Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [166]
“And this is most especially for humiliating and exposing my esteemed colleague to your vulgar, lascivious gaze. As I said before, that was no way to treat a lady.” As he strolled down the dock, he fired into the bottom of each remaining boat, one after the other, pausing only to reload. The crowd stared, shocked into absolute silence.
Pendergast halted before the group of sweating, shaking, beery men. “Anybody else in the bar?”
Nobody spoke.
“You can’t do this,” a man said, his voice cracking. “This ain’t legal.”
“Perhaps somebody should call the FBI,” said Pendergast. He strolled toward the door into the Bait ’n’ Bar, cracked it open, glanced inside. “Ma’am?” he said. “Please step out.”
A flustered woman with bleached-blond hair and enormous red fingernails came bustling out and broke into a run toward the parking lot.
“You’ve lost a heel!” Pendergast called after her, but she kept going, hobbling like a lame horse.
Pendergast disappeared inside the bar. Hayward, pistol in hand, could hear him opening and closing doors and calling out. He emerged. “Nobody home.” He walked around to the front and faced the crowd. “Everyone, please withdraw to the parking lot and take cover behind those parked cars.”
Nobody moved.
Boom! Pendergast unloaded the shotgun over their heads and they hastily shuffled to the dirt parking lot. Pendergast backed away from the building, racked a fresh round into the shotgun, and aimed at the large propane tank snugged up against the side of the bait shop. He turned to Hayward.
“Captain, we might need the penetrative power of that .45 ACP, so let us both fire on the count of three.”
Hayward took a stance with the .45. I could get used to the Pendergast “method,” she thought, aiming at the big white tank.
“One…”
“Holy shit, no!” wailed a voice.
“Two…
“Three!”
They fired simultaneously, the .45 kicking hard. A gigantic explosion erupted, and a massive wave of heat and overpressure swept over them. The entire building disappeared, engulfed in a boiling fireball. Soaring out of the fireball, trailing streamers of smoke, came thousands of bits and pieces of debris that rained down around them—writhing nightcrawlers, bugs, burning maggots, pieces of wood, reels, streamers of fishing line, shattered fishing rods, broken liquor bottles, pigs’ trotters, pickles, lime wedges, coasters, and exploded beer cans.
The fireball rose in a miniature mushroom cloud while the debris continued to patter down. Gradually, as the smoke cleared, the burning stub of the building came into view. There was virtually nothing left.
Pendergast slung the shotgun over his shoulder and strolled down the dock toward Hayward. “Captain, shall we go? I think it’s time we paid a visit to Vincent. Police guard or not, I’ll feel better once we’ve moved him to new quarters—perhaps a place more private, not far from New York City, where we can keep an eye on him ourselves.”
“Amen to that.” And with a certain relief, Hayward thought that it was a good thing she wouldn’t be working with Pendergast much longer. She had enjoyed that just a little too much.
80
New York City
DR. JOHN FELDER SAT IN HIS CONSULTING OFFICE in the Lower Manhattan building of the New York City Department of Health. It was on the seventh floor, where the Division of Mental Hygiene was located. He glanced around the small, tidy space, mentally assuring himself that everything was in order: the medical references in the bookshelves lined up and dusted, the impersonal paintings on the wall all perfectly level, the chairs before his desk set at just the right angle, the surface of his desk free of any unnecessary items.
Dr. Felder did not normally receive many guests in his office. He did most of his work—so to speak—in the field: in locked wards and police holding tanks and hospital emergency rooms, and he carried out his small private practice in a consulting room on lower Park Avenue. But this appointment