Fever Dream

The evening before he'd spent an hour talking to Laura Hayward. That started the upswing. Then he'd enjoyed a long, dreamless sleep. He woke up to find Pendergast already gone and Maurice waiting for him with a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and grits. Next, he'd driven into town, where he'd scored big with the Sixth District of the New Orleans Police Department. At first, on learning of his connection to the Pendergast family, they'd been suspicious, but when they found he was a regular guy, their attitude changed. He was given free use of their computer facilities, where it took less than ninety minutes to track down the dealer long interested in the Black Frame: John W. Blast, current residence Sarasota, Florida. He was an unsavory character indeed. Five arrests over the past ten years: suspicion of blackmail; suspicion of forgery; possession of stolen property; possession of prohibited wildlife products; assault and battery. Either he had money or good lawyers, or both, because he'd beaten the rap every time. D'Agosta had printed out the details, stuffed them into his jacket pocket, and--hungry again despite breakfast--hit the local Krispy Kreme before heading back to Penumbra.

Pendergast, he knew, would be eager to hear about this.

As he pulled up the drive of the old plantation, he saw that Pendergast had beaten him home: the Rolls-Royce sat in the shade of the cypress trees. Parking beside it, D'Agosta crunched his way across the gravel, then climbed the steps to the covered porch. He stepped into the entry hall, closing the front door behind him.

'Pendergast?' he called.

No reply.

He walked down the hallway, peering into the various public rooms. They were all dark and empty.

'Pendergast?' he called once more.

Perhaps he's gone out for a stroll, D'Agosta thought. Nice enough day for it.

He went briskly up the stairs, turned sharply at the landing, then stopped abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a familiar silhouette sitting silently in the parlor. It was Pendergast, occupying the same chair he'd sat in the previous night. The parlor lights were off, and the FBI agent was in darkness.

'Pendergast?' D'Agosta said. 'I thought you were out, and--'

He stopped when he saw the agent's face. It carried an expression of blankness that gave him pause. He took the adjoining seat, his good mood snuffed out. 'What's going on?' he asked.

Then Pendergast took a slow breath. 'I went to Torgensson's house, Vincent. There's no painting.'

'No painting?'

'The house is now a funeral home. The interior was gutted--right down to the structural studs and beams--to make way for the new business. There's nothing. Nothing.' Pendergast's lips tightened. 'The trail simply ends.'

'Well, what about the doctor? He must have moved someplace else; we can pick up the trail there.'

Another pause, longer than before. 'Dr. Arne Torgensson died in 1852. Destitute, driven mad by syphilis. But not before he'd sold off the contents of his house, piecemeal, to innumerable unknown buyers.'

'If he sold the painting, there should be a record of it.'

Pendergast fixed him with a baleful stare. 'There are no records. He might have traded the painting to pay for coal. He might have torn it to shreds in his insanity. It might have outlived him and perished in the renovations. I've hit a brick wall.'

And so he'd given up, D'Agosta thought. Come home, to sit in the dark parlor. In all the years he'd known Pendergast, he'd never seen the agent so low. And yet the facts didn't warrant this sort of despair.

'Helen was tracking the painting, too,' D'Agosta said, rather more sharply than he intended. 'You've been searching for it--what, a couple of days? She didn't give up for years.'

Pendergast did not respond.

'All right, let's take another approach. Instead of tracking the painting, we'll track your wife. This last trip she took, where she was gone for two or three days? Maybe it had something to do with the Black Frame.'

'Even if you're right,' Pendergast said. 'That trip is a dozen years in the past.'

'We can always try,' D'Agosta said. 'And then we can pay a visit to Mr. John W. Blast, retired art dealer, of Sarasota.'

The faintest spark of interest flickered in Pendergast's eyes.

D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. 'That's right. He's the other guy who was chasing for the Black Frame. You're wrong when you say we've hit a wall.'

'She could have gone anywhere in those three days,' Pendergast said.

'What the hell? You're just giving up?' D'Agosta stared at Pendergast. Then he turned, stuck his head out into the hall. 'Maurice? Yo! Maurice!' Where was the man when you finally needed him?

For a moment, silence. Then, a faint banging in the far spaces of the mansion. A minute later, feet sounded on the back stairway. Maurice appeared around the bend of the corridor. 'I beg your pardon?' he panted as he approached, his eyes wide.

'That trip of Helen's you mentioned last evening. When she left without warning, was gone for two nights?'

'Yes?' Maurice nodded.

'Isn't there anything more about it you can tell us? Gas station receipts, hotel bills?'

Maurice fell into a silent study, then said: 'Nothing, sir.'

'She didn't say anything at all after her return? Not a word?'