Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  D'Agosta dabbed his brow. Maybe it was the sun on the roof, maybe the bright lights in the room, but it was stifling. The smell of badly baked meat clung to him like greasy perspiration. He waited near the door while Pendergast circled the corpse, his body tensed like an eagle, examining it from every angle, the look on his face so eager it was unsettling.

  The dead man lay on the bed, eyes goggled with blood, his hands clenched. The flesh was a strange tallow color, and its texture seemed off somehow. But it was the expression on the man's face, the rictus of horror and pain, that forced D'Agosta to look away. In his long years as a New York cop, D'Agosta had accumulated a small, unwelcome library of images stored in his mind that he'd never forget as long as he lived. This added one more.

  The M.E. was putting away his tools, and two newly arrived assistants were getting ready to bag the body and load it onto a stretcher. Another cop was kneeling on the floor, cutting out a piece of floorboard that had a mark burned into it.

  "Doctor?" Pendergast said. The M.E. turned and D'Agosta was surprised to see it was a woman, hair hidden under her cap, a young and very attractive blonde. "Yes?"

  Pendergast swept open his shield. "FBI. May I trouble you with a few questions?"

  The woman nodded.

  "Have you established the time of death?"

  "No, and I can tell you that's going to be a problem."

  Pendergast raised his eyebrows. "How so?"

  "We knew we were in trouble when the anal probe came back at one hundred eight degrees."

  "That's what I was going to tell you," said Braskie. "The body's been heated somehow."

  "Correct," said the doctor. "The heating took place most strongly on the inside."

  "The inside?" Pendergast asked.

  D'Agosta could have sworn he'd heard a note of disbelief in the voice.

  "Yes. It was as if—as if the body was cooked from the inside out."

  Pendergast looked closely at the doctor. "Was there any evidence of burning, surface lesions, on the skin?"

  "No. Externally, the body is virtually unmarked. Fully dressed. Aside from a single, rather unusual burn on the chest, the skin appears unbroken and unbruised."

  Pendergast paused a moment. "How could that be? A fever spike?"

  "No. The body had already cooled from a temperature greater than one hundred twenty degrees—far too high to be biological. At that temperature, the flesh partially cooks. All the usual things you use to establish time of death were completely disrupted by this heating process. The blood's cooked solid in the veins. Solid. At those temperatures, the muscle proteins begin to denature, so there's no rigor—and the temperature killed most bacteria, so there's been no decomposition to speak of. And without the usual spontaneous enzymatic digestion, there's no autolysis, either. All I can say now is he died between 3:10 A.M. , when he apparently made a telephone call, and 7:30, when he was discovered dead. But, of course, that's a nonmedical judgment."

  "That, I assume, is the burn you referred to earlier?" Pendergast pointed at the man's chest. There, burned and charred into the sallow skin like a brand, was the unmistakable imprint of a cross.

  "He was found wearing a cross around his neck, very expensive by all appearances. But the metal had partially melted and the wood burned away. It seemed to have been set with diamonds and rubies; they were found among the ashes."

  Pendergast nodded slowly. After a moment, he thanked the doctor and turned his attention to the man working on the floor. "May I?"

  The officer stepped back and Pendergast knelt beside him.

  "Sergeant?"

  D'Agosta came over and Braskie hastened to follow.

  "What do you make of that?"

  D'Agosta looked at the image burned into the floor. The finish around it was blistered and cracked, but there was no mistaking the mark of a huge cloven hoof, deeply branded into the wood.

  "Looks like the murderer had a sense of humor," D'Agosta muttered.

  "My dear Vincent, do you really think it's a joke?"

  "You don’t?"

  "No."

  D'Agosta found Braskie staring at him. The "my dear Vincent" hadn't gone down well at all. Meanwhile, Pendergast had gotten down on his hands and knees and was sniffing around the floor almost like a dog. Suddenly a test tube and tweezers appeared out of his baggy shorts. The FBI agent picked up a brownish particle, held it to his nose a moment; then, sniffing, stretched it out toward the lieutenant.

  Braskie frowned. "What's that?"

  "Brimstone, Lieutenant," said Pendergast. "Good Old Testament brimstone."

  { 5 }

  The Chaunticleer was a tiny six-table restaurant, tucked into an Amagansett side street between Bluff Road and Main. From his narrow wooden seat, D'Agosta looked around, blinking. Everything seemed to be yellow: the yellow daffodils in the window boxes; the yellow taffeta curtains on the yellow-painted windows; the yellow linen tablecloths. And what wasn't yellow was an accent of green or red. The whole place looked like one of those octagonal French dinner plates everybody paid so much money for. D'Agosta closed his eyes for a moment. After the musty dark of Jeremy Grove's attic, this place seemed almost unbearably cheerful.

  The proprietress, a short, red-faced, middle-aged woman, bustled up. "Ah, Monsieur Pendergast," she said. "Comment ça va?"

  "Bien, madame."

  "The usual, monsieur?"

  "Oui, merci."

  The woman turned her gaze on D'Agosta. "And you, Officer?"

  D'Agosta glanced at the menu—scrawled in white chalk on a slate near the door—but half the dishes he didn't recognize, and the other half held no interest for him. The reek of Jeremy Grove's flesh was still strong in his nostrils. "Nothing for me, thanks."

  "Anything to drink?"

  "A Bud. Frosty."

  "So sorry, monsieur, but we have no liquor license."

  D'Agosta licked his lips. "Then bring me an iced tea, please."

  He watched the woman depart, then glanced across the table at Pendergast, now dressed in his usual black suit. He still couldn't get over the shock of running into him like this. The man looked no different than the last time he'd seen him, years before. D'Agosta, embarrassed, knew the same couldn't be said for himself. He was five years older, ten years heavier, and two stripes lighter. What a life.

  "How'd you find this place?" he asked.

  "Quite by accident. It's just a few blocks from where I'm staying. It may well be the only decent restaurant in the Hamptons undiscovered by the beautiful people. Sure you won't change your mind about lunch? I really do recommend the eggs Benedict. Madame Merle makes the best hollandaise sauce I've tasted outside Paris: light yet silky, with the merest hint of tarragon."

  D'Agosta shook his head quickly. "You still haven't told me why you're out here."

  "As I mentioned, I've taken a house here for the week. I'm—what is that phrase?—location scouting."

  "Location scouting? For what?"

  "For the, shall we say, convalescence of a friend. You'll meet her in due course. And now I'd like to hear your story. The last I knew, you were in British Columbia, writing novels. I have to say, I found Angels of Purgatory to be readable."

  "Readable?"

  Pendergast waved his hand. "I'm not much of a judge when it comes to police procedurals. My taste for sensational fiction ends with M. R. James."

  D'Agosta thought he probably meant P. D. James but let it pass. The last thing he wanted to do was have a "literary conversation." He'd had more than enough of those the last few years.

  The drinks arrived. D'Agosta took a big gulp of iced tea, found it was unsweetened, tore open a packet of sugar. "My story's soon told, Pendergast. I couldn't make a living at writing, so I came home. Couldn't get my old place back on the NYPD. The new mayor's downsizing the force, and besides, I'd made more than my share of enemies on the job. I was getting desperate. Heard about the opening in Southampton and took it."

  "I imagine there are worse places to work."
r />   "Yeah, you'd think so. But after spending a summer chasing people whose dogs have just left a steaming load on the beach, you'd think different. And the people out here—you give a guy a speeding ticket, and the next thing you know, some high-priced lawyer's down at the station with writs and subpoenas, raising hell. You should see our legal bills."

  Pendergast took a sip of what appeared to be tea. "And how is working with Lieutenant Braskie?"

  "He's an asshole. Totally political. Gonna run for chief."

  "He seemed competent enough."

  "A competent asshole, then."

  He found Pendergast's cool gaze on him, and he fidgeted. He'd forgotten about those eyes. They made you feel like you had just been stripped of your secrets.

  "There's a part of your story you left out. Back when we last worked together, you had a wife and son. Vincent Junior, I believe."

  D'Agosta nodded. "Still got a son. He's back in Canada, living with my wife. Well, my wife on paper, anyway."

  Pendergast said nothing. After a moment, D'Agosta fetched a sigh.

  "Lydia and I weren't that close anymore. You know how it is: being on the force, working long hours. She didn't want to move to Canada to begin with, especially a place as remote as Invermere. When we got there, having me in the house all day long, trying to write… well, we got on each other's nerves. And that's putting it mildly." He shrugged, shook his head. "Funny thing was, she grew to like it up there. Seems my moving back here was just about the final straw."

  Madame Merle returned with Pendergast's order, and D'Agosta decided it was time to change the subject. "What about you?" he asked almost aggressively. "What have you been up to? New York keeping you busy?"

  "Actually, I've recently returned from the Midwest. Kansas, to be precise, where I was handling a case—a small case, but not without its, ah, interesting features."

  "And Grove?"

  "As you know, Vincent, I have an interest—some might call it an unhealthy interest—in unusual homicides. I've traveled to places far more distant than Long Island in pursuit of them. A bad habit, but very hard to break." Pendergast pierced an egg with his knife, and yolk flooded out over the plate. More yellow.

  "So, are you official?"

  "My freelancing days are over. The FBI is a different place. Yes, I'm official." And he patted the cell phone in his pocket.

  "What's the hook? I mean, for the feds. Drugs? Terrorism?"

  "Just what I told Lieutenant Braskie—possibility of interstate flight. It's weak, but it will have to serve." Pendergast leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. "I need your help, Vincent."

  D'Agosta looked over. Was he kidding?

  "We made a good team once."

  "But I'm… " He hesitated. "You don't need my help." He said it more angrily than he meant. He found those damn eyes on him again.

  "Not as much as you need my help, perhaps."

  "What do you mean? I don't need anybody's help. I'm doing fine."

  "Forgive the liberty, but you are not doing fine."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "You're working far below your capacity. Not only is that a waste of your talents, but it's all too clear in your attitude. Lieutenant Braskie seems to be basically decent, and he may be somewhat intelligent, but you do not belong under his supervision. Once he's chief, your relationship will only grow worse."

  "You think that asshole is intelligent and decent? Christ, if you could spend a day working for him, you'd change your tune."

  "It's you, Vincent, who needs to change your tune. There are far worse policemen than Lieutenant Braskie, and we've worked with them."

  "So you're going to save me, is that it?"

  "No, Vincent. It's the case that will save you. From yourself."

  D'Agosta stood up. "I don't have to take this shit from you or anyone " He pulled out his wallet, dropped a crumpled five on the table, and stalked out.

  Ten minutes later D'Agosta found Pendergast in the same place he'd left him, the crumpled bill still sitting there. He pulled out the chair, sat down, and ordered another iced tea, his face burning. Pendergast merely nodded as he finished the last bite of his lunch. Then he removed a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and laid it gently on the table.

  "This is a list of the four people who attended Jeremy Grove's last party, and the name and number of the priest who received his final phone call. It's as good a place to start as any. Considering how short the list is, there are some rather interesting names on it." He pushed the paper across the table.

  D'Agosta nodded. The burning sensation began to ebb as he looked at the names and addresses. Something began to stir in him: the old excitement of working a case. A good case.

  "How's this going to work, with me being on the Southampton P.D. and all?"

  "I will arrange with Lieutenant Braskie to get you assigned as the local FBI liaison officer."

  "He'll never go for it."

  "On the contrary, he will be only too happy to get rid of you. And in any case, it won't be presented as a request. Braskie, as you pointed out, is a political animal, and he will do as he is told."

  D'Agosta nodded.

  Pendergast checked his watch. "Almost two. Come on, Vincent, we've got a long drive ahead of us. Priests dine early, but we might just catch Father Cappi if we hurry."

  { 6 }

  D'Agosta felt like he'd been swallowed by Ahab's white whale, cushioned as he was in the white leather interior of a '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith. Chauffeured, no less. Pendergast had certainly come up in the world since the bad old days of the museum murders, when he drove a late-model Buick from the Bureau pool. Maybe a relative died and left him a few billion. He glanced over. Or maybe the time for dissembling had simply passed.

  The car was cruising up Route 9, along a beautiful stretch of the middle Hudson Valley north of Poughkeepsie. After months spent among low sand dunes and beach scrub, D'Agosta found the lush greenery and rolling hills a relief to the eyes. Here and there, old mansions could be seen: set far back from the road, overlooking the river or tucked in among copses of trees. Some had signs identifying them as monasteries or retreats; others still seemed to be in private ownership. Despite the warmth of the day, there were already strong traces of fall coloring in the trees that marched up the gentle slopes.

  The car slowed, then slid into a long cobbled driveway, coming at last to a noiseless stop beneath a red-brick porte-cochère. As he stepped out of the car, D'Agosta found himself before a rambling, Flemish-style mansion. A narrow bell tower at the flank of the building appeared to be a later addition. Beyond, well-tended greensward swept down toward the Hudson. A plaque screwed into the facade announced that the structure was built in 1874 and was now designated a historic site on the National Register of Historic Places.

  Their knock was answered by a cowled monk in brown robes, a silken rope tied around his waist. Without a word, he ushered them into an elegant interior smelling of time and wax polish. Pendergast bowed and presented the monk with a card; in turn, the monk nodded and beckoned. They followed him through several turnings and twistings of corridors to a spartan room, whitewashed and bare save for a single crucifix and two rows of hard wooden chairs along opposite walls. A single window near the exposed rafters let in a bar of light.

  The monk bowed and withdrew. Moments later, another figure appeared in the door. He, too, was dressed in a monk's habit, but when he drew back the collar, D'Agosta was surprised to find a man well over six feet, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with black eyes that sparkled with vigor. In the background, he could hear the faint peal of bells as the changes began to ring in the tower. Somehow it gave him the shivers.

  "I'm Father Bernard Cappi," the man said. "Welcome to the Hyde Park Carthaginian Monastery. Here we're under a vow of silence, but we meet in this particular room once a week to talk. We call it the Disputation Chamber, because this is where we piss and moan. You build up a lot of resentments in a week of silence." He sw
ept his robes back, taking a seat.

  "This is my associate, Sergeant D'Agosta," Pendergast said, following the monk's lead. "He may want to ask questions as well."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance." The priest crushed his hand in greeting. This is no gentle lamb of God, thought D'Agosta. He eased down in the chair, shifting, trying hard to get comfortable. He failed. The room, despite the sunny day outside, felt cold and damp. God, he would never make a good monk.

  "I sincerely apologize for this intrusion," said Pendergast.

  "Quite all right. I just hope I can be of help. This is a tragic business."

  "We'll take as little of your time as possible. Perhaps we should begin with the telephone call."

  "As I told the police, the call came to my home at 3:10 in the morning—the answering machine registered the time—but every year I take a two-week retreat here, and so I wasn't home to receive it. I check my messages upon rising—it's a violation of the rules, but I've got an elderly mother. I immediately headed out to Long Island, but, of course, it was too late."

  "Why did he call you?"

  "That's a complicated question requiring a long answer."

  Pendergast nodded at him to proceed.

  "Jeremy Grove and I go way back. We met at Columbia as students many years ago. I went on to the priesthood, and he went to Florence to study art. In those days, we were both—well, I wouldn't call us religious in the usual sense of the word. We were both spiritually intrigued. We used to argue to all hours of the morning about questions of faith, epistemology, the nature of good and evil, and so forth. I went on to study theology at Mount St. Mary's. We continued our friendship, and a few years later I officiated over Grove's marriage."

  "I see," murmured Pendergast.

  "Grove stayed in Florence and I visited him several times. He was living in a beautiful villa in the hills south of the city."

  D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

  "An interesting story, Sergeant. He bought a painting at an auction at Sotheby's that was billed as being by a late follower of Raphael. Grove was able to prove it as the hand of the master himself, turned around and sold it for thirty million dollars to the Met."