Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [125]
Esterhazy strolled across the lot to the edge of the little park and sat down on a bench, to all appearances simply a resident or internist out for a breath of fresh air. Idly, he read the names carved into the bench as some fund-raising gimmick.
So far, everything was going to plan. True, it had been very difficult finding D’Agosta: somehow Pendergast had created a new identity for him, along with fake medical records, birth certificate, the works. If it hadn’t been for Judson’s access to private pharmaceutical records, he might never have found the lieutenant. Ultimately it had been the pig-heart valve that furnished the necessary clue. He knew D’Agosta had been moved to a cardiac care facility because of his injured heart. D’Agosta’s prelims indicated he had a severely damaged aortic valve. The bastard should have died, but when he held on despite all odds, Judson realized he’d require a pig-heart valve.
There weren’t many orders for pig valves floating through the system. Trace the pig valve, find the man. And that’s what he’d done.
It was then he realized there was a way to kill two birds with one stone. After all, D’Agosta wasn’t the primary target—but, comatose and dying, he could still make very effective bait.
He glanced at his watch. He knew that Pendergast and Hayward were still operating out of Penumbra; they couldn’t be more than a few hours away. And of course they’d have been alerted to D’Agosta’s condition by now and would be driving like maniacs to the hospital. The timing was perfect. D’Agosta was now dying from the dose of Pavulon he’d administered, the dosage being well into the fatal range but carefully calibrated so as not to kill immediately. That was the beauty of Pavulon—the dosage could be adjusted to draw out the drama of death. It mimicked many of the symptoms of anaphylactic shock and had a half-life in the body of less than three hours. Pendergast and Hayward would arrive just in time for the deathbed rattle—but then, of course, they wouldn’t get as far as the deathbed.
Esterhazy rose and strolled along the brick path leading through the little park. The glow from the parking lot did not penetrate far, leaving most of the area in darkness. This would have made a good place to shoot from—if he’d been using the sniper rifle. But of course that would not work. When the two arrived, they would park as close to the main entrance as possible, jump out, and run into the building—a continually moving target. After his failure with Pendergast outside Penumbra, Esterhazy did not care to repeat the challenge. He would take no risks this time.
Hence the sawed-off shotgun.
He walked back toward the hospital entrance. It offered a far more straightforward opportunity. He would position himself on the right-hand side of the walkway, between the area lights. No matter where Pendergast and Hayward parked, they’d have to pass right by him. He would meet them there in his doctor’s uniform, clipboard in hand, head bowed over it. They would be worried, rushing, and he’d be a doctor—there would be no suspicion. What could be more natural? He’d let them approach, get out of the line of sight of anyone inside the double glass doors. Then he’d swing up the sawed-off from under his lab coat and fire from the hip at point-blank range. The double-ought buck would literally blow their guts and spinal cords out through their backs. Then all he had to do was walk the twenty feet to his own car, get in, and drive away.
With his eyes closed he ran through the sequence, counting off the time. Fifteen seconds, more or less, beginning to end. By the time the security guard at the reception desk called for backup and screwed up the courage to get his fat ass outside, Judson would be gone.
This was a good plan. Simple. Foolproof. His targets would be off guard, exposed. Even the legendarily cool Pendergast would