Fever Dream (36 page)

“Where’d he get his money?”

“He was a medical doctor.”

“As I understand, he worked for Doctors With Wings, a nonprofit organization without a lot of money. This silver must be worth
a small fortune.”

“After Doctors With Wings, he did consulting work for various pharmaceutical companies. There are quite a few in this area;
it’s one of the mainstays of the local economy.”

“Do you have a file on Dr. Blackletter? I’d like to see it.”

“It’s back at the station. I’ll get you a copy when we’re done here.”

Hayward lingered in the living room. She had a vague feeling of dissatisfaction, as if there was more to extract from the
crime scene. Her eye fell on a number of snapshots in silver frames that had apparently been swept from a bookshelf.

“May I?”

“Be my guest. The CSI people have been through here with a fine-tooth comb.”

She knelt and picked up several of the frames. They showed what she presumed to be various family members and friends. Some
were clearly of Blackletter himself: in Africa flying a plane, inoculating natives, standing before a bush clinic. There were
several pictures showing Blackletter in company with an attractive blond woman some years his junior; in one he had his arm
around her.

“Was Dr. Blackletter married?”

“Never,” said Cring.

She turned this last picture over in her hands. The glass in the frame had cracked in its fall to the floor. Hayward slid
the photo out of its frame and turned it over. Written on the back with a generous, looping hand was,
TO MORRIS, IN MEMORY OF THAT FLIGHT OVER THE LAKE. LOVE, M
.

“May I keep this? Just the photo, I mean.”

A hesitation. “Well, we’ll have to enter it in the chain-of-custody logs.” Another hesitation. “May I ask the reason why?”

“It may be pertinent to my investigation.” Hayward had been careful not to tell them exactly what her investigation was, and
they, after making a few halfhearted attempts to find out, had tactfully dropped the subject.

But now Cring brought it up again. “If you don’t mind me asking, we’re sort of puzzled why an NYPD homicide captain would
be interested in a fairly routine burglary and murder all the way down here. We don’t mean to pry, but it would be useful
to know what you’re looking for—so we can help.”

Hayward knew she couldn’t keep dodging the question, so she opted for misdirection. “It involves a terrorism investigation.”

A silence. “I see.”

“Terrorism,” Field repeated from behind her, speaking for the first time. He’d been following them so silently she’d almost
forgotten he was there. “You got a lot of that up in New York, I hear.”

“Yes,” said Hayward. “You understand why we can’t go into details.”

“Absolutely.”

“We’re keeping a low profile on this one. Which is why I’m down here informally, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, of course,” said Field. “If I may ask—anything to do with the robots?”

Hayward flashed him a quick smile. “The less said the better.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the officer, flushing with pleasure at having guessed.

Hayward hated herself for telling lies like this. It was bad policy all around, and if it ever got out she could lose her
job.

“Give the picture to me,” said Cring, with a warning glance to his subordinate. “I’ll see that it’s logged and back in your
hands right away.” He slid the photograph into an evidence envelope, sealed it, and initialed it.

“I think we’re done here,” said Hayward, looking around, feeling guilty about her crude deception. She hoped Pendergast wasn’t
starting to rub off on her.

She stepped out of the dark house and into the humid sunlight. Glancing around, she noticed that the street dead-ended at
the river not half a mile away. On impulse she turned back to Cring, who was securing the front door.

“Detective,” she said.

He turned. “Ma’am?”

“You understand that you can’t speak to anybody about what we just discussed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But you probably also understand now why I believe this robbery to be a fake.”

Cring rubbed his chin. “A fake?”

“Staged.” She nodded down the street. “In fact, I’d bet that if you were to check, you just might find those missing electronics
down there, beyond the end of the road, at the bottom of the Mississippi.”

Cring looked from her, to the river, and back again. He nodded slowly.

“I’ll swing by for that photo this afternoon,” she said as she slipped into the Porsche.

Penumbra Plantation

T
HE OLD SERVANT, MAURICE, OPENED THE DOOR
for Hayward, and she entered the dim confines of the mansion house. It again struck her as exactly the kind of place she
imagined Pendergast coming from, decaying antebellum gentry, from the dilapidated house down to the mournful old servant in
formal clothes.

“This way, Captain Hayward,” Maurice said, turning and gesturing toward the parlor with an upturned palm. She walked in to
find Pendergast seated before a fire, a small glass by his right hand. He rose and indicated a seat for her.

“Sherry?”

She dropped her briefcase on the sofa and settled down beside it. “No thanks. Not my kind of drink.”

“Anything else? Beer? Tea? A martini?”

She glanced at Maurice, not wanting to put him out but exhausted by her travel. “Tea. Hot and strong, with milk and sugar,
please.”

With a decline of his head, the servant withdrew.

Pendergast settled back down, throwing one leg over the other. “How was your trip to Siesta Key and St. Francisville?” he
asked.

“Productive. But first, how’s Vinnie?”

“Doing quite well. The move to the private hospital was accomplished without incident. And the second operation, replacing
the valve in his aorta with a pig valve, went beautifully and he is on the road to recovery.”

She eased back, feeling a huge weight lifted. “Thank God. I want to see him.”

“As I mentioned before, that would be unwise. Even calling him might be a bad idea. We seem to be dealing with a very clever
killer—who, I believe, has some inside source of information about us.” Pendergast took a sip of his sherry. “In any case,
I just received the lab report about the feathers I purloined from Oakley Plantation. The birds were indeed infected with
an avian influenza virus, but the very small sample I was able to obtain was simply too degraded to cultivate. Nevertheless,
the researcher I employed made an important observation. The virus is neuroinvasive.”

Hayward sighed. “You’re going to have to explain that.”

“It hides in the human nervous system. It’s highly
neurovirulent
. And that, Captain, is the final piece of the puzzle.”

The tea came and Maurice poured out a cup. “Go on.”

Pendergast rose and paced before the fire. “The parrot virus makes you sick, just like any flu virus. And like many viruses,
it hides in the nervous system as a way of avoiding the bloodstream and thus the human immune system. But that’s where the
similarities end. Because this virus also
has an effect
on the nervous system. And that effect is most unusual: it enhances brain activity, triggers a flowering of the intellect.
My researcher—an exceedingly clever fellow—tells me that this could be caused by a simple loosening of neural pathways. You
see, the virus makes the nerve endings slightly more sensitive—making them fire more quickly, more easily, with less stimuli.
Trigger-happy nerves, as it were. But the virus also inhibits production of acetylcholine in the brain. And it seems this
combination of effects ultimately unbalances the system, eventually overwhelming the victim with sensory input.”

Hayward frowned. This seemed like a reach, even for Pendergast. “Are you sure about this?”

“Additional research would be needed to confirm the theory, but it’s the only answer that fits.” He paused. “Think of yourself
for a moment, Captain Hayward. You are sitting on a couch. You are
aware of the pressure of the leather against your back.
You are aware of the warmth of the teacup in your hand. You can smell the roast saddle of lamb that we will be having for
dinner. You can hear a variety of sounds: crickets, songbirds in the trees, the fire in the fireplace, Maurice in the kitchen.”

“Of course,” Hayward said. “What’s your point?”

“You are aware of those sensations and probably a hundred more, if you were to stop and take note of them. But that’s the
point: you
don’t
take note. A part of your brain—the thalamus, to be exact—is acting as a traffic cop, making sure you are only aware of the
sensations that are important at the moment. Imagine what it would be like if there were no traffic cop? You would be continually
bombarded by sensation, unable to ignore any of it. While it might in the short run enhance cognitive function and creativity,
in the long run it would drive you mad. Literally.
That
is what happened to Audubon. And it happened to the Doane family—only much more rapidly and powerfully. We already suspected
the madness shared by Audubon and the Doanes was more than coincidence—we just didn’t have the link. Until now.”

“The Doanes’ parrot,” Hayward said. “It had the virus, too. Just like the parrots stolen from Oakley Plantation.”

“Correct. My wife must have discovered this extraordinary effect by accident. She realized that Audubon’s illness seemed to
have profoundly changed him, and as an epidemiologist she had the tools to figure out why. Her leap of genius was in realizing
it wasn’t just a psychic change caused by a brush with death; it was a
physical
change. You asked what her role in all this was: I have reason to believe she might, through the best of intentions, have
taken her discovery to a pharmaceutical company, which tried to develop a drug from it. A mind-enhancement drug, or what I
believe today is called a ‘smart’ drug.”

“So what happened to that drug? Why wasn’t it developed?”

“When we learn that, I think we will be much closer to understanding why my wife was killed.”

Hayward spoke again, slowly. “I learned today that Blackletter was a consultant for several pharmaceutical companies after
leaving Doctors With Wings.”

“Excellent.” Pendergast resumed pacing. “I’m ready for your report.”

Hayward briefly summarized her visits to Florida and St. Francisville. “Both Blast and Blackletter were killed by a professional
wielding a 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot. He entered the premises, killed the victims, then
tossed the place and took a few things to make it look like a robbery.”

“Which pharmaceutical companies did Blackletter consult for?”

Hayward opened her briefcase, slid out a manila envelope, extracted a sheet, and handed it to him.

Pendergast walked over and took it. “Did you dig up any of Blackletter’s former contacts or associates?”

“Just one—a snapshot of an old flame.”

“An excellent start.”

“Speaking of Blast, there’s something I don’t understand.”

Pendergast put the photo aside. “Yes?”

“Well—it’s pretty obvious the person who killed Blackletter also killed him. But why? He didn’t have anything to do with this
avian flu—did he?”

Pendergast shook his head. “No, he didn’t. And that is a very good question. I believe it must concern the conversation Helen
once had with Blast. Blast told me that, when he confronted her about the Black Frame and her reasons for wanting it, she
said: ‘I don’t want to own it, I just want to examine it.’ We now know Blast was telling the truth about this. But of course,
whoever arranged for my wife’s murder cannot have known what transpired in that conversation. She might have told him more—perhaps
much more. About Audubon and the avian flu, for example. And so, for safety’s sake, Blast had to die. He wasn’t a big loose
end—but he was a loose end nonetheless.”

Hayward shook her head. “That’s cold.”

“Cold indeed.”

At that moment Maurice came in, a look of distaste on his face. “Mr. Hudson is here to see you, sir.”

“Send him in.”

Hayward watched as a short, stocky, obsequious-looking fellow came into the room, all trench coat, fedora, pinstripes, and
wingtips. He looked every inch the film noir caricature of a private investigator, which is what he evidently thought he was.
She was amazed that Pendergast would have any truck with such a person.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, ducking his head and removing his hat.

“Not at all, Mr. Hudson.” She noticed Pendergast didn’t introduce her. “You have the list of pharmaceutical companies I asked
for?”

“Yes, sir. And I visited each one—”

“Thank you.” Pendergast took the list. “Please wait in the east parlor, where I will take your report in good time.” He nodded
to Maurice. “Make sure Mr. Hudson is comfortable with a nonalcoholic beverage.” The old servant led the man back out into
the hallway.

“What in the world did you do to make him so…” Hayward searched for the right word. “Meek?”