Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [120]
The road went into a long curve and Hayward soon caught up to the Rolls again, idling at the gate to the plant, Pendergast speaking with the guard inside the adjoining guardhouse. After a lengthy exchange in which the guard went back and forth to the telephone several times, both cars were waved through.
She drove past a sign reading LONGITUDE PHARMACEUTICALS, INC, ITTA BENA FACILITY and into the parking lot in time to see Pendergast checking his Les Baer .45. “You’re not expecting trouble?” she asked.
“One never knows,” said Pendergast, returning the gun to its holster and patting his suit.
A crabgrass lawn led to a complex of low, yellow brick buildings surrounded on three sides by the fingers of a marshy lake, full of swamp lilies and floating duckweed. Through a screen of trees, Hayward could see more buildings, some of which looked to be overgrown with ivy and in ruins. And beyond everything lay the steamy fastness of Black Brake swamp. Staring toward the wetland, dark even in the bright light of day, Hayward shivered slightly. She had heard plenty of legends about the place, growing up: legends of pirates, ghosts, and things even stranger. She slapped away a mosquito.
She followed Pendergast into the main building. The receptionist had already laid out two badges, one for MR. PENDERGAST and the other for MS. HAYWARD. Hayward plucked her badge and attached it to her lapel.
“Take the elevator to the second floor, last door on your right,” said the gray-haired receptionist with a big smile.
As they got into the elevator, Hayward said: “You didn’t tell them we were cops. Again.”
“It is sometimes useful to see the reaction before that information is known.”
Hayward shrugged. “Anyway, doesn’t this seem just a little too easy to you?”
“Indeed it does.”
“Who’ll do the talking?”
“You did so well last time, would you care to do the honors again?”
“Delighted. Only this time I might not be so nice.” She could feel the reassuring weight of her own service piece, snugged tight under her arm.
The elevator creaked up a single floor, and they emerged to find themselves in a long linoleum hallway. They strolled down to the far end and came to a door, open, beyond which a secretary worked in a spacious office. A faded but still-elegant oak door stood closed at the far end.
Hayward entered first. The secretary, who was quite young and pretty, with a ponytail and red lipstick, looked up. “Please take a seat.”
They sat on a taupe sofa, beside a glass table piled with dog-eared trade magazines. The woman spoke from her desk in a brisk manner. “I’m Joan Farmer, Mr. Dalquist’s personal secretary. He’s going to be tied up all day and asked me to find out how we can help you.”
Hayward leaned toward her. “I’m afraid you can’t help us, Ms. Farmer. Only Mr. Dalquist can.”
“As I said, he’s busy. Perhaps if you explained to me what you needed?” Her tone had dropped a few degrees.
“Is he in there?” Hayward nodded toward the shut door.
“Ms. Hayward, I hope I’ve made myself clear that he is not to be disturbed. Now: one more time, how can we assist you?”
“We’ve come about the avian flu project.”
“I’m not familiar with that project.”
Hayward finally reached into her pocket, removed the shield billfold, laid it on the table, and opened it. The secretary started momentarily, leaned forward, looked at it, and then examined Pendergast’s shield, which he had removed as well, following Hayward’s lead.
“Police—and FBI? Why didn’t you say so up front?” Her startled look was quickly replaced by undisguised annoyance. “Please wait here.” She stood up and knocked softly on the closed door before opening it and disappearing, shutting it firmly behind her.
Hayward glanced over at Pendergast. They both rose simultaneously, walked over to the doorway, and pushed through.
They found themselves in a pleasant, although somewhat spartan, office. A man who looked more like a professor than