Fever Dream (56 page)

Nobody moved.

Boom!
Pendergast unloaded the shotgun over their heads and they hastily shuffled to the dirt parking lot. Pendergast backed away
from the building, racked a fresh round into the shotgun, and aimed at the large propane tank snugged up against the side
of the bait shop. He turned to Hayward.

“Captain, we might need the penetrative power of that .45 ACP, so let us both fire on the count of three.”

Hayward took a stance with the .45.
I could get used to the Pendergast “method,”
she thought, aiming at the big white tank.

“One…”

“Holy shit, no!” wailed a voice.

“Two…

“Three!”

They fired simultaneously, the .45 kicking hard. A gigantic explosion erupted, and a massive wave of heat and overpressure
swept over them. The entire building disappeared, engulfed in a boiling fireball. Soaring out of the fireball, trailing streamers
of smoke, came thousands of bits and pieces of debris that rained down around them—writhing nightcrawlers, bugs, burning maggots,
pieces of wood, reels, streamers of fishing line, shattered fishing rods, broken liquor bottles, pigs’ trotters, pickles,
lime wedges, coasters, and exploded beer cans.

The fireball rose in a miniature mushroom cloud while the debris continued to patter down. Gradually, as the smoke cleared,
the burning stub of the building came into view. There was virtually nothing left.

Pendergast slung the shotgun over his shoulder and strolled down the dock toward Hayward. “Captain, shall we go? I think it’s
time we paid a visit to Vincent. Police guard or not, I’ll feel better once we’ve moved him to new quarters—perhaps a place
more private, not far from New York City, where we can keep an eye on him ourselves.”

“Amen to that.” And with a certain relief, Hayward thought that it was a good thing she wouldn’t be working with Pendergast
much longer. She had enjoyed that just a little too much.

New York City

D
R. JOHN FELDER SAT IN HIS CONSULTING OFFICE
in the Lower Manhattan building of the New York City Department of Health. It was on the seventh floor, where the Division
of Mental Hygiene was located. He glanced around the small, tidy space, mentally assuring himself that everything was in order:
the medical references in the bookshelves lined up and dusted, the impersonal paintings on the wall all perfectly level, the
chairs before his desk set at just the right angle, the surface of his desk free of any unnecessary items.

Dr. Felder did not normally receive many guests in his office. He did most of his work—so to speak—in the field: in locked
wards and police holding tanks and hospital emergency rooms, and he carried out his small private practice in a consulting
room on lower Park Avenue. But this appointment was different. For one thing, Felder had asked the gentleman to see him, not
the other way around. The psychiatrist had done a background check on the man—and what he learned was rather disconcerting.
Perhaps the invitation would prove to be a mistake. Even so, this man seemed to be the key, the
only
key, to the mystery of Constance Greene.

A quiet double tap sounded at the door. Felder glanced at his watch: ten thirty precisely. Punctual. He rose and opened the
door.

The apparition that stood in the doorway did little to relieve Felder’s misgivings. He was tall, thin, and immaculately dressed,
his pallid skin a shocking contrast to the black suit. His eyes were as pale as his skin, and they seemed to regard Felder
with a combination of keen discernment, mild curiosity, and—perhaps—just a little amusement.

Felder realized he was staring. “Come in, please,” he said quickly. “You’re Mr. Pendergast?”

“I am.”

Felder showed the man to one of the consultation seats and then took his place behind the desk. “I’m sorry, but it’s actually
Dr. Pendergast, isn’t it? I took the liberty of looking into your background.”

Pendergast inclined his head. “I have two PhDs, but, frankly, I prefer my law enforcement title of special agent.”

“I see.” Felder had interviewed his share of cops, but never an FBI agent, and he wasn’t quite sure how to begin. The straightforward
approach seemed as good as any.

“Constance Greene is your ward?”

“She is.”

Felder leaned back in his chair, casually throwing one leg over the other. He wanted to make sure he gave the impression of
relaxation and informality. “I wondered if you could tell me a little more about her. Where she was born, what her early life
was like… that sort of thing.”

Pendergast continued to regard him with the same neutral expression. For some reason Felder began to find it irritating.

“You are the committing psychiatrist in the case, are you not?” Pendergast asked.

“My evaluation was submitted as evidence at the involuntary-commitment hearing.”

“And you recommended commitment.”

Felder smiled ruefully. “Yes. You were invited to the court hearing, but I understand that you declined to—”

“What, precisely, was your diagnosis?”

“It’s rather technical—”

“Indulge me.”

Felder hesitated a second. “Very well. Axis One: schizophrenia of the paranoid type, continuous, with a possible premorbid
Axis Two
state of schizotypal personality disorder, along with psyphoria and indications of dissociative fugue.”

Pendergast nodded slowly. “And you base this finding on what evidence?”

“Simply put, on the delusion that she is Constance Greene: a girl who was born almost a century and a half ago.”

“Let me ask you something, Doctor. Within the context of her, ah,
delusion
, have you noticed any discontinuity or nonconformity?”

Felder frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Are her delusions internally consistent?”

“Beyond the belief that her child was evil, of course, her delusions have been remarkably consistent. That’s one of the things
that interests me.”

“What has she told you, exactly?”

“That her family moved from an upstate farm to Water Street, where she was born in the early 1870s, that her parents died
of tuberculosis and her sister was killed by a serial murderer. That she, an orphan, was taken in by a former resident of
891 Riverside Drive, about whom we have no record. That you ultimately inherited that house and, by extension, the responsibility
for her well-being.” Felder hesitated.

Pendergast seemed to pick up on Felder’s hesitation. “What else did she say about me?”

“That your becoming her guardian was due to guilt.”

There was a silence.

“Tell me, Dr. Felder,” Pendergast asked at length. “Did Constance tell you of her existence between this earlier period and
her very recent crossing on the ship?”

“No.”

“No details at all?”

“None.”

“Then I submit to you that, under a diagnosis of 295.30, schizotypal personality disorder cannot be assumed. At the very most,
you should have specified a schizophreniform disorder for the Axis Two diagnosis. The fact is, Doctor, you have no prior history
of her condition—for all you know, these delusions could have been of recent origin, perhaps as recent as her Atlantic crossing.”

Felder sat forward. Pendergast had quoted the precise DSM-IV
diagnostic code for paranoid schizophrenia. “Have you studied
psychiatry, Special Agent Pendergast?”

Pendergast shrugged. “One has one’s interests.”

Despite everything, Felder found his irritation getting the better of himself. Why was Pendergast showing such interest now,
when before he’d seemed almost indifferent? “I must tell you,” he said, “I would categorize your conclusions as amateurish
and superficial.”

Pendergast’s eyes glinted. “May I ask you, then, what possible reason you could have for vexing me with these questions about
Constance, since you’ve
already
diagnosed—and committed—her?”

“Well, I—” He found those silvery eyes boring into him.

“Would it be out of idle curiosity? Or…” He smiled. “… in the hope of professional publication?”

Felder stiffened. “Naturally, if there is something novel in the case, I’d want to share my experiences with my colleagues
via publication.”

“And thus enhance your reputation… and perhaps”—Pendergast’s eyes seemed to twinkle wickedly—“garner a plum appointment at
a research institute. I note that you have been angling for an adjunct professorship at Rockefeller University for some time.”

Felder was astounded. How could the man possibly have known about that?

As if answering the unvoiced question, Pendergast waved his hand casually and said, “I took the liberty of looking into
your
background.”

Coloring at having his own phrase thrown back at him, Felder tried to collect himself. “My professional goals are irrelevant.
The truth is, I’ve never seen a delusional presentation that has such authenticity. She
seems
nineteenth-century: in the way she talks, dresses, walks, holds herself, even thinks. That’s why I’ve asked you to come here
today. I want to know more about her. What trauma might have occurred to trigger this? What was she like before? What are
her major life experiences? Who is she really?”

Pendergast continued gazing at him, saying nothing.

“And it’s not only that: in the archives I found
this
.” He opened a manila folder on his desk and removed a photocopy of
Guttersnipes at Play
, the engraving from the
New-York Daily Inquirer
, passing it to Pendergast.

The FBI agent studied it carefully, then returned it. “The resemblance is quite remarkable. The product of artistic imagination,
perhaps?”

“Look at the faces,” Felder said. “They’re so real, they were certainly drawn from life.”

Pendergast smiled enigmatically, but Felder fancied he could see a new respect in those pale eyes. “This is all very interesting,
Doctor.” He paused. “Perhaps I am in a position to help you—
if
you can help me.”

Although he didn’t know precisely why, Felder found himself gripping the arms of his chair. “How so?”

“Constance is a very fragile person, emotionally and psychically. Under the right conditions, she can flourish. Under the
wrong ones…” Pendergast looked at him. “Where is she being held at present?”

“In a private room in the Bellevue psych ward. Papers are being processed for her transfer to the Mental Health Division of
the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility.”

Pendergast shook his head. “That’s a maximum-security institution. Someone like Constance will wither away, grow increasingly
worse, in a place like that.”

“You needn’t worry about her coming to harm at the hands of other inmates, because the staff—”

“It’s not that. Constance has a propensity for sudden, occasionally violent, psychotic breaks. A place like Bedford Hills
would only encourage this.”

“Then what would you suggest?”

“She requires a place with an atmosphere similar to that she has grown used to—comfortable, old-fashioned, nonstressful. And
yet secure. She needs to be surrounded with familiar things—within reason, of course. Books, in particular, are critical.”

Felder shook his head. “There’s only one place like that, Mount Mercy, and it’s fully occupied. With a long waiting list.”

Pendergast smiled. “I happen to know that a vacancy opened up not three weeks ago.”

Felder looked at him. “It did?”

Pendergast nodded. “As the committing psychiatrist, you could jump the queue, so to speak, and get her in.
If
you insisted it was the only place for her.”

“I’ll… I’ll look into it.”

“You will do more than look into it. In return, I will share with you what I know about Constance—which is a great deal indeed,
and which will exceed even your most fervent dreams in psychiatric interest. Whether the information is actually publishable
or not will be up to you—and your capacity for discretion.”

Felder found his heart accelerating. “Thank you.”

“I thank
you
. And I bid you good morning, Dr. Felder. We shall meet again—once Constance is safely ensconced in Mount Mercy.”

Felder watched as the agent stepped out of the office and silently closed the door. Strange—he, too, seemed to have stepped
out of the nineteenth century. And then Felder asked himself, for the first time, who exactly had orchestrated the meeting
he’d so carefully arranged—and whose agenda had been satisfied.