Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [76]
He walked quickly back into the room, plucked the telephone from the wooden surface. Then he froze. Somebody was in the hall just beyond. A tall man in a long trench coat stepped forward from the darkness.
“What are you doing in my house?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
The intruder did not speak. Instead, he pulled back his coat, revealing the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. The butt-stock was of a heavy black wood, carved in paisley rosettes, and the bluing of the barrels gleamed faintly in the light of the den.
Blackletter found that he was unable to take his eyes from the weapon. He took a step back. “Wait,” he began. “Don’t. You’re making a mistake… we can talk…”
The weapon swiveled upward. There was a tremendous boom-boom as both barrels fired almost simultaneously. Blackletter was flung backward, impacting the far wall with a shattering crash, then slumping to the ground. Framed pictures and knickknacks rained down around him from little wooden shelves.
The front door was already closing.
The robot, its audio sensors alerted, swiveled toward the motionless form of its builder. “Robo want a cracker,” it said, the tinny voice muffled by the blood now coating its miniature speaker. “Robo want a cracker.”
35
Port Allen, Louisiana
THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS AS DARK AND RAINY as the previous day had been pleasant. That was just fine with D’Agosta—there would be fewer customers to deal with at the doughnut shop. He had deep misgivings about this whole scheme of Pendergast’s.
Pendergast, behind the wheel of the Rolls, took the Port Allen exit from I-10, the wheels hissing on the wet asphalt. D’Agosta sat beside him, turning the pages of the New Orleans Star-Picayune. “I don’t see why we couldn’t do this at night,” he said.
“The establishment has a burglar alarm. And the noise would be more apparent.”
“You better do the talking. I have a feeling my Queens accent wouldn’t go down well in these parts.”
“An excellent point, Vincent.”
D’Agosta noticed Pendergast glancing once again in the rearview mirror. “We got company?” he asked.
Pendergast merely smiled in return. Rather than his habitual black suit, he was wearing a plaid work shirt and denims. Instead of resembling an undertaker, he now looked like a gravedigger.
D’Agosta turned another page, paused at an article headlined Retired Scientist Murdered in Home. “Hey, Pendergast,” he said after scanning the opening paragraphs. “Look at this: that guy you wanted to talk to, Morris Blackletter, Helen’s old boss, was just found murdered in his house.”
“Murdered? How?”
“Shotgunned.”
“Do the police suspect a robbery gone wrong?”
“The article doesn’t say.”
“He must have just returned from his vacation. A great pity we didn’t get to him earlier—he could have been rather useful.”
“Somebody else got to him first. And I can guess who that somebody was.” D’Agosta shook his head. “Maybe we should go back to Florida and sweat Blast.”
Pendergast turned onto Court Street, heading for downtown and the river. “Perhaps. But I find Blast’s motive to be obscure.”
“Not at all. Helen might have told Blackletter about Blast threatening her.” D’Agosta folded the paper, shoved it between the seat and the center pedestal. “We talk to Blast, and the following night Blackletter is killed. You’re the one who doesn’t buy coincidences.”
Pendergast looked thoughtful. But instead of replying, he turned off Court Street and nosed the Rolls into a parking lot a block short of their destination. They stepped out into the drizzle, and Pendergast opened the trunk. He passed D’Agosta a yellow construction helmet and a large canvas workbag. He took out another helmet, which he fitted onto his head. Lastly, he pulled out a heavy tool belt—from which dangled an assortment of flashlights, measuring tapes, wire cutters, and other equipment—and buckled it around his waist.
“Shall we?” he said.
Pappy’s Donette Hole was quiet: two plump girls stood behind the counter while a lone customer ordered a dozen double-chocolate FatOnes. Pendergast