Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [80]
He glanced over at D’Agosta. “Well done, my dear Vincent.” And this time, his smile wasn’t ghostly—it was genuine.
37
THEY TURNED ONTO ALEXANDER DRIVE, THEN took the on-ramp to I-10 and the Horace Wilkinson Bridge. D’Agosta sank back gratefully in his seat. The broad Mississippi rolled by beneath them, sullen-looking below the leaden sky.
“You think that’s it?” D’Agosta asked. “The Black Frame?”
“Absolutely.”
From the bridge, they crossed into Baton Rouge proper. It was midafternoon, and the traffic was moderate. Curtains of rain beat against the windshield and drummed on the vehicle roof. One after another the southbound cars fell smoothly behind them. They passed the I-12 interchange as D’Agosta stirred restlessly. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. But maybe—just maybe—this meant he’d be seeing Laura Hayward sooner rather than later. He hadn’t realized just how difficult this forced separation would be. Speaking to her every night helped, of course, but it was no substitute for…
“Vincent,” Pendergast said. “Take a look in the rearview mirror, if you please.”
D’Agosta complied. At first, he saw nothing unusual in the procession of cars behind them. But then, when Pendergast changed lanes, he saw another car—four, maybe five back—do the same. It was a late-model sedan, dark blue or black; it was hard to tell in the rain.
Pendergast accelerated slightly, passed a few cars, then returned to his original lane. A minute or two later, the dark sedan did the same.
“I see him,” D’Agosta muttered.
They continued for several minutes. The car stayed with them, hanging back, careful not to be too obvious.
“You think that’s the manager?” D’Agosta asked. “Bona?”
Pendergast shook his head. “That fellow behind us has been tailing us since this morning.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to wait until we reach the outskirts of the city. Then, we shall see. Local roads might prove useful.”
They passed the Mall of Louisiana, several parks and country clubs. The cityscape gave way to suburban sprawl, and then ultimately to patches of rural lowlands. D’Agosta drew out his Glock, racked a round into the chamber.
“Save that for a last resort,” Pendergast said. “We can’t risk damage to the painting.”
What about damage to us? D’Agosta thought. He glanced in the rearview mirror, but it was impossible to see into the dark sedan. They were passing the Sorrento exit, the traffic thinning still further.
“Are we going to box him in?” D’Agosta said. “Force his hand?”
“My preference is to lose him,” Pendergast said. “You’d be surprised what a vintage Rolls is capable of.”
“Yeah, right—”
Pendergast floored the accelerator and turned the wheel sharply right. The Rolls shot forward, remarkably responsive for such a large vehicle, then sliced across two lanes of traffic and careered down the exit ramp without reducing speed.
D’Agosta lurched heavily into the passenger door. Glancing into the mirror again, he saw that their tail had followed suit and, cutting before a box truck, was now shooting down the ramp after them.
Reaching the bottom of the ramp, Pendergast blew past the stop sign and onto Route 22, tires squealing as the rear of the vehicle fish-tailed through a one-hundred-twenty-degree arc. Expertly turning into the spin, Pendergast maneuvered into the proper lane and then stamped on the gas again. They tore down the state road, blowing past a painter’s van, a Buick, and a crawfish transport truck. Angry horns sounded behind them.
D’Agosta glanced over his shoulder. The sedan was pacing them, abandoning any effort at concealment.
“He’s still coming,” he said.
Pendergast nodded.
Accelerating further, they sped through a small commercial area—three blocks of farm implement stores and hardware shops, moving past in a blur. Up ahead, a set of lights marked the intersection of Route 22 with the Airline Highway. Several vehicles were moving across it now, brake lights rippling in a serried stream.