Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

to institutional austerity. “I have some unfortunate
     news,” he said as they walked along. “Your great-aunt passed away not thirty minutes ago.”
    Pendergast stopped. He let out a slow breath, and his shoulders slumped visibly. D’Agosta realized with a shudder that the
     body they had seen was probably hers.
    “Natural causes?” Pendergast asked in a low monotone.
    “More or less. The fact is, she’d been increasingly anxious and delusional these past few days.”
    Pendergast seemed to consider this a moment. “Any delusions in particular?”
    “Nothing worth repeating, the usual family themes.”
    “Nevertheless, I should like to hear about them.”
    Ostrom seemed reluctant to proceed. “She believed… believed that a fellow named, ah, Ambergris was coming to Mount Mercy to
     exact revenge on her for an atrocity she claims to have committed years ago.”
    Once again, they resumed walking down the corridor. “Did she go into any detail on this atrocity?” Pendergast asked.
    “It was all quite fantastical. Something about punishing some child for swearing by…” A second hesitation. “Well, by splitting
     his tongue with a razor.”
    An ambiguous head movement from Pendergast. D’Agosta felt his own tongue curling at the thought.
    “At any rate,” Ostrom continued, “she became violent—more violent, that is, than usual—and had to be completely restrained.
     And medicated. At the time of this alleged appointment with Ambergris, she had a series of seizures and passed away abruptly.
     Ah, here we are.”
    He entered a small room, windowless and sparely furnished with antique, unframed paintings and various soft knickknacks—nothing,
     D’Agosta noted, that could be fashioned into a weapon or cause harm. Even the stretchers had been removed from the canvases,
     the paintings hung on the wall with kite string. As D’Agosta looked around at the bed, the table, silk flowers in a basket,
     a peculiar butterfly-shaped stain on the wall, it all seemed so forlorn. He suddenly felt sorry for the homicidal old lady.
    “There is the question of the disposition of the personal effects,” the doctor went on. “I understand these paintings are
     quite valuable.”
    “They are,” said Pendergast. “Send them over to the nineteenth-century painting department at Christie’s for public auction,
     and consider the proceeds a donation to your good work.”
    “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Pendergast. Would you care to order an autopsy? When a patient dies in custody, you have
     the legal right—”
    Pendergast interrupted him with a brusque wave of his hand. “That won’t be necessary.”
    “And the funeral arrangements—?”
    “There will be no funeral. The family attorney, Mr. Ogilby, will be in touch with you about disposition of the remains.”
    “Very well.”
    Pendergast looked around the room for a moment, as if committing its details to memory. Then he turned to D’Agosta. His expression
     was neutral, but his eyes spoke of sorrow, even desolation.
    “Vincent,” he said. “We have a plane to catch.”

10
    Zambia
    T HE SMILING, GAP-TOOTHED MAN AT THE DIRT airstrip had called the vehicle a Land Rover. That description, D’Agosta thought as he hung on for dear life, was more than
     charitable. Whatever it might have been, now it barely deserved to be called an automobile. It had no windows, no roof, no
     radio, and no seat belts. The hood was fixed to the grille by a tangle of baling wire. He could see the dirt road below through
     giant rust holes in the chassis.
    At the wheel, Pendergast—attired in khaki shirt and pants, and wearing a Tilley safari hat—swerved around a massive pothole
     in the road, only to hit a smaller one. D’Agosta rose several inches out of his seat at the impact. He gritted his teeth and
     took a fresh hold on the roll bar.
This is frigging awful,
he thought. He was hot as hell, and there was dust in his ears, eyes, nose, hair, and crevices he hadn’t