Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [70]
“And she never mentioned her interest in parrots, the Carolina Parakeet in particular?”
Esterhazy shook his head. “Never.”
“And the Black Frame? You never heard her mention it, even in passing?”
Another shake of the head. “This is all new to me. I’m as much at a loss to explain it as you are.”
“I know how painful this must be.”
Esterhazy turned from the window. His jaw worked in what to D’Agosta seemed barely controlled rage. “Not nearly as painful as learning of this fellow Blast. You say he has a record?”
“Of arrests. No convictions.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s innocent,” Esterhazy said.
“Quite the opposite,” said D’Agosta.
Esterhazy glanced his way. “And not just things like blackmail and forgery. You mentioned assault and battery.”
D’Agosta nodded.
“And he was after this—this Black Frame, too?”
“As bad as anybody ever wanted anything,” said D’Agosta.
Esterhazy’s hands clenched; he turned back to the window.
“Judson,” Pendergast said, “remember what I told you—”
“You lost a wife,” Esterhazy said over his shoulder, “I lost a little sister. You never quite get over it but at least you can come to terms with it. But now, to learn this…” He drew in a long breath. “And not only that, but this criminal might have been involved in some way—”
“We don’t know that for a fact,” Pendergast said.
“But you can be damn sure we’re going to find out,” said D’Agosta.
Esterhazy did not respond. He merely continued looking out the window, his jaw working slowly, his gaze far away.
31
Sarasota, Florida
THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY MILES TO THE south, another man was staring out another window.
John Woodhouse Blast looked down at the beachcombers and sunbathers ten stories below; at the long white lines of surf curling in toward the shore; at the beach that stretched almost to infinity. He turned away and walked across the living room, pausing briefly before a gilt mirror. The drawn face that stared back at him reflected the agitation of a sleepless night.
He’d been careful, so very careful. How could this be happening to him now? That pale death’s-head of an avenging angel, appearing on his doorstep so unexpectedly… He had always played a conservative game, never taking risks. And it had worked, until now…
The stillness of the room was broken by the ring of a telephone. Blast jumped at the sudden sound. He strode over to it, plucked the handset from the cradle. From the ottoman, the two Pomeranians watched his every move.
“It’s Victor. What’s up?���
“Christ, Victor, it’s about time you called back. Where the hell have you been?”
“Out,” a rough, gravelly voice replied. “Is there a problem?”
“You bet there’s a problem. A monstrous big fucking problem. An FBI agent came sniffing around last night.”
“Anybody we know?”
“Name of Pendergast. Had an NYPD cop with him, too.”
“What did they want?”
“What do you think they wanted? He knows too much, Victor—way too much. We’re going to have to take care of this, and right away.”
“You mean…” The gravelly voice hesitated.
“That’s right. It’s time to roll everything up.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. You know what to do, Victor. See that it gets done. See that it gets done right away.” Blast slammed down the phone and stared out the window at the endless blue horizon.
32
THE DIRT TRACK WOUND THROUGH THE PINEY forest and came out in a big meadow at the edge of a mangrove swamp. The shooter parked the Range Rover in the meadow and removed the gun case, portfolio, and backpack from the rear. He carried them to a small hillock in the center of the field, setting them down in the matted grass. He took a paper target from the portfolio and walked down the field to the swamp, counting his strides. The noonday