Fever Dream (42 page)

“CJS? That must be Charles J. Slade.”

“Correct. And this
is
of definite interest.”

She handed it back. “I don’t see the significance.”

“The handwriting evidently belongs to June Brodie, Slade’s secretary. The one who committed suicide on the Archer Bridge a
week after Slade died. Except that this note scribbled on the requisition would suggest she did not commit suicide after all.”

“How in the world can you tell?”

“I happen to have a photocopy of the suicide note from her file at the Vital Records office, left in her car just before she
threw herself off the Archer span.” Pendergast removed a piece of paper from his suit jacket, and Hayward unfolded it. “Compare
the handwriting with that of the fragment I just discovered: a purely routine notation jotted down in her office. Very curious.”

Hayward stared at one and then the other, looking back and forth. “But the handwriting’s exactly the same.”

“That, my dear Captain, is what’s so very curious.” And he placed the papers back within his suit jacket.

T
HE SUN HAD ALREADY SET IN A SCRIM OF
muddy clouds by the time Laura Hayward reached the small highway leading out of Itta Bena, heading east toward the interstate.
According to the GPS, it was a four-and-a-half-hour drive back to Penumbra; she’d be there before midnight. Pendergast had
told her he wouldn’t be home until even later; he was off to see what else he could dig up on June Brodie.

It was a long, lonely, empty highway. She felt drowsy and opened the window, letting in a blast of humid air. The car filled
with the smell of the night and damp earth. At the next town, she’d grab a coffee and sandwich. Or maybe she could find a
rib joint. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Her cell phone rang, and she fumbled it out of her pocket one-handed. “Hello?”

“Captain Hayward? This is Dr. Foerman at the Caltrop Hospital.”

Hayward was instantly chilled by the serious tone of his voice.

“I’m sorry to disturb you in the evening but I’m afraid I had to call. Mr. D’Agosta has taken a sudden turn for the worse.”

She swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“We’re doing tests, but it appears he might be suffering from a
rare kind of anaphylactic shock related to the pig valve in
his heart.” He paused. “To be frank, it looks very grave. We… we felt you should be notified.”

Hayward couldn’t speak for a moment. She slowed, pulled to the side of the highway, the car slewing into the soft shoulder.

“Captain Hayward?”

“I’m here.” She punched
Caltrop, LA
into her GPS with shaking fingers. “Just a moment.” The GPS ran a calculation displaying the time from her location to Caltrop.
“I’ll be there in two hours. Maybe less.”

“We’ll be waiting.”

She closed the phone and dropped it on the passenger seat. She took in a long, shuddering breath. And then—quite abruptly—she
gunned the Buick and swung the wheel violently into a U-turn, propelling gravel behind the car, the rear end swinging back
onto the highway with a screech of rubber.

Judson Esterhazy strolled through the double glass doors into the warm night air, hands shoved into the pockets of his doctor’s
whites, and breathed deeply. From his vantage point in the covered entryway of the hospital’s main entrance, he surveyed the
parking lot. Brightly lit by sodium lamps, it wrapped around the main entrance and ran down one side of the small hospital;
it was three-quarters empty. A quiet, uneventful March evening at Caltrop Hospital.

He turned his attention to the layout of the grounds. Beyond the parking lot, a smooth lawn ran down to a small lake. At the
far end of the hospital stood a park with a scattering of tupelo trees, carefully planted and tended. A path wound through
them, granite benches placed at strategic points.

Esterhazy strolled across the lot to the edge of the little park and sat down on a bench, to all appearances simply a resident
or internist out for a breath of fresh air. Idly, he read the names carved into the bench as some fund-raising gimmick.

So far, everything was going to plan. True, it had been very difficult finding D’Agosta: somehow Pendergast had created a
new identity for him, along with fake medical records, birth certificate, the works. If it hadn’t been for Judson’s access
to private pharmaceutical records, he might never have found the lieutenant. Ultimately it had
been the pig-heart valve that
furnished the necessary clue. He knew D’Agosta had been moved to a cardiac care facility because of his injured heart. D’Agosta’s
prelims indicated he had a severely damaged aortic valve. The bastard should have died, but when he held on despite all odds,
Judson realized he’d require a pig-heart valve.

There weren’t many orders for pig valves floating through the system.
Trace the pig valve, find the man.
And that’s what he’d done.

It was then he realized there was a way to kill two birds with one stone. After all, D’Agosta wasn’t the primary target—but,
comatose and dying, he could still make very effective bait.

He glanced at his watch. He knew that Pendergast and Hayward were still operating out of Penumbra; they couldn’t be more than
a few hours away. And of course they’d have been alerted to D’Agosta’s condition by now and would be driving like maniacs
to the hospital. The timing was perfect. D’Agosta was now dying from the dose of Pavulon he’d administered, the dosage being
well into the fatal range but carefully calibrated so as not to kill immediately. That was the beauty of Pavulon—the dosage
could be adjusted to draw out the drama of death. It mimicked many of the symptoms of anaphylactic shock and had a half-life
in the body of less than three hours. Pendergast and Hayward would arrive just in time for the deathbed rattle—but then, of
course, they wouldn’t get as far as the deathbed.

Esterhazy rose and strolled along the brick path leading through the little park. The glow from the parking lot did not penetrate
far, leaving most of the area in darkness. This would have made a good place to shoot from—if he’d been using the sniper rifle.
But of course that would not work. When the two arrived, they would park as close to the main entrance as possible, jump out,
and run into the building—a continually moving target. After his failure with Pendergast outside Penumbra, Esterhazy did not
care to repeat the challenge. He would take no risks this time.

Hence the sawed-off shotgun.

He walked back toward the hospital entrance. It offered a far more straightforward opportunity. He would position himself
on the right-hand side of the walkway, between the area lights. No matter where Pendergast and Hayward parked, they’d have
to pass right by him. He would meet them there in his doctor’s uniform, clipboard
in hand, head bowed over it. They would
be worried, rushing, and he’d be a doctor—there would be no suspicion. What could be more natural? He’d let them approach,
get out of the line of sight of anyone inside the double glass doors. Then he’d swing up the sawed-off from under his lab
coat and fire from the hip at point-blank range. The double-ought buck would literally blow their guts and spinal cords out
through their backs. Then all he had to do was walk the twenty feet to his own car, get in, and drive away.

With his eyes closed he ran through the sequence, counting off the time. Fifteen seconds, more or less, beginning to end.
By the time the security guard at the reception desk called for backup and screwed up the courage to get his fat ass outside,
Judson would be gone.

This was a good plan. Simple. Foolproof. His targets would be off guard, exposed. Even the legendarily cool Pendergast would
be flustered. No doubt the man blamed himself for D’Agosta’s condition—and now his good friend was dying.

The only danger, and it was a slight one, would be if someone accosted or challenged him in the hospital before he had time
to act. But that didn’t seem likely. It was an expensive private hospital, big enough that no one had looked twice at him
when he walked in and flashed his credentials. He had gone straight to D’Agosta’s room and found him drugged up with painkillers,
sound asleep after the operation. They hadn’t posted a guard, evidently because they felt they’d disguised his identity well
enough. And he had to admit they’d done a brilliant job at that, all the paperwork in order, everyone in the hospital thinking
he was Tony Spada from Flushing, Queens…

Except that he was the only patient in the entire region needing a forty-thousand-dollar porcine aortic valve xenograft.

He’d injected the Pavulon high up in the IV drip. By the time the code came through, he was in another part of the hospital.
No one questioned him or even looked askance at his presence. Being a doctor himself, he knew exactly how to look, how to
behave, what to say.

He checked his watch. Then he strolled over to his car and got in. The shotgun gleamed faintly from the floor of the passenger
seat. He’d stay here, in the darkness, for a little while. Then he’d hide the shotgun under his coat, exit the vehicle, get
into position between the lights… and wait for the birds to fly in.

*   *   *

Hayward could see the hospital at the end of the long, straight access drive, a three-story building glowing in the night,
set amid a broad rising lawn, its many windows reflecting on the waters of a nearby pond. She accelerated, the road dipping
down to cross a stream, then rising up again. As she approached the entrance she braked hard, making an effort to get her
excessive speed under control, came into the final curve before the parking lot, the tires squealing softly on the dew-laden
asphalt.

She came to a short, screeching halt in the closest parking space, threw open the door, and jumped out. She trotted across
the lot and entered the covered walkway to the front doors. Immediately she saw a doctor standing to one side of the walkway,
between the pools of light, holding a clipboard. A surgical mask was still in position on his face—he must have just come
from the OR.

“Captain Hayward?” the doctor asked.

She veered toward him, alarmed at the thought he was waiting for her. “Yes, how is he?”

“He’s going to be just fine,” came the slightly muffled response. The doctor let the clipboard drop casually in one hand while
he reached under his white coat with the other.

“Thank God—” she began, and then she saw the shotgun.

New York City

D
R. JOHN FELDER MOUNTED THE BROAD STONE
steps of the main branch of the New York Public Library. Behind him, the evening traffic on Fifth Avenue was a staccato chorus
of horns and grinding diesels. He paused a moment between the large stone lions, Patience and Fortitude, to check his watch
and rearrange the thin manila folder that was tucked beneath one arm. Then he made his way to the brass doors at the top of
the stairs.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the guard standing before them. “The library is closed for the day.”

Felder took out his city credentials and showed them to the man.

“Very good, sir,” said the guard, stepping deferentially away from the doors.

“I put in a request for some research materials,” Felder said. “I was told they were ready for examination.”

“You can inquire in the General Research Division,” the guard replied. “Room Three Fifteen.”

“Thank you.”

His shoes rang out against the floor as he walked through the vast and echoing entrance hall. It was almost eight in the evening
and the cavernous space was deserted save for a second guard at a
receiving station, who again examined his credentials and
pointed the way up the sweeping staircase. Felder mounted the marble stairs slowly and thoughtfully. Arriving at the third
floor, he walked down the corridor to the entrance of Room 315.

Room 315
did not do the space justice. Nearly two city blocks long, the Main Reading Room rose fifty feet to a rococo coffered ceiling
busy with murals. Elegant chandeliers hung over seemingly endless rows of long oaken reading tables, still appointed with
their original bronze lamps. Here and there, other researchers with after-hours access sat at the tables, poring over books
or tapping quietly on laptops. While many books lined the walls, they were merely a drop in the library’s bucket: in the subterranean
levels beneath his feet, and the others below the green surface of adjoining Bryant Park, six million more volumes were stored.