Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Read Free Book Online

brutality. The shooter got what he deserved—everyone would reluctantly agree on
     that.
    D’Agosta glanced around. Despite the cold, a pretty big crowd had developed beyond the tape, East Village rockers and yupsters
     and metrosexuals and whatever the hell else you called them these days. The forensic unit was still working the body, the
     EMTs waiting to one side, the owner of the victimized restaurant being interviewed by detectives. Everyone doing their job.
     Everything under control.A senseless, stupid, piece-of-shit case that would generate a blizzard of paperwork, interviews,
     reports, analyses, boxes of evidence, hearings, press conferences. All because of two hundred lousy bucks for a fix.
    He was wondering how long it would be before he could gracefully escape when he heard a shout and saw a disturbance at the
     far edge of the cordoned area. Someone had ducked under the tape and trespassed onto the scene. He turned angrily—only to
     come face-to-face with Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast, pursued by two uniformed officers.
    “Hey, you—!” one of the cops shouted, grabbing Pendergast roughly by the shoulder. With a deft movement the agent freed himself,
     extracted his badge, and flashed it into the officer’s face.
    “What the—?” the cop said, backing off. “FBI. He’s FBI.”
    “What’s he doing here?” asked the other.
    “Pendergast!” D’Agosta cried, stepping toward him quickly. “What the hell brings you here? This killing isn’t exactly your
     kind of—”
    Pendergast silenced him with a violent gesture, slashing his hand through the air between them. In the neon gloom, his face
     was so white he almost looked spectral, dressed as usual like a wealthy undertaker in his trademark tailored black suit. Except
     this time he somehow looked different—very different. “I must speak with you. Now.”
    “Sure, of course. As soon as I wrap things up—”
    “I mean
now
, Vincent.”
    D’Agosta stared. This was not the cool, collected Pendergast he knew so well. This was a side of the man he had never seen
     before, angry, brusque, his movements rushed. Not only that, but—D’Agosta noticed on closer inspection—his normally immaculate
     suit was creased and rumpled.
    Pendergast grasped him by the lapel. “I have a favor to ask you. More than a favor. Come with me.”
    D’Agosta was too surprised by his vehemence to do anything but obey. Leaving the scene under the stares of his fellow cops,
     he followed Pendergast past the crowd and down the street to where the agent’s Rolls was idling. Proctor, the chauffeur, was
     behind the wheel, his expression studiously blank.
    D’Agosta had to practically run to keep up. “You know I’ll help you out any way I can—”
    “Don’t say anything, do not
speak,
until you’ve heard me out.”
    “Right, sure,” D’Agosta added hastily.
    “Get in.”
    Pendergast slipped into the rear passenger compartment, D’Agosta climbing in behind. The agent pulled open a panel in the
     door and swung out a tiny bar. Grasping a cut-glass decanter, he sloshed three fingers of brandy into a glass and drank half
     of it off with a single gulp. He replaced the decanter and turned to D’Agosta, his silvery eyes glittering with intensity.
     “This is no ordinary request. If you can’t do it, or won’t do it, I’ll understand. But you must not burden me with questions,
     Vincent—I don’t have time. I simply
don’t—have—time
. Listen, and then give me your answer.”
    D’Agosta nodded.
    “I need you to take a leave of absence from the force. Perhaps as long as a year.”
    “A
year
?”
    Pendergast knocked back the rest of the drink. “It could be months, or weeks. There’s no way to know how long this is going
     to take.”
    “What is
‘this’
?”
    For a moment, the agent did not reply. “I’ve never spoken to you about my late wife, Helen?”
    “No.”
    “She died twelve years ago, when we were on safari in Africa. She was