Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [54]
D’Agosta suddenly understood why Pendergast had taken his wife’s Porsche for this particular road trip.
“Excuse me, sir,” Pendergast said as he approached the house. “I wonder if you’d mind telling me if, by chance, you recognize the vehicle we—”
“Blow it out your ass,” the man said, turning and going back inside his house, slamming the door.
D’Agosta hoisted up his pants and licked his lips. “Want me to go drag the fat fuck back out?”
Pendergast shook his head. “No need, Vincent.” He turned back, regarding the restaurant. An old, heavyset woman in a flimsy housedress had come out of the kitchen and stood on the porch, flanked by a brace of plastic pink flamingos. She had a magazine in one hand and a cigarillo in the other, and she peered at them through old-fashioned teardrop glasses. “We may have flushed out just the partridge I was after.”
They walked back to the old parking lot and the kitchen door of Jake’s. The woman watched their approach with complete taciturnity, with no visible change of expression.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Pendergast said with a slight bow.
“Afternoon yourself,” she replied.
“Do you, by chance, own this fine establishment?”
“I might,” she said, taking a deep drag on the cigarillo. D’Agosta noticed it had a white plastic holder.
Pendergast waved at the Spyder. “And is there any chance you recognize this vehicle?”
She looked away from them, peering at the car through her grimy glasses. Then she looked back. “I might,” she repeated.
There was a silence. D’Agosta heard a window slam shut, and a door.
“Why, how remiss of me,” Pendergast said suddenly. “Taking up your valuable time like this uncompensated.” As if by magic, a twenty-dollar bill appeared in his hand. He held it out to the woman. To D’Agosta’s surprise, she plucked it from his fingers and stuffed it down her withered but still ample cleavage.
“I saw that car three times,” the woman said. “My son was crazy about them foreign sporty jobs. He worked the soda fountain. He passed away in a car crash on the outskirts of town a few years back. Anyhow, the first time it showed up he just about went nuts. Made everybody drop whatever they were doing and take a look.”
“Do you remember the driver?”
“A young woman. Pretty thing, too.”
“You don’t recall what she ordered, do you?” Pendergast asked.
“I’m not likely to forget that. An egg cream. She said she’d come all the way from N’Orleans. Imagine, all that way for an egg cream.”
There was another, briefer silence.
“You mentioned three times,” Pendergast said. “What about the last time?”
The woman took another drag on the cigarillo, paused a moment to search her memory. “She showed up on foot that time. Had a flat tire.”
“I commend you on your excellent memory, ma’am.”
“Like I said, you don’t forget a car—or a lady—like that any time soon. My Henry gave her the egg cream for free. She drove on back and let him get behind the wheel—wouldn’t let him drive it, though. Said she was in a hurry.”
“Ah. So she was going somewhere?”
“Said she’d been going in circles, couldn’t find the turnoff for Caledonia.”
“Caledonia? I’m not familiar with that town.”
“It ain’t a town—I’m talking about the Caledonia National Forest. Blame road wasn’t marked then and it ain’t marked now.”
If Pendergast was growing excited, he didn’t show it. To D’Agosta, the FBI agent’s gestures—as he lit another cigarillo for the old woman—seemed almost languid.
“Is that where she was headed?” he asked, placing the lighter back into his pocket. “The national forest?”
The woman plucked the fresh cigarillo from her mouth, looked at it, masticated her gums a few times,