Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  "Reporter from the Post."

  "No kidding."

  "Take my picture!"

  To pay my respects to the Man in Red. There was his quote. Time to wrap it up. "Name? Spell it."

  "Shawn O'Connor."

  "Age?"

  "Fourteen."

  Unbelievable. "Okay, Shawn, one last question. Why the devil? What's so important about the devil?"

  "He's the man!" he whooped, and his friends took up the cry, high-fiving each other. "The man!"

  Harriman moved off. God, the world was full of morons; they were breeding like rabbits, especially in New Jersey. Now he needed a contrast, someone who took all this seriously. A priest—he needed a priest. Just his luck: there were two men with collars, quiet, standing not far away.

  "Excuse me!" he called out, forcing his way toward them through the growing crowd. As the two turned to him, Harriman was taken aback by the expressions on their faces. Fear, real fear, mingled with the sorrow and pain.

  "Harriman with the Post. May I ask what you're doing here?"

  The older of the two men stepped forward. He had a lot of dignity; he really seemed out of place in this hysteria. "We're bearing witness."

  "Witness to what?"

  "The last earthly days." The way the man said it sent a flurry of goose bumps along Harriman's spine.

  "You really think the world's coming to an end?"

  The man quoted solemnly: " 'Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit.' "

  The other, younger man nodded. " 'She shall be utterly burned with fire: for strong is the Lord God who judgeth her. And the kings of the earth, who have committed fornication and lived deliciously with her, shall bewail her, and lament for her, when they shall see the smoke of her burning.' "

  " 'Alas, alas, that great city Babylon, that mighty city!' " the first priest went on. " 'For in one hour is thy judgment come.' "

  Harriman had drawn out his pad and was scribbling to get this down, but the first priest laid a gentle hand over his. "Revelation, chapter 18."

  "Right, thanks. What church are you from?"

  "Our Lady of Long Island City."

  "Thanks." Harriman got their names and backed away hastily, tucking his notebook into his pocket. Their calmness, their certitude, spooked him more than all the hysteria around him.

  There was a stirring along one edge of the crowd. A small convoy of police cars was approaching, lights flashing. There was a sudden eruption of flashes and television lights. He pushed forward, brutally shoving his way through a group of soundmen: he was Harriman of the Post, he wasn't going to sit at the back of the class. But the crowd itself was now surging forward, desperate for news.

  A woman had stepped out of an unmarked cruiser at the rear of the convoy, dressed in a suit but with a shield riding shotgun on what looked like an amazing set of knockers: a really good-looking young woman, with a bunch of men now falling into place behind her. Young, but clearly in charge. It looked to Harriman like she didn't want to talk to the crowd at all, but needed to take charge before things grew any uglier.

  She positioned herself behind a barricade of uniformed cops and held up her hand against the clamor of the press.

  "Five minutes for questions. Then this crowd is going to have to disband."

  More incoherent yelling as a thicket of boom microphones was thrust forward.

  She waited, surveying the crowd, while the shouting continued. Finally she checked her watch and spoke again. "Four minutes."

  That shut up the rows of press. The rest—the party people, the witches and satanists, the weirdos with crystals or perfumes—realized something interesting was about to happen and quieted down a little as well.

  "I'm Captain Laura Hayward of NYPD Homicide." She spoke in a clear but soft voice, which forced the crowd to quiet further, straining to listen. "The deceased is Nigel Cutforth, who died at approximately 11:15 last night. Cause of death is unknown at this point, but homicide is suspected."

  Tell me something new, Harriman said to himself.

  "I'll take a few questions now," she said. There was an eruption of shouting, and she pointed at one frantically waving journalist.

  The questions tumbled out. "Have the police noted connections between this and the death of Jeremy Grove? Are there similarities? Differences?"

  A wry smile appeared on her lips. "We have. Yes and yes. Next?"

  "Any suspects?"

  "Not at this point."

  "Was there a burned hoofprint or any other sign of the devil?"

  "No hoofprint."

  "We heard there was a face scorched into the wall?"

  The smile left the woman's face briefly. "It was an irregular blotch that suggested a face to some."

  "What kind of face?"

  The wry smile. "Those who've claimed to see the face have labeled it ugly."

  This caused a renewed clamor.

  "Is it the face of the devil? Horns? Did it have horns?" These questions were shouted simultaneously by a dozen people. The mikes boomed in closer, knocking against each other.

  "Not having seen the devil," Hayward answered, "I can't say. There were no horns I'm aware of."

  Harriman scribbled frantically in his notebook. A bunch of reporters were now asking if she thought it was the devil, but she was ignoring this. Oh my God, was that Geraldo shouting over there? He definitely should've been here last night.

  "Was it the devil? What's your opinion?" was cried from several quarters at once.

  She held up a hand. "I'd like to answer that question."

  That really shut them up.

  "We have enough flesh-and-blood devils in this town, thank you, that we don't need to conjure up any supernatural ones."

  "So how did he die?" a reporter shouted. "What were the injuries caused by? Was he cooked, like the other one?"

  "An autopsy is currently under way. We'll be able to tell you more when it's completed." She was talking calmly and rationally, but Harriman wasn't fooled. The NYPD didn't even begin to have a handle on the case—and he'd be saying as much in his story.

  "Thank you," she was saying, "and good afternoon. Now, let's break it up, people."

  More clamor. More police were arriving and working to control the crowd at last, pushing them back, setting up barricades, directing traffic.

  Harriman turned away, already writing the lead in his head. This was one hell of a story. At last—at long, long last—he was going to get a run for his money.

  { 23 }

  As the vintage Rolls-Royce approached the gates of the East Cove Yacht Harbor, D'Agosta shifted in the backseat, staring out the window, trying to forget just how stiff and sore he felt. What with Cutforth's murder and all the attendant crime-scene business, he couldn't have gotten more than two hours' sleep.

  For this particular errand, Pendergast had left his chauffeur, Proctor, behind, preferring to drive the big car himself. It was a beautiful fall day, and the morning sun shimmered on the bay like silver coins tossed on the waves. The Staten Island ferry was lumbering out of its berth, churning the water behind, flags snapping, trailed by a screaming flock of seagulls. The blue hump of Staten Island rose on the horizon, grading imperceptibly into the low outline of New Jersey. The smell of salt air flowed in the open windows.

  D'Agosta turned his gaze toward the marina. A wall kept the gaze of the vulgar from the ranks of gleaming yachts, but from the top of Coenties Slip you could still see them lined up in their berths, splendid and sparkling in the bright sun.

  "You're never going to get in without a warrant," said D'Agosta. "I talked to Bullard. I know what the guy's like."

  "We shall see," said Pendergast. "I always prefer to start with a gentle approach."

  "And if the gentle approach doesn't work?"

  "Firmer measures might be in order."

  D'Agosta wondered what Pendergast's idea of "firmer" was.

  Pendergast slowed the Rolls an
d, turning to a custom-built cherry wood bay beside the driver's seat, tapped on the keys of the laptop set within it. They were approaching the chain-link gate leading into the marina's general parking area, but the man in the guardhouse had seen the Rolls approaching and was already opening the gate. Pendergast stopped the car just inside the lot, where they had a good view of the Upper Bay. On the screen of the laptop, the image of a magnificent yacht had appeared.

  It didn't take long to locate the real thing among the forest of masts and spars riding at anchor just beyond the lot.

  D'Agosta whistled. "That's some boat."

  "Indeed. A 2003 Feadship motor yacht with a de Voogt custom-designed hull. Fifty-two meters in length, with a displacement of seven hundred and forty metric tons. Twin Caterpillar 2,500-horsepower diesels, cruising speed thirty knots. It's got enormous range and it's extremely comfortable."

  "How much?"

  "Bullard paid forty-eight million for it."

  "Jesus. What does he need a boat like that for?"

  "Perhaps he doesn't care for flying. Or perhaps he likes to operate away from prying ears and eyes. A boat like that makes keeping to international waters easy indeed."

  "Funny, in the last interview with Bullard, I had the impression that he was anxious not to be detained in the country. That maybe he was planning an international trip."

  Pendergast looked at him sharply. "Indeed?" He eased the car toward the second layer of security: the gate into VIP parking, manned by a pugnacious little redheaded security guard with a jutting chin. D'Agosta immediately knew the type. He was the kind who made it a point not to be impressed by anyone or anything: not even a '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith.

  "Yeah?"

  Pendergast hung his shield out the window. "We're here to see Mr. Locke Bullard."

  The man looked at the badge, looked back at Pendergast. His face was creased with suspicion. "And him?"

  D'Agosta passed his own badge to the man.

  "What's it about?"

  "Police business."

  "I gotta call."

  The man took the shields back into his cubicle, got on the horn, spoke for a few minutes, came back with the badges and a cordless phone.

  "He wants to talk to somebody named D'Agosta."

  "That's me."

  The man handed him the phone.

  "D'Agosta here."

  Bullard's deep voice filled the wire. "I figured you'd be back."

  At the sound of the voice, D'Agosta immediately felt himself bristle. This was the man who had tried to humiliate him at the Athletic Club; who, just perhaps, had very nearly gotten him shot. Nevertheless, he tried hard to check his temper. "We can either do this nicely," he said as evenly as possible, "or it can get unpleasant. Up to you, Bullard."

  A burst of laughter sounded at the other end. "You tried that same stale line on me back at the club. Let me tell you something. Since we had that pleasant little chat, I've had my people check into you. And now I know all about you. I got every sordid detail of your existence. For example, I know all about that wife of yours in Canada, the one who's been playing hide the salami behind your back these past six months. The guy's name is Chester Dominic, and he sells Winnebagos out of Edgewater—and hey, maybe she's doing him right now. Think about that, huh?"

  D'Agosta's hand tightened around the phone.

  "I also got the sales figures on your novels. Last one sold 6,215 copies. Hardcover and paperback. And that's counting all the copies your mother bought. Watch your back, Stephen King!" More harsh laughter. "Then I got your personnel files from your stint with the NYPD, including your disciplinary records. Interesting reading. And I got your medical and psychiatric records, too, even the ones from Canada. Too bad about those hard-on problems. Maybe that's why your wife's spreading her charms for old Chet. And depression, gee, that's tough. Did you take your Zoloft this morning? Amazing what you can find out when you own an HMO, isn't it? Reading all this over, a couple of phrases come to mind. Phrases like broken-down. Washed-up. Loser."

  A thin curtain of red seemed to drop before D'Agosta's eyes. "You've just made the mistake of your life, Bullard."

  More laughter and the line went dead.

  D'Agosta handed the phone back to the attendant. His face was on fire. The son of a bitch. The son of a bitch. It was illegal—wasn't it? Digging up that kind of personal information. Bullard had been speaking loudly, and D'Agosta wondered if his voice had carried as far as Pendergast. He swallowed, fought hard to master his rising rage.

  "You're blocking the gate," said the man in the booth. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Sir."

  "We'll drive around the block," Pendergast told the attendant, "and give Mr. Bullard time to change his mind."

  "He's not going to change his mind."

  Pendergast gave the attendant a long, sympathetic look. "You'll know when to step aside, I hope? For your own sake, of course."

  "What do you mean?"

  Without waiting for an answer, Pendergast put the Rolls in reverse and hit the gas, leaving a satisfying patch of rubber. He turned around in the parking lot, then nosed out onto State Street. He glanced over at D'Agosta. "Are you all right, Vincent?"

  "I'm fine," D'Agosta said through gritted teeth.

  Pendergast turned right and began circling the block. "Mr. Bullard, it seems, needs a firmer hand."

  "Yeah."

  Pendergast reached down with one hand and punched in a number on the in-dash cell phone.

  A ring sounded over the speaker, then the phone was answered by a familiar voice. "Captain Hayward."

  "Captain? It's Pendergast. We're going to need that subpoena and warrant I called you about this morning."

  "On what grounds?"

  "Refusal to cooperate. Imminent flight risk."

  "Come on. Bullard's not some Colombian drug dealer or Middle Eastern terrorist. He's a leading American industrialist."

  "Yes, with overseas accounts and overseas factories, who happens to be on his yacht, fueled to its maximum capacity and fully stocked for a transatlantic voyage. He can reach Canada, Mexico, South America, or Europe on one tank—take your pick."

  There was a sigh. "He's an American. He's got a passport. He's free to leave."

  "He's an uncooperative witness. He won't answer questions."

  "A lot of people won't answer questions."

  "Both Grove and Cutforth called him just before they were murdered. There's a connection, and we need to find it."

  Another irritated sigh. "This is just the kind of irregular operation that looks bad in court."

  "He threatened Sergeant D'Agosta."

  "He did?" Her voice sounded a little sharper.

  "An implied blackmail threat over personal information he collected through Northern Health Atlantic Management, the HMO he owns."

  So he did hear, D'Agosta thought.

  "That right?" There was a pause. "All right, then, go ahead. The papers are all ready and just need to be signed."

  "Excellent." Pendergast gave a fax number.

  "Agent Pendergast?"

  "Yes?"

  "Don't make a hash of this. I care about my career."

  "I care about it, too."

  The fax peeled out of the tiny impact printer just as they rounded Pearl Street and headed back toward the yacht harbor. Driving slowly through the outer lot, Pendergast tore it from the printer and handed it to the VIP attendant.

  "You again?" the man said as he took the fax.

  Pendergast smiled, put his fingers to his lips. "Not a word to Bullard."

  The man read the fax, handed it back. There was something in his face that, perhaps, didn't look entirely displeased at the turn of events.

  "Time to step aside," said Pendergast quietly.

  "Yes, sir."

  They parked in the VIP lot, and Pendergast opened the trunk. He gestured to D'Agosta. "For you."

  D'Agosta peered in. A federal-issue battering ram lay inside, black and ugly and about three feet lon
g, the kind DEA agents used in drug busts.

  "You got to be kidding."

  "Firmness, my dear Vincent," said Pendergast, smiling faintly.

  D'Agosta grabbed the ram by its two handles and hefted it out. They headed down the walkway to the central dock. Ahead and to one side, tethered in its own private slip, the yacht loomed bigger than life: white with three enclosed decks, dozens of smoked windows, and a conning tower bristling with electronics. The name Stormcloud was stenciled on the stern.

  "What about crew?" D'Agosta asked.

  "My information is that Bullard's alone."

  The private slip had its own dock behind a locked gate. Pendergast knelt before it, raising his hands to the lock. It looked to D'Agosta as if the FBI agent was just testing the lock to see if it might be ajar. Perhaps it was, because the gate swung open obediently in his hands.

  "We need to be brisk," said Pendergast as he rose.

  D'Agosta humped himself forward, lugging the ram. Despite renewed sessions in the gym since the gunfight in the park, he was still out of shape, the ram weighed at least forty pounds, and his bruised limbs protested with each thudding step. The gangplank of the Stormcloud was up, but in the rear, a locked boarding hatch lay just at dock level. Pendergast stopped, plucked his custom Les Baer .45 from his jacket, and stepped back, gesturing toward the hatch.

  "After you, Vincent," he said.

  D'Agosta reached deep down in his memory. What had they taught him at the Academy? Don’t run at the door, swing it into the door. He took a deep breath, gripped the handles as tightly as he could, and heaved the ram forward. The door flew inward with a satisfying smack. Pendergast ducked inside, gun ready, and D'Agosta clambered in behind.

  They were in a narrow corridor, with painted bulkheads along one side and smoked-glass windows along the other. Pendergast threw open a door set into the bulkheads, and suddenly they were in the grand salon of the boat, cocooned in plush cream carpeting with black lacquered tables piped in gold trim.

  "FBI!" Pendergast barked. "Freeze!"

  Bullard stood in the center of the room, wearing a pale blue warm-up suit, cigar in hand, with a look of complete astonishment and—it seemed to D'Agosta—momentary terror.

  "Don't move!"