Fever Dream

'If you know so much about me, you must have known of my condition,' she said.

Pendergast nodded. 'Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Now I understand. That clarifies the last question in my mind--why you moved into the swamp before Slade went mad.'

'I don't understand,' said Hayward.

'Lou Gehrig's disease.' Pendergast turned toward Mrs. Brodie. 'You don't appear to be suffering any symptoms at present.'

'I have no symptoms because I no longer have the disease. After his recovery, Charles had a period of... genius. Amazing genius. That's what it does to you, the avian flu. He had ideas... wonderful ideas. Ideas to help me... and others, as well. He created a treatment for ALS, utilizing complex proteins grown in vats of living cells. The first of the so-called biologics. Charles developed them first, by himself, ten years ahead of his time. He had to retreat from the world to do his work. He did it--all of it--right here.'

'I see now why this room appears to be far more than a clinic,' Pendergast said. 'It's an experimental laboratory.'

'It is. Or was. Before... before he changed.'

Hayward turned to her. 'This is extraordinary. Why haven't you shared this with the world?'

'Impossible,' Mrs. Brodie said, almost in a whisper. 'It was all in his head. We begged him but he never wrote it down. He grew worse, and then it was too late. That's why I wanted to restore him to his old self. He loved me. He cured me. And now the secret of that cure has died with him.'

Heavy clouds veiled the moon as they pulled away from Spanish Island. There was little light--either for a sniper, or for a pilot--and Pendergast kept the boat to a crawl, the engine barely audible as they nosed through the thick vegetation. Hayward sat in the bow, a pair of crutches appropriated from the lodge at her side. She was thinking quietly.

For perhaps half an hour, not a word was exchanged. Finally, Hayward roused herself and glanced back at Pendergast, piloting from the rear console.

'Why did Slade do it?' she asked.

Pendergast's eyes shone faintly as he glanced at her.

'Disappear, I mean,' she went on. 'Hide himself away in this swamp.'

'He must have known he was infected,' Pendergast replied after a moment. 'He'd seen what had happened to the others; he realized he was going to go mad... or worse. He wanted to make sure he could exercise some kind of control over his care. Spanish Island was the perfect choice. If it hadn't been discovered yet, it never would be. And because it had been used as a lab, they already had much of the equipment he'd need. No doubt he harbored hopes for a cure. Perhaps it was while trying to discover one that he managed to cure June Brodie.'

'Yes, but why such an elaborate setup? Stage his own death, stage Mrs. Brodie's death. I mean, he wasn't on the run from the law or anything like that.'

'No, not from the law. It does seem like an extreme reaction. But then a man isn't likely to be thinking clearly under those circumstances.'

'Anyway, he's dead now,' she went on. 'So can you find some peace? Some resolution?'

For a moment, the agent did not respond. When at last he spoke, his voice was flat, uninflected. 'No.'

'Why not? You've solved the mystery, avenged your wife's murder.'

'Remember what Slade said: there's a surprise in my future. He could only have meant the second shooter--the one who's still out there, somewhere. As long as he is loose, he remains a danger to you, to Vincent, and to me. And...' He paused a moment. 'There's something else.'

'Go on.'

'As long as there is even one more person out there who bears responsibility for Helen's death, I cannot rest.'

She looked at him, but his gaze had suddenly shifted. Pendergast appeared to be strangely transfixed by the full moon--which had emerged from the clouds and was finally setting into the swamp. His face was briefly illuminated by slivers of light as the orb sank through the dense vegetation, and then, as the moon finally disappeared below the horizon, the glow was snuffed out, the swamp plunged again into darkness.

79

Malfourche, Mississippi

THE NAVY UTILITY BOAT, WITH PENDERGAST AT the wheel, slid into an unoccupied boat slip across the inlet from the docks beyond Tiny's Bait 'n' Bar. The sun, rising toward noon, was pouring unseasonable heat and humidity into every corner of the muddy waterfront.

Hopping out, Pendergast tied up and helped Hayward onto the dock, then handed her the pair of crutches.

Though it was only late morning, the twang of country-and-western music came from the ramshackle Bait 'n' Bar on the far side of the docks. Pendergast removed June Brodie's 12-gauge pump-action shotgun and raised it over his head.

'What are you doing?' Hayward asked, balancing on the crutches.

'Getting everyone's attention. As I alluded to before, we have unfinished business here.' An enormous boom sounded as Pendergast fired the shotgun into the air. A moment later people came spilling out of the Bait 'n' Bar like hornets from a hive, many with beers in their hands. Tiny and Larry were nowhere to be seen, but the rest of the crew, Hayward noticed, were there in force. Hayward remembered their leering, sweating faces with a trace of nausea. The large group stared silently at the two figures. They had washed up before leaving Spanish Island, and June Brodie had given Hayward a clean blouse, but she knew they must both be muddy sights.

'Come on down, boys, and watch the action!' Pendergast called out, walking across the landing toward Tiny's