Fever Dream (10 page)

Savannah, Georgia

W
HITFIELD SQUARE DOZED PLACIDLY IN THE
failing light of a Monday evening. Streetlights came up, throwing the palmettos and the Spanish moss hanging from gnarled
oak limbs into gauzy relief. After the cauldron-like heat of Central Africa, D’Agosta found the humid Georgia air almost a
relief.

He followed Pendergast across the manicured carpet of grass. In the center of the square stood a large cupola, surrounded
by flowers. A wedding party stood beneath its scalloped roof, obediently following the instructions of a photographer. Elsewhere,
people strolled slowly by or sat on black-painted benches, chatting or reading. Everything seemed just a little soft and out
of focus, and D’Agosta shook his head. Following the mad dash from New York to Zambia to this center of southern gentility,
he felt numb.

Pendergast stopped, pointing across Habersham Street at a large gingerbread Victorian house, white and immaculate and very
much like its neighbors. As they headed over, Pendergast said, “Keep in mind, Vincent—he doesn’t yet know.”

“Got it.”

They crossed the street and mounted the wooden steps. Pendergast pressed the doorbell. After about ten seconds, the overhead
light came on and the door was opened by a man in his mid-forties.
D’Agosta looked at him curiously. He was tall and strikingly
handsome, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and a thick head of brown hair. He was as tanned as Pendergast was pale. A folded
magazine was in one hand. D’Agosta glanced at the open page: the footer read
Journal of American Neurosurgery
.

The sun, dipping behind the houses on the far side of the square, was in the man’s keen eyes, and he couldn’t see them well.
“Yes?” he asked. “May I help you?”

“Judson Esterhazy,” Pendergast said, extending his hand.

Esterhazy started, and a look of surprise and delight blossomed over his features. “Aloysius?” he said. “My God! Come in.”

Esterhazy led the way through a front hall, down a narrow, book-lined corridor, and into a cozy den.
Cozy
wasn’t a word D’Agosta used very often, but he could think of no other way to describe the space. Warm yellow light imparted
a mellow sheen to the antique mahogany furniture: chiffonier, roll-top desk, gun case, still more bookshelves. Rich Persian
rugs covered the floor. Two large diplomas—a medical degree, and a PhD—hung on one wall. The furniture was overstuffed and
looked exceptionally comfortable. Antiques from all over the world—African sculpture, Asian jades—adorned every horizontal
surface. Two windows, framed by delicate curtains, looked out over the square. It was a room stuffed full of objects that
somehow managed not to appear cluttered—the den of a well-educated, well-traveled man of taste.

Pendergast turned and introduced D’Agosta to Esterhazy. The man couldn’t hide his surprise upon learning D’Agosta was a cop;
nevertheless he smiled and shook his hand warmly.

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. “Would you care for anything? Tea, beer, bourbon?”

“Bourbon, please, Judson,” said Pendergast.

“How’d you like it?”

“Neat.”

Esterhazy turned to D’Agosta. “And you, Lieutenant?”

“A beer would be great, thanks.”

“Of course.” Still smiling, Esterhazy stepped over to a dry sink in the corner and deftly poured out a measure of bourbon.
Then, excusing himself, he went to the kitchen to retrieve the beer.

“Good Lord, Aloysius,” he said as he returned, “how long has it been—nine years?”

“Ten.”

“Ten years. When we took that hunting trip to Kilchurn Lodge.”

D’Agosta sipped the beer and glanced around as the two chatted. Earlier, Pendergast had filled him in on Esterhazy: a neurosurgeon
and medical researcher, who—having risen to the top of his profession—now devoted part of his time to pro bono work, both
at local hospitals and for Doctors With Wings, the charity that flew doctors into Third World disaster areas and where his
sister had worked. He was a committed sportsman and, according to Pendergast, an even better shot than his sister had been.
D’Agosta, glancing around at the various hunting trophies displayed on the walls, decided Pendergast hadn’t been exaggerating.
A doctor who was also an avid hunter: interesting combination.

“So tell me,” Esterhazy said in his deep, sonorous voice. “What brings you to the Low Country? Are you on a case? Please,
give me all the sordid details.” He chuckled.

Pendergast took a sip of his bourbon. He hesitated just a moment. “Judson, I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this. I’m
here about Helen.”

The chuckle died in Esterhazy’s throat. A look of confusion gathered on the patrician features. “Helen? What about Helen?”

Pendergast took another, deeper sip. “I’ve learned her death was no accident.”

For a minute, Esterhazy stood, frozen, staring at Pendergast. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean, your sister was murdered.”

Esterhazy rose, a stricken look on his face. He turned his back on them and walked—slowly, as in a dream—to a bookcase in
the far wall. He picked up an object apparently at random, turned it over in his hand, put it down again. And then—after a
long moment—he turned back. Walking to the dry sink, he reached for a tumbler and, with fumbling fingers, poured himself a
stiff drink. Then he took a seat across from them.

“Knowing you, Aloysius, I don’t suppose I need ask if you’re sure about this,” he said, very quietly.

“No, you don’t.”

Esterhazy’s whole demeanor changed, his face becoming pale,
his hands clenching and unclenching. “What are you—are
we
—going to do about it?”

“I—with Vincent’s help—will find the person or persons ultimately responsible. And we will see that justice is served.”

Esterhazy looked Pendergast in the face. “I want to be there. I want to be there when the man who murdered my little sister
pays for what he did.”

Pendergast did not answer.

The anger, the power of the man’s emotions, were so intense they almost frightened D’Agosta. Esterhazy sank back in his chair,
his dark eyes restless and glittering. “How did you find this out?”

Briefly, Pendergast sketched out the events of the last few days. Although shaken, Esterhazy nevertheless listened intently.
When Pendergast finished, he rose and poured himself a fresh drink.

“I believed…” Pendergast paused. “I believe I knew Helen extremely well. And yet—for someone to have killed her, and taken
such extraordinary pains and expense to disguise her death as an accident—it’s clear there must be a part of her life I knew
nothing about. Since we spent most of her last two years on earth together, I have to believe that, whatever it was, it lay
farther back in her past. This is where I need your help.”

Esterhazy passed a hand across his broad forehead, nodded.

“Do you have any idea, any, of a person who might have had a motive to kill her? Enemies? Professional rivals? Old lovers?”

Esterhazy was silent, his jaw working. “Helen was… wonderful. Kind. Charming. She
had
no enemies. Everyone loved her at MIT, and in her graduate work she was always scrupulous in sharing credit.”

Pendergast nodded. “What about after her graduation? Any rivals at Doctors With Wings? Anyone passed over for a promotion
in favor of her?”

“DWW didn’t operate like that. Everyone worked together. No egos. She was much appreciated there.” He swallowed painfully.
“Even loved.”

Pendergast sat back in his chair. “In the months before her death, she took several short trips. Research, she told me, but
she was vague about the details. In retrospect it seems a little odd—Doctors With Wings was more about education and treatment
than it was
about research. I now wish I had pressed her for more information. You’re a doctor—do you know what she might
have been up to, if anything?”

Esterhazy paused to think. Then he shook his head. “Sorry, Aloysius. She told me nothing. She loved traveling to faraway places—as
you know. And she was fascinated by medical research. Those twin loves were what led her to DWW in the first place.”

“What about your family history?” D’Agosta asked. “Any instances of familial conflict, childhood grievances, that sort of
thing?”

“Everybody loved Helen,” Esterhazy said. “I used to be a little jealous of her popularity. And, no, there have been no family
problems to speak of. Both our parents died more than fifteen years ago. I’m the only Esterhazy left.” He hesitated.

“Yes?” Pendergast leaned forward.

“Well, I’m sure there’s nothing to it, but long before she met you she had… an unhappy love affair. With a real bounder.”

“Go on.”

“It was her first year in graduate school, seems to me. She brought the fellow down from MIT for the weekend. Blond, clean-cut,
blue eyes, tall and athletic, always seemed to go about in tennis whites and crew sweaters, came from a rich old WASP family,
grew up in Manhattan with a summer cottage on Fishers Island, talked about going into investment banking—you know the type.”

“Why was it unhappy?”

“Turned out he had some kind of sexual problem. Helen was vague about it, some kind of perverse behavior or cruelty in that
area.”

“And?”

“She dumped him. He annoyed her for a while, phone calls, letters. I don’t think it reached the level of stalking. And then
it seemed to fade away.” He waved his hand. “That was six years before you met and nine years before her death. I can’t see
there being anything in it.”

“And the name?”

Esterhazy clutched his forehead in his hands. “Adam… First name was Adam. For the life of me I can’t remember his last name—if
I ever knew it.”

A long silence. “Anything else?”

Esterhazy shook his head. “It seems inconceivable to me anyone would want to hurt Helen.”

There was a brief silence. Then Pendergast nodded to a framed print on one of the walls: a faded picture of a snowy owl sitting
in a tree at night. “That’s an Audubon, isn’t it?”

“Yes. A reproduction, I’m afraid.” Esterhazy glanced at it. “Odd you should mention it.”

“Why?”

“It used to hang in Helen’s bedroom when we were children. She told me how, when she was sick, she would stare at it for hours
on end. She was fascinated by Audubon. But of course you know all that,” he concluded briskly. “I kept it because it reminded
me of her.”

D’Agosta noticed something very close to a look of surprise on the FBI agent’s face, quickly concealed.

There was a brief silence before Pendergast spoke again. “Is there anything you can add about Helen’s life in the years immediately
before we met?”

“She was very busy with her work. There was also a period where she was heavily into rock climbing. Spent almost every weekend
in the Gunks.”

“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.