Fever Dream

'An autoclave--incubators--and I would guess that was once a centrifuge.' He flashed the light toward a large half-melted mass. 'And here we have the remains of a laminar flow cabinet. This was once a first-class microbiology lab.'

He kicked aside some debris, bent down, picked something up. It glinted dully in the light, and he slipped it into his pocket.

'The report of Slade's death,' said Hayward, 'indicated that his body was found in a laboratory. That must be this room.'

'Yes.' Pendergast's light flashed over a row of heavy, melted cabinets under a hood. 'And there is where the fire started. Chemical storage.'

'You think it was deliberately set?'

'Certainly. The fire was necessary to destroy the evidence.'

'How do you know?'

Pendergast reached into his pocket and showed the thing he had picked up to Hayward. It was a strip of aluminum, about three-quarters of an inch long, that had evidently escaped the fire. A number was stamped into it.

'What is it?'

'An unused bird leg-band.' He examined it closely, then handed it to Hayward. 'And no ordinary leg-band, either.' He pointed to its inner edge, where a band of silicon could be clearly seen. 'Take a look. It's been chipped with what is no doubt a homing transmitter. Now we know how Helen tracked the parrot. I was wondering how she was able to locate the Doanes before they presented any symptoms of avian flu.'

Hayward handed it back. 'If you don't mind me asking, what makes you think the fire was deliberately set? The reports were pretty clear that they found no evidence of accelerants or foul play.'

'The person who started this fire was a top-notch chemist who knew what he was doing. It is asking far too much of coincidence to believe this building burned accidentally, right after the avian flu project was shut down.'

'So who burned it?'

'I would direct your attention to the high security, the once-formidable perimeter fence, the special, almost unpickable locks on the doors, the windows that were once barred and covered with frosted glass. The building was set apart from the others as well, almost into the swamp, protected on all sides. This fire was surely set by someone on the inside. Someone with high-level access.'

'Slade?'

'The arsonist burned up in his own fire is not an uncommon phenomenon.'

'On the other hand,' said Hayward, 'the fire might have been murder. Slade, as head of the project, knew too much.'

Pendergast's pale eyes turned on her slowly. 'My thoughts exactly, Captain.'

They stood in silence, the rain dripping through the ruins.

'Seems like we're at a dead end,' said Hayward.

Silently, Pendergast removed the ziplock bag with the charred paper and handed it to Hayward. She examined it. One of the fragments was a requisition for a shipment of petri dishes, with a handwritten note at the bottom upping the number 'as per the direction of CJS.' And it was signed with a single initial, J.

'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.

58

THE 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.'