Fever Dream

More glances among the fishermen. "I don't know a whole lot," said Hector. "But they sure left town in a big hurry."

"They kept a crazy aunt locked up in the attic," said the third fisherman. "Had to, after she began killing and eating the dogs in town. Neighbors said they could hear her up there at night, crying and banging on the door, demanding dog meat."

"Come on, now, Gary," said the bartender, with a laugh. "That was just the wife screaming. She was a real harpy. You've been watching too many late-night movies."

"What really happened," said Ned, "was the wife tried to poison the husband. Strychnine in his cream of wheat."

The bartender shook his head. "Have another beer, Ned. I heard the father lost his money in the stock market--that's why they blew town in a hurry, owed money all over."

"A nasty business," Hector said, draining his beer. "Very nasty."

"What kind of a family were they?" D'Agosta asked.

One or two of the fishermen looked longingly at the empty glasses they'd downed with frightening rapidity.

"Mike, set us up again, if you please," D'Agosta asked the bartender.

"I heard," said Ned as he accepted his glass, "that the father was a real bastard. That he beat his wife with an electrical cord. That's why she poisoned him."

The stories just seemed to get wilder and less likely; the one fact Pendergast had been able to pass on was that Helen's father had been a doctor.

"That's not what I heard," said the bartender. "It was the wife who was crazy. The whole family was afraid of her, tiptoed around for fear of setting her off. And the husband was away a lot. Always traveling. South America, I think."

"Any arrests? Police investigations?" D'Agosta already knew the answer: the Esterhazy police record was clean as a whistle. There were no records anywhere of brushes with the law or police responses to domestic trouble. "You mentioned family. There was a son and daughter, wasn't there?"

A brief silence. "The son was kind of strange," said Ned.

"Ned, the son was junior-class valedictorian," said Hector.

Class valedictorian, thought D'Agosta, at least that can be checked out. "And the daughter? What was she like?"

He was met with shrugs all around. He wondered if the high school would still have the records. "Anybody know where they might be now?"

Glances were exchanged. "I heard the son was down south somewhere," said Mike the bartender. "No idea what happened to the daughter."

"Esterhazy isn't a common name," offered Hector. "Ever think of trying the Internet?"

D'Agosta looked around at a sea of blank faces. He couldn't think of any other questions that wouldn't lead to another chorus of conflicting rumors and unhelpful advice. He also realized--with dismay--that he was slightly drunk.

He stood, holding the bar to steady himself. "What do I owe you?" he asked Mike.

"Thirty-two fifty," came the reply.

D'Agosta fished two twenties from his wallet and placed them on the bar. "Thank you all for your help," he said. "Have a good evening."

"Say, what about that honorarium?" asked Ned.

D'Agosta paused, then turned. "Right, the honorarium. Let me give you my cell number. Any of you think of something else--something specific, not just rumors--you give me a call. If it leads to something, you might just get lucky." He pulled a napkin toward him and wrote down his number.

The fishermen nodded at him; Hector raised a hand in farewell.

D'Agosta clutched his coat up around his collar and staggered out of the bar into the stinging blizzard.

16

New Orleans

DESMOND TIPTON LIKED THIS TIME OF DAY more than any other, when the doors were shut and barred, the visitors gone, and every little thing in its place. It was the quiet period, from five to eight, before the drink tourists descended on the French Quarter like the Mongolian hordes of Genghis Khan, infesting the bars and jazz joints, swilling Sazeracs to oblivion. He could hear them outside every night, their boozy voices, whoops, and infantile caterwaulings only partly muffled by the ancient walls of the Audubon Cottage.

On this particular evening, Tipton had decided to clean the waxwork figure of John James Audubon, who was the centerpiece of and motive purpose behind the museum. In the life-size diorama, the great naturalist sat in his study by the fireplace, sketchboard and pen in hand, making a drawing of a dead bird--a scarlet tanager--on a table. Tipton grabbed the DustBuster and feather duster and climbed over the Plexiglas barrier. He began cleaning Audubon's clothing, ru

There came a sound. He paused, switching off the DustBuster. It came again: a knock at the front door.

Irritated, Tipton jammed the switch back on and continued--only to hear a more insistent knocking. This went on almost every night: inebriated morons who, having read the historic plaque affixed beside the door, for some reason decided to knock. For years it had been like that, fewer and fewer visitors during the day, more knocking and revelry at night. The only respite had been the few months after the hurricane.

Another insistent set of knocks, measured and loud.

He put down the hand vacuum, climbed back out, and marched over to the door on creaky bow legs. "We're closed!" he shouted through the oaken door. "Go away or I'll call the police!"

"Why, that isn't you, is it, Mr. Tipton?" came the muffled voice.

Tipton's white eyebrows shot up in consternation. Who could it be? The visitors during the day never paid any attention to him, while he assiduously avoided engaging with them, sitting dourly at his desk with his face buried in research.

"Who is it?" asked Tipton, after he had recovered from his surprise.

"May we carry on this conversation inside, Mr. Tipton? It's rather chilly out here."

Tipton hesitated, then unbolted the door to see a slender gentleman in a dark suit, pale as a ghost, his silvery eyes gleaming in the twilight of the darkening street. There was something instantly recognizable about the man, unmistakable, and it gave Tipton a start.

"Mr.... Pendergast?" he ventured, almost in a whisper.

"The very same." The man stepped in and took Tipton's hand, giving it a cool, brief shake. Tipton just stared.

Pendergast gestured toward the visitor's chair opposite Tipton's desk. "May I?"

Tipton nodded and Pendergast seated himself, throwing one leg over the other. Tipton silently took his own chair.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," said Pendergast.

"Well, Mr. Pendergast..." Tipton began, his mind awhirl, "I thought--I thought the family was gone... I had no idea..." His voice stammered into silence.

"The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated."

Tipton fumbled in the vest pocket of his dingy three-piece woolen suit, extracted a handkerchief, and patted his brow. "Delighted to see you, just delighted..." Another pat.

"The feeling is mutual."

"What brings you back here, if I may ask?" Tipton made an effort to recover himself. He had been curator of the Audubon Cottage for almost fifty years, and he knew a great deal about the Pendergast family. The last thing he'd expected was to see one of them again, in the flesh. He remembered the terrible night of the fire as if it were yesterday: the mob, the screams from the upper stories, the flames leaping into the night sky... Although he'd been a trifle relieved when the surviving family members left the area: the Pendergasts had always given him the willies, especially that strange brother, Diogenes. He had heard rumors that Diogenes had died in Italy. He'd also heard that Aloysius had disappeared. He believed it only too well: it was a family that seemed destined for extinction.