CHAPTER THREE: DEVILTOWN

- The Groovie Ghoulies, "Devil Town"

Agent Kittredge stared down at the monster's head in his hands. His career was over.

He had frozen after his first shot, stunned into immobility by the shower of sparks instead of the expected blood and the cacophony of terrified screams and angry shouts from the woods beyond. A tall girl with a long brown ponytail and a moon face burst out of the underbrush and ran up to the prone creature. She knelt beside it, yanked off its head, and deftly unzipped its skin along the spine to reveal a terrified young man huddled inside.

Up close, he didn't know how he could ever have mistaken it for the Jersey Devil or any kind of living creature. The monster suit was considerably better made than the average Halloween costume, but not nearly as sophisticated as what would be used in a big budget movie. The scorched bullet hole in the foam latex skin and clear vacuformed plastic skull revealed the inner workings, a confusion of tiny electric motors adapted from radio controlled toy airplanes that moved the glass eyes side to side, twitched the ears, flared the nostrils and pulled the lips back to bare dental acrylic fangs.

The only thing that kept this from being the site of another murder was that the actor's head was actually situated in the monster's neck. The suit head perched atop his on a helmet, adding to the suit`s overall height and leaving room inside the skull for the animatronics.

Eventually, it had all been sorted out. More of them streamed out of the woods, toting lights, cables, a microphone on a boom arm, odds and ends of equipment. These were film students down from New York for the weekend. Just kids, with no permits and no common sense.

They were shooting a class project, a documentary about the Jersey Devil. By sheer co-incidence they'd stumbled on the crime scene and been shooed away from the crime scene by the police. Regrouping at a distance, they'd waited for the cops to leave so they could resume filming. The suit actor had retreated into the woods for a shot of the Devil roaming in the distance, the crew remaining behind a thick stand of pine and being very quiet because Kittredge's car pulled up. They wouldn't have shot at all, the girl informed him, except they were "losing the light" and some of the crew had to return to New York for classes tomorrow.

And he, Agent Kittredge, had almost ventilated some poor freshman in a monster suit.

One of them had called the cops as soon as he heard gunshots, and now they were standing around in huddled groups, some talking to the police. Their faces were ashy-white, shaken. Kittredge was practically in shock himself. He'd only been an agent for seven months now, only trusted with inconsequential duties like ferrying around Pendergast. He'd never been in an actual gunfight in his life.

The boy was being tended to by the emergency medical technicians. He was weeping openly and still wore the bottom half of the suit like furry, scaly, pants with a tail, the legs ending in incongruous bright white sneakers.

Slowly, Kittredge became aware of someone looming over him. He looked away from the ruined animatronic Devil head.

"I'm not going to arrest you," Russell said with dangerous calm. "I don't want to make this look worse than it already is."

Kittredge nodded, numb to the point of not even caring.

"What you are going to do is follow us down to the station . . . "

Russell's voice dissolved into the static sizzling in Kittredge's head. He barely heard the rest, watching with glittering eyes as the kids were loaded into various cars and driven away. Several looked almost ill. One of them curled over and vomited profusely.

Russell had stopped talking and was glaring at him expectantly. The blood rising to his face mixed with his own dark coloration had turned him a very interesting shade of apoplectic purple. Kittredge realized he was expected to say something.

"Someone should tell Special Agent Pendergast."

"Let me handle that. You worry about your own ass, you stupid son of a bitch," Russell finished, then turned on his heel.

Kittredge stood automatically to follow, but one of the kids, the one who seemed to be in charge, had come running up to the sheriff. Short kid, dressed in thrift store eclectic like a catalog-perfect college age artist. Little black goatee, Buddy Holly glasses, head shaved except for a black thatch, a forelock that was streaked with purple dye and fell like a curtain over his face. Kittredge stopped, not wanting to confront him.

They were too far away for Kittredge to hear what the kid said, but he gestured elaborately as he spoke. Fingers wriggled as his hands flew away from his head to indicate an explosion. Then his hand, fingers folded back except for the index, miming the shape of a gun, lowered to his side, a comically dumbfounded expression on his face. He was mocking Kittredge now.

You can be me, he thought. I don't want to be me anymore. The Devil in his hands grinned up at him. None of the film crew had tried to take it away. It was unsalvageable, or perhaps they were too frightened of him to try and retrieve it.

If it weren't for that damned Pendergast and his ridiculous Jersey Devil obsession! Him and his insistence on hitting every ratty tourist trap and spending hours chitchatting with toothless, half-senile locals who insisted the Devil had dug up their Victory Gardens and eaten their straying cats, when he should have been looking for those cult killers. What did any of that have to do with the Morgan death?

Nothing, nothing at all. He should never have come back up here. Pendergast was getting to him. His insanity was more infectious than whatever had put him in the hospital.

Lost in thought, Kittredge did not notice he was the last one on the site, or that his pacing had taken him into the woods.

A huge, calloused hand clamped over his mouth and nose as the bare, muscular arm snaked around his neck. Kittredge twisted in his assailant's grip, but with incredible strength he was lifted off his feet. The gnarled hand pressed harder, cutting off his air. Dirt-clogged nails, long and thick and curved as claws, dug into the soft flesh of his cheek and drew blood. Holding him in a tight bear hug, the assailant jerked his head back. Kittredge's skull popped off the topmost cervical vertebrae. The bone splintered, severing his spinal cord.

He died instantly.

Letting Kittredge's limp body drop into the bushes, the attacker shuffled over to the object he'd dropped. Lifted it, squinting in the darkness. Probed it delicately, lingering over the details of the face, the red glass eyes. Examined it, considered it. Wondered.

* * * * *

The Plainsboro Oddity Emporium was sandwiched between two other houses, an ordinary looking storefront with a small apartment above. There was no other place Pendergast could be, by simple process of elimination. He had flyers, booklets, pamphlets, brochures and `zines from just about everywhere else, but he had clearly been saving the best for last, and nothing beat the privately run little museum of sideshow exhibits.

House paused to admire a stunning collection of outré junk in the front window. Pride of place was a knotted wad of rubber bands the size of a medicine ball, flanked by various taxidermized freak animals: a chicken with six legs, a beautifully faked Fiji mermaid made from a fetal rhesus monkey and some kind of trout, a "Madagascar cannibal toad" with horns and a row of shark's teeth, and a rather ordinary, if obese, orange and white cat mounted in a sleeping-sphinx pose.

He leaned closer, nose to the glass, scanning the cat for extra eyes, a parasitic conjoined twin, or wings.

The cat blinked, yawned and stretched. House stumbled backwards, almost losing his balance completely, then laughed as the cat jumped off the windowsill and disappeared into the murky depths of the Emporium. P. T. Barnum would have been proud.

House struggled up the steep front stairs and paid the five dollar entrance fee. There was quite a crowd there for a Sunday morning. Morgan's death, which no one was yet calling a murder, had been all over the news. The Devil hadn't been referenced directly, but other stories mentioned pranks like Christmas decorations being destroyed or stolen and rude snow sculptures springing up overnight in people`s yards. Kids stuff mostly, but it happened every time the Devil was brought up, and then there was the usual response from police. Like everyone was following a script had been written.

Inside, the Emporium gave the strong impression that they had just happened to wander into someone's house. Authentic posters and photos of performing freaks of a long gone era covered the walls, and every surface was crammed with stuffed and bottled monsters both genuine and gaffed. A strong, rotting fish scent wafted from one corner of the room. House thought for a moment that one of the taxidermized animals had gone bad, but then the cat crouched down under a display of shrunken heads and he saw the stench was coming from a dish of moist cat food. Several more dishes were scattered under various exhibits, which explained the cat's zaftig charms.

There were only a few people attending the Emporium's slightly bemused looking owner, a bearded fellow who had nonetheless decided to take advantage of this unexpected surge in patronage.

"Right this way, right this way," he called. The crowds obediently let him herd them around the mummified corpse of a Peruvian giantess in a glass-topped coffin like some sepulchral Snow White awaiting a kiss that would never come to a small open area.

"I am pleased and proud to present for the first tie for the delectation and delight of your jaded yet refined palate, a fable to chill the blood and send a shudder down your spine!"

He was an expect raconteur, rolling his rrrrs, drawling vowels and biting off consonants crisply. The crowd milled about, elbowing for position. House edged up to the front, where the man had a little lectern next to a cloth-covered plinth, a small piece of wrought iron fencing keeping the patrons a few respectful feet away.

House wedged himself in between a tall man in mirror shades with a Spider-Man bandage on his nose and a couple that reeked of tourista, the husband looking indifferent and bored, the wife browsing the souvenir counter and so volubly worried over the price of every purchase, House doubted that ownership could give her any feeling of pleasure.

"See nature cruelly compromised by a mother's gruesome and repulsive curse," the proprietor chanted, eyes scanning the crowd, no doubt mentally totting up ticket sales. More people were wandering in, most of them dressed in their Sunday best. Right on time - church had let out. The proprietor had an uneasy expression, but continued. "No one who draws breath can resist the strange and terrible tale of the creature born of man who walks the earth with strange powers far beyond those of mortal souls. If you have a sensitive nature, I implore you to leave now, for this gripping account of defiance of the almighty is not for the weak of will or faint of heart!"

The crowd rewarded him with a knowing, sardonic chuckle as he gestured theatrically, reaching behind himself to a switch that gradually lowered the room lights. "This narrative, once heard, can never be forgotten," he warned. "A tale of a woman so sorely afflicted with poverty that when she learned she would soon be bearing a thirteenth child, declared, 'Let it be a devil!' . . . and it was."

With a flourish, the proprietor whipped the cloth off the plinth, revealing a little diorama. About twice the size of a shoebox, it depicted the scene in a crude, one room log cabin. A little woman-doll lay in the bed tangled in sheets stained with red paint. Another woman, the midwife perhaps, was by her side, and several child-dolls huddled in the far corners. They were clearly dollhouse models of the kind that could be purchased in any craft store, but the faces had been repainted and subtly altered to give them expressions of fear and horror. All of their tiny glass eyes were riveted on the figure rearing up by the chimney. Whoever had sculpted the monster was a true artist. Even at only eight or nine inches tall it was a frightening thing, a humanoid form bestially distorted, spiky-edged wings outstretched and hooked fangs bared. The proprietor flipped a hidden switch and colored lights on the ceiling swept the room, strobes flickering and making the model Devil seem to writhe and twist in place.

The crowd was rapt, several people gasping in surprise at the unexpected power of the effect. All except the man in mirror shades, who had wandered over by the rack of tchotchkes, t-shirts and candy and become absorbed in a book of old newspaper clippings.

House poked the man between his shoulders with the tip of his cane, whispering, "See any relatives?"

He turned around, affronted. "Excuse me?"

Before he could continue, a woman near the front of the crowd let out a horrible shriek. She pushed past him, screaming, punching and kicking the others to get to the door. House was so fascinated by the sight of a well-dressed middle aged woman who'd suddenly gone inexplicably insane that he did not, at first, look around to see what she was running from.

The crowd surged, almost knocking him over. House braced himself against a mannequin covered with thousands of wads of chewing gum and craned his neck to see what was causing the panic. He was just in time to see a man at the front jerk forward, striking his forehead hard on the metal railing, then whip upright again. A bright spout of blood flew from his mouth, fountaining as he jerked his head back.

House recognized what was happening instantly. It was a classic presentation of a grand mal, or tonic-clonic seizure. An electrical storm in the brain caused uncontrollable vocalizations, and the arching of the back. His face turned blue-grey with cyanosis as his breathing temporarily stopped, and his bladder reflexively released, leaving a damp path on the front of his trousers.

But what was a perfectly routine seizure to House struck the other people in the crowd very differently. An elderly woman in a pastel dress and a pillbox hat frothing with lace, fake pearls and silk flowers pinned to her head raised her arms up and cried, "It's the end times! It is a sign!"

The screaming woman stopped screaming long enough to add, "Praise Jesus!"

House struggled to get to the epileptic man. He'd slumped forward again and now lay across on the metal railing. His entire weight was suspended by his neck, and his airway was cut off. He shook and twitched as if he were being electrocuted, muscles twitching helplessly as he entered the clonic phase of the seizure. Blood poured from his mouth.

"He knows your sins! Pray, pray and be saved!" The church-going lady's rolled back in her head as she was swept up in her own kerygmatic rambling. "Jesus is love, God is love!"

"Praise Jesus," a few people in the crowd murmured. They had backed off, those god-fearing good folk, not one extending a hand to the man slowly dying in front of them.

House grabbed the man under his arms and hauled him off the railing. He was too heavy to support, and slipped out of House's grip, collapsing bonelessly to the floor where he lay shaking, his head banging against the giantess's case.

"Pendergast!" House shouted. "I can't kneel! Pillow that guy's head with your jacket before he gives himself brain damage!"

Later on, House would wish he'd had the presence of mind to have taken a picture of the face of man in the mirrored sunglasses at that moment. To his credit, the agent did not bolt, nor did he stand frozen. He obeyed without hesitation, whipping off the jacket and using it to cushion the man's head.

"Put a spoon in his mouth so he doesn't choke on his tongue," a man yelled.

"Moron," House shot back. It's physically impossible to swallow your own tongue, but the gag reflex doesn`t work when you`re unconscious and he might suck blood or vomit into his lungs. "Pendergast, lift his head to the blood can drain out. How's his pulse?"

He pressed his slender fingers into the rolls of fat on the man`s neck. "A bit fast, but steady."

"Good, good. Can you see where the blood is coming from?"

"Inside of his lower lip. I believe he bit it when he hit his head."

"That doesn't look too bad, but he's gonna have a hell of a contusion, and the bruised larynx might swell up." House flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911.

There was a young man in a shirt that said ART DOESN'T KILL. ARTISTS DO filming everything avidly with a little digital video camera. House gestured angrily for him to put it away, but if he saw, he ignored him. The man's seizure abated and he lapsed into a sleeplike state. Pendergast sat beside him, absentmindedly stroking his arm.

"Is he dead?" One of the onlookers asked.

Gradually, the man came to, blinking and confused. He sat up, gingerly probing the soft swelling on his forehead.

"Praise Jesus!" The church lady shouted, bending over Pendergast to lay hands on the man's head. She beamed as if she felt personally responsible for his recovery. "Praise Jesus, oh lord!"

"Praise Greg," House muttered. "Are there more at home like you, or did your parents get the lead pipes replaced?"

"I love Jesus," the old woman stated, looking around at the crowd as Pendergast tried gently to fend her off. "Jesus is love. You know what I love, is that He teaches you . . . "

"Teaches you to squeal like a pig under a gate and run around waving your arms when a man's dying?" House rounded on her. "Maybe you should put down that Bible and pick up a first aid manual!"

The crowd stared at him. All that was missing from the picture was cud for them to chew.

"What," one of the women finally asked.

"Look. This guy," he pointed. "Had an epileptic seizure. Nothing mysterious, nothing satanic. All I see here is coincidence and basic stupidity."

"Correlation does not imply causality," Pendergast said, then added, "Ignore them. They're simply upset you stole one from Jesus."

House glared at him in disbelief. A joke, from Der Eiskonig? And at the worst possible moment. The crowd was muttering, and the church lady, shedding facile tears, let herself be embraced by the formerly-screaming woman.

"I get the distinct feeling we're both persona non grata around here."

"Agreed. Shall we take in that display?" He nodded towards an elaborately lettered sign, `This way to the Egress'.

Pendergast elbowed his way through the crowd, House discreetly adding a few whacks on various ankles with his cane. They slipped between Jake the Alligator Man (human from the waist up, reptilian from the waist down) and a gallery of paintings by chimpanzees and out a back door. It was an enormous relief to get back into the fresh air. It was still unseasonably warm outside, the low clouds holding in heat and moisture like a soggy woolen blanket, but the Emporium too stuffy, the smell of mildew and dust and damp and cat food made him nauseous.

"Clever, Pendergast," House commented, taking a deep breath. "So, you stained your hair with Betadine solution? But you went a little overboard with the mirror shades. When I stood behind you, I could see your eyes reflected in the lenses. Your eyelashes are still white."

Pendergast gave him a stare that, had it been one degree less warm, would have turned him to stone.

"How'd you get it, anyways? We keep stuff securely locked away."

"I suppose the level of security is a matter of perspective." Pendergast began removing the rest of his disguise.

Although he would rather have died than admit it out loud, House was rather impressed. Pendergast knowledge of how even subtle changes in facial structure can render a person unrecognizable, and he'd cleverly utilized items from the stolen purse to effect his disguise.

He'd bent paperclips into tiny rings and inserted them into his nostrils, making them wider and changing the shape. Graphite lightly rubbed into his skin gave him an instant five o'clock shadow far more conventional than the colorless fuzz he would naturally sprout. Chewing gum spread over his actual gums distorted the shape of his mouth, making his lips seem fuller. Besides staining his hair reddish-brown, he`d styled it differently. Slicked back, it looked short, but it was actually quite long, and he'd brushed it so it hung in neat sheaves on either side of his face, conveniently also shielding his profile from a side angle. As a perfect final touch, a bandage across the bridge of his nose masked the distinctive aquiline arch and provided a distraction. Potential eyewitnesses would be more likely to remember the Spider-Man bandage than the face of the grown man wearing it.

House peered around the corner. The ambulance had arrived, lights flashing but siren off. The church lady was talking animatedly to the paramedics, who were trying to politely ignore her and help the patient into the back of the truck. The crowd was still churning around the Oddity Emporium`s front porch. Some of them had linked hands and were singing.

House was disgusted. "Can you believe that? Church wackos. And that sideshow guy was deliberately egging them on."

"Now, now. The choice of lighting was unfortunate in triggering that man's seizure." Pendergast paused, thoughtful. "However, I see what you mean. Popular delusions and the madness of the crowds. They came primed to see devils where no devils existed. But why? Morgan`s death is puzzling but not to the degree that would cause such a reaction."

"Why don't you tell me, Agent Pendergast," House asked aggressively. "I know how this goes. Doctor Watson blathers out his theory, and Sherlock lets him make an ass of himself, then proves his theory, nice and neat. Who's your suspect?"

"I don't have one, at present," he said with bland innocence. "I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking."

"But you do have some suspicion. Otherwise why would you be so interested in a murder when it seems like no murder has actually taken place?"

Pendergast's eyebrows arched up in surprise. "Very astute, Doctor. But you were saying, the proprietor of the research center?"

Clearly, the man was not going to spill. House said, "Well, yeah. I don't think he'd kill a guy, but he's fanning the flames of stupidity. It's who stands most to profit, isn't it? And he could only benefit from keeping the legend going."

"An incident like this does not exactly constitute complementary news coverage."

"Any publicity is good publicity. Did you notice the kid with the camera at the back of the room, videotaping him?"

"Very well. Against my better judgment, I do have my suspicions. Since you're here, I shall make use of your medical expertise. The Emporium's proprietor kindly photocopied some interesting documents in his collection for me. What do you think of these?" He pulled a sheaf of photocopies from inside his jacket and handed them over.

House boggled. He was here to drag the man back to the hospital and, if necessary for his own safety, put him in restraints and under guard, and Pendergast wanted his opinion?

"Doctor?" he inquired. "Your thoughts?"

House glanced down involuntarily at the photocopies. The typeface was old fashioned, with the "f"-like internal s, and the copies were dark and smudgy. He scanned the top page, quickly becoming acclimated to the irregular spelling and outdated grammar. Against his will, his interest was engaged.

It was an account of a witchcraft trial from the same general time period as the more infamous Salem incidents. This particular woman, Mother Leeds, was first accused by one John Hollander of putting a hex on his hogs. They'd developed blind staggers, and twelve of his herd of fourteen had died. The remaining two had gone blind. House felt his own eyes glazing over.

"My first thought is that I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian. Or a witch finder."

"And your second thought?"

"There aren't enough pennies in the world, Pendergast."

Silently, the man handed him another photocopy. It was a warrant for Leeds' arrest. This time the victims were human.

"You are in theyr Majestyes Names hereby Required to Apprehend & bring before us (upon Tuesday next being the Seavententh day of this Feburay by Tenne of the Clock aforenoone) the body of Abigail Leeds, widow woman, whoe standeth charged in behalfe of theyr Majestys w'th high Suspition of Sundry Acts of Witchcraft done or Comitted upon the Bodyes of Eugene Hollander Rose Hollander Mercy Hollander whereby great hurt hath bin done them: And hereof you are nott to faile."

Pendergast watched him closely. House tilted his head, scrunching his mobile face into an exaggerated scowl, rolling his eyes and flaring his upper lip back from his prominent incisors as he continued to read.

Next was the case against. The young son and two daughters of the hog farmer were the victims. "The Jurors for o'r Sov'r: lord and Lady the King and Queen present That Abigaill Leeds Widowe of Ebenezer Leeds In & upon the Eighth day of September last in the Yeare aforesaid & divers other days & Times as well before as after Wickedly Mallitously & felloniously hath used practised & Exersised Certaine detestable arts Called Witchcrafts & Sorcerys aforesaid upon & Against the children of John & Martha Hollander by which Said Wicked Arts the Said Eugene Hollander Rose Hollander& Mercy Hollander the day & year afos'd & divers others days & times both before & after, were & are Struck with Blindess sorely Afflicted by Visions of Hell Consumed Staggered Wasted and Tormented Against the peace of o'r Sov'r lord & lady the King & Queen their Crowne & dignity & the laws & Acts in that Case made & provided . . ."

"Loss of vision, ataxic gait, bizarre behavior, apathy and coma. Some kind of brain inflammation, it has to be one of the viral encephalitides," House said, then checked the top of the page. "Except those are spread by ticks or mosquitoes, and this was midwinter. And no mention of a fever. They knew about fevers back then, right? But the hogs, they'd been struck a few months earlier, in warm weather. You think there's a connection, that it's a zoonosis the kids contracted from the hogs or eating the pork?"

"As Voltaire once noted, doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd," Pendergast said.

"Why do you even care?"

"You should care, too," Pendergast said gravely. "I believe there may be a connection between these bewitched hogs, the human deaths, and this rather puzzling case of dengue now."

"I don't think so, Pendergast. Dengue hadn't moved that far north in the 1700's."

"Obviously, the mosquito colony was restricted to a very narrow locale. The Pine Barrens are not conducive to farming. Losing twelve hogs would have been a financial disaster for the Hollanders, not to mention the emotional distress of the children's illness and bizarre death. Likely the farmer moved away after the witch trial, and no one else settled near enough for the mosquitoes to reach."

"And your hypothetical mosquitoes survived this long, through two centuries of New Jersey winters? Show me where they could find a pool of warm water to overwinter in, and maybe I'll agree with you."

The rest of the pages were of little interest. There was an account of finding the devil's "marke" on Leeds by one James Barton, Chyrurgen, who had "By dilligent search discovered a preternathurall Excresence of flesh between the pudendum and Anus much like to Tetts & not usuall in women."

Imagine that, finding a small blemish, probably a benign skin tumor, on an old woman. And then there was another witch involved, a local midwife who seemed eager to sell Leeds down the river.

"After Several Questions Propounded & Neagative ans'rs Returned She at last acknowledged that Goody Leeds made her a witch & that Some time last Sumer She made a Red Mark in the Divels book w'th the fore finger of her left hand & the Divel would have her hurt Mercy Hollander Eugene Hollander& Rose Hollander w'ch She did on Satterday & Sabbath day last. She Confesses She was at the Witch Metting at Whitesbog w'th Goody Leeds, there was a grate many there. She S'd ther was Such a load & weight at her Stomack that Hindred her from Speaking & is afrayd She has Given up her Self Soul & body to the Divel. She Says She promised to Serve worship & beleive in him & he promised to pardon her Sins but finds he has deceived her & that She was left of god & all good people & that Goody Leeds threatned to tear her in peices if she did not doe what She then did. She further Said that She had Seen no aperance Since but a fly w'ch did Speak to her & bid her afflict those poor Creaturs w'ch She did by pinching With Clinching of her hands for w'ch She is Sorry & further the Divel told her it would be very brave & Cliver for her to Come Dwone among those acused persons. She promised to Confese what more She Shall hearafter Rememb'r."

House grunted. She sounded like a young woman possibly in the early stages of schizophrenia but more likely terrified and confused and being led on by a primitive interrogation technique, the same sort of thing that created the Satanic Ritual Abuse hysteria trials in the 80's and early 90's. No doubt the so-called witch recalled some more repressed memories under grilling.

He handed the photocopies back to the FBI agent, who folded them neatly and tucked them into jacket again. "It occurs to me you're asking a lot of questions, Pendergast. I have a few of my own. For one, what does this have to do with whatever killed that hunter? He wasn't gutted by a virus. And for another, am I going to have to drag you back to the hospital kicking and screaming, or are you coming quietly?"

"Oh, quietly. I don't wish to cause a scene. I give you my word that I shall return as soon as I find what I am looking for."

"Soon as ah faahnd whut ah'm lookin fo'," House mocked. "The Jersey Devil?"

Unperturbed, Pendergast simply said, "If you insist."

House had the uncomfortable suspicion he'd been outmaneuvered somehow. Pendergast was lying, that was crystal clear, but he didn't even care enough about being caught to bother doing it well.

Everyone had more or less the same big shiny red buttons. Sometimes you had to push a few before you found the one that would make them freak out so badly their emotions would overcome their intellect and they'd blurt out the truth or otherwise do something to give the game away. House was the expert at finding that button, but Pendergast was impenetrable. It was absolutely impossible to get a rise out of the man.

"Come on. I've reserved an extra drafty gown especially for you."

Pendergast affected a La Giaconda smile as House took him by the arm and guided him to where he was parked by the curb. He'd only known Pendergast briefly, but he'd gotten a strong enough impression of the man to realize that this sudden meek compliance was not typical. Unfortunately for him, House attributed it to illness, not deliberate disingenuousness.

He kept a death grip on the FBI agent as he unlocked the door, then gestured for him to climb in. Pendergast stood a moment surveying at the mess of empty soda cans, coffee cups, CDs, fast food wrappers, video game cartridges, magazines and other detritus piled on the passenger seat. House scooped an armload up and dumped it on top of the junk in the back, and Pendergast slid into the seat with fastidious grace.

"May we have some music," he inquired, gesturing to the radio. "I don't care for the local stations."

"Sure. Uh . . . " House twisted around, digging awkwardly through the slag pile. "I don't think I have anything you'd like. Let's see, got Steely Dan, Tommy - the original, not that new Broadway abortion - Meatloaf, some Nick Cave . . . "

He felt something like a wasp's sting jab him in the carotid artery.

Pendergast's soft, sincere voice whispered in his ear, "The Betadine was not all I borrowed from your supplies, Dr. House. If it is any consolation, I regret these measures, but I believe circumstances warrant them. I hope you`ll see it in your heart to forgive me someday."

* * * * *

Tzerkas was kicking himself wondering if he should have hung around and interviewed the asshole who blew a hole in the monster suit.

He'd have hell to pay for that when he got back to school. That suit was his buddy Nate's final project, he'd sworn up, down and sideways he'd be extremely careful with it if he let him borrow it, and what happens? Matthew's not in it for an hour before Agent Asshole uses it for target practice. Nate was going to pulp him.

He'd worry about that later.

It was pure luck he'd come by the Oddity Emporium just as some sort of nutjob Christian thing was going on. Christards were always good cinema, and this crowd didn't disappoint. Some guy had a spazz attack and they thought the judgment horn had sounded. It was hilarious, and a little bit scary, like next they'd be sacrificing their firstborn children or something. Yikes.

Still, it was primo stuff. A few questions here and there, stir the pot a bit, and he might have a full scale riot. It would be great.

He wondered if the local news channel would pay for the footage of the old guy with the cane and the weirdo saving the spazz like that. Human interest glurge. Local news would lick it up, but hey, they might try to buy the rights from him and no way in hell was he gonna give up footage like that.

He almost tore himself in two. Stay and try to whip up the christards into a batshit frenzy or try to get comments out of the crip and the weirdo? Best way to cap off a human interest story was the victim being grateful and the heroes being all humble and saying that anyone would have done the same in their place (patently untrue: witness).

He followed the dynamic duo, and hell if it didn't get more interesting. All that shit they were saying about the Devil and witches and the dude that got gutted and something - deen-gee? - he didn't know what THAT was, but he was gonna find out.

And then they get in the car and weirdo stabs the crip with a hypo and things were just too exciting and wonderful and perfect not to stay at a distance and keep filming.

Weirdo dumps the old guy and takes off in his car . . . old guy was a doctor or something, he was the one who was giving orders. So who was the weirdo?

Pendergast. The crip called him that, and the asshole mentioned a Pendergast, too. Weird name. How likely was it that two guys named Pendergast were tangled up in whatever was going on? Not fucking likely.

Special Agent Pendergast, no less. He didn't look like a special anything, but hey, maybe he was undercover. If so, he should work on his disguises. That dye job was so fake you could spot it from space.

So this guy was some sort of government agent.

What was going on here?

This wasn't a hoax, no Loch Ness Monster, or Alien Autopsy or any of that Uri Gellar crapola. This was . . . what?

Something secret. Something amazing. X-Files shit, but real life.

He was sure of it.

Weirdo was pulling out of the lot, leaving the crip conked out on the sidewalk. Tzerkas didn't hesitate. He gunned the Omni's engine, which resulted in a cloud of blue-black smoke, a lot of shuddering and the forward momentum of a arthritic turtle on Percocet. He winced. Tailing the weirdo was not going to be easy in his little piece of shit rollerskate.

Weirdo wasn't getting away that easy, though. Tzerkas was on him like shit on a monkey's butt. Nothing like this ever happened to him, and no way was he letting the opportunity wriggle away. His documentary project was going to ROCK.

* * * * *

House was woken by the digitized but distinctive chords of Iron Man. For a long moment he had no awareness of where he was or how he'd gotten there, just that his ass was frozen solid.

His head cleared, and he realized he was sitting on a thin layer of newspapers at the bus stop not far from the Emporium, wrapped up in his own jacket and the old, torn, oil-stained beach towels he used to line his trunk. His car was not where he'd left it parked.

Pendergast.

The agent had blindsided him with a hypodermic full of some fast acting tranquilizer, then made absolutely sure no one would be alarmed by the sight of an unconscious man on the sidewalk by propping him against the nearest building and arranging him to look like a bum, right down to the little Styrofoam coffee cup with a few coins in it beside him. A piece of cardboard shakily hand-lettered with "Gulf War Vet" was propped against it. Very cute.

Black Sabbath played again. House scrabbled in his pockets and finally came up with his cell phone.

One of the people in line for the bus stared at him, looking from the cup to the cell phone and back again with undisguised disgust. He leaned over and with a loud snorking noise spat eloquently into the cup.

"Jeez," House snarled. "Wounded in the service of my country, and this is the respect I get?"

The bus patron sniffed and turned away.

"What?" The voice on the phone sounded irritated. "House? Can you hear me?"

"Yup."

It was Foreman. "We need you back here."

"I have Pendergast."

"Who? Oh, the runaway. Great, we need him, too."

"Well, had him. He scampered again. I swear to god, catching this guy is like trying to wrestle with a greased cobra."

"Three more cases with symptoms matching his have come it. It`s bizarre. The CDC has already been notified that we might have an epidemic."

"Dengue?"

"We're sure now, yeah."

House narrowed his eyes, thinking. Dengue, in same family as deadly diseases like Lassa, Marburg and the well-publicized Ebola virus, was nothing to screw around with. Genus Flavivirus has four strains, or serotypes. Infection with one of these serotypes does not provide cross-protective immunity. In fact, re-infection could cause a severe and potentially fatal hemorrhagic fever.

If Pendergast had been infected in New Jersey, it would have been almost a week ago. And say he was re-infected in the woods . . . it would only be a short time until the critical period set in.