Fever Dream

Pendergast turned to him and murmured, 'But we have, my dear Vincent.'

'Where?'

'Right here. This was Rochenoire.'

D'Agosta swallowed and looked about the asphalt parking lot with a fresh eye. A stray breeze kicked up a piece of greasy trash, whirling it around and around. Somewhere, a cat howled.

'After the house was burned,' said Pendergast, 'the underground crypts were moved, the basement filled in, and the remains bulldozed. It was a vacant lot for years, until I leased it to the company that runs this parking lot.'

'You still own this land?'

'The Pendergasts never sell real estate.'

'Oh.'

Pendergast turned. 'Rochenoire was set well back from the street, formal gardens in front, originally a monastic retreat, a big stone structure with oriel windows, battlements, and a widow's walk. Gothic Revival, rather unusual for the street. My room was in the corner, on the second floor, up there.' He pointed into space. 'It looked over the Audubon cottage to the river, and the other window looked toward the Le Pretre house. Ah, the Le Pretres... I used to watch them for hours, the people going back and forth in the lit windows, listening to the histrionics.'

'And you met Helen at the Audubon museum across the street?' D'Agosta hoped to steer the conversation back to the task at hand.

Pendergast nodded. 'Some years ago I loaned them our double elephant folio for an exhibition, and I was invited to the opening. They were always keen to get their hands on our family copy, which my great-great- grandfather subscribed to directly from Audubon.' Pendergast paused, his face spectral in the stark light of the parking lot. 'When I entered the little museum, I immediately saw a young woman across the room, staring at me.'

'Love at first sight?' D'Agosta asked.

The ghostly half smile returned. 'It was as if the world suddenly vanished, no one else existed. She was utterly striking. Dressed in white. Her eyes were so blue they verged on indigo, flecked throughout with violet. Most unusual--in fact, in my experience, unique. She came straight over and introduced herself, taking my hand even before I could collect myself...' He hesitated. 'There was never any coyness about Helen; she was the only person I could trust implicitly.'

Pendergast's voice seemed to thicken and he fell silent. Then he roused himself. 'Except perhaps for you, my dear Vincent.'

D'Agosta was startled by this sudden praise thrown his way. 'Thanks.'

'What indulgent rubbish I've been spouting,' said Pendergast briskly. 'The answers lie in the past, but we mustn't wallow there ourselves. Even so, I think it was important for us--for both of us-- to start from this place.'

'Start,' D'Agosta repeated. Then he turned. 'Say, Pendergast...'

'Yes?'

'Speaking of the past, there's something I've been wondering. Why did they--whoever they were--go to all the trouble?'

'I'm not sure I follow you.'

'Acquiring the trained lion. Setting up the death of the German photographer in order to lure you and Helen to the camp. Buying off all those people. That took a lot of time and money. It's an awfully elaborate plot. Why not just stage a kidnapping, or a car accident back here in New Orleans? I mean, that would have been a much easier way to...' His voice trailed off.

For a moment Pendergast didn't reply. Then he nodded slowly. 'Quite. It's a very curious thought. But don't forget our friend Wisley said one of the conspirators he heard speak was German. And that tourist who the lion killed first was also German. Perhaps that first murder was more than just a diversion.'

'I'd forgotten that,' D'Agosta said.

'If so, the trouble and expense become more justifiable. But let's hold that thought for the time being, Vincent. I'm convinced our own first step must be to learn more--if we can--about Helen herself.' He reached into his pocket and took out a folded paper, handing it to D'Agosta.

D'Agosta unfolded it. Written in Pendergast's elegant hand was an address:

214 Mechanic Street

Rockland, Maine

'What's this?' D'Agosta asked.

'The past, Vincent--the address where she grew up. That is your next task. My own... lies here.'

14

Penumbra Plantation

WOULD YOU CARE FOR ANOTHER CUP OF TEA, sir?'

'No thank you, Maurice.' Pendergast regarded the remains of an early dinner--succotash, field peas, and ham with redeye gravy--with as much complacency as he could muster. Outside the tall windows of the dining room, dusk was gathering among the hemlocks and cypresses, and somewhere in the shadows a mockingbird was singing a long and complex dirge.

Pendergast dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a white linen napkin, then rose from the table. 'Now that I've eaten, I wonder if I couldn't see the letter that arrived for me this afternoon.'