Fever Dream

"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 ca

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 go

"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.