"Nice."
"Indeed. Anyway, while living in Florence, Grove had become quite devout. In an intellectual kind of way, as some people do. He loved to engage me in discussion. There is, Mr. Pendergast, such a thing as a Catholic intellectual, and that was Grove."
Pendergast nodded.
"He was very happily married. He adored his wife. And then, quite abruptly, she left him, ran off with another man. To say that Grove was devastated is not saying enough. He was destroyed. And he focused his anger on God."
"I see," Pendergast replied.
"Grove felt betrayed by God. He became… well, you certainly couldn't call him an atheist or an agnostic. Rather, he picked a fight with God. He deliberately embarked on a life of sin and violence against God, which in reality was a life of violence against his own higher self. He became an art critic. Criticism is a profession which allows one a certain license to be vicious outside the bounds of normal civilized behavior. One would never tell another person in private that his painting was a revolting piece of trash, but the critic thinks nothing of making the same pronouncement to the world as if he were performing a high moral duty. There is no profession more ignoble than that of the critic—except perhaps that of the physician presiding at an execution."
"You're right there," said D'Agosta with feeling. "Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, critique."
Father Cappi laughed. "Very true, Sergeant D'Agosta."
"Sergeant D'Agosta is a writer of mysteries," explained Pendergast.
"Is that so! I love detective stories. Give me a title."
"Angels of Purgatory is his latest."
"I'll buy it immediately."
D'Agosta mumbled his thanks. For the second time that day, he found himself feeling embarrassed. He would have to talk to Pendergast about sounding off about his abortive writing career.
"Suffice to say," the priest continued, "Grove made a splendid critic. He surrounded himself with the most degraded, selfish, and cruel people he could find. Everything he did was excessive—drinking, eating, sex, money, gossip. He gave dinner parties like a Roman emperor, and he was often on television, savaging this person or that—in the most charming way, of course. His articles in the New York Review of Books were avidly read. Naturally he was a huge hit in New York City society."
"And your relationship to him?"
"He couldn't forgive me for what I represented. Our relationship simply couldn't continue."
"When was this?" D'Agosta asked.
"Grove's wife ran off in 1974, and we had our falling-out shortly thereafter. I haven't heard from him since. Not until this morning, that is."
"The message?"
The priest removed a microcassette recorder from his pocket. "I made a copy before turning it over to the police."
Holding it up in one hand, he pressed the play button. There was a beep. Then:
Bernard? Bernard! It's Jeremy Grove. Are you there? Pick up the phone, for God's sake!
The voice was high, strained, tinny.
Listen, Bernard, I need you here, now. You've got to come. Southampton, 3001 Dune Road. Come immediately. It's… it's horrible. Bring a cross, Bible, holy water. My God, Bernard, he's coming for me. Do you hear? He's coming for me! I need to confess, I need forgiveness, absolution… For the love of God, Bernard, pick up the phone—
His voice was cut off by the message machine using up its allotted time. The harsh voice echoed into silence in the bare, whitewashed room. D'Agosta felt a shiver of horror.
"Well," said Pendergast after a moment. "I'd be curious to hear your thoughts on that, Father."
Father Cappi's face was grim. "I believe he felt damnation was upon him."
"Damnation? Or the devil?"
Cappi shifted uncomfortably. "For whatever reason, Jeremy Grove knew his death was imminent. He wanted to obtain forgiveness before the end. That was even more important to him than calling the police. Grove, you see, never stopped believing."
"Are you familiar with the physical evidence at the scene of the crime: the burned hoofprint, the traces of sulfur and brimstone, the peculiar heating of the body?"
"I was told, yes."
"How do you explain it?"
"The work of a mortal man. Grove's killer wished to make a statement about what kind of man Grove was. Hence the hoofprint, brimstone, and all the rest." Father Cappi slid the tape recorder back into his cassock. "There's nothing mysterious about evil, Mr. Pendergast. It's here all around us, I see it every day. And I somehow doubt the real devil, whatever form he might take, would wish to draw such unwelcome attention to his way of doing business."
{ 7 }
In the first darkness following sunset, the man known only as Wren walked up the broad, trash-strewn thoroughfare of upper Riverside Drive. To his left lay the black outlines of Riverside Park and the Hudson River beyond; to his right, the vast hulks of once-great mansions, now empty and decaying. Wren's shadow flitted from streetlamp to streetlamp as the last touch of red left the incarnadine sky. Despite the gentrification creeping up from southern Manhattan, this remained a dangerous neighborhood, one in which few would wish to be caught after dark. But there was something about Wren—the cadaverousness of his features, perhaps; or his quick, stealthy scuttle of a walk; or the wild shock of white hair, unnaturally thick for a man of his years—that kept predators at bay.
Now Wren stopped before a large Beaux Arts mansion that fronted Riverside Drive from 137th to 138th Streets. The four-story pile was surrounded by a tall spiked-iron fence, furred in rust. Beyond the fence, the lawn was overgrown with weeds and ancient ailanthus bushes. The mansion itself seemed in decrepitude: windows securely boarded up with tin, slate roof tiles chipped, widow's walk missing half its metal posts.
The iron gate blocking the entrance was ajar. Without pausing, Wren slipped through the opening and down the cobbled drive to the porte-cochère. Here, trash had accumulated in the corners, blown by the wind into fantastic shapes. In the blackness beneath the carriageway entrance was set a lone oaken door, festooned with graffiti but solid-looking nonetheless. Wren raised his bony hand, rapped once, then again.
The echo of his knock was lost in the vast spaces within. For a minute, perhaps two, all remained still. Then there was the rasp of a heavy lock being turned, and the door slowly creaked open. Yellow light filtered out. Pendergast stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the paleness of his features enhanced by the incandescent glow of the hallway. Without a word, he ushered Wren in, then closed and locked the door behind them.
Wren followed the FBI agent through the marbled entranceway and into a long, wood-paneled gallery. Then he stopped abruptly. The last time he had seen this house was during the summer, when he'd spent several weeks cataloging the mansion's vast collections while Pendergast was taking his vacation in Kansas. At the time, the inside of the house had been as much a ruin as the outside: paneling torn away, floorboards ripped up, plaster and lath exposed, the by-products of an intense search. Along with Pendergast, Wren was one of only four—no, that would be five—living beings who knew the results of that search, and what those results meant.
But now the chestnut wainscoting shone with fresh polish; the walls had been replastered and covered in muted Victorian wallpaper; and everywhere, brass and copper fittings glowed in the dim light. In dozens of inlaid nooks and on marble plinths sat specimens from a magnificent collection: meteorites, gemstones, rare butterflies, fossils of long-extinct species. Within this house, a cabinet of curiosities unmatched by any other had been restored to a magnificence it had not enjoyed in a hundred years. Yet it was a cabinet destined to remain hidden from the world.
"I love what you've done with the place," Wren said, waving his hand around the room.
Pendergast inclined his head.
"I'm amazed you accomplished it so quickly. Just two months ago the house was a shambles."
Pendergast began leading the way down the gallery. "Cajun craftsmen and carpenters
from south of the Bayou Têche served my family well in earlier years. They proved themselves invaluable once again. Though they did not approve of the—shall we say—environs?"
Wren chuckled faintly, tunelessly. "I have to agree with them. It seems odd, you taking up residence here, when you have such a delightful place down at the Dakota that's—" He stopped in midsentence, eyes widening in understanding. "Unless…?"
Pendergast nodded. "Yes, Wren. That is the reason. One of them, anyway."
They were now passing into a vast reception hall, its domed ceiling repainted a Wedgwood blue. Rippled glass cabinets lined the walls, full of more artifacts, beautifully displayed. Small mounted dinosaur skeletons and taxidermied animals were arrayed around the parquet floor. Wren plucked at Pendergast's sleeve. "How is she?"
Pendergast stopped. "She is well. Physically. Emotionally, as well as could be expected. We're making slow progress. It's been so long, you see."
Wren nodded his understanding. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a DVD.
"Here it is," he said, passing it to Pendergast. "A complete inventory of the collections within this house, cataloged and indexed to the best of my ability."
Pendergast nodded.
"It still amazes me that the world's preeminent cabinet of curiosities is housed under this roof."
"Indeed. And I trust you found the pieces I gave you from it payment enough for your services?"
"Oh, yes," Wren whispered. "Yes, yes, they were definitely payment enough."
"As I recall, you were so long on restoring a certain Indian ledger book I was afraid the rightful owner would get restive."
"One can't hurry art," Wren sniffed. "And it was such a beautiful ledger book. It's just that… it's just time, you know. Time bears away all things, as Virgil said. It's bearing away my books right now, my lovely books, faster than I can restore them." Wren's domicile was the seventh and deepest sub-basement of the New York Public Library, where he held court over uncataloged legions of decaying books, their endless stacks navigable by no one but himself.
"Indeed. Then it must be a relief to know that your work here is done."
"I'd have inventoried the library as well, but she seems to retain everything about it in her head." And Wren allowed himself a bitter laugh.
"Her knowledge of this house is remarkable, and I've found uses for it already."
Wren glanced at him inquiringly.
"I'm planning to ask her to examine the library's holdings on Satan."
"Satan? That's a broad topic, hypocrite lecteur."
"As it happens, I'm interested in just one aspect. The death of human beings at the hand of the devil."
"You mean, as in selling one's soul? Payment for services rendered, that kind of thing?"
Pendergast nodded.
"It’s still a broad topic."
"I'm not interested in literature, Wren. I'm interested solely in nonfiction sources. Primary sources. Preferably first-person and eyewitness accounts."
"You've been in this house too long."
"I find it's beneficial to keep her occupied. And, as you said yourself, she knows the library's holdings so well."
"I see." And Wren let his gaze stray toward a set of doors in the far wall.
Pendergast followed his gaze. "You wish to see her?"
"Are you surprised? I'm practically her godfather, after what happened here this summer. You forget my role."
"I forget nothing, and will always be in your debt for that, if nothing else." And without another word, Pendergast stepped forward and noiselessly opened the doors.
Wren peered through them. His yellow eyes grew bright. On the far side lay a large and sumptuously appointed library. Case after case of richly bound books rose to the ceiling, firelight warming their leather spines. A dozen small sofas and wing chairs were arranged across a thick Persian carpet. In one of the chairs, sitting before the fire, was a young woman, paging through an oversize book of lithographs. She was wearing a pinafore over a white dress and black stockings, and as she turned another page, the firelight shone on her slender limbs, her dark hair and eyes. On a low table nearby sat a tea service, laid out for two.
Pendergast cleared his throat gently and the girl looked up. Her eyes went from the FBI agent to Wren, and for a moment, fear flashed through them. But then recognition spread across her features. She put the book aside, stood up, smoothed her pinafore, and waited for the two men to approach.
"How are you, Constance?" Wren asked in as soothing a croak as he could manage.
"Very well, Mr. Wren, thank you." Constance gave a small curtsy. "And yourself?"
"Busy, very busy. My books take up all my time."
"I shouldn't think one would speak grudgingly of such a noble occupation." Constance's tone was grave, but the faintest of smiles touched her lips—in amusement? condescension?—and was gone again before Wren could be sure.
"No, no, of course not." Wren tried not to stare. How, in such a short time, could he have forgotten that studied voice with its quaint constructions? How could he forget those eyes, so very ancient, yet set in such a young and beautiful face? He cleared his throat. "So tell me, Constance, how you pass your days."
"Rather tranquilly. In the mornings, I read Latin and Greek, under the direction of Aloysius. My afternoons are my own, and I generally spend them browsing the collections, correcting the occasional inaccurate label I happen to come across."
Wren darted a quick look at Pendergast.
"We have a late tea, during which Aloysius generally reads to me from the newspapers. After dinner, I practice the violin. Wretchedly. Aloysius suffers me to believe he finds my playing bearable."
"Dr. Pendergast is the most honest of people."
"Let us say Dr. Pendergast is the most tactful of people."
"Be that as it may, I'd love to hear you play sometime."
"I would be delighted." And Constance curtsied again.
Wren nodded, turned to leave.
"Mr. Wren?" Constance called after him.
Wren turned, beetled eyebrows raised in query.
She looked back at him. "Thank you again. For everything."
Pendergast quietly shut the doors to the library and accompanied Wren back down the echoing galleries.
"You read her the newspapers?" Wren asked.
"Just selected articles, of course. It seemed the easiest form of—how best to put it?—social decompression. We're now up to the 1960s."
"And her nocturnal, ah, rambles?"
"Now that she's under my care, there's no need for foraging. And I've decided on the site of her recuperation: my great-aunt's estate on the Hudson. It's deserted these days. It should be a good reintroduction to sunlight, if handled gently enough."
"Sunlight." Wren repeated the word slowly, as if tasting it. "It still seems impossible she was there all that time, after what happened, in those tunnels down by the river access. I keep wondering why she revealed herself to me."
"Perhaps she'd grown to trust you. She'd watched you at work long enough, over the summer. You clearly loved the collections, which are precious to her as well. Or perhaps she had just reached the point where human contact was necessary, no matter what the risk."
Wren shook his head. "Are you sure, really sure, she's only nineteen years old?"
"That question is more difficult than it sounds. Physically, her body is that of a nineteen-year-old."
They had reached the front door, and Wren waited for Pendergast to unlock it. "Thank you, Wren," the FBI agent said, opening the door. Night air rushed in, carrying with it the faint sounds of traffic.
Wren stepped through the door, paused, turned back. "Have you decided what you're going to do about her?"
For a moment, Pendergast did not reply. Then he nodded silently.
{ 8 }
The Renaissance Salon of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of the museum's most remarkable spaces. Taken piece by piece, stone by stone, from the ancient Pala
zzo Dati of Florence and reassembled in Manhattan, it re-created in perfect detail a late Renaissances alone. It was the most imposing and austere of all the grand galleries in the museum, and for this reason, it was chosen for the memorial service of Jeremy Grove.
D'Agosta felt like an idiot in his cop's uniform, with its Southampton P.D. patch in gold and blue and its lowly sergeant's stripes. People turned toward him quickly, stared as if he was some kind of freak, and then just as quickly dismissed him as hired help and turned away.
As he followed Pendergast into the hall, D'Agosta was surprised to see a long table groaning with food, and another sporting enough bottles of wine and liquor to lay low a herd of rhinos. Some memorial service. More like an Irish wake. D'Agosta had been to a few of those during his NYPD days and felt lucky to have survived them. They'd obviously set this whole thing up with remarkable speed—Grove had been dead only two days.
The room was crowded. There were no chairs: people were meant to mingle, not sit reverentially. Several television crews had set up their gear near a carpet-covered stage, which was bare save for a small podium. A harpsichord stood in a far corner of the salon, but it was barely audible over the noise of the crowd. If there was anybody shedding tears over Grove, they were hiding it pretty well.
Pendergast leaned over. "Vincent, if you are interested in any comestibles, now is the time to act. With a crowd like this, they won't last long."
"Comestibles? You mean that food on the table? No, thanks." His dalliance with the literary world had taught him that events like these served things like fish eggs and cheese that smelled so bad it encouraged you to check the bottom of your shoes.
"Then shall we circulate?" Pendergast began moving sylphlike through the crowd. Now a lone man mounted the stage: impeccably dressed, tall, hair carefully groomed back, face glistening with a professional makeup job. The crowd hushed even before he reached the microphone.
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