Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [20]
Proctor stopped at a guardhouse, and the uniformed man stepped out. “Why, Mr. Pendergast, that was quick.” He waved them through without the usual formalities of signing them in.
“What’d he mean by that?” D’Agosta asked, looking over his shoulder at the guard.
“I have no idea.”
Proctor parked in the small lot and they got out. Passing through the front door, D’Agosta was mildly surprised to see the attendant missing from the ornate reception desk, with some evidence of hurry and confusion. As they cast about for someone to speak with, a rattling gurney approached down the marble transverse hall, carrying a body draped in a black sheet, being wheeled by two burly attendants. D’Agosta could see an ambulance pulling into the porte cochere, with no siren or flashing lights to indicate any hurry.
“Good morning, Mr. Pendergast!” Dr. Ostrom, Great-Aunt Cornelia’s attending physician, appeared in the foyer and hastened over, his hand extended, a look of surprise and consternation blooming on his face. “This is… well, I was just about to telephone you. Please come with me.”
They followed the doctor down the once-elegant hallway, somewhat reduced now to institutional austerity. “I have some unfortunate news,” he said as they walked along. “Your great-aunt passed away not thirty minutes ago.”
Pendergast stopped. He let out a slow breath, and his shoulders slumped visibly. D’Agosta realized with a shudder that the body they had seen was probably hers.
“Natural causes?” Pendergast asked in a low monotone.
“More or less. The fact is, she’d been increasingly anxious and delusional these past few days.”
Pendergast seemed to consider this a moment. “Any delusions in particular?”
“Nothing worth repeating, the usual family themes.”
“Nevertheless, I should like to hear about them.”
Ostrom seemed reluctant to proceed. “She believed… believed that a fellow named, ah, Ambergris was coming to Mount Mercy to exact revenge on her for an atrocity she claims to have committed years ago.”
Once again, they resumed walking down the corridor. “Did she go into any detail on this atrocity?” Pendergast asked.
“It was all quite fantastical. Something about punishing some child for swearing by…” A second hesitation. “Well, by splitting his tongue with a razor.”
An ambiguous head movement from Pendergast. D’Agosta felt his own tongue curling at the thought.
“At any rate,” Ostrom continued, “she became violent—more violent, that is, than usual—and had to be completely restrained. And medicated. At the time of this alleged appointment with Ambergris, she had a series of seizures and passed away abruptly. Ah, here we are.”
He entered a small room, windowless and sparely furnished with antique, unframed paintings and various soft knickknacks—nothing, D’Agosta noted, that could be fashioned into a weapon or cause harm. Even the stretchers had been removed from the canvases, the paintings hung on the wall with kite string. As D’Agosta looked around at the bed, the table, silk flowers in a basket, a peculiar butterfly-shaped stain on the wall, it all seemed so forlorn. He suddenly felt sorry for the homicidal old lady.
“There is the question of the disposition of the personal effects,” the doctor went on. “I understand these paintings are quite valuable.”
“They are,” said Pendergast. “Send them over to the nineteenth-century painting department at Christie’s for public auction, and consider the proceeds a donation to your good work.”
“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Pendergast. Would you care to order an autopsy? When a patient dies in custody, you have the legal right—”
Pendergast interrupted him with a brusque wave of his hand.