Fever Dream

'Did Dr. Blackletter ever indicate what he was working on at Longitude or whom he worked with?'

'He never talked about the confidential research. But from time to time he did mention a few of the people he worked with. He liked to tell funny stories about people. Let's see... My memory isn't what it used to be. There was June, of course.'

'Why 'of course'?' Pendergast asked.

'Because June was so important to Slade.' She paused, opened her mouth to speak again, then colored slightly.

'Yes?' Pendergast pressed.

Roblet shook her head.

After a brief silence, Hayward continued. 'Who else did Dr. Blackletter work with at Longitude?'

'Let me think. The senior VP of science, Dr. Gordon Groebel, whom Morris reported to directly.'

Hayward quickly jotted down the name. 'Anything about this Dr. Groebel in particular?'

'Let me think... Morris called him misguided a few times. Misguided and greedy, if I remember.' She paused. 'There was someone else. A Mr. Phillips. Denison Phillips, I believe. He was the firm's general counsel.'

A silence fell in the little sitting room. Mary Ann Roblet dried her eyes, took out a compact case and touched up her face, plumped her hair, and added a touch of lipstick.

'Life goes on, as they say,' she said. 'Will that be all?'

'Yes,' said Pendergast, rising. 'Thank you, Mrs. Roblet.'

She didn't answer. They followed her out the door and into the hall. Her husband was in the kitchen, drinking coffee. He jumped up and came to the front hall as they prepared to leave.

'Are you all right, dear?' he asked, looking at her with concern.

'Quite all right. You remember that nice Dr. Blackletter who used to work at the mission years ago?'

'Blackletter, the flying doctor? Of course I remember him. Fine fellow.'

'He was killed in St. Francisville in a burglary a few days ago. These FBI agents are investigating.'

'Good heavens,' said Roblet, looking more relieved than anything else. 'That's terrible. I didn't even know he lived in Louisiana. Hadn't thought of him in years.'

'Neither had I.'

As they climbed into the Rolls, Hayward turned to Pendergast. 'That was exceptionally well done,' she said.

Pendergast turned, inclined his head. 'Coming from you, I accept that as a very great compliment, Captain Hayward.'

52

FRANK HUDSON PAUSED IN THE SHADE OF A tree on the walkway in front of the Vital Records Building. The air-conditioning inside had been cranked to Siberian temperatures, and coming out into the unseasonable heat and humidity made him feel like an ice cube dropped into warm soup.

Setting down his briefcase, he pulled a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his pin-striped suit and mopped his bald crown. Nothing like a Baton Rouge winter, he thought irritably. Stuffing the hankie back into his pocket, patting it in place to leave a rakish corner exposed, he squinted in the bright sunlight toward the parking lot and located his vintage Ford Falcon. Near it, a stout woman in plaid was getting out of a beaten-to-hell Nova, all in a huff, and he watched her slam the door once, twice, trying to get it to latch.

'Bastard,' he heard the woman mutter to the car, trying to slam the door again. 'Son of a bitch.'

He mopped again, replaced the fedora on his head. He'd rest here a moment longer in the shade before getting into his car. The assignment Pendergast had given him had been a piece of cake. June Brodie, thirty-five. Secretary, married, no kids, a good looker. It was all there in the files. Husband a nurse-practitioner. She'd been trained as a nurse herself, but ended up working for Longitude. Fast-forward fourteen years. Longitude goes bankrupt, she loses her job, and a week after that she climbs into her Tahoe. Drives to Archer Bridge a few miles out of town. Disappears. The handwritten suicide note left in the car says, Can't take it anymore. All my fault. Forgive me. They drag the river for a week, nothing. It's a favorite spot for jumpers, the river is swift and deep, lots of bodies are never found. End of story.

It had taken Hudson only a few hours to pull the information together, go through the files. He was worried he hadn't done enough to justify his five-hundred-dollar-a-day salary. Maybe he shouldn't mention it only took him two hours.

The file was complete, right down to a photocopy of the suicide note; the FBI agent ought to be pleased with it. As far as the pay went, he'd play it by ear. This was too lucrative a connection to take chances by gaming the man or trying to squeeze out a few pennies more.

Hudson picked up the briefcase and stepped out of the shade into the baking parking lot.

With a final curse, Nancy Milligan slammed the car door and it stayed shut. She was sweating, exasperated, and mad: mad at the unusual heat, mad at the old clunker of a car, and particularly mad at her husband. Why did the blame fool make her run his errands instead of getting up off his fat ass and doing them himself? Why the city of Baton Rouge needed a copy of his birth certificate at his age... it made no sense.

She straightened up and was embarrassed to see a man standing across the parking lot, fedora pushed back on his head, mopping his brow, looking in her direction.

In that very moment his hat flew into the air and the entire side of his head went blurry, coalescing into a jet of dark fluid. At the same time a sharp crack! rolled through the spreading oaks. The man slowly toppled to the ground, straight as a tree, landing so heavily his body rolled like a log before coming to rest, arms wrapped around in a crazy self-hug. The hat hit the ground at the same time, rolling a few yards and then, with a wobble, coming to rest on its crown.