Fever Dream

Hayward thought. "The disease would argue for suicide."

"Murder," murmured Pendergast. "Suicide. Perhaps it was neither."

Hayward ignored this typically Pendergastian comment. "Your PI, Hudson, was killed while investigating Brodie. In all likelihood, that means whoever's behind all this doesn't want us on her trail. That makes June Brodie a person of key importance for us."

Pendergast nodded. "Indeed."

"What else do you know about her?"

"Her family background is unremarkable enough. The Brodies were once quite wealthy--oil money--but in the 1960s the oil ran out, and they fell on hard times. June grew up in reduced circumstances, went to a local community college, graduated with a nursing degree, but only practiced for a few years. Perhaps the profession didn't agree with her, or perhaps she simply wanted the higher salary of a personal secretary to a CEO. In any case, she took the job at Longitude, where she worked for the rest of her life. She married her high-school sweetheart but, it seems, soon found a more exciting diversion in Charles Slade."

"And the husband?"

"Either he didn't know or he put up with it." Pendergast had slipped a manila folder out of his suit coat and handed it to her. "Now, please take a look at these."

She opened it to find a number of yellowed newspaper clippings in plastic sleeves, along with a map. "What's all this?"

"You just said June Brodie was of key importance. And I agree. But I rather think there's something else of key importance here--geography."

"Geography?"

"Black Brake swamp, to be precise." Pendergast nodded toward the clippings.

She leafed through them quickly. They were mostly local newspaper stories of legends and superstitions about Black Brake: mysterious lights seen at night, a frogger who disappeared, stories of buried treasure and ghosts. She'd heard many such rumors growing up. The swamp, one of the largest in the South, was notorious.

"Consider," said Pendergast, ru

"And?"

Pendergast tapped the map lightly. "And right here in the middle of the Black Brake, you have Spanish Island."

"What's that?"

"The Brodie family owned a hunting camp in the middle of the swamp, called Spanish Island. No doubt it's an island in the delta sense: an area of higher, firmer mud. The camp itself would have been built on piers and creosote pylons. It went bankrupt in the 1970s. The camp was shuttered and never reopened."

Hayward glanced at him. "So?"

"Look at these stories. All from local papers in the small towns bordering the swamp: Sunflower, Itta Bena, and particularly Malfourche. I first noticed these stories when I was going through the newspaper archives of Sunflower, but thought nothing of them at the time. If you map these stories, though, you find they're all vaguely oriented toward one place--Spanish Island, in the deepest heart of the swamp."

"But... but they're all just legends. Colorful legends."

"Where there's smoke, there's fire."

She shut the file and handed it back. "This isn't police work; this is guesswork. You don't have a single hard fact pointing to Spanish Island as a place of interest in this case."

A faint flicker passed through Pendergast's eyes. "Five years ago, an environmental group did a cleanup of an old illegal dumping ground in the swamp beyond Malfourche. You see these dumps all over the South, where people junked old cars, refrigerators, anything that would sink. One of the things they hauled out of the muck was a car. Naturally, they went after the registered owner to fine him. But they never found him."

"Who'd it belong to?"

"The car was registered to Carlton Brodie, June's husband. It was the last car he owned. I would presume it was the car he drove off with when he told everyone he was going... abroad."

Hayward frowned, opened her mouth to speak, shut it again.

"And there's something else--something that's been bothering me ever since I saw it this morning. Remember that burned-out pier we saw at Longitude? The one behind Complex Six?"

"What about it?"

"Why on earth would Longitude Pharmaceuticals need a pier on Black Brake swamp?"

Hayward thought a moment. "It could have predated Longitude."

"Perhaps. But it looked to me as if it dates to the same period as the corporation. No, Captain: everything--especially that dock--points to Spanish Island as our next port of call."

The door of the waiting room opened, and the doctor came striding in. Even before Hayward could speak, he was talking.

"He's going to make it," the man said, almost unable to control his own elation. "We figured it out just in time. Pavulon, a powerful muscle relaxant. That was the drug he was injected with. Some was missing from medical stores."

Hayward felt momentarily dizzy. She grasped the side of a chair and eased herself down. "Thank God."

The doctor turned to Pendergast. "I don't know how you figured out it was an injection, exactly, but that deduction saved his life."

Hayward glanced at the FBI agent. This hadn't occurred to her.

"We've called the local authorities, of course," the doctor went on. "They'll be here any moment."

Pendergast slipped the file into his suit. "Excellent. I'm afraid we have to leave, Doctor. It's extremely urgent. Here's my card; have the police contact me. And have them immediately arrange round-the-clock protection for the patient. I doubt the killer will make another attempt, but one never knows."

"Yes, Mr. Pendergast," said the doctor, taking the card emblazoned with the FBI seal.

"We have no time to waste," said Pendergast, turning and striding toward the door.

"But... what are we doing now?" Hayward asked.

"We're going to Spanish Island, of course."

61

Penumbra Plantation

DARKNESS CLOAKED THE OLD GREEK REVIVAL mansion. Heavy clouds obscured the swollen moon, and a blanket of unseasonable heat lay over the late-winter landscape. Even the swamp insects seemed somnolent, too lazy to call out.

Maurice made his way quietly through the first floor of the plantation house, peering into the various rooms, making sure the windows were locked, the lights off, and everything in order. Sliding the deadbolt of the front door and turning the key, he took another look around, grunted in satisfaction, and then moved toward the stairway.

The ring of a telephone on the hall table shattered the silence.

Maurice looked toward it, startled. As it continued to ring he made his way toward it, one veined and knotted hand plucking the handset from its cradle.

"Yes?" he said.

"Maurice?" It was Pendergast's voice. There was a faint but steady background noise, a thrumming like the rush of wind.

"Yes?" Maurice said again.

"I wanted to let you know that we won't be home this evening, after all. You may secure the deadbolt on the kitchen door."