His expression was neutral, but his eyes spoke of sorrow, even desolation.

"Vincent," he said. "We have a plane to catch."

10

Zambia

THE SMILING, GAP-TOOTHED MAN AT THE DIRT airstrip had called the vehicle a Land Rover. That description, D'Agosta thought as he hung on for dear life, was more than charitable. Whatever it might have been, now it barely deserved to be called an automobile. It had no windows, no roof, no radio, and no seat belts. The hood was fixed to the grille by a tangle of baling wire. He could see the dirt road below through giant rust holes in the chassis.

At the wheel, Pendergast--attired in khaki shirt and pants, and wearing a Tilley safari hat--swerved around a massive pothole in the road, only to hit a smaller one. D'Agosta rose several inches out of his seat at the impact. He gritted his teeth and took a fresh hold on the roll bar. This is frigging awful, he thought. He was hot as hell, and there was dust in his ears, eyes, nose, hair, and crevices he hadn't even known he had. He contemplated asking Pendergast to slow down, then thought better of it. The closer they came to the site of Helen Pendergast's death, the grimmer Pendergast became.