Fever Dream (13 page)

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, running the little vacuum up
and down, and then he turned it on the figure’s beard and hair while whisking bits of dirt from the handsome waxwork face
with the feather duster.

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.

“Just paying a visit to our little property across the street. Since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d drop in and
pay my respects to an old friend. How is the museum business these days?”

“Property? You mean…”

“That’s right. The parking lot where Rochenoire once stood. I’ve never been able to let it go, for—for
sentimental
reasons.” This was followed by a thin smile.

Tipton nodded. “Of course, of course. As for the museum, you can see, Mr. Pendergast, the neighborhood has changed much for
the worse. We don’t get many visitors these days.”

“It has indeed changed. How pleasant to see the Audubon Cottage museum is still exactly the same.”

“We try to keep it that way.”

Pendergast rose, clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you mind? I realize that you’re closed at present, but nevertheless
I’d love to take a turn through. For old times’ sake.”

Tipton hastily rose. “Of course. Please excuse the Audubon diorama, I was just cleaning it.” He was mortified to see that
he had laid the DustBuster in Audubon’s lap, with the feather duster propped up against his arm, as if some jokester had tried
to turn the great man into a charwoman.

“Do you recall,” Pendergast said, “the special exhibition you mounted, fifteen years ago, for which we loaned you our double
elephant folio?”

“Of course.”

“That was quite a festive opening.”

“It was.” Tipton remembered it all too well: the stress and horror of watching crowds of people wandering about his exhibits
with brimming glasses of wine. It had been a beautiful summer evening, with a full moon, but he’d been too harassed to notice
it much. That was the first and last special exhibit he had ever mounted.

Pendergast began strolling through the back rooms, peering into the glass cases with their prints and drawings and birds,
the Audubon memorabilia, the letters and sketches. Tipton followed in his wake.

“Did you know this is where my wife and I first met? At that very opening.”

“No, Mr. Pendergast, I didn’t.” Tipton felt uneasy. Pendergast seemed strangely excited.

“My wife—Helen—I believe she had an interest in Audubon?”

“Yes, she certainly did.”

“Did she… ever visit the museum afterward?”

“Oh, yes. Before and afterward.”

“Before?”

The sharpness of the question brought Tipton up short. “Why, yes. She was here off and on, doing her research.”

“Her research,” Pendergast repeated. “And this was how long before we met?”

“For at least six months before that opening. Maybe longer. She was a lovely woman. I was so shocked to hear—”

“Quite,” came the reply, cutting him off. Then the man seemed to soften, or at least get control of himself.
This Pendergast is a strange one
, thought Tipton,
just like the others
. Eccentricity was all well and good in New Orleans, the city was known for it—but this was something else altogether.

“I never knew much about Audubon,” Pendergast continued. “And I never really quite understood this research of hers. Do you
remember much about it?”

“A little,” said Tipton. “She was interested in the time Audubon spent here in 1821, with Lucy.”

Pendergast paused at a darkened glass case. “Was there anything about Audubon in particular she was curious about? Was she
perhaps planning to write an article, or a book?”

“You would know that better than I, but I do recall she asked more than once about the Black Frame.”

“The Black Frame?”

“The famous lost painting. The one Audubon did at the sanatorium.”

“Forgive me, my knowledge of Audubon is so limited. Which lost painting is that?”

“When Audubon was a young man, he became seriously ill. While convalescing, he made a painting. An extraordinary painting,
apparently—his first really great work. It later disappeared. The curious thing is that nobody who saw it mentioned what it
depicted—just that it was brilliantly life-like and set in an unusual black-painted frame. What he actually painted seems
to have been lost to history.” On familiar ground now, Tipton found his nervousness receding slightly.

“And Helen was interested in it?”

“Every Audubon scholar is interested in it. It was the beginning of that period of his life that culminated in
The Birds of America
, by far the greatest work of natural history ever published. The Black Frame was—so people who saw it said—his first work
of true genius.”

“I see.” Pendergast fell silent, his face sinking into thoughtfulness. Then he suddenly started and examined his watch. “Well!
How good it was to see you, Mr. Tipton.” He grasped the man’s hand in his own, and Tipton was disconcerted to find it even
colder than when he had entered, as if the man were a cooling corpse.

Tipton followed Pendergast to the door. As Pendergast opened it, he finally screwed up the courage to ask a question of his
own. “By any chance, Mr. Pendergast, do you still have the family’s double elephant folio?”

Pendergast turned. “I do.”

“Ah! If I may be so bold to suggest, and I hope you will forgive my directness, that if for any reason you wish to find a
good home for it, one where it would be well taken care of and enjoyed by the public, naturally we would be most honored…”
He let his voice trail off hopefully.

“I shall keep it in mind. A good evening to you, Mr. Tipton.”

Tipton was relieved he did not extend his hand a second time.

The door closed and Tipton turned the lock and barred it, then stood for a long time at the door, thinking. Wife eaten by
a lion, parents burned to death by a mob… What a strange family. And clearly the passage of years had not made this one any
more normal.

T
HE DOWNTOWN CAMPUS OF TULANE UNIVERSITY
Health Sciences Center, on Tulane Street, was housed in a nondescript gray skyscraper that would not have looked out of place
in New York’s financial district. Pendergast exited the elevator at the thirty-first floor, made his way to the Women’s Health
Division, and—after a few inquiries—found himself before the door of Miriam Kendall.

He gave a discreet knock. “Come in,” came a strong, clear voice.

Pendergast opened the door. The small office beyond clearly belonged to a professor. Two metal bookcases were stuffed full
of textbooks and journals. Stacks of examination bluebooks were arranged on the desktop. Sitting on the far side of the desk
was a woman of perhaps sixty years of age. She rose as Pendergast entered.

“Dr. Pendergast,” she said, accepting the proffered hand with a certain reserve.

“Call me Aloysius,” he replied. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Not at all. Please take a seat.”

She sat back behind her desk and looked him over with a detached—almost clinical—manner. “You haven’t aged a day.”

The same could not be said of Miriam Kendall. Haloed in yellow morning light from the tall, narrow windows, she nevertheless
looked a great deal older than she had during the time she shared an
office with Helen Esterhazy Pendergast. Yet her manner
was just as Pendergast remembered it: crisp, cool, professional.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Pendergast replied. “However. I thank you. How long have you been at Tulane?”

“Nine years now.” She laid her hands on the desk, tented her fingers. “I have to say, Aloysius, I’m surprised you didn’t take
your inquiries directly to Helen’s old boss, Morris Blackletter.”

Pendergast nodded. “I did, actually. He’s retired now—as you probably know, after Doctors With Wings he went on to consulting
positions with various pharmaceutical companies—but at present he’s on vacation in England, not due back for several days.”

She nodded. “And what about Doctors With Wings?”

“I was there this morning. The place was a madhouse, everybody mobilizing for Azerbaijan.”

Kendall nodded. “Ah, yes. The earthquake. Many feared dead, I understand.”

“There wasn’t a face there over thirty—and nobody who took a minute to speak with me had the least recollection of my wife.”

Kendall nodded again. “It’s a job for the young. That’s one of the reasons I left DWW to teach women’s health issues.” The
desk phone rang. Kendall ignored it. “In any case,” she said briskly, “I’m more than happy to share my memories of Helen with
you, Aloysius—though I find myself curious as to why you should approach me now, after all these years.”

“Most understandable. The fact is, I’m planning to write a memoir of my wife. A sort of celebration of her life, brief as
it was. Doctors With Wings was Helen’s first and only job after she obtained her MS in pharmaceutical biology.”

“I thought she was an epidemiologist.”

“That was her subspecialty.” Pendergast paused. “I’ve realized just how little I knew of her work with DWW—a fault that’s
entirely my own, and something I am trying to remedy now.”

Hearing this, the hard lines of Kendall’s face softened a little. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Helen was a remarkable woman.”

“So if you’d be kind enough to reminisce a little about her time at Doctors With Wings? And please—don’t sugarcoat anything.
My wife was not without imperfection—I’d prefer the unvarnished truth.”

Kendall looked at him a minute. Then her eyes traveled to some indeterminate spot behind him and grew distant, as if looking
into the past. “You know about DWW—we worked on sanitation, clean water, and nutrition programs in the Third World. Empowering
people to better their own health and living conditions. But when there was a disaster—like the earthquake in Azerbaijan—we
mobilized teams of doctors and health workers and flew them into the target areas.”