Fever Dream Read Online Free PDF Page B

undid the latches, raised the cover,
     andslipped out a document. On the cover of the briefcase, balancing it on the headstone, he laid down the document.
    “Mr. Pendergast?” He proffered a heavy silver fountain pen.
    Pendergast signed the document.
    The lawyer took the pen back, signed it himself with a flourish, impressed it with a notary public seal, dated it, and slipped
     it back in his briefcase. He shut it with a snap, latched it, and locked it.
    “Done!” he said. “You are now certified to have visited your grandfather’s grave. I shall not have to disinherit you from
     the Pendergast family trust—at least, not for the present!” He gave a short chuckle.
    Pendergast rose, and the little man stuck out a pudgy hand. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Pendergast, and I trust I shall have the
     favor of your company in another five years?”
    “The pleasure is, and shall be, mine,” said Pendergast with a dry smile.
    “Excellent! I’ll be heading back to town, then. Will you follow?”
    “I think I’ll drop in on Maurice. He’d be crushed if I left without paying him my respects.”
    “Quite, quite! To think he’s been looking after Penumbra unassisted for—what?—twelve years now. You know, Mr. Pendergast—”
     Here the little man leaned in and lowered his voice, as if to impart a secret. “—you really should fix this place up. You
     could get a handsome sum for it—a handsome sum! Antebellum plantation houses are all the rage these days. It would make a
     charming B and B!”
    “Thank you, Mr. Ogilby, but I think I shall hold on to it a while longer.”
    “As you wish, as you wish! Just don’t stay out after dark—what with the old family ghost, and all.” The little man strode
     off chuckling to himself, briefcase swinging, and soon vanished, leaving Pendergast alone in the family plot. He heard the
     Mercedes start up; heard the crunch of gravel fade quickly back into silence.
    He strolled about for another few minutes, reading the inscriptions on the stones. Each name resurrected memories stranger
     and more eccentric than the last. Many of the remains were of family members disinterred from the ruins of the basement crypt
     of the Pendergast mansion on Dauphine Street after the house burned; other ancestors had expressed wishes to be buried in
     the old country.
    The golden light faded as the sun sank below the trees.Pallid mists began to drift across the lawn from the direction of
     the mangrove swamp. The air smelled of verdure, moss, and bracken. Pendergast stood in the graveyard for a long time, silent
     and unmoving, as evening settled over the land. Yellow lights—coming up in the windows of the plantation house—filtered through
     the trees of the arboretum. The scent of burning oak wood drifted on the air; a smell that brought back irresistible memories
     of childhood summers. Glancing up, Pendergast could see one of the great brick chimneys of the plantation house issuing a
     lazy stream of blue smoke. Rousing himself, he left the graveyard, walked through the arboretum, and gained the covered porch,
     the warped boards protesting under his feet.
    He knocked on the door, then stood back to wait. A creaking from inside; the sound of slow footsteps; an elaborate unlatching
     and unchaining; and the great door swung open to reveal a stooped old man of indeterminate race, dressed in an ancient butler’s
     uniform, his face grave. “Master Aloysius,” he said, with fine reserve, not offering his hand immediately.
    Pendergast extended his and the old man responded, the ribbed old hand getting a friendly shake. “Maurice. How are you?”
    “Middling,” the old man replied. “I saw the cars drive up. Glass of sherry in the library, sir?”
    “That will be fine, thank you.”
    Maurice turned and moved slowly through the entry hall toward the library. Pendergast followed. A fire was burning on the
     hearth, not so much for warmth as to drive out the damp.
    With a clinking of bottles,