Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [97]
The surgeon cleared his throat. “I’ve come to let you know the operation was successful. We closed forty-five minutes ago and we’ve been monitoring closely since. The signs are promising.”
“I’ll take you to see him now,” said Father Bell.
“Only for a moment,” the surgeon added. “He’s barely conscious and very weak.”
For a moment, Hayward sat motionless, stunned, trying to take it in. Pendergast was speaking but she couldn’t understand the words. Then she felt herself being raised—the FBI agent on one side, the priest on the other—and she was walking down the corridor. They turned left, then right, past closed doors and halls full of stretchers and empty wheelchairs. Through an open doorway they came to a small area enclosed by movable privacy screens. A nurse pulled one of the screens away and there was Vinnie. A dozen machines were attached to him, and his eyes were closed. Tubes snaked beneath the sheets: one containing plasma, another saline. Despite D’Agosta’s hefty build, he looked fragile, papery almost.
She caught her breath. As she did so, his eyes fluttered open; closed; then opened again. He looked up at them silently in turn, his eyes at last looking into hers.
As Hayward stared down at him, she felt the last vestiges of her self-control—that commanding presence of mind she so prided herself on—crumble and fall away. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Oh, Vinnie,” she sobbed.
D’Agosta’s own eyes filled. And then he slowly closed them.
Pendergast put a steadying arm around her, and for a moment she turned her face to the fabric of his shirt, yielding to the emotion, letting sobs rack her frame. Only now—when she saw Vinnie alive—did she realize just how close she had come to losing him.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to leave now,” the surgeon said in a low voice.
She straightened up, dried her eyes, and took a long, shuddering, cleansing breath.
“He’s not out of the woods yet. As it is, his heart has been severely damaged by the trauma. He’s going to need an aortic valve replacement at the earliest opportunity.”
Hayward nodded. She detached herself from Pendergast’s arm, took one more look down at D’Agosta, then turned away.
“Laura,” she heard him croak.
She glanced back. He was still lying there on the bed, eyes closed. Had it been her imagination?
Then he moved faintly and his eyes fluttered open again. His jaw worked but no sound came.
She stepped forward and bent over the bed.
“Make my work here count,” he said in a voice that was barely a whisper.
47
Penumbra Plantation
A FIRE HAD BEEN KINDLED IN THE GREAT fireplace of the library, and Hayward watched the old manservant, Maurice, serving after-dinner coffee. He threaded his way between the furniture, an ancient figure with a curiously blank expression on his lined face. She noticed that he had been careful not to stare at the bruise on Pendergast’s jaw. Perhaps, Hayward mused, over the years the old fellow had grown used to seeing his employer a little dinged up.
The mansion and grounds were exactly as she pictured they would be: ancient oaks draped with Spanish moss, white columned portico, faded antebellum furnishings. There was even an old family ghost, the ancient manservant had assured her, who haunted the nearby swamps—another predictable cliché. The only surprise, in fact, was Penumbra’s general state of external disrepair. This was a little odd—Pendergast, she assumed, had plenty of money. She put these musings aside, telling herself she was completely uninterested in Pendergast and his family.
Before leaving the hospital the night before, Pendergast had asked her—in some detail—about her visit with Constance Greene. Following that, he offered her lodging at Penumbra. Hayward had refused, opting instead to stay at a hotel near the medical center. But another visit to D’Agosta the following morning had served to underline