Fever Dream (17 page)

The room went quiet.

At last, Pendergast stirred. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves.” He opened the portfolio again, withdrew another tattered
scrap of paper. “I also recovered this, part of what is apparently Audubon’s discharge report. Again, it is a mere fragment.”

… was discharged from care on the fourteenth day of November, 1821. On his departure he gave a painting, only just completed,
to Dr. Torgensson, director of Meuse St. Claire, in gratitude for nursing him back to health. A small group of doctors and
patients attended the discharge and many farewells were…

Pendergast dropped the fragment back into the portfolio and closed it with an air of finality.

“Any idea where the painting is now?” D’Agosta asked.

“The doctor retired to Port Royal, which will be my next stop.” He paused. “There is one other item of at least tangential
interest. Do you recall Helen’s brother, Judson, mentioning that Helen once took a trip to New Madrid, Missouri?”

“Yes.”

“New Madrid was the site of a very powerful earthquake in 1812, greater than eight point zero on the Richter scale—so powerful
that it created a series of new lakes and changed the course of
the Mississippi River. Approximately half the town was destroyed.
There is one other salient fact.”

“And that is—?”

“John James Audubon was in New Madrid at the time of the earthquake.”

D’Agosta sat back in his chair. “Meaning?”

Pendergast spread his hands. “Coincidence? Perhaps.”

“I’ve been trying to find out more about Audubon,” said D’Agosta, “but to tell the truth I was never a good student. What
do you know about him?”

“Now, a great deal. Let me give you a précis.” Pendergast paused, composing his thoughts. “Audubon was the illegitimate son
of a French sea captain and his mistress. Born in Haiti, he was raised in France by his stepmother and sent to America at
the age of eighteen to escape conscription in Napoleon’s army. He lived near Philadelphia, where he took an interest in studying
and drawing birds and married a local girl, Lucy Bakewell. They moved to the Kentucky frontier where he set up a store, but
he spent most of his time collecting, dissecting, stuffing, and mounting birds. He drew and painted them as a hobby, but his
early work was weak and tentative, and his sketches—many of which survive—were as lifeless as the dead birds he was drawing.

“Audubon proved to be an indifferent businessman, and in 1820, when his shop went bankrupt, he moved his family to a shabby
Creole cottage on Dauphine Street, New Orleans, where they lived in penury.”

“Dauphine Street,” murmured D’Agosta. “So that’s how he got to know your family?”

“Yes. He was a charming fellow, dashing, handsome, a superb shot and expert swordsman. He and my great-great-grandfather Boethius
became friends and often went shooting together. In early 1821, Audubon fell gravely ill—so ill he had to be taken by horse-drawn
cart, comatose, to Meuse St. Claire. There he had a long convalescence. As you already know, during his recovery he painted
the work called the Black Frame, subject unknown.

“When he recovered, still flat broke, Audubon suddenly conceived the idea to depict America’s entire avifauna in life size—every
bird species in the country—compiled into a grand work of natural history. While Lucy supported the family as a tutor, Audubon
traipsed off with his gun and a box of artist’s colors and paper. He hired an assistant and floated down the Mississippi.
He painted hundreds of birds, creating brilliantly vibrant portraits of them in their native settings—something that had never
been done before.”

Pendergast took a sip of tea, then continued. “In 1826, he went to England, where he found a printer to make copper-plate
engravings from his watercolors. Then he crisscrossed America and Europe, finding subscribers for the book that would ultimately
become
The Birds of America
. The last print was struck in 1838, by which time Audubon had achieved great fame. A few years later, he began work on another
highly ambitious project,
The Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America
. But his mind began to fail, and the book had to be completed by his sons. The poor man suffered a hideous mental decline
and spent his last years in raving madness, dying at sixty-five in New York City.”

D’Agosta gave a low whistle. “Interesting story.”

“Indeed.”

“And nobody has any idea what became of the Black Frame?”

Pendergast shook his head. “It’s the Holy Grail of Audubon researchers, it seems. I’ll visit Arne Torgensson’s house tomorrow.
It’s an easy drive, a few miles west of Port Allen. I hope to pick up the trail of the painting from there.”

“But based on the dates you’ve mentioned, you believe—” D’Agosta stopped, searching for the most tactful way to phrase the
question. “You believe your wife’s interest in Audubon and the Black Frame… started before she met you?”

Pendergast did not reply.

“If I’m going to help you,” D’Agosta said, “you can’t clam up every time I broach an awkward subject.”

Pendergast sighed. “You are quite right. It does seem that Helen was fascinated—perhaps obsessed—by Audubon from early in
life. This desire to learn more about Audubon, to be closer to his work, led—in part—to our meeting. It seems she was particularly
interested in finding the Black Frame.”

“Why keep her interest a secret from you?”

“I believe—” he paused, his voice hoarse, “—she did not wish me to know that our relationship was not founded on a happy accident,
but rather a meeting that she had intentionally—perhaps even
cynically—engineered.” Pendergast’s face was so dark, D’Agosta
was almost sorry he’d asked the question.

“If she was racing someone else to find the Black Frame,” D’Agosta said, “she might have felt herself in danger. In the weeks
before her death, did her behavior change? Was she nervous, agitated?”

Pendergast answered slowly. “Yes. I always assumed it was some work-related complication, getting ready for the safari.” He
shook his head.

“Did she do anything out of the ordinary?”

“I wasn’t around Penumbra much those last few weeks.”

Over his shoulder, D’Agosta heard the clearing of a throat. Maurice again.

“I just wanted to inform you that I’m turning in for the night,” the retainer said. “Will there be anything else?”

“Just one thing, Maurice,” Pendergast said. “In the weeks leading up to my final trip with Helen, I was away a good deal of
the time.”

“In New York,” Maurice said, nodding. “Making preparations for the safari.”

“Did my wife say, or do, anything out of the ordinary while I was away? Get any mail or telephone calls that upset her, for
example?”

The old manservant thought. “Not that I can remember, sir. Though she did seem rather agitated, especially after that trip.”

“Trip?” Pendergast asked. “What trip?”

“One morning, her car woke me up as it headed down the drive—you recall how loud it was, sir. No note, no warning, nothing.
It was around seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, I recall. Two nights later she came back. Not a word about where she’d been.
But I recollect she wasn’t herself. Upset about something, but wouldn’t say a word about it.”

“I see,” Pendergast said, exchanging glances with D’Agosta. “Thank you, Maurice.”

“Not at all, sir. Good night.” And the old factotum turned and vanished down the hall on silent feet.

D
’AGOSTA EXITED I-10 ONTO THE BELLE CHASSE
Highway, barreling along the nearly empty road. It was another warm February day, and he had the windows down and the radio
set to a classic rock-and-roll station. He felt better than he had in days. As the car sang along the highway, he guzzled
a Krispy Kreme coffee and snugged the cup back into the holder. The two pumpkin spice doughnuts had really hit the spot, calories
be damned. Nothing could dampen his spirits.

The evening before he’d spent an hour talking to Laura Hayward. That started the upswing. Then he’d enjoyed a long, dreamless
sleep. He woke up to find Pendergast already gone and Maurice waiting for him with a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and grits.
Next, he’d driven into town, where he’d scored big with the Sixth District of the New Orleans Police Department. At first,
on learning of his connection to the Pendergast family, they’d been suspicious, but when they found he was a regular guy,
their attitude changed. He was given free use of their computer facilities, where it took less than ninety minutes to track
down the dealer long interested in the Black Frame: John W. Blast, current residence Sarasota, Florida. He was an unsavory
character indeed. Five arrests over the past ten years: suspicion of blackmail; suspicion of forgery; possession of stolen
property;
possession of prohibited wildlife products; assault and battery. Either he had money or good lawyers, or both, because
he’d beaten the rap every time. D’Agosta had printed out the details, stuffed them into his jacket pocket, and—hungry again
despite breakfast—hit the local Krispy Kreme before heading back to Penumbra.

Pendergast, he knew, would be eager to hear about this.

As he pulled up the drive of the old plantation, he saw that Pendergast had beaten him home: the Rolls-Royce sat in the shade
of the cypress trees. Parking beside it, D’Agosta crunched his way across the gravel, then climbed the steps to the covered
porch. He stepped into the entry hall, closing the front door behind him.

“Pendergast?” he called.

No reply.

He walked down the hallway, peering into the various public rooms. They were all dark and empty.

“Pendergast?” he called once more.

Perhaps he’s gone out for a stroll
, D’Agosta thought.
Nice enough day for it
.

He went briskly up the stairs, turned sharply at the landing, then stopped abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a
familiar silhouette sitting silently in the parlor. It was Pendergast, occupying the same chair he’d sat in the previous night.
The parlor lights were off, and the FBI agent was in darkness.

“Pendergast?” D’Agosta said. “I thought you were out, and—”

He stopped when he saw the agent’s face. It carried an expression of blankness that gave him pause. He took the adjoining
seat, his good mood snuffed out. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Then Pendergast took a slow breath. “I went to Torgensson’s house, Vincent. There’s no painting.”

“No painting?”

“The house is now a funeral home. The interior was gutted—right down to the structural studs and beams—to make way for the
new business. There’s nothing.
Nothing
.” Pendergast’s lips tightened. “The trail simply ends.”

“Well, what about the doctor? He must have moved someplace else; we can pick up the trail there.”

Another pause, longer than before. “Dr. Arne Torgensson died in 1852. Destitute, driven mad by syphilis. But not before he’d
sold
off the contents of his house, piecemeal, to innumerable unknown buyers.”

“If he sold the painting, there should be a record of it.”

Pendergast fixed him with a baleful stare. “There
are
no records. He might have traded the painting to pay for coal. He might have torn it to shreds in his insanity. It might
have outlived him and perished in the renovations. I’ve hit a brick wall.”

And so he’d given up, D’Agosta thought. Come home, to sit in the dark parlor. In all the years he’d known Pendergast, he’d
never seen the agent so low. And yet the facts didn’t warrant this sort of despair.

“Helen was tracking the painting, too,” D’Agosta said, rather more sharply than he intended. “You’ve been searching for it—what,
a couple of days? She didn’t give up for
years
.”

Pendergast did not respond.

“All right, let’s take another approach. Instead of tracking the painting, we’ll track your wife. This last trip she took,
where she was gone for two or three days? Maybe it had something to do with the Black Frame.”

“Even if you’re right,” Pendergast said. “That trip is a dozen years in the past.”

“We can always try,” D’Agosta said. “And then we can pay a visit to Mr. John W. Blast, retired art dealer, of Sarasota.”

The faintest spark of interest flickered in Pendergast’s eyes.

D’Agosta patted his jacket pocket. “That’s right. He’s the other guy who was chasing for the Black Frame. You’re wrong when
you say we’ve hit a wall.”

“She could have gone anywhere in those three days,” Pendergast said.

“What the hell? You’re just giving up?” D’Agosta stared at Pendergast. Then he turned, stuck his head out into the hall. “Maurice?
Yo! Maurice!
” Where was the man when you finally needed him?

For a moment, silence. Then, a faint banging in the far spaces of the mansion. A minute later, feet sounded on the back stairway.
Maurice appeared around the bend of the corridor. “I beg your pardon?” he panted as he approached, his eyes wide.

“That trip of Helen’s you mentioned last evening. When she left without warning, was gone for two nights?”