Fever Dream

'Homicide?'

'That's right. Seems she threw her baby off the ship somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.'

27

Gulf of Mexico

THE DELTA 767 SEEMED ALMOST TO HOVER AT thirty-four thousand feet, the sky serene and cloudless, the sea an unbroken expanse of blue far below, sparkling in the afternoon light.

'May I get you another beer, sir?' the stewardess asked, bending over D'Agosta solicitously.

'Sure,' he replied.

The stewardess turned to D'Agosta's seatmate. 'And you, sir? Is everything all right?'

'No,' Pendergast said. He gestured dismissively toward the small dish of smoked salmon that sat on his seat- back tray. 'I find this to be room temperature. Would you mind bringing me a chilled serving, please?'

'Not at all.' The woman whisked the plate away with a professional gesture.

D'Agosta waited until she returned, then settled back in the wide, comfortable seat, stretching out his legs. The only times he'd flown first-class were traveling with Pendergast, but it was something he could get used to.

A chime sounded over the PA system, and the captain announced that the plane would be landing at Sarasota Bradenton International Airport in twenty minutes.

D'Agosta took a sip of his beer. Sunflower, Louisiana, was already eighteen hours and hundreds of miles behind them, but the strange Doane house--with that single, jewel-like room of wonders surrounded by a storm of decay and furious ruin--had never been far from his mind. Pendergast, however, had seemed disinclined to discuss it, remaining thoughtful and silent.

D'Agosta tried once again. 'I got a theory.'

The agent glanced toward him.

'I think the Doane family is a red herring.'

'Indeed?' Pendergast took a tentative bite of the salmon.

'Think about it. They went nuts many months after Helen's visit. How could the visit have anything to do with what happened later? Or a parrot?'

'Perhaps you're right,' said Pendergast, vaguely. 'What puzzles me is this sudden flowering of creative brilliance before... the end. For all of them.'

'It's a well-known fact that madness runs in families--' D'Agosta thought better of concluding this observation. 'Anyway, it's always the gifted ones that go crazy.'

' 'We poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.' ' Pendergast turned toward D'Agosta. 'So you think their creativity led to madness?'

'It sure as hell happened to the Doane daughter.'

'I see. And Helen's theft of the parrot had nothing to do with what happened to the family later, is that your hypothesis?'

'More or less. What do you think?' D'Agosta hoped to smoke out Pendergast's opinion.

'I think that coincidences do not please me, Vincent.'

D'Agosta hesitated. 'Look, another thing I've been wondering... was, or I mean did, Helen--sometimes act weird, or... odd?'

Pendergast's expression seemed to tighten. 'I'm not sure I know what you mean.'

'It's just these...' D'Agosta hesitated again. 'These sudden trips to strange destinations. The secrets. This stealing of birds, first two dead ones from a museum, then a live one from a family. Is it possible Helen was under some kind of strain, maybe--or was, you know, suffering from some nervous condition? Because back in Rockland I heard rumors that her family was not exactly normal...'

He fell silent when the ambient temperature around their seats seemed to fall about ten degrees.

Pendergast's expression did not alter, but when he spoke there was a distant, formal edge to his voice. 'Helen Esterhazy may have been unusual. But she was also one of the most rational, the most sane people I ever encountered.'

'I'm sure she was. I wasn't implying--'

'And she was also the least likely to crack under pressure.'

'Right,' D'Agosta said hastily. Bringing this up was a bad idea.

'I think our time would be better spent discussing the subject at hand,' Pendergast said, forcing the conversation onto a new track. 'There are a few things you ought to know about him.' He plucked a thin envelope from his jacket pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. 'John Woodhouse Blast. Age fifty-eight. Born in Florence, South Carolina. Current residence Forty-one Twelve Beach Road, Siesta Key. He's had several occupations: art dealer, gallery owner, import/export--and he was also an engraver and printer.' He put back the sheet of paper. 'His engravings were of a rather specialized kind.'

'What kind is that?'

'The kind that features portraits of dead presidents.'

'He was a counterfeiter?'

'The Secret Service investigated him. Nothing was ever proven. He was also investigated for smuggling elephant ivory and rhinoceros horn--both illegal since the 1989 Endangered Species Convention. Again, nothing was