Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [124]
Pendergast’s pale eyes turned on her slowly. “My thoughts exactly, Captain.”
They stood in silence, the rain dripping through the ruins.
“Seems like we’re at a dead end,” said Hayward.
Silently, Pendergast removed the ziplock bag with the charred paper and handed it to Hayward. She examined it. One of the fragments was a requisition for a shipment of petri dishes, with a handwritten note at the bottom upping the number “as per the direction of CJS.” And it was signed with a single initial, J.
“CJS? That must be Charles J. Slade.”
“Correct. And this is of definite interest.”
She handed it back. “I don’t see the significance.”
“The handwriting evidently belongs to June Brodie, Slade’s secretary. The one who committed suicide on the Archer Bridge a week after Slade died. Except that this note scribbled on the requisition would suggest she did not commit suicide after all.”
“How in the world can you tell?”
“I happen to have a photocopy of the suicide note from her file at the Vital Records office, left in her car just before she threw herself off the Archer span.” Pendergast removed a piece of paper from his suit jacket, and Hayward unfolded it. “Compare the handwriting with that of the fragment I just discovered: a purely routine notation jotted down in her office. Very curious.”
Hayward stared at one and then the other, looking back and forth. “But the handwriting’s exactly the same.”
“That, my dear Captain, is what’s so very curious.” And he placed the papers back within his suit jacket.
58
THE SUN HAD ALREADY SET IN A SCRIM OF muddy clouds by the time Laura Hayward reached the small highway leading out of Itta Bena, heading east toward the interstate. According to the GPS, it was a four-and-a-half-hour drive back to Penumbra; she’d be there before midnight. Pendergast had told her he wouldn’t be home until even later; he was off to see what else he could dig up on June Brodie.
It was a long, lonely, empty highway. She felt drowsy and opened the window, letting in a blast of humid air. The car filled with the smell of the night and damp earth. At the next town, she’d grab a coffee and sandwich. Or maybe she could find a rib joint. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Her cell phone rang, and she fumbled it out of her pocket one-handed. “Hello?”
“Captain Hayward? This is Dr. Foerman at the Caltrop Hospital.”
Hayward was instantly chilled by the serious tone of his voice.
“I’m sorry to disturb you in the evening but I’m afraid I had to call. Mr. D’Agosta has taken a sudden turn for the worse.”
She swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“We’re doing tests, but it appears he might be suffering from a rare kind of anaphylactic shock related to the pig valve in his heart.” He paused. “To be frank, it looks very grave. We… we felt you should be notified.”
Hayward couldn’t speak for a moment. She slowed, pulled to the side of the highway, the car slewing into the soft shoulder.
“Captain Hayward?”
“I’m here.” She punched Caltrop, LA into her GPS with shaking fingers. “Just a moment.” The GPS ran a calculation displaying the time from her location to Caltrop. “I’ll be there in two hours. Maybe less.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
She closed the phone and dropped it on the passenger seat. She took in a long, shuddering breath. And then—quite abruptly—she gunned the Buick and swung the wheel violently into a U-turn, propelling gravel behind the car, the rear end swinging back onto the highway with a screech of rubber.
Judson Esterhazy strolled through the double glass doors into the warm night air, hands shoved into the pockets of his doctor’s whites, and breathed deeply. From his vantage point in the covered entryway of the hospital’s main entrance, he surveyed the parking lot. Brightly lit by sodium lamps, it wrapped around the main entrance and ran down one side of the small hospital; it was three-quarters empty. A quiet, uneventful March evening at Caltrop Hospital.
He turned his attention to the layout of the grounds. Beyond the parking lot, a smooth