Fever Dream

'I see.' Doesn't he ever sleep?

'Malfourche is a dying town,' he went on. 'The loss of the timbering industry hit it hard, and the creation of the wilderness area cut deeply into the hunting and fishing businesses. They're hanging on by the skin of their teeth.'

'Then perhaps arriving by Rolls-Royce might not be the best idea--if we want to encourage people to talk.'

'On the contrary,' murmured Pendergast.

There was no sign at a crossroads and they had to stop and ask for directions. Soon after, they passed a few dilapidated wooden houses, roofs sagging, yards full of old cars and junk. A whitewashed church flashed by, followed by more shacks, and then the road opened into a ramshackle main street, drenched in sunlight, running down to a set of docks on a weedy lake. Virtually all the storefronts were shuttered, the flyspecked glass windows covered with paper or whitewashed, faded FOR RENT signs in many of them.

'Pendergast,' she said suddenly, 'there's something I just don't understand.'

'What's that?'

'This whole thing is crazy. I mean, shooting Vinnie, trying to shoot me. Killing Blackletter and Blast and the Lord only knows who else. I've been a cop for a long time, and I know--I know--there are easier ways to do this. This is just too extreme. The whole thing is a dozen years old. By trying to kill cops, they're bringing more attention to themselves--not less.'

'You're right,' Pendergast said. 'It is extreme. Vincent made a similar point about the lion. It implies a great deal. And I find it rather suggestive... don't you?'

He parked in a small lot up the street from the docks. They stepped out into the ferocious sun and looked about. A group of slovenly dressed men were hanging out down by the boat slips, and all had turned and were now staring at them hard. Hayward felt acutely aware of the Rolls-Royce and once again questioned Pendergast's insistence on driving such a car for his investigations. Still, it had made no sense to drive two cars here, and she'd left her rental at the hospital.

Pendergast buttoned his black suit and looked about, cool as ever. 'Shall we stroll down to the boat slips and chat up those gentlemen?'

Hayward shrugged. 'They don't exactly look talkative.'

'Talkative, no. Communicative, possibly.' Pendergast headed down the street, his tall frame moving easily. The men watched their approach with narrowed eyes.

'Good day, gentlemen,' said Pendergast, in his most honeyed, upper-class New Orleans accent, giving them a slight bow.

Silence. Hayward's apprehension increased. This seemed like the worst possible way to go about getting information. The hostility was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

'My associate and I are here for a little sightseeing. We are birders.'

'Birders,' said a man. He turned and said it again to the group. 'Birders.'

The crowd laughed.

Hayward winced. This was going to be a total loss. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced over. Another group of people was filing silently out of a barn-like building on creosote pilings adjacent to the docks. A hand-painted sign identified it as TINY'S BAIT 'N' BAR.

An enormously fat man was the last to exit. His bullet-shaped head was shaved and he wore a tank top stretched to the limit by a huge belly, his arms hanging down like smoked hams, and--thanks to the sun--about the same color. He muscled through the crowd and came striding down the dock, clearly the authority figure of the group, pulling to a halt in front of Pendergast.

'To whom do I have the pleasure?' Pendergast asked.

'Name's Tiny,' he said, looking Pendergast and Hayward up and down with piss-hole eyes. He didn't offer his hand.

Tiny, thought Hayward. It figures.

'My name is Pendergast, and this is my associate Hayward. Now, Tiny, as I was saying to these gentlemen here, we wish to go birding. We're looking for the rare Botolph's Red-bellied Fisher to round out our life lists. We understand it can be found deep in the swamp.'

'That so?'

'And we were hoping to speak to someone who knows the swamp and might be able to advise us.'

Tiny stepped forward, leaned over, and deposited a stream of tobacco juice at Pendergast's feet, so close that some of it splattered on Pendergast's wingtips.

'Oh, dear, I believe you've soiled my shoes,' said Pendergast.

Hayward wanted to cringe. Any idiot could see they'd already lost the crowd, that they would get nothing of value from them. And now there might be a confrontation.

'Looks that way,' drawled Tiny.

'Perhaps you, Mr. Tiny, can help us?'

'Nope,' came the response. He leaned over, puckered his thick lips, and deposited another stream of tobacco, this time directly on Pendergast's shoes.

'I believe you did that on purpose,' Pendergast said, his voice high and cracking in ineffectual protest.

'You believe right.'

'Well,' he said, turning to Hayward, 'I get the distinct feeling we're not wanted here. I think we should take