Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 41

New York City

AS JUDSON ESTERHAZY STEPPED OUT OF THE TAXI, he glanced up at the oppressive stone canyons of Lower Manhattan before retrieving his leather briefcase and paying the cabbie. He walked across the narrow sidewalk, smoothing his tie, his step measured and confident, and disappeared into the low-ceilinged lobby of the New York City Department of Health.

It felt good to be wearing a suit again, even if he was still deep undercover. And it felt even better to be on the offensive, to be doing something other than just running. The fear and uncertainty that had been eating away at him were almost gone, replaced — after an initial period of knee-jerk panic — with a clear and decisive plan. One that would solve his Pendergast problem once and for all. But just as important, his plan satisfied them. They were going to help him. Finally.

You get to a man through his bitch.

Excellent advice, if rather crudely expressed. And finding the “bitch” had been easier than Esterhazy had hoped. The next challenge was to find a way to access said bitch.

Walking over to the building’s directory, he noted that the Division of Mental Hygiene was located on the seventh floor. He stepped up to a bank of elevators, entered a waiting car, and pressed the button marked “7.” The doors slid shut and he began to ascend.

His knowledge of medical databases had proven invaluable. In the end, it had taken only a few hits to get the information he needed, and from that to form the plan of attack. The first hit had been an involuntary commitment proceeding in which Pendergast had been called as an interested person but — perversely — elected not to appear. The second had been a paper by one Dr. Felder, not yet published but submitted to the medical community for peer review, about a most interesting case, temporarily incarcerated in the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women but due for transfer to Mount Mercy Hospital. While the identity of the patient had of course been withheld, given the commitment proceedings it was a trivial matter to determine her identity.

Exiting the elevator, Esterhazy asked directions to the office of Dr. John Felder. The psychiatrist was at work in his neat and diminutive office, and he rose as Esterhazy entered. He was as small as his office, neatly dressed, with short mouse-colored hair and a trim Van Dyke beard.

“Dr. Poole?” he said, extending his hand.

“Dr. Felder,” Esterhazy said, shaking the proffered hand. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said Felder, waving his guest to an empty chair. “To meet someone with prior experience treating Constance is an unexpected boon to my work.”

To my work. It was exactly as Esterhazy had figured. He glanced around the impersonal office, at the textbooks and studiously neutral paintings. From his own observations, it was clear that being a court-appointed psychiatrist must be a pretty thankless job. Half the patients one saw were run-of-the-mill sociopaths; the other half were faking symptoms in order to beat a rap. Esterhazy had gotten a strong whiff of Felder’s aspirations just by reading the peer-review version of his paper: here was a case one could sink one’s teeth into, perhaps even make one’s career on. He was clearly a trusting fellow, eager, open, and, like many intelligent people, a bit naive. A perfect mark.

Even so, he had to plot his course with care. Any hint of his own true ignorance of the patient and the case would immediately arouse suspicion. The trick would be to twist that ignorance to his own advantage.

He waved a hand. “Hers is a unique presentation, at least in my experience. I was delighted to see your paper, because not only is this an interesting case, but I think it could be an important one. Perhaps even a benchmark. Although I myself have no interest in publication — my interests lie elsewhere.”

Felder simply nodded his understanding, yet Esterhazy saw a brief glimmer of relief in the psychiatrist’s eyes. It was important Felder realize his guest was no threat to his ambitions.

“How many times have you spoken with Constance?” Esterhazy asked.

“I’ve had four consultations so far.”

“And has she manifested amnesia yet?”

Felder frowned. “No. Not at all.”

“It was the part of her treatment that I found most challenging. I would complete a session with her, feeling that I had made progress in addressing some of her more dangerous delusions. But when I returned for the next session, I found that she retained absolutely no memory of the previous visit. Indeed, she claimed not to remember me at all.”

Felder tented his fingers. “How odd. In my experience, her memory has been excellent.”

“Interesting. The amnesia is both dissociative and lacunar.”

Felder began taking notes.

“What I find most interesting is that there are strong indications that this may be a rare case of dissociative fugue.”

“Which might explain, for example, the ocean voyage?” Felder was still writing.

“Exactly — as well as the inexplicable outburst of violence. Which is why, Dr. Felder, I termed this case unique. I think we have a chance—you have a chance — to substantially advance medical knowledge here.”

Felder scribbled faster.

Esterhazy shifted in his chair. “I often wondered if her, ah, unusual personal relationships might have been a factor in her disorder.”

“You mean, her guardian? This fellow Pendergast?”

“Well…” Esterhazy seemed to hesitate. “It is true that guardian is the term Pendergast uses. However — speaking as one doctor to another, you understand — the relationship has been a great deal more intimate than that term would suggest. Which may explain why Pendergast — or so I understand — declined to show up at her competency hearing.”

Dr. Felder stopped scribbling and looked up. Esterhazy nodded, slowly and significantly.

“That is very interesting,” Felder said. “She denies it quite specifically.”

“Naturally,” Esterhazy replied in a low voice.

“You know—” Felder stopped a moment, as if considering something. “If there was some severe emotional trauma, sexual coercion or even abuse, it might not only explain that fugue state, but her strange ideas about her past.”

“Strange ideas about the past?” Esterhazy said. “That must be a new development.”

“Constance has been insisting to me that — well, not to put too fine a point to it, Dr. Poole — that she is roughly one hundred and forty years old.”

It was all Esterhazy could do to keep a straight face. “Indeed?” he managed.

Felder nodded. “She maintains she was born in the 1870s. That she grew up on Water Street, just blocks from where we are now. That both her parents died when she was young and she lived for years and years in a mansion owned by a man named Leng.”

Esterhazy quickly followed up this line. “That could be the other side of the coin of her dissociative amnesia and fugue state.”

“The thing of it is, her knowledge of the past — at least the period in which she maintains she grew up — is remarkably vivid. And accurate.”

What utter rubbish. “Constance is an unusually intelligent — if troubled — person.”

Felder looked thoughtfully at his notes for a moment. Then he glanced at Esterhazy. “Doctor, could I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Would you consider consulting with me on the case?”

“I would be delighted.”

“I would welcome a second opinion. Your past experience with the patient and your observations would no doubt prove invaluable.”

Esterhazy felt a shiver of joy. “I’m only in New York a week or two, up at Columbia — but I would be happy to lend what assistance I can.”

For the first time, Dr. Felder smiled.

“Given the lacunar amnesia I mentioned,” Esterhazy said, “it would be better to introduce me to her as if we have not met before. Then we can observe her response. It will be interesting to see if the amnesia has persisted through her fugue state.”

“Interesting indeed.”

“I understand she’s currently in residence at Mount Mercy?”

“That is correct.”

“And I assume you can arrange to get me the necessary consulting status there?”

“I believe so. Of course, I’ll need your CV, institutional affiliation, the usual paperwork…” And here Felder’s voice trailed off in embarrassment.

“Certainly! As it happens, I believe I have all the necessary paperwork here. I brought it along for the staff at Columbia.” Opening his briefcase, he extracted a folder containing a beautifully forged set of accreditations and documents, compliments of the Covenant. There was indeed a real Dr. Poole in case Felder did a brief check, but given his trusting nature he didn’t seem the type to make calls. “And here’s a short breakdown — a brief summary — of my own work with Constance.” He extracted a second folder, whose contents were designed more to whet Felder’s curiosity than to provide any real information.

“Thank you.” Felder opened the first folder, scanned through it quickly, then closed it and handed it back. As Esterhazy had hoped, this step had been merely a formality. “I should be able to give you an update by tomorrow.”

“Here’s my cell number.” And Esterhazy passed a card across the table.

Felder slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am, Dr. Poole, to have gained your assistance in this matter.”

“Believe me, Doctor, the pleasure is all mine.” And — rising — Esterhazy shook hands warmly with Felder, smiled into the earnest face, and showed himself out.