Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [64]
“It’s a well-known fact that madness runs in families—” D’Agosta thought better of concluding this observation. “Anyway, it’s always the gifted ones that go crazy.”
“ ‘We poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.’ ” Pendergast turned toward D’Agosta. “So you think their creativity led to madness?”
“It sure as hell happened to the Doane daughter.”
“I see. And Helen’s theft of the parrot had nothing to do with what happened to the family later, is that your hypothesis?”
“More or less. What do you think?” D’Agosta hoped to smoke out Pendergast’s opinion.
“I think that coincidences do not please me, Vincent.”
D’Agosta hesitated. “Look, another thing I’ve been wondering… was, or I mean did, Helen—sometimes act weird, or… odd?”
Pendergast’s expression seemed to tighten. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“It’s just these…” D’Agosta hesitated again. “These sudden trips to strange destinations. The secrets. This stealing of birds, first two dead ones from a museum, then a live one from a family. Is it possible Helen was under some kind of strain, maybe—or was, you know, suffering from some nervous condition? Because back in Rockland I heard rumors that her family was not exactly normal…”
He fell silent when the ambient temperature around their seats seemed to fall about ten degrees.
Pendergast’s expression did not alter, but when he spoke there was a distant, formal edge to his voice. “Helen Esterhazy may have been unusual. But she was also one of the most rational, the most sane people I ever encountered.”
“I’m sure she was. I wasn’t implying—”
“And she was also the least likely to crack under pressure.”
“Right,” D’Agosta said hastily. Bringing this up was a bad idea.
“I think our time would be better spent discussing the subject at hand,” Pendergast said, forcing the conversation onto a new track. “There are a few things you ought to know about him.” He plucked a thin envelope from his jacket pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. “John Woodhouse Blast. Age fifty-eight. Born in Florence, South Carolina. Current residence Forty-one Twelve Beach Road, Siesta Key. He’s had several occupations: art dealer, gallery owner, import/export—and he was also an engraver and printer.” He put back the sheet of paper. “His engravings were of a rather specialized kind.”
“What kind is that?”
“The kind that features portraits of dead presidents.”
“He was a counterfeiter?”
“The Secret Service investigated him. Nothing was ever proven. He was also investigated for smuggling elephant ivory and rhinoceros horn—both illegal since the 1989 Endangered Species Convention. Again, nothing was proven.”
“This guy is slipperier than an eel.”
“He is clearly resourceful, determined—and dangerous.” Pendergast paused a moment. “There is one other relevant aspect… his name: John Woodhouse Blast.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s the direct descendant of John James Audubon through his son, John Woodhouse Audubon.”
“No shit.”
“John Woodhouse was an artist in his own right. He completed Audubon’s final work, Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America, painting nearly half the plates himself after his father’s sudden decline.”
D’Agosta whistled. “So Blast probably feels the Black Frame is his birthright.”
“That was my assumption. It would appear he spent much of his adult life searching for it, although in recent years he apparently gave up.”
“So what’s he doing now?”
“I’ve been unable to find out. He’s keeping his present dealings close to his vest.” Pendergast glanced out the window. “We shall have to be careful, Vincent. Very careful.”
28
Sarasota, Florida
SIESTA KEY WAS A REVELATION TO D’AGOSTA: narrow, palm-lined avenues; emerald lawns leading down to jewel-like azure inlets; sinuous canals on which pleasure boats bobbed lazily. The beach itself was wide, its sand white and fine as sugar, and it stretched north and south into mist and haze. On one side rolled creamy ocean; on the other