Fever Dream

Maurice shook his head. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

Pendergast sat, utterly motionless, in his chair. A silent pall settled over the parlor.

'Come to think of it, there is one thing,' Maurice said. 'Although I don't think you'll find it of use.'

D'Agosta pounced. 'What was it?'

'Well...' The old servant hesitated. D'Agosta wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him.

'It's just that... I recollect now that she called me, sir. That first morning, from the road.'

Pendergast slowly rose. 'Go on, Maurice,' he said quietly.

'It was getting on toward nine. I was having coffee in the morning room. The phone rang, and it was Mrs. Pendergast on the line. She'd left her AAA card in her office. She'd had a flat tire and needed the member number.' Maurice glanced at Pendergast. 'You recall she never could do anything with cars, sir.'

'That's it?'

Maurice nodded. 'I got the card and read her the number. She thanked me.'

'Nothing else?' D'Agosta pressed. 'Any background noise? Conversation, maybe?'

'It was so long ago, sir.' Maurice thought hard. 'I believe there were traffic noises. Perhaps a honk. She must have been calling from an outdoor phone booth.'

For a moment, nobody spoke. D'Agosta felt hugely deflated.

'What about her voice?' Pendergast asked. 'Did she sound tense or nervous?'

'No, sir. In fact, now I do recollect--she said it was lucky, her getting the flat where she did.'

'Lucky?' Pendergast repeated. 'Why?'

'Because she could have an egg cream while she waited.'

There was a moment of stasis. And then Pendergast exploded into action. Ducking past D'Agosta and Maurice, he ran to the landing without a word and went tearing down the stairs.

D'Agosta followed. The central hallway was empty, but he could hear sounds from the library. Stepping into the room, he saw the agent feverishly searching the shelves, throwing books to the floor with abandon. He seized a volume, strode to a nearby table, cleared the surface with a violent sweep of his arm, and flipped through the pages. D'Agosta noticed the book was a Louisiana road atlas. A ruler and pencil appeared in Pendergast's hand and he hunched over the atlas, taking measurements and marking them with a pencil.

'There it is,' he whispered under his breath, stabbing a finger at the page. And without another word he raced out of the library.

D'Agosta followed the agent through the dining room, the kitchen, the larder, the butler's pantry, and the back kitchen, to the rear door of the plantation house. Pendergast took the back steps two at a time and charged through an expansive garden to a white-painted stable converted to a garage with half a dozen bays. He threw open the doors and disappeared into darkness.

D'Agosta followed. The vast, dim space smelled faintly of hay and motor oil. As his eyes adjusted, he made out three tarp-covered objects that could only be automobiles. Pendergast strode over to one and yanked off the tarp. Beneath lay a two-seat red convertible, low-slung and villainous. It gleamed in the indirect light of the converted barn.

'Wow.' D'Agosta gave a whistle. 'A vintage Porsche. What a beauty.'

'A 1954 Porsche 550 Spyder. It was Helen's.' Pendergast leapt in nimbly, felt under the mat for the key. As D'Agosta opened the door and got into the passenger seat, Pendergast found the key, fitted it to the ignition, turned. The engine came to life with an ear-shattering roar.

'Bless you, Maurice,' Pendergast said over the growl. 'You've kept it in top shape.'

He let the car warm up for a few seconds, then eased it out of the barn. Once they were clear of the doors, he stomped on the accelerator. The vehicle shot forward, scattering a storm of gravel that peppered the outbuilding like so much buckshot. D'Agosta felt himself pressed into the seat like an astronaut on liftoff. As the car swept out of the driveway, D'Agosta could see Maurice's black-dressed form on the steps, watching them go.

'Where are we going?' he asked.

Pendergast looked at him. The despair was gone, replaced by a hard glitter in his eye, faint but noticeable: the gleam of the hunt. 'Thanks to you, Vincent, we've located the haystack,' he replied. 'Now let's see if we can find the needle.'

23

THE SPORTS CAR BOOMED ALONG THE SLEEPY byways of rural Louisiana. Mangrove swamps, bayous, stately plantations, and marshes passed in a blur. Now and then they slowed briefly to traverse a village, the loud, beastly engine eliciting curious stares. Pendergast had not bothered to put up the convertible's top, and D'Agosta felt increasingly windblown, his bald spot chapping in the blast of air. The car rode low to the ground, making him feel exposed and vulnerable. He wondered why Pendergast had taken this car instead of the far more comfortable Rolls.

'Mind telling me where we're going?' he yelled over the shriek of the wind.

'Picayune, Mississippi.'

'Why there?'

'Because that's where Helen telephoned Maurice.'

'You know that?'

'Within ninety-five percent certainty.'

'How?'