Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

out over the square. It was a room stuffed full of objects that
     somehow managed not to appear cluttered—the den of a well-educated, well-traveled man of taste.
    Pendergast turned and introduced D’Agosta to Esterhazy. The man couldn’t hide his surprise upon learning D’Agosta was a cop;
     nevertheless he smiled and shook his hand warmly.
    “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. “Would you care for anything? Tea, beer, bourbon?”
    “Bourbon, please, Judson,” said Pendergast.
    “How’d you like it?”
    “Neat.”
    Esterhazy turned to D’Agosta. “And you, Lieutenant?”
    “A beer would be great, thanks.”
    “Of course.” Still smiling, Esterhazy stepped over to a dry sink in the corner and deftly poured out a measure of bourbon.
     Then, excusing himself, he went to the kitchen to retrieve the beer.
    “Good Lord, Aloysius,” he said as he returned, “how long has it been—nine years?”
    “Ten.”
    “Ten years. When we took that hunting trip to Kilchurn Lodge.”
    D’Agosta sipped the beer and glanced around as the two chatted. Earlier, Pendergast had filled him in on Esterhazy: a neurosurgeon
     and medical researcher, who—having risen to the top of his profession—now devoted part of his time to pro bono work, both
     at local hospitals and for Doctors With Wings, the charity that flew doctors into Third World disaster areas and where his
     sister had worked. He was a committed sportsman and, according to Pendergast, an even better shot than his sister had been.
     D’Agosta, glancing around at the various hunting trophies displayed on the walls, decided Pendergast hadn’t been exaggerating.
     A doctor who was also an avid hunter: interesting combination.
    “So tell me,” Esterhazy said in his deep, sonorous voice. “What brings you to the Low Country? Are you on a case? Please,
     give me all the sordid details.” He chuckled.
    Pendergast took a sip of his bourbon. He hesitated just a moment. “Judson, I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this. I’m
     here about Helen.”
    The chuckle died in Esterhazy’s throat. A look of confusion gathered on the patrician features. “Helen? What about Helen?”
    Pendergast took another, deeper sip. “I’ve learned her death was no accident.”
    For a minute, Esterhazy stood, frozen, staring at Pendergast. “What on earth do you mean?”
    “I mean, your sister was murdered.”
    Esterhazy rose, a stricken look on his face. He turned his back on them and walked—slowly, as in a dream—to a bookcase in
     the far wall. He picked up an object apparently at random, turned it over in his hand, put it down again. And then—after a
     long moment—he turned back. Walking to the dry sink, he reached for a tumbler and, with fumbling fingers, poured himself a
     stiff drink. Then he took a seat across from them.
    “Knowing you, Aloysius, I don’t suppose I need ask if you’re sure about this,” he said, very quietly.
    “No, you don’t.”
    Esterhazy’s whole demeanor changed, his face becoming pale,his hands clenching and unclenching. “What are you—are
we
—going to do about it?”
    “I—with Vincent’s help—will find the person or persons ultimately responsible. And we will see that justice is served.”
    Esterhazy looked Pendergast in the face. “I want to be there. I want to be there when the man who murdered my little sister
     pays for what he did.”
    Pendergast did not answer.
    The anger, the power of the man’s emotions, were so intense they almost frightened D’Agosta. Esterhazy sank back in his chair,
     his dark eyes restless and glittering. “How did you find this out?”
    Briefly, Pendergast sketched out the events of the last few days. Although shaken, Esterhazy nevertheless listened intently.
     When Pendergast finished, he rose and poured himself a fresh drink.
    “I believed…” Pendergast paused. “I believe I knew Helen extremely well. And yet—for someone to have killed her, and taken
     such extraordinary