Fever Dream (35 page)

“Why shouldn’t I do it?”

“When I’m missing, the cops will find my car. It’s close enough that they’ll come knocking around here.”

“I’ll move your car.”

“You’ll leave your DNA in it, you can’t avoid it.”

“Maurice will move it. Besides, I can deal with a few cops.”

“They’ll search the swamp.”

“As I said, the alligators will dispose of your corpse.”

“If you think that, you don’t know much about corpses. They have a way of turning up days, weeks later. Even in swamps.”

“Not in
my
swamp, with
my
alligators.”

“Alligators can’t make human bones disappear—they go right through the gut, come out unchanged.”

“Your knowledge of biology is impressive.”

“Listen to me. The cops will find out I worked for Blast, connect Blast to you and me to you. I bought gas with a credit card
just down the road. Believe me, they’ll be all over this place.”

“How will they connect me to Blast?”

“They will, you can count on it!” Hudson went on with true fervor. “I know the whole story, Blast told me. He told me about
your visit. Right after you left, Blast ordered a rollup of his fur operation. He wasn’t taking any chances, he was on the
phone a minute after you left his place.”

“What about the Black Frame? Was that you who chased us?”

“Yes, it was. Blast egged you on about the Black Frame. He wanted you to find it, figured you might be just smart enough to
succeed where he’d failed. You impressed him. But the cops are going to know all about this if they don’t already, all that
bullshit you pulled at the Donette Hole. Believe me, if I disappear they’ll be all over this place with hound dogs.”

“They’ll never connect me to Blast.”

“Of course they will! Blast told me you accused him of killing your wife. You’re up to your neck in the investigation already!”

“Did Blast kill my wife?”

“He said he didn’t, had nothing to do with it.”

“And you believed him?”

Hudson was talking as fast as he could, his heart racing painfully in his chest. “Blast was no saint, but he wasn’t a killer.
He was a weasel, a con man, a manipulator. He didn’t have the guts to kill someone.”

“Unlike you. Hiding in my garage with a gun.”

“No, no! This wasn’t a hit, I was only looking to make a deal. I’m just a PI trying to make a living. You’ve
got
to believe me!” His voice cracked in panic.

“Must I?” Pendergast slid the gun away. “You may get up, Mr. Hudson.”

He rose to his feet. His face was wet with tears and he was shaking all over, but he didn’t care. He was overwhelmed with
hope.

“You’re slightly more intelligent than I had assumed. Instead of killing you, shall we go back inside, enjoy that sherry,
and discuss the terms of your employment?”

Hudson sat in the sofa next to the hot fire, sweating all over. He felt drained, exhausted, and yet alive, tingling, as if
he’d been born again and was walking the earth as a new man.

Pendergast sat back in his chair with a strange half smile. “Now, Mr. Hudson, if you’re going to work for me, you’ve got to
tell me everything. About Blast, about your assignment.”

Hudson was only too grateful to talk. “Blast called me after you visited him. You really scared him, with your talk of illegal
furs. He said he was putting his whole operation on ice, indefinitely. He also said you were on the track of the painting,
the Black Frame, and he wanted me to follow you around so that if you found it, I could get it away from you.”

Pendergast nodded over tented fingers.

“As I said, he hoped you’d lead him to the Black Frame. I followed you, I saw that business you pulled at Pappy’s. I gave
chase but you got away.”

Another nod.

“So I went back to report to Blast, found him dead. Shotgun at close range, tore him up real nice. Owed me over five grand
in time and expenses. I figured you killed him. And I figured to pay you a visit, take back what was owed me.”

“Alas, I did not kill Blast. Someone else got to him.”

Hudson nodded, not knowing whether to believe him or not.

“And what did you know of Mr. Blast’s business?”

“Not much. Like I said, he was involved in the illegal wildlife trade—animal skins. But his big thing seemed to be that Black
Frame. He was half crazy over it.”

“And your own employment history, Mr. Hudson?”

“I used to be a cop, got put in the back office because of diabetes. Couldn’t stand a desk job, so I became a PI. That was
about five years ago. Did a lot of work for Mr. Blast, mostly looking into the backgrounds of his… business partners and suppliers.
He was very careful who he dealt with. The wildlife market’s crawling with undercover cops and sting operators. He mostly
dealt with some guy named Victor.”

“Victor who?”

“I never heard the last name.”

Pendergast looked at his watch. “It is dinnertime, Mr. Hudson, and I’m sorry you can’t stay.”

Hudson felt sorry, too.

Pendergast reached into his suit and pulled out a small sheaf of bills. “I can’t speak for what Blast owes you,” he said,
“but this is for your first two days’ employment. Five hundred a day plus expenses. From now on you work without a firearm
and you work only for me. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a small town called Sunflower, just west of the Black Brake swamp. I want you to get out a map, draw a circle with
a fifty-mile radius around that town, and identify all the pharmaceutical companies and drug research facilities within that
circle, going back fifteen years. I want you to drive to each one, in the guise of a lost motorist. Get as close as you can
without trespassing. Don’t take notes or pictures, keep it all in your head. Observe and report back to me in twenty-four
hours. That will be the extent of your first assignment. Do you understand?”

Hudson understood. He heard the door open and voices in the hall; someone had arrived. “Yes. Thank you, sir.” This was even
more money than Blast had been paying him—and for the simplest of assignments. Just so long as he didn’t have to go into the
Black Brake swamp itself—he’d heard one too many rumors about that place as it was.

Pendergast saw him to the kitchen door. Hudson stepped out into the night, filled with a fierce gratitude and sense of loyalty
toward the man who had spared his life.

St. Francisville, Louisiana

L
AURA HAYWARD FOLLOWED THE SQUAD CAR
out of town on a winding road that led south toward the Mississippi River. She felt conspicuous and more than a little awkward
behind the wheel of Helen Pendergast’s vintage Porsche convertible, but the FBI agent had offered his wife’s car so courteously
she simply hadn’t had the heart to refuse. As she drove along the sloping road, overleafed with oaks and walnut trees, her
mind drifted back to her first job with the New Orleans Police Department. She’d only been a substitute dispatcher then, but
the experience had confirmed her desire to become a cop. That was before she’d headed north to New York City, to attend the
John Jay College of Criminal Justice and later take her first job as a Transit Authority cop. In the almost fifteen years
since, she’d lost most of her southern accent—and become a die-hard New Yorker, to boot.

The sight of St. Francisville—whitewashed houses with long porches and tin roofs, the heavy air redolent of magnolias—seemed
to melt right through her New York carapace. She mused that her experience with the local police had, so far, gone better
than the bureaucratic run-around she’d gotten in Florida trying to get information on the Blast homicide. There was still
something to be said for the gentility of the Old South.

The squad car turned into a driveway and Hayward followed, parking next to it. She stepped out to see a modest ranch house,
with tidy flower beds framed by two magnolias.

The two cops who had escorted her to the Blackletter house, a sergeant in the homicide division and a regular officer, climbed
out of their car, hiking up their belts and walking toward her. The white one, Officer Field, had carrot hair and a red face
and was sweating copiously. The other, Sergeant Detective Cring, had an almost excessive earnestness about him, a man who
did his duty, dotted every
i
and crossed every
t
with close attention.

The house was whitewashed like its neighbors, neat and clean. Crime-scene tape, detached by the wind, fluttered over the lawn
and coiled around the porch columns. The front door latch was sealed with orange evidence tape.

“Captain,” said Cring, “do you want to examine the grounds or would you like to go inside?”

“Inside, please.”

She followed them onto the porch. Her arrival at the St. Francisville police station unannounced had been a big event and,
initially, not a positive one. They were not happy to see an NYPD captain—and a woman no less—arriving in a flashy car to
check up on a local homicide without warning or peace officer status, or even a courtesy call from up north. But Hayward had
been able to turn around their suspicion with friendly chatter about her days on the job in New Orleans, and pretty soon they
were old buddies. Or at least, she hoped so.

“We’ll do a walk-through,” Cring went on as he approached the door. He took out a penknife and slit through the tape. Freed,
the door swung open, its lock broken.

“What about those?” Hayward asked, pointing to a bootie box sitting by the door.

“The crime scene’s already been thoroughly worked over,” said Cring. “No need.”

“Right.”

“It was a pretty straightforward case,” Cring said as they stepped inside, the house exhaling a breath of stale, faintly foul
air.

“Straightforward how?” Hayward asked.

“Robbery gone bad.”

“How do you know?”

“The house was tossed, a bunch of electronics taken—flat panel, couple of computers, stereo. You’ll see for yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“It took place between nine and ten in the evening. The perp used a pry bar to get inside, as you probably noticed, and walked
through this front hallway into the den, through there, where Blackletter was tinkering with his robots.”

“Robots?”

“He was a robot enthusiast. Hobbyist stuff.”

“So the perp went straight from here to the den?”

“It seems so. He apparently heard Blackletter in there, decided to eliminate him before robbing the house.”

“Was Blackletter’s car in the driveway?”

“Yes.”

Hayward followed Cring into the den. A long table was covered with metal and plastic parts, wires, circuit boards, and all
kinds of strange gizmos. The floor below sported a large black stain, and the cinder-block wall was sprayed with blood and
peppered with buckshot. Evidence marking cones and arrows were still positioned everywhere.

Shotgun
, she thought.
Just like Blast
.

“It was a sawed-off,” said Cring. “Twelve-gauge, based on the splatter analysis and the buckshot recovered. Double-ought buck.”

Hayward nodded. She examined the door into the den: thick metal with a layer of hard soundproofing screwed into it on the
inside. The walls and ceiling were also well soundproofed. She wondered if Blackletter had been working with the door open
or shut. If he was a fastidious man—which seemed to be the case—he would have kept it shut to keep the dirt and dust out of
the kitchen.

“After shooting the victim,” continued Cring, “the perpetrator walked back into the kitchen—we found spots of secondary blood
from footprints—and then back through the hallway to the living room.”

Hayward was about to say something, but bit her tongue. This was no burglary, but it would do no good to point that out now.
“Can we look at the living room?”

“Sure thing.” Cring led her through the kitchen to the entry hall,
then into the living room. Nothing had been touched; it
was still a mess. A roll-top desk had been rifled, letters and pictures scattered about, books pulled off shelves, a sofa
slit open with a knife. The wall sported a hole where the supports to the missing flatscreen had been affixed.

Hayward noticed an antique, sterling-silver letter opener with an opal inlaid in its handle lying on the floor, where it had
been swept off the desk. Her eye roved about the living room, noting quite a few small, portable objects of silver and gold
workmanship: ashtrays, small casks and boxes, teapots, teaspoons, salvers, candlesnuffers, inkstands, and figurines, all beautifully
chased. Some had inlaid gemstones. They all seemed to have been unceremoniously swept to the floor.

“All these silver and gold objects,” she asked. “Were any stolen?”

“Not that we know of.”

“That seems odd.”

“Things like that are very hard to fence, especially around here. Our burglar was most likely a drug addict just looking for
some stuff to get a quick fix.”

“All this silver looks like a collection.”

“It was. Dr. Blackletter was involved with the local historical society and donated things from time to time. He specialized
in antebellum American silver.”