Fever Dream

study it. She wanted to confirm when Audubon's artistic transformation took place.' Pendergast fell silent and his pacing slowed and finally halted. He seemed stuck in a kind of stasis, his eyes turned within.

'Well,' said D'Agosta. 'Mystery solved.'

The silvery eyes turned on him. 'No.'

'What do you mean?'

'Why would Helen hide all this from me?'

D'Agosta shrugged. 'Maybe she was embarrassed by the way you met and the little white lie she told about it.'

'One little white lie? I don't believe that. She kept this hidden for a far more significant reason than that.' Pendergast sank back into the plush chair and stared at the painting again. 'Cover it up.'

D'Agosta draped the cloth over it. He was beginning to get worried. Pendergast did not look completely sane himself.

Pendergast's eyes closed. The silence in the library grew, along with the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. D'Agosta took a seat himself; sometimes it was best to let Pendergast be Pendergast.

The eyes slowly opened.

'We've been looking at this problem in entirely the wrong way from the very beginning.'

'And how is that?'

'We've assumed Helen was interested in Audubon, the artist.'

'Well? What else?'

'She was interested in Audubon, the patient.'

'Patient?'

A slow nod. 'That was Helen's passion. Medical research.'

'Then why search for the painting?'

'Because he painted it right after his recovery. She wanted to confirm a theory she had.'

'And what theory is that?'

'My dear Vincent, do we know what illness Audubon actually suffered from?'

'No.'

'Correct. But that illness is the key to everything! It was the illness itself she wanted to know about. What it did to Audubon. Because it seems to have transformed a thoroughly mediocre artist into a genius. She knew something had changed him--that's why she went to New Madrid, where he'd experienced the earthquake: she was searching, far and wide, to understand that agent of change. And when she hit upon his illness, she knew her search was complete. She wanted to see the painting only to confirm her theory: that Audubon's illness did something to his mind. It had neurological effects. Marvelous neurological effects!'

'Whoa, you're losing me here.'

Pendergast sprang to his feet. 'And that is why she hid it from me. Because it was potentially an extremely valuable, proprietary pharmacological discovery. It had nothing to do with our personal relationship.' With a sudden, impulsive movement he grasped D'Agosta by both arms. 'And I would still be stumbling around in the dark, my dear Vincent--if not for your stroke of genius.'

'Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say--'

Releasing his hold, Pendergast turned away and strode quickly toward the library door. 'Come on--there's no time to lose.'

'Where are we going?' D'Agosta asked, hurrying to follow, his mind still in a whirl of confusion, trying to piece together Pendergast's chain of logic.

'To confirm your suspicions--and to learn, once and for all, what it all must mean.'

41

THE SHOOTER SHIFTED POSITION IN THE DAPPLED shade, took a swig of water from the camouflaged canteen. He dabbed the sweatband around his wrist against each temple in turn. His movements were slow, methodical, completely hidden in the labyrinth of brush.

It wasn't really necessary to be so careful. There was no way the target would ever see him. However, years of hunting the other kind of prey--the four-legged variety, sometimes timid, sometimes preternaturally alert--had taught him to use exquisite caution.

It was a perfect blind, a large deadfall of oak, Spanish moss thrown across its face like spindrift, leaving only a few tiny chinks, through one of which he had poked the barrel of his Remington 40-XS tactical rifle. It was perfect because it was, in fact, natural: one of the results of Katrina still visible everywhere in the surrounding forests and swamps. You saw so many that you stopped noticing them.

That's what the shooter was counting on.

The barrel of his weapon protruded no more than an inch beyond the blind. He was in full shade, the barrel itself was sheathed in a special black nonreflective polymer, and his target would emerge into the glare of the morning sun. The gun would never be spotted even when fired: the flash hider on the muzzle would ensure that.

His vehicle, a rented Nissan four-by-four pickup with a covered bed, had been backed up to the blind; he was using the bed as a shooting platform, lying inside it with the tailgate down. The nose pointed down an old logging