Fever Dream (32 page)

“What about a heart transplant?”

“If we had a heart, all matched up and ready to go, it would be a possibility. But we don’t.”

Hayward felt around for the arm of the chair and sank down into it.

“Does Mr. D’Agosta have any relatives who should be notified?”

Hayward didn’t answer for a moment. Then she said, “An ex-wife and a son… in Canada. There’s no one else. And that’s
Lieutenant
D’Agosta.”

“My apologies. Now, forgive me, but I need to get back to the OR. The operation will continue for at least eight more hours—if
all goes well. You’re welcome to stay here, but I doubt there will be any more news until the end.”

Hayward nodded vaguely. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it all. She seemed to have lost all power of ratiocination.

She felt the surgeon’s light touch on her shoulder. “May I ask if the lieutenant is a religious man?”

She tried to focus on the question, finally nodding. “Catholic.”

“Would you like me to ask the hospital priest to come?”

“The priest?” She glanced at Pendergast, unsure how to answer.

“Yes,” said Pendergast, “we would very much like the priest to come. We would like to speak to him. And please tell him to
be prepared to administer extreme unction, given the circumstances.”

A soft beeping went off on the doctor’s person and in an automatic motion he reached down, detached a pager from his belt,
and looked at it. At the same time the public address system chimed and a smooth female voice sounded from a hidden speaker:

“
Code blue, OR two-one. Code blue, OR two-one. Code team to OR two-one
.”

“Excuse me,” said the surgeon, a faint hurry in his voice, “but I have to go now.”

T
HE PA SYSTEM CHIMED, THEN FELL SILENT
. Hayward sat where she was, suddenly frozen. Her mind reeled. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Pendergast, at the nurses,
anywhere but at the floor. All she could think of was the look in the surgeon’s eyes as he had hurried away.

A few minutes later a priest arrived carrying a black bag, looking almost like a doctor himself, a small man with white hair
and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked from her to Pendergast with bright bird-like eyes.

“I’m Father Bell.” He set his bag down and extended a small hand. Hayward took it but instead of shaking her hand, he held
it comfortingly. “And you are—?”

“Captain Hayward. Laura Hayward. I’m a… a close friend of Lieutenant D’Agosta.”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “You’re a police officer, then?”

“NYPD.”

“Was this a line-of-duty injury?”

Hayward hesitated, and Pendergast smoothly picked up the flow. “In a way. I’m Special Agent Pendergast, FBI, the lieutenant’s
associate.”

A crisp nod and a handshake. “I’m here to administer the
sacraments to Lieutenant D’Agosta, specifically one that we call
Anointing the Sick.”

“Anointing the Sick,” Hayward repeated.

“We used to call it the Last Rites, but that was always an awkward and inaccurate term. You see, it’s a sacrament for the
living, not the dying, and it’s a healing sacrament.” His voice was light and musical.

Hayward inclined her head, swallowed.

“I hope you don’t mind me explaining these things in detail. My presence can sometimes be alarming. People think I’m only
called in when someone’s expected to die, which is not the case.”

Even though she wasn’t a Catholic, Hayward found his directness steadying. “That code we just heard.” She paused. “Does that
mean…?”

“There’s a fine team of doctors working on the lieutenant. If there’s a way to pull him out of this, they will find it. If
not, then God’s will be done. Now, does either of you think the lieutenant might have any reason to wish that I not administer
the sacraments?”

“To tell you the truth, he was never a very observant Catholic…” Hayward hesitated. She couldn’t remember the last time Vinnie
had gone to church. But something about the idea of having the priest there seemed comforting, and she sensed that he’d appreciate
it. “I would say yes. I think Vincent would approve.”

“Very well.” The priest squeezed her hand. “Is there anything I can do for either of you? Arrangements? Phone calls?” He paused.
“Confession? We have a chapel here in the hospital.”

“No thank you,” said Hayward. She glanced at Pendergast, but he said nothing.

Father Bell nodded at them in turn, then picked up his black bag and walked down the corridor toward the operating suites
at a brisk and confident pace, perhaps even with a slight hurry in his step.

She put her face in her hands.
Five percent… or less.
One chance in twenty. The brief sense of comfort the priest had brought with him dissolved. She’d better get used to the
idea that Vinnie wasn’t going to make it. It was so useless, such a waste of a life. He wasn’t even forty-five. Memories welled
up in her mind, fragmented, torturous, the bad memories lacerating, the good memories even worse.

Somewhere in the background, she heard Pendergast speaking.
“I want you to know, if things go badly, that Vincent did not
throw his life away.”

She stared through her fingers down the empty corridor where the priest had vanished, not responding.

“Captain. A police officer puts his life on the line every day. You can be killed anytime, anywhere, for anything. Breaking
up a domestic quarrel, thwarting a terrorist attack. Any death in the line is honorable. And Vincent was engaged in the most
honorable job there is: helping right a wrong. His effort has been vital, absolutely crucial to solving this murder.”

Hayward said nothing. Her mind went back to the code. That had been a quarter hour ago. Perhaps, she thought, the priest was
already too late.

South Mountain, Georgia

T
HE TRAIL BROKE FREE OF THE WOODS AND
came out atop the mountain. Judson Esterhazy halted at the edge of the open meadow just in time to see the sun set over the
pine-clad hills, suffusing the misty evening with a ruddy glow, a distant lake shimmering white-gold in the dying light.

He paused, breathing lightly. The so-called mountain was one in name only, being more of a bump than anything else. The summit
itself was long and narrow and ridge-like, covered with tall grass, with a granite bald spot on which stood the remains of
a fire tower.

Esterhazy glanced around. The summit was empty. He made his way out of the yellow pines and walked along an overgrown fire
road toward the tower, finally coming up beneath its looming form. He leaned on one of the rusted metal struts, fumbled in
his pocket, removed his pipe and a tobacco pouch. Inserting the pipe into the pouch, he slowly packed it with tobacco, using
his thumb, the scent of Latakia rising to his nostrils. When it was filled to his liking he removed it, cleaned a few stray
bits from the rim, gave it a final pack, removed a lighter from the same pocket, flicked it on, and sucked flame into the
bowl in a series of slow, even movements.

The blue smoke drifted off into the twilight. As he smoked, Esterhazy saw a figure emerge from the far end of the field at
the top
of the south trail. There were several trails to the top of South Mountain, each arriving from a different road in
a different direction.

The fragrance of the expensive tobacco, the soothing effects of the nicotine, the comforting ritual, steadied his nerves.
He did not watch the figure approach, but instead kept his eyes focused on the west, at the orange diffusion above the hills
where the sun had been moments before. He kept his eyes there until he heard the sweep of boots through grass, the faint rasp
of breathing. Then he turned toward the man—a man he hadn’t seen in a decade. The man looked little different than he remembered:
slightly jowlier, hair somewhat receded, but he was still strongly built and sinewy. He wore an expensive pair of swamp boots
and a chambray shirt.

“Evening,” the man said.

Esterhazy removed his pipe and gave it a lift by way of greeting. “Hello, Mike,” he replied.

The man stood against the afterglow, and his features were indistinct. “So,” he began, “sounds like you took it upon yourself
to clean up a little mess, and instead it turned into a rather bigger mess.”

Esterhazy wasn’t going to be talked to like that—not by Michael Ventura. “Nothing involving this man Pendergast is a ‘little
mess,’ ” he said harshly. “This is precisely what I’ve been dreading all these years. Something had to be done and I did it.
Nominally, the job belonged to you. But you would undoubtedly have made a bigger hash of it.”

“Not likely. That’s the kind of job I do best.”

A long silence. Esterhazy took in a thin stream of smoke, let it leak out, trying to regain his equilibrium.

“It’s been a long time,” Ventura said. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot.”

Esterhazy nodded. “It’s just that… Well, I thought it was all long past. Buried.”

“It’ll never be long past. Not as long as there’s Spanish Island to deal with.”

A look of concern crossed Esterhazy’s face. “Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”

“As well as could be expected.”

Another silence.

“Look,” Ventura said in a milder tone. “I know this can’t be easy
for you. You made the ultimate sacrifice; we’re very grateful
to you for that.”

Esterhazy drew on his pipe. “Let’s get down to it,” he said.

“Okay. So just let me understand. Instead of killing Pendergast, you killed his partner.”

“D’Agosta. A happy accident. He was a loose end. I also took care of a couple of other loose ends—Blast and Blackletter. Two
people who should have been removed from circulation a long time ago.”

Ventura spat into the grass by way of answer. “I don’t agree, and I never have. Blackletter was well paid for his silence.
And Blast is only indirectly connected.”

“Nevertheless, he was a loose end.”

Ventura just shook his head.

“Now D’Agosta’s girlfriend is down here. A girlfriend who just happens to be the youngest homicide captain in the NYPD.”

“So?”

Esterhazy took the pipe from his mouth and spoke coldly. “Mike, you have no idea—and I mean
no
idea—how dangerous this man Pendergast is. I know him well. I needed to act immediately. Unfortunately, I failed to kill
him on the first attempt. Which will make the second all that much more difficult. You do understand, don’t you, that it’s
either him or us?”

“How much could he possibly know?”

“He’s found the Black Frame, he knows about Audubon’s illness, and somehow he knows about the Doane family.”

A sharp intake of breath. “You’re shitting me. How
much
about the Doane family?”

“Hard to say. He was in Sunflower. He visited the house. He’s tenacious and clever. You can assume he knows—or will know—everything.”

“Son of a bitch. How in the world did they find out?”

“No idea. Not only is Pendergast a brilliant investigator, but this time around he’s motivated—
uniquely
motivated.”

Ventura shook his head.

“And I’ve little doubt he’s busy filling the ear of this homicide captain with his suspicions, just as he did with that partner
of his, D’Agosta. I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before they pay our mutual friend a visit.”

A pause. “You think this investigation’s official?”

“It doesn’t seem so. I think they’re working ex cathedra. I doubt others are involved.”

Ventura thought for a moment before speaking again. “So now we finish the job.”

“Exactly. Take out Pendergast and that captain. Do it now. Kill them all.”

“The cop you hit, D’Agosta—are you sure he’s dead?”

“I think so. He took a .308 round in the back.” Judson frowned. “If he doesn’t die of his own accord, we’ll have to extend
a helping hand. Leave that to me.”

Ventura nodded. “I’ll keep the rest in line.”

“You do that. Need any help? Money?”

“Money’s the last of our worries. You know that.” And Ventura walked away across the field, toward the pink sky of evening,
until his dark silhouette disappeared into the pines at the far end.