Fever Dream

'When my parents and sister died, I was orphaned and homeless. Mr. Pendergast's house at Eight Ninety-one Riverside Drive was...' A pause. 'Was then owned by a man named Leng. Eventually it... became vacant. I lived there.'

'Why there, in particular?'

'It was large, comfortable, and had many places to hide. And it had a good library. When Mr. Pendergast inherited the house, he discovered me there and became my legal guardian.'

Pendergast. His name had been in the papers, briefly, in regard to Constance's crime. The man had refused all comment. 'Why did he become your guardian?'

'Guilt.'

A silence. Felder cleared his throat. 'Guilt? Why do you say that?'

She did not answer.

'Was Mr. Pendergast perhaps the father of your child?'

Now an answer came, and it was preternaturally calm. 'No.'

'And what was your role in the Pendergast household?'

'I was his amanuensis. His researcher. He found my language abilities useful.'

'Languages? How many do you speak?'

'None but English. I can read and write fluently in Latin, ancient Greek, French, Italian, Spanish, and German.'

'Interesting. You must have been a clever student. Where did you go to school?'

'I learned on my own.'

'You mean, you were self-educated?'

'I mean I learned on my own.'

Could it be possible? Felder wondered. In this day and age, could a person be born and grow up in the city and yet remain completely and officially invisible? This informal approach was going nowhere. Time to get a little more direct, press her a little. 'How did your sister die?'

'She was murdered by a serial killer.'

Felder paused. 'Is the case on file? Was the serial killer caught?'

'No and no.'

'And your parents? What happened to them?'

'They both died of consumption.'

Felder was suddenly encouraged. This would be easy to check, as tuberculosis deaths in New York City were meticulously documented. 'In which hospital did they die?'

'None. I don't know where my father died. I know my mother died on the street and her body was buried in the potter's field on Hart Island.'

She remained seated, hands folded in her lap. Felder felt a sense of increasing frustration. 'Getting back to your birth: you don't even remember what year you were born?'

'No.'

Felder sighed. 'I'd like to ask you some questions about your baby.'

She remained still.

'You say you threw your baby off the ship because it was evil. How did you know it was evil?'

'His father was evil.'

'Are you ready to tell me who he was?'

No answer.

'Do you believe that evil is inheritable, then?'

'There are suites, aggregates, of genes in the human genome that clearly contribute to criminal behavior, and those aggregates are inheritable. Surely you have read about recent research on the Dark Triad of human behavior traits?'

Felder was familiar with the research and very surprised at the lucidity and erudition of the response.

'And so you felt it necessary to remove his genes from the gene pool by throwing your baby into the Atlantic Ocean?'

'That's correct.'

'And the father? Is he still alive?'

'He's dead.'

'How?'

'He was precipitated into a pyroclastic flow.'

'He was... excuse me?'