Fever Dream

birds were indeed infected with an avian influenza virus, but the very small sample I was able to obtain was simply too degraded to cultivate. Nevertheless, the researcher I employed made an important observation. The virus is neuroinvasive.'

Hayward sighed. 'You're going to have to explain that.'

'It hides in the human nervous system. It's highly neurovirulent. And that, Captain, is the final piece of the puzzle.'

The tea came and Maurice poured out a cup. 'Go on.'

Pendergast rose and paced before the fire. 'The parrot virus makes you sick, just like any flu virus. And like many viruses, it hides in the nervous system as a way of avoiding the bloodstream and thus the human immune system. But that's where the similarities end. Because this virus also has an effect on the nervous system. And that effect is most unusual: it enhances brain activity, triggers a flowering of the intellect. My researcher--an exceedingly clever fellow--tells me that this could be caused by a simple loosening of neural pathways. You see, the virus makes the nerve endings slightly more sensitive--making them fire more quickly, more easily, with less stimuli. Trigger-happy nerves, as it were. But the virus also inhibits production of acetylcholine in the brain. And it seems this combination of effects ultimately unbalances the system, eventually overwhelming the victim with sensory input.'

Hayward frowned. This seemed like a reach, even for Pendergast. 'Are you sure about this?'

'Additional research would be needed to confirm the theory, but it's the only answer that fits.' He paused. 'Think of yourself for a moment, Captain Hayward. You are sitting on a couch. You are aware of the pressure of the leather against your back. You are aware of the warmth of the teacup in your hand. You can smell the roast saddle of lamb that we will be having for dinner. You can hear a variety of sounds: crickets, songbirds in the trees, the fire in the fireplace, Maurice in the kitchen.'

'Of course,' Hayward said. 'What's your point?'

'You are aware of those sensations and probably a hundred more, if you were to stop and take note of them. But that's the point: you don't take note. A part of your brain--the thalamus, to be exact--is acting as a traffic cop, making sure you are only aware of the sensations that are important at the moment. Imagine what it would be like if there were no traffic cop? You would be continually bombarded by sensation, unable to ignore any of it. While it might in the short run enhance cognitive function and creativity, in the long run it would drive you mad. Literally. That is what happened to Audubon. And it happened to the Doane family--only much more rapidly and powerfully. We already suspected the madness shared by Audubon and the Doanes was more than coincidence--we just didn't have the link. Until now.'

'The Doanes' parrot,' Hayward said. 'It had the virus, too. Just like the parrots stolen from Oakley Plantation.'

'Correct. My wife must have discovered this extraordinary effect by accident. She realized that Audubon's illness seemed to have profoundly changed him, and as an epidemiologist she had the tools to figure out why. Her leap of genius was in realizing it wasn't just a psychic change caused by a brush with death; it was a physical change. You asked what her role in all this was: I have reason to believe she might, through the best of intentions, have taken her discovery to a pharmaceutical company, which tried to develop a drug from it. A mind-enhancement drug, or what I believe today is called a 'smart' drug.'

'So what happened to that drug? Why wasn't it developed?'

'When we learn that, I think we will be much closer to understanding why my wife was killed.'

Hayward spoke again, slowly. 'I learned today that Blackletter was a consultant for several pharmaceutical companies after leaving Doctors With Wings.'

'Excellent.' Pendergast resumed pacing. 'I'm ready for your report.'

Hayward briefly summarized her visits to Florida and St. Francisville. 'Both Blast and Blackletter were killed by a professional wielding a 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot. He entered the premises, killed the victims, then tossed the place and took a few things to make it look like a robbery.'

'Which pharmaceutical companies did Blackletter consult for?'

Hayward opened her briefcase, slid out a manila envelope, extracted a sheet, and handed it to him.

Pendergast walked over and took it. 'Did you dig up any of Blackletter's former contacts or associates?'

'Just one--a snapshot of an old flame.'

'An excellent start.'

'Speaking of Blast, there's something I don't understand.'

Pendergast put the photo aside. 'Yes?'

'Well--it's pretty obvious the person who killed Blackletter also killed him. But why? He didn't have anything to do with this avian flu--did he?'

Pendergast shook his head. 'No, he didn't. And that is a very good question. I believe it must concern the conversation Helen once had with Blast. Blast told me that, when he confronted her about the Black Frame and her reasons for wanting it, she said: 'I don't want to own it, I just want to examine it.' We now know Blast was telling the truth about this. But of course, whoever arranged for my wife's murder cannot have known what transpired in that conversation. She might have told him more--perhaps much more. About Audubon and the avian flu, for example. And so, for safety's sake, Blast had to die. He wasn't a big loose end--but he was a loose end nonetheless.'

Hayward shook her head. 'That's cold.'

'Cold indeed.'

At that moment Maurice came in, a look of distaste on his face. 'Mr. Hudson is here to see you, sir.'

'Send him in.'

Hayward watched as a short, stocky, obsequious-looking fellow came into the room, all trench coat, fedora, pinstripes, and wingtips. He looked every inch the film noir caricature of a private investigator, which is what he evidently thought he was. She was amazed that Pendergast would have any truck with such a person.