Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

there anything else?”
    “No. Nothing. That’s all, I swear. We never spoke of it again.”
    “Very well.” And then—with sudden, frightening speed—Pendergast grabbed Wisley by the hair, placed his gun against the man’s
     temple.
    “No!” D’Agosta cried, placing a restraining hand on Pendergast’s arm.
    Pendergast turned to look at him and D’Agosta was almost physically knocked back by the intensity of the agent’s gaze.
    “Not a good idea to kill informants,” D’Agosta said, modulating his voice carefully, making it as casual as possible. “Maybe
     he isn’t done talking. Maybe the gin and tonics will kill him for us, save you the trouble. Don’t worry—the fat fuck isn’t
     going anywhere.”
    Pendergast hesitated, gun still pressed to Wisley’s temple. Then, slowly, he released his grip on Wisley’s thin tonsure of
     reddish hair. The ex-concessionaire sank to the ground and D’Agosta noted, with disgust, that he had wet himself.
    Without speaking, Pendergast slipped back into the vehicle.D’Agosta climbed in beside him. They pulled back onto the road
     and headed for Lusaka without a backward glance.
    It was half an hour before D’Agosta spoke. “So,” he said. “What’s next?”
    “The past,” Pendergast replied, not taking his eyes from the road. “The past is what’s next.”

12
    Savannah, Georgia
    W HITFIELD SQUARE DOZED PLACIDLY IN THE failing light of a Monday evening. Streetlights came up, throwing the palmettos and the Spanish moss hanging from gnarled
     oak limbs into gauzy relief. After the cauldron-like heat of Central Africa, D’Agosta found the humid Georgia air almost a
     relief.
    He followed Pendergast across the manicured carpet of grass. In the center of the square stood a large cupola, surrounded
     by flowers. A wedding party stood beneath its scalloped roof, obediently following the instructions of a photographer. Elsewhere,
     people strolled slowly by or sat on black-painted benches, chatting or reading. Everything seemed just a little soft and out
     of focus, and D’Agosta shook his head. Following the mad dash from New York to Zambia to this center of southern gentility,
     he felt numb.
    Pendergast stopped, pointing across Habersham Street at a large gingerbread Victorian house, white and immaculate and very
     much like its neighbors. As they headed over, Pendergast said, “Keep in mind, Vincent—he doesn’t yet know.”
    “Got it.”
    They crossed the street and mounted the wooden steps. Pendergast pressed the doorbell. After about ten seconds, the overhead
     light came on and the door was opened by a man in his mid-forties.D’Agosta looked at him curiously. He was tall and strikingly
     handsome, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and a thick head of brown hair. He was as tanned as Pendergast was pale. A folded
     magazine was in one hand. D’Agosta glanced at the open page: the footer read
Journal of American Neurosurgery
.
    The sun, dipping behind the houses on the far side of the square, was in the man’s keen eyes, and he couldn’t see them well.
     “Yes?” he asked. “May I help you?”
    “Judson Esterhazy,” Pendergast said, extending his hand.
    Esterhazy started, and a look of surprise and delight blossomed over his features. “Aloysius?” he said. “My God! Come in.”
    Esterhazy led the way through a front hall, down a narrow, book-lined corridor, and into a cozy den.
Cozy
wasn’t a word D’Agosta used very often, but he could think of no other way to describe the space. Warm yellow light imparted
     a mellow sheen to the antique mahogany furniture: chiffonier, roll-top desk, gun case, still more bookshelves. Rich Persian
     rugs covered the floor. Two large diplomas—a medical degree, and a PhD—hung on one wall. The furniture was overstuffed and
     looked exceptionally comfortable. Antiques from all over the world—African sculpture, Asian jades—adorned every horizontal
     surface. Two windows, framed by delicate curtains, looked