Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [30]
Pendergast stood up. “Thank you, Judson. It’s most kind of you to see us like this. And I’m sorry you had to learn the truth this way. I’m afraid there—well, there simply wasn’t time for me to break it in a gentler fashion.”
“I understand.”
The doctor saw them through the hallway and into the front passage. “Wait,” he began, then hesitated, front door half open. For a moment the mask of stoic anger dropped, and D’Agosta saw the handsome face disfigured by a mixture of emotions—what? Raw fury? Anguish? Devastation? “You heard what I said earlier. I want to—I have to…”
“Judson,” Pendergast said quickly, taking his hand. “You need to let me handle this. I understand the grief and rage you feel, but you need to let me handle this.”
Judson frowned, gave his head a brief, savage shake.
“I know you,” Pendergast went on, his voice gentle but firm. “I must warn you—don’t take the law into your own hands. Please.”
Esterhazy took a deep breath, then another, not replying. At last Pendergast gave a slight nod and stepped out into the evening.
After closing the door, Esterhazy stood in the darkened front hall, still breathing hard, for perhaps five minutes. When at last he had mastered his fearful anger and shock, he turned and walked quickly back into the den. Moving straight to the gun case, he unlocked it, dropping the key twice in his agitation. He moved his hands over the beautifully polished rifles, then selected one: a Holland & Holland Royal Deluxe .470 NE with a Leupold VX-III custom scope. He pulled it from the case, turned it with hands that trembled slightly, then put it back and carefully relocked the case.
Pendergast could preach all he wanted to about the rule of law, but the fact was it was time to take matters into his own hands. Because Judson Esterhazy had learned that the only way to do something right was to do it yourself.
13
New Orleans
PENDERGAST TURNED THE ROLLS-ROYCE INTO the private parking lot on Dauphine Street, harshly lit with sodium lamps. The attendant, a man with thick ears and heavy pouches below his eyes, lowered the gate behind them and handed Pendergast a ticket, which the agent tucked in the visor.
“In the back on the left, slot thirty-nine!” the man bawled in a heavy Delta accent. He examined the Rolls with bug eyes. “On second thought, take slot thirty-two—it’s bigger. And we ain’t responsible for damage. You might want to think of parking in LaSalle’s on Toulouse, where they got a covered garage.”
“Thank you, I prefer this one.”
“Suit yourself.”
Pendergast maneuvered the massive car through the tight lot and eased it into the designated space. They both got out. The lot was large, yet it felt claustrophobic, surrounded on all sides by a motley collection of old buildings. It was a mild winter night, and despite the extreme lateness of the hour, groups of young men and women, some carrying foaming beers in plastic glasses, could be seen stumbling along the sidewalks, calling out to one another, laughing and making noise. A muffled din wafted into the parking lot from the streets beyond, a mixture of shouts and cries, honking cars, and Dixieland jazz.
“A typical night in the French Quarter,” said Pendergast, leaning against the car. “Bourbon is the next street over—nexus of the nation’s public display of moral turpitude.” He inhaled the night air, and a strange half smile seemed to spread over his pale features.
D’Agosta waited, but Pendergast didn’t move. “Are we going?” he finally asked.
“In a moment, Vincent.” Pendergast closed his eyes and slowly inhaled again, as if absorbing the spirit of the place. D’Agosta waited, reminding himself that Pendergast’s odd mood shifts and strange ways were going to require patience—a lot of it. But the drive from Savannah had been long and exhausting—it seemed Pendergast kept another Rolls down here identical to the one in New York—and D’Agosta was famished. On top of that, he had been looking forward to a beer for some time, and seeing revelers going past with frosty brews was not improving his mood.
A minute passed,