Fever Dream

'It's a geological term. He fell into a volcano.'

It took him a moment to absorb this statement. 'Was he a geologist?'

No answer. It was maddening, going around and around like this and getting nowhere.

'You say 'precipitated.' Are you implying he was pushed?'

Again, no answer. This was clearly a wild fantasy, not worth encouraging or pursuing.

Felder switched topics. 'Constance, when you threw your baby off the boat, did you know you were committing a crime?'

'Naturally.'

'Did you consider the consequences?'

'Yes.'

'So you knew it was wrong to kill your baby.'

'On the contrary. It was not only the right thing to do, it was the only thing to do.'

'Why was it the only thing to do?'

The question was followed by silence. With a sigh, feeling once again like he'd been casting a net into the darkness, Dr. John Felder picked up his notebook and rose. 'Thank you, Constance. Our time is up.'

'You're most welcome, Dr. Felder.'

He pressed the button. Immediately the door opened and the cop came in.

'I'm done here,' he said. Then he turned to Constance Greene and heard himself say, almost against his will: 'We'll have another session in a few days.'

'It shall be my pleasure.'

As Felder walked down the long corridor of the secure ward, he wondered if his initial conclusion was correct. She was mentally ill, of course, but was she truly insane--legally insane? If you removed from her all that was sane, all that was predictable, all that was normal in a person--what did it leave? Nothing.

Just like her identity. Nothing.

43

Baton Rouge

LAURA HAYWARD STRODE ALONG THE SECOND-FLOOR corridor of Baton Rouge General, consciously keeping a measured pace. She had everything under control, her breathing, her facial expression, her body language. Everything. Before leaving New York, she had dressed carefully in jeans and a shirt, her hair loose, leaving her uniform behind. She was here as a private citizen: no more, and no less.

Doctors, nurses, and staff passed in a blur as she walked steadily on, toward the pair of double doors leading into surgery. She pushed through them, taking care to keep her pace slow and deliberate. The admissions kiosk was to her right but she passed by, ignoring the polite 'May I help you?' from the nurse. She headed straight into the waiting room--and there saw a lone figure sitting at the far end, rising from his seat now and taking a step toward her, face grim, arm extended.

She walked up to him and in one smooth motion raised her right arm, drew it back, and cold-cocked him across the jaw. 'Bastard!'

He staggered back but made no effort to defend himself. She hit him again.

'Selfish, arrogant bastard! It wasn't enough that you almost ruined his career. Now you've killed him, you son of a bitch!'

She drew back and swung at him a third time, but this time he caught her arm in a vise-like grip and drew her toward him, turning and gently--but firmly--pinning her. She struggled briefly. And then, as quickly as it had come, she felt all the anger, all the hatred, collapse inside her. She sagged in his grip, utterly drained. He helped her to a chair. Somewhere, she was dimly aware of a commotion, the sound of running footsteps, shouts. She looked up and found them surrounded by three security guards shouting various contradictory questions and commands, the receiving nurse standing behind them, hand over her mouth.

Pendergast stood up, removed his shield, and held it up at them. 'I'll take care of this. No reason to be alarmed.'

'But there's been an assault,' said one of the security officers. 'Sir, you're bleeding.'

Pendergast took an aggressive step forward. 'I will handle it, Officer. I thank you and these others for the swift response, and I bid you good evening.'

After a few moments of confusion, the security officers departed, leaving one behind, who took a position at the waiting room door, hands clasped in front, staring hard and suspiciously at Hayward.

Pendergast sat down beside Hayward. 'He's been in exploratory surgery for several hours. I understand it's very serious. I've asked to be briefed on his situation as soon as they've got anything to--ah, here's a surgeon now.'

A doctor entered the waiting room, his face grave. He looked from Hayward to Pendergast, whose face was bleeding, but made no comment. 'Special Agent Pendergast?'

'Yes. And this is Captain Hayward, NYPD, a close friend of the patient. You may speak freely with both of us.'

'I see.' The surgeon nodded, consulted a clipboard in his hand. 'The bullet entered at an angle from behind and grazed the heart before lodging against the back of a rib.'

'The heart?' Hayward asked, struggling to comprehend, even as she managed to collect herself, organize her thoughts.