Fever Dream (22 page)

He fell silent when the ambient temperature around their seats seemed to fall about ten degrees.

Pendergast’s expression did not alter, but when he spoke there was a distant, formal edge to his voice. “Helen Esterhazy may
have been unusual. But she was also one of the most rational, the most
sane
people I ever encountered.”

“I’m sure she was. I wasn’t implying—”

“And she was also the least likely to crack under pressure.”

“Right,” D’Agosta said hastily. Bringing this up was a bad idea.

“I think our time would be better spent discussing the subject at hand,” Pendergast said, forcing the conversation onto a
new track. “There are a few things you ought to know about
him
.” He plucked a thin envelope from his jacket pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. “John Woodhouse Blast. Age fifty-eight.
Born in Florence, South Carolina. Current residence Forty-one Twelve Beach Road, Siesta Key. He’s had several occupations:
art dealer, gallery owner, import/export—and he was also an engraver and printer.” He put back the sheet of paper. “His engravings
were of a rather specialized kind.”

“What kind is that?”

“The kind that features portraits of dead presidents.”

“He was a
counterfeiter
?”

“The Secret Service investigated him. Nothing was ever proven. He was also investigated for smuggling elephant ivory and rhinoceros
horn—both illegal since the 1989 Endangered Species Convention. Again, nothing was proven.”

“This guy is slipperier than an eel.”

“He is clearly resourceful, determined—and dangerous.” Pendergast paused a moment. “There is one other relevant aspect… his
name: John Woodhouse Blast.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s the direct descendant of John James Audubon through his son, John Woodhouse Audubon.”

“No
shit
.”

“John Woodhouse was an artist in his own right. He completed Audubon’s final work,
Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America
, painting nearly half the plates himself after his father’s sudden decline.”

D’Agosta whistled. “So Blast probably feels the Black Frame is his birthright.”

“That was my assumption. It would appear he spent much of his adult life searching for it, although in recent years he apparently
gave up.”

“So what’s he doing now?”

“I’ve been unable to find out. He’s keeping his present dealings close to his vest.” Pendergast glanced out the window. “We
shall have to be careful, Vincent. Very careful.”

Sarasota, Florida

S
IESTA KEY WAS A REVELATION TO D’AGOSTA
: narrow, palm-lined avenues; emerald lawns leading down to jewel-like azure inlets; sinuous canals on which pleasure boats
bobbed lazily. The beach itself was wide, its sand white and fine as sugar, and it stretched north and south into mist and
haze. On one side rolled creamy ocean; on the other sat a procession of condos and luxury hotels, punctuated by swimming pools
and haciendas and restaurants. It was sunset. As he watched, the sunbathers and sand-castle builders and beachcombers all
seemed to pause, as if at some invisible signal, to look west. Beach chairs were reoriented; video cameras were held up. D’Agosta
followed the general gaze. The sun was sinking into the Gulf of Mexico, a semicircle of orange fire. He had never before seen
a sunset unimpeded by cityscapes or New Jersey, and it surprised him: one minute the sun was there, falling, measurably falling
behind the endless flat line of the horizon… and then it was gone, strewing pink bands of afterglow in its wake. He licked
his lips, tasted the faint sea air. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine himself and Laura moving to a place like this once
he’d put in his twenty.

Blast’s condo was on the top floor of a luxury high-rise overlooking the beach. They took the elevator up, and Pendergast
rang the
bell. There was a long delay, then a faint scratching sound as the peephole cover was swiveled aside. Another, briefer
delay, followed by the unlocking and opening of the door. A man stood on the far side, short, slightly built, with a full
head of brilliantined black hair combed straight back. “Yes?”

Pendergast offered his shield and D’Agosta did the same. “Mr. Blast?” Pendergast inquired.

The man looked from one shield to the other, then at Pendergast. There was no fear or anxiety in his eyes, D’Agosta noted—only
mild curiosity.

“May we come in?”

The man considered this a moment. Then he opened the door wider.

They passed through a front hall into a living room that was opulently if gaudily decorated. Heavy gold curtains framed a
picture window looking out over the ocean. Thick white shag carpeting covered the floor. A faint smell of incense hung in
the air. Two Pomeranians, one white and one black, glared at them from a nearby ottoman.

D’Agosta turned his attention back to Blast. The man looked nothing like his ancestor Audubon. He was small and fussy, with
a pencil mustache and—given the climate—a remarkable lack of tan. Yet his movements were quick and lithe, betraying none of
the languid decadence of the surrounding decor.

“Would you care to sit down?” he said, motioning them toward a brace of massive armchairs upholstered in crimson velvet. He
spoke with the faintest of southern drawls.

Pendergast took a seat, and D’Agosta did the same. Blast sank into a white leather sofa across from them. “I assume you’re
not here about my rental property on Shell Road?”

“Quite correct,” Pendergast replied.

“Then how can I help you?”

Pendergast let the question hang in the air for a moment before answering. “We’re here about the Black Frame.”

Blast’s surprise manifested itself only in a faint widening of the eyes. After a moment he smiled, displaying brilliant little
white teeth. It was not a particularly friendly smile. The man reminded D’Agosta of a mink, sleek and ready to bite. “Are
you offering to sell?”

Pendergast shook his head. “No. We wish to examine it.”

“Always preferable to know one’s competition,” said Blast.

Pendergast threw one leg over the other. “Odd you should mention competition. Because that’s another reason we’re here.”

Blast cocked his head to one side quizzically.

“Helen Esterhazy Pendergast.” The FBI agent slowly enunciated each word.

This time Blast remained absolutely still. He looked from Pendergast to D’Agosta, then back. “I’m sorry, as long as we’re
on the subject of names: may I have yours, please?”

“Special Agent Pendergast,” he said. “And this is my associate, Lieutenant D’Agosta.”

“Helen Esterhazy Pendergast,” Blast repeated. “A relative of yours?”

“She was my wife,” said Pendergast coldly.

The little man spread his hands. “Never heard the name in my life.
Désolée
. Now, if that’s all…?” He stood.

Pendergast rose abruptly as well. D’Agosta stiffened, but instead of physically confronting Blast, as he feared, the agent
clasped his hands behind his back, walked over to the picture window, and gazed out of it. Then he turned and roamed about
the room, examining the various paintings, one after the other, as if he were in a museum gallery. Blast remained where he
was, motionless, only his eyes moving as they followed the agent. Pendergast moved into the front hall, paused a moment in
front of a closet door. His hand suddenly dipped into his black suit, removed something, touched the closet door; and then
quite suddenly he threw it open.

Blast started for him. “What the devil—?” he cried angrily.

Pendergast reached into the closet, shoved aside several items, and pulled out a long fur coat from the back; it bore the
familiar yellow-and-black stripes of a tiger.

“How dare you invade my privacy!” Blast said, still advancing.

Pendergast shook out the coat, gazing up and down. “Fit for a princess,” he said, turning to Blast with a smile. “Absolutely
genuine.” He reached in the closet again, pushing aside more coats while Blast stood there, red with anger. “Ocelot, margay…
quite a gallery of endangered species. And they are new, certainly more recent than the CITES ban of 1989, not to mention
the ’72 ESA.”

He returned the furs to the closet, closed the door. “The US Fish and Wildlife law enforcement office would no doubt take
an interest in your collection. Shall we call them?”

Blast’s response surprised D’Agosta. Instead of protesting further, he visibly relaxed. Baring his teeth in another smile,
he looked Pendergast up and down with something like appreciation. “Please,” he said with a gesture. “I see we have more to
talk about. Sit down.”

Pendergast returned to his seat and Blast resumed his own.

“If I am able to help you… what about the fate of my little collection?” Blast nodded toward the closet.

“It depends on how
well
the conversation goes.”

Blast exhaled: a long, slow hissing sound.

“Allow me to repeat the name,” said Pendergast. “Helen Esterhazy Pendergast.”

“Yes, yes, I remember your wife well.” He folded his manicured hands. “Please forgive my earlier dissembling. Long experience
has taught me to be reticent.”

“Proceed,” Pendergast replied coldly.

Blast shrugged. “Your wife and I were competitors. I wasted the better part of twenty years looking for the Black Frame. I
heard she was sniffing around, asking questions about it, too. I wasn’t pleased, to say the least. As you are no doubt aware,
I am Audubon’s great-great-great-grandson. The painting was mine—by birthright. No one should have the right to profit from
it—except me.

“Audubon painted the Black Frame at the sanatorium but did not take it with him. The most likely scenario, I postulated, was
that he gave it to one of the three doctors who treated him. One of them disappeared completely. Another moved back to Berlin—if
he’d had the painting, it was either destroyed by war or irretrievably lost. I focused my search on the third doctor, Torgensson—more
out of hope than anything else.” He spread his hands. “It was through this connection I ran into your wife. I met her only
once.”

“Where and when?”

“Fifteen years ago, maybe. No, not quite fifteen. At Torgensson’s old estate on the outskirts of Port Allen.”

“And what happened, exactly, at this meeting?” Pendergast’s voice was taut.

“I told her exactly what I just told you: that the painting was mine by birthright, and I expressed my desire that she drop
her search.”

“And what did Helen say?” Pendergast’s voice was even icier.

Blast took a deep breath. “That’s the funny thing.”

Pendergast waited. The air seemed to freeze.

“Remember what you said earlier about the Black Frame? ‘We wish to examine it,’ you said. That’s exactly what she said. She
told me she didn’t want to
own
the painting. She didn’t want to profit from it. She just wanted to
examine
it. As far as she was concerned, she said, the painting could be mine. I was delighted to hear it and we shook hands. We
parted friends, you might say.” Another thin smile.

“What was her exact wording?”

“She said to me, ‘I understand you’ve been looking for this a long time. Please understand, I don’t want to
own
it, I just want to
examine
it. I want to confirm something. If I find it I’ll turn it over to you—but in return you have to promise that if you find
it first, you’ll give me free rein to study it.’ I was delighted with the arrangement.”

“Bullshit!”
D’Agosta said, rising from his chair. He could contain himself no longer. “Helen spent years searching for the painting—just
to
look
at it? No way. You’re lying.”

“So help me, it’s the truth,” Blast said. And he smiled his ferret-like smile.

“What happened next?” Pendergast asked.

“That was it. We went our separate ways. That was my one and only encounter with her. I never saw her again. And that is the
God’s truth.”

“Never?” Pendergast asked.

“
Never
. And that’s all I know.”

“You know a great deal more,” said Pendergast, suddenly smiling. “But before you speak further, Mr. Blast, let me offer
you
something that you apparently don’t know—as a sign of trust.”

First a stick, now a carrot
, D’Agosta thought. He wondered where Pendergast was going with this.

“I have proof that Audubon gave the painting to Torgensson,” said Pendergast.

Blast leaned forward, his face suddenly interested. “Proof, you say?”

“Yes.”

A long silence ensued. Blast sat back. “Well then, now I’m more convinced than ever that the painting is gone. Destroyed when
his last residence burned down.”

“You mean, his estate outside Port Allen?” Pendergast asked. “I wasn’t aware there was a fire.”

Blast gave him a long look. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Mr. Pendergast. Port Allen was
not
Dr. Torgensson’s final residence.”

Pendergast was unable to conceal a look of surprise. “Indeed?”