Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Have you told Glen yet?”
    “No. I came here directly from Pendergast’s apartment.”
    “Well, you’d better call him and break the news that you’re taking a leave of absence, date of return unknown. You realize
     he might say no—and then what?”
    “It’s something I’ve just got to do.”
    Hayward pulled back the covers, swung her legs out of the bed. As his eyes drifted to them, D’Agosta felt a sudden sting of
     desire. How could he leave this beautiful woman, even for a day—let alone a week, a month… a year?
    “I’ll help you pack,” she said.
    He cleared his throat. “Laura—”
    She put a finger to his lips. “It’s better if you don’t say any more.”
    He nodded.
    She leaned toward him, kissed him lightly. “Just promise me one thing.”
    “Anything.”
    “Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself. I don’t much mind if Pendergast gets himself killed on this wild goose chase.
     But if anything happens to you, I’ll be very angry. And you know how ugly that can get.”

9
    T HE ROLLS, PROCTOR AGAIN AT THE WHEEL , hummed along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway south of the Brooklyn Bridge. D’Agosta watched a pair of tugboats pushing a
     giant barge heaped with cubed cars up the East River, leaving a frothy wake behind. It had all happened so fast, he still
     wasn’t quite able to wrap his head around it. They were heading for JFK, but first—Pendergast explained—they would have to
     make a brief, but necessary, detour.
    “Vincent,” said Pendergast, sitting across from him, “we must prepare ourselves for a deterioration. They tell me Great-Aunt
     Cornelia has been poorly of late.”
    D’Agosta shifted in his seat. “I’m not sure I get why it’s so important to see her.”
    “It’s just possible she can shed some light on the situation. Helen was a great favorite of hers. Also, I wish to consult
     her on a few points regarding some family history that may—I fear—have bearing on the murder.”
    D’Agosta grunted. He didn’t care much about Great-Aunt Cornelia—in fact he couldn’t stand the murderous old witch—and his
     few visits to the Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane had not exactly been pleasant. But it was always better,
     when working with Pendergast, to go with the flow.
    Exiting the expressway, they worked their way through various side streets and eventually crossed a narrow bridge over to
     Little Governor’s Island, the road meandering through marshland and meadows, hung with morning mists that drifted among the
     cattails. A colonnade of old oaks appeared on either side of the road, once part of the magnificent approach to a grand estate,
     the trees now reduced to a series of dead claws held against the sky.
    Proctor stopped at a guardhouse, and the uniformed man stepped out. “Why, Mr. Pendergast, that was quick.” He waved them through
     without the usual formalities of signing them in.
    “What’d he mean by that?” D’Agosta asked, looking over his shoulder at the guard.
    “I have no idea.”
    Proctor parked in the small lot and they got out. Passing through the front door, D’Agosta was mildly surprised to see the
     attendant missing from the ornate reception desk, with some evidence of hurry and confusion. As they cast about for someone
     to speak with, a rattling gurney approached down the marble transverse hall, carrying a body draped in a black sheet, being
     wheeled by two burly attendants. D’Agosta could see an ambulance pulling into the porte cochere, with no siren or flashing
     lights to indicate any hurry.
    “Good morning, Mr. Pendergast!” Dr. Ostrom, Great-Aunt Cornelia’s attending physician, appeared in the foyer and hastened
     over, his hand extended, a look of surprise and consternation blooming on his face. “This is… well, I was just about to telephone
     you. Please come with me.”
    They followed the doctor down the once-elegant hallway, somewhat reduced now