Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [131]
A faint flicker passed through Pendergast’s eyes. “Five years ago, an environmental group did a cleanup of an old illegal dumping ground in the swamp beyond Malfourche. You see these dumps all over the South, where people junked old cars, refrigerators, anything that would sink. One of the things they hauled out of the muck was a car. Naturally, they went after the registered owner to fine him. But they never found him.”
“Who’d it belong to?”
“The car was registered to Carlton Brodie, June’s husband. It was the last car he owned. I would presume it was the car he drove off with when he told everyone he was going… abroad.”
Hayward frowned, opened her mouth to speak, shut it again.
“And there’s something else—something that’s been bothering me ever since I saw it this morning. Remember that burned-out pier we saw at Longitude? The one behind Complex Six?”
“What about it?”
“Why on earth would Longitude Pharmaceuticals need a pier on Black Brake swamp?”
Hayward thought a moment. “It could have predated Longitude.”
“Perhaps. But it looked to me as if it dates to the same period as the corporation. No, Captain: everything—especially that dock—points to Spanish Island as our next port of call.”
The door of the waiting room opened, and the doctor came striding in. Even before Hayward could speak, he was talking.
“He’s going to make it,” the man said, almost unable to control his own elation. “We figured it out just in time. Pavulon, a powerful muscle relaxant. That was the drug he was injected with. Some was missing from medical stores.”
Hayward felt momentarily dizzy. She grasped the side of a chair and eased herself down. “Thank God.”
The doctor turned to Pendergast. “I don’t know how you figured out it was an injection, exactly, but that deduction saved his life.”
Hayward glanced at the FBI agent. This hadn’t occurred to her.
“We’ve called the local authorities, of course,” the doctor went on. “They’ll be here any moment.”
Pendergast slipped the file into his suit. “Excellent. I’m afraid we have to leave, Doctor. It’s extremely urgent. Here’s my card; have the police contact me. And have them immediately arrange round-the-clock protection for the patient. I doubt the killer will make another attempt, but one never knows.”
“Yes, Mr. Pendergast,” said the doctor, taking the card emblazoned with the FBI seal.
“We have no time to waste,” said Pendergast, turning and striding toward the door.
“But… what are we doing now?” Hayward asked.
“We’re going to Spanish Island, of course.”
61
Penumbra Plantation
DARKNESS CLOAKED THE OLD GREEK REVIVAL mansion. Heavy clouds obscured the swollen moon, and a blanket of unseasonable heat lay over the late-winter landscape. Even the swamp insects seemed somnolent, too lazy to call out.
Maurice made his way quietly through the first floor of the plantation house, peering into the various rooms, making sure the windows were locked, the lights off, and everything in order. Sliding the deadbolt of the front door and turning the key, he took another look around, grunted in satisfaction, and then moved toward the stairway.
The ring of a telephone on the hall table shattered the silence.
Maurice looked toward it, startled. As it continued to ring he made his way toward it, one veined and knotted hand plucking the handset from its cradle.
“Yes?” he said.
“Maurice?” It was Pendergast’s voice. There was a faint but steady background noise, a thrumming like the rush of wind.
“Yes?” Maurice said again.
“I wanted to let you know that we won’t be home this evening, after all. You may secure the deadbolt on the kitchen door.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You can expect us sometime tomorrow evening. If we are delayed further, I’ll let you know.”
“I understand.” Maurice paused a moment. “Where are you going, sir?”
“Malfourche. A tiny town on Black Brake swamp.”
“Very good, sir. Have a safe trip.”
“Thank you, Maurice. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
The line went dead, and Maurice replaced the receiver. He paused a moment, staring at it, thinking. Then he picked