Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [108]
“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.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, ducking his head and removing his hat.
“Not at all, Mr. Hudson.” She noticed Pendergast didn’t introduce her. “You have the list of pharmaceutical companies I asked for?”
“Yes, sir. And I visited each one—”
“Thank you.” Pendergast took the list. “Please wait in the east parlor, where I will take your report in good time.” He nodded to Maurice. “Make sure Mr. Hudson is comfortable with a nonalcoholic beverage.” The old servant led the man back out into the hallway.
“What in the world did you do to make him so…” Hayward searched for the right word. “Meek?”
“A variant of the Stockholm syndrome. First you threaten his life, then with great magnanimity you spare him. The poor fellow made the mistake of hiding in my garage with a loaded gun, in a rather ill-considered blackmail attempt.