Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  His breath suspended, timing his shots between heartbeats, Vasquez pressed his cheek against the pebbled stock and squeezed the trigger slowly. The weapon bucked in his hands; in a flash, he'd drawn the bolt, resighted, and fired again.

  The first shot had been perfectly placed. It spun the target in exactly the right way, the next shot coming a split second later, entering just above the ear, the head exploding in all directions. Pendergast fell back into the shadows of the door frame and disappeared.

  Vasquez now moved with a swiftness born of years of practice. Leaving the lights out, he threw the gun and laptop into a duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and snugged on the night-vision goggles that would help him to get out the back of the darkened building. He plugged the shooting hole, strode to the door, and with the battery-powered screwdriver backed out the four screws that held the door shut. Then he stripped off the gaffing tape sealing the jambs and quietly opened the door, stepping noiselessly into the hall.

  A flash of light overloaded his goggles, blinding him; he tore them off, reaching down to pull out a sidearm, but a figure in the hallway moved too fast; he was slammed into the wall, still blinded, and the gun went skittering down the passage.

  Vasquez swung wildly at his attacker, barely connecting, and received a tremendous blow to the ribs in return. He swung again, this time connecting solidly, dropping his assailant. It was the Southampton cop. In a fury, Vasquez yanked out his knife and leaped on him, aiming for the heart. A foot lashed out from one side; he felt it connect with his forearm, heard the snap, fell to the floor, and was immediately pinned.

  The cop was on him. And there, beyond the brilliant glow of the lamp, he stood. Pendergast. The man he had just killed.

  Vasquez stared, his mind instantly rearranging the facts.

  It had been a setup. They must've known almost from the start what was going on. Pendergast had played his part perfectly. Vasquez had shot some dummy, some special-effects dummy. Mother of God.

  He had failed. Failed.

  Vasquez couldn't quite believe it.

  Pendergast was staring at him closely, frowning. Suddenly his eyes widened, as if in understanding. "His mouth!" he said sharply.

  D'Agosta shoved something wooden between his teeth, as he would for a dog or an epileptic. But it wouldn't do any good, Vasquez thought as the pain began to build in his broken arm. That wasn't where he carried his cyanide. The needle had been in the tip of his pinkie finger, shot off many years ago and now harnessed to another purpose. He pressed the prosthetic fingertip hard into his palm, felt the ampoule break, pressed the needle into his skin. The pain died away as numbness began stealing up his arm.

  The day I fail is the day I die…

  { 43 }

  The cab pulled up at the grand courtyard of the Helmsley Palace. D'Agosta hastened around the cab and opened the door for Hayward, who got out, looking around at the fanciful topiaries covered with lights, the Baroque facade of the Helmsley Palace rising around her.

  "This is where we're having dinner?"

  D'Agosta nodded. "Le Cirque 2000."

  "Oh my God. When I said a nice dinner, I didn't mean this."

  D'Agosta took her arm and led her to the door. "Why not? If we're going to start something, let's start it right."

  Hayward knew that Le Cirque 2000 was possibly the most expensive restaurant in New York City. She had always felt uncomfortable when men spent a pile on her, as if money was somehow the way to her heart. But this time it felt different. It said something about Vinnie D'Agosta, about how he looked at their relationship, that boded well for the future.

  Future? She wondered why that word had even entered her mind. This was a first date—sort of. D'Agosta wasn't even divorced, had a wife and kid in Canada. True, he was interesting, and he was a damn good cop. Take it easy and see where it goes—that's all.

  They entered the restaurant—jammed, even on a Sunday night—and were met by one of those maître d's who managed to convey an outward expression of groveling subservience while simultaneously projecting inner contempt. He regretted to inform them that, despite their reservation, the table wasn't ready; if they would care to make themselves comfortable in the bar, it shouldn't be more than thirty minutes, forty at the outside.

  "Excuse me. Did you say forty minutes?" D'Agosta spoke in a quiet yet menacing way.

  "There's a large party… I'll see what I can do."

  "You’ll see what you can do?" D'Agosta smiled and took a step closer. "Or you’ll do it?"

  "I'll do what I can, sir."

  "I have no doubt that what you can do is get us a table in fifteen minutes, and that is what you will do."

  "Of course. Naturally, sir." Now the maître d' was in full retreat. "And in the meantime," he went on, voice artificially high and bright, "I'll have a bottle of champagne sent to your table, compliments of the house."

  D'Agosta took her arm and they went into the bar, which was decorated with a confusion of neon lights Hayward figured must somehow represent the "circus" theme of the restaurant. It was fun—if you didn't have to spend too long in there.

  They sat down at a table, and a waiter soon appeared unbidden with menus, two glasses, and a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

  She laughed. "That was pretty effective, the way you handled that maître d'."

  "If I can't intimidate a waiter, what kind of a cop am I?"

  "I think he was expecting a tip."

  D'Agosta glanced at her quickly. "You do?"

  "But you managed it all right and saved yourself some money."

  D'Agosta grunted. "Next time I'll give him a fiver."

  "That would be worse than nothing at all. The going rate is at least twenty."

  "Jesus. Life is complicated at the top." He raised his glass. "Toast?"

  She raised hers.

  "To…" He hesitated. "To New York's finest."

  She felt relieved he hadn't said what she expected. They clinked glasses. She sipped, looking at him while he studied the menu the waiter had left. It seemed he'd slimmed down a bit since she first ran into him at Cutforth's apartment. He'd mentioned something about working out every day, and it was pretty evident he wasn't kidding. Working out and shooting at the 27th Precinct range. She took in his hard, clean jawline, jet-black hair, soft brown eyes. He had a nice face, a really nice face. He seemed to be that rarest of finds in New York: a genuinely decent guy. With strong, old-fashioned values, solid, kind, steady—but no wimp, as proved by his surprise performance three nights before in her office…

  She found herself blushing and tingling at the same time, and she covered it by raising her own menu. She glanced over the list of main courses and was horrified to see that the cheapest, the paupiette of black sea bass, was thirty-nine dollars. The cheapest appetizer was twenty-three dollars, for the braised pigs' feet and cheeks (no, thank you). Her eye looked in vain for anything under twenty dollars, finally coming to rest on the dessert menu, where the first item that caught her eye—a donut!—was ten dollars. Well, there was no help for it. She swallowed and began picking out her dishes, trying to avoid adding up the sums in her head.

  Vincent was looking over the wine list, and she had to admit he hadn't lost any color, at least not yet. In fact, he seemed positively expansive.

  "Red or white?" he asked.

  "I think I'm going to have fish."

  "White, then. The Cakebread Chardonnay." He shut the menu and smiled at her. "This is fun, don't you think?"

  "I've never been in a restaurant like this in my life."

  "Me neither, to tell you the truth."

  By the time their table was ready, fifteen minutes later, the bottle of champagne was half gone and Hayward was feeling no pain. The maître d' seated them in the first dining room, a spacious chamber done in opulent Second Empire style with gilded moldings, high windows with silk brocade draperies, and crystal chandeliers, the effect curiously enhanced by suspended neon lighting and several floral arrangements as large as
small elephants. The only drawback was the large party next to them, a table of loud people from one of the outer boroughs—Queens, by the accent. Well, you can't bar people at the door because they have the wrong accent, she thought.

  D'Agosta ordered for them, and Hayward was once again impressed with his self-assurance, which she hadn't expected, especially in a place like this.

  "Where'd you learn so much about haute cuisine?" she asked.

  "Are you kidding?" D'Agosta grinned. "I recognized about half the words on the menu. I was just winging it."

  "Well, you could have fooled me."

  "Maybe it's all the time I'm spending with Pendergast. He's rubbing off on me."

  She nudged him. "Isn't that Michael Douglas in the corner?"

  He turned. "So it is." Turned back, unimpressed.

  She nodded. "And look who's over there." A woman sat in a quiet corner by herself, eating a plate of french fries, dipping each one in a large dish of ketchup and pushing them into her mouth with evident satisfaction.

  D'Agosta stared. "She kinda looks familiar. Who is she?"

  "You been living under a rock? Madonna."

  "Really? Must've dyed her hair or something."

  "This would make a great scene in a novel. Maybe your next."

  "There won't be a next."

  "Why not? I loved those two books you wrote. You've got real talent."

  He shook his head. "Talent—maybe. My problem is, I don't have the touch."

  "What touch?"

  He rubbed his fingers together. "The money touch."

  "A lot of people never get one novel published. You got two. And they were good. You can't give it up totally, Vinnie."

  He shook his head. "Did I ever tell you this isn't my favorite subject?"

  "I'll drop it if you want. For now. I actually wanted to ask you a question. I know we shouldn't be talking shop, but how in the world did Pendergast know that guy—what's his name, Vasquez—was gunning for him? Interpol's been chasing that killer for ten years, and he's a pro if ever there was one."

  "I could hardly believe it myself. But when he explained, it made perfect sense. Bullard—who was no doubt behind it—felt threatened enough to set two goons on me after our first interview. Pendergast figured Bullard was desperate to leave the country and wouldn't let anybody stand in his way. He also figured Bullard would try again, this time against him. So he asked himself how a professional killer would do it. The answer was obvious: set yourself up in the vacant building across the street from his house. So right after we took Bullard downtown, Pendergast began watching the boarded-up windows of that building with a telescope. Soon enough, he noticed a fresh hole cut in the plywood. Bingo! That's when he let me in on it, told me what he was planning to do. Next, Pendergast established a routine so he could control when the man would strike."

  "But how did he have the guts to walk in and out of his house, leaving himself exposed?"

  "Whenever he stepped out of the building, he had Proctor train the telescope on the peephole. At one point, he had me shoot out a bulb on the street at a critical moment. That's when he tagged the man's weapon, knew the killer had missed his opportunity for the day. Figured he'd therefore act the next. So last night we had the dummy all ready for him. Proctor handled it perfectly, wheeled it out so just the upper part was visible."

  "But why not just go in and take the guy out beforehand? Why run the risk?"

  "No proof, for one thing. On top of that, the guy was barricaded in there—he might have slipped through our fingers. As you said, he was a real pro. And for sure he would have put up resistance. His vulnerable moment was while he was escaping. We just waited for him to run into our trap."

  Hayward nodded. "That explains a lot."

  "Too bad the guy took the suicide route."

  Their first courses arrived, whisked to their table by no less than three waiters, with the sommelier hard on their heels to fill their wineglasses and another functionary to top off their water glasses.

  "Now I've got a question for you," said D'Agosta. "How'd you make captain? So fast, I mean."

  "There's no great mystery. I saw how things were going, so I went and got my M.S. from NYU in forensic psychology. A degree really helps these days—and, of course, it didn't hurt that I'm a woman."

  "Affirmative action?"

  "More like belated action. Once the lid of oppression was lifted off the force by Commissioner Rocker, naturally some of us rose to the surface. They looked around in a panic and realized there weren't any high-level women on the force—because they'd been discriminating against us forever—and began promoting. I was in the right place at the right time, with the right test scores and credentials."

  "Ambition and talent had nothing to do with it?"

  "I wouldn't say that." She smiled.

  "Neither would I." Vincent sipped his wine. "Where'd you grow up?"

  "Macon, Georgia. My dad was a welder, my mom a homemaker. I had an older brother, killed in Vietnam. Friendly fire. I was eight."

  "I'm sorry."

  Hayward shook her head. "My parents never recovered. Dad died a year later, Mom the year after that. Cancer, both of them, but I think it was more from grief. He was their pride and joy."

  "That's really hard."

  "That was a long time ago, and I had a wonderful grandmother in Islip who raised me. It helped me realize I was pretty much alone in this world and that nobody would kick ass for me. I'd have to do the kicking myself."

  "You've done a good job of it."

  "It's a game."

  He paused. "You really shooting for commissioner?"

  She smiled, saying nothing, then raised her glass. "Nice to have you back in the Big Apple where you belong, Vinnie."

  "I'll drink to that. You don't know how I've missed this town."

  "Best place in the world to be a cop."

  "When I was a lieutenant, back during the museum murders, I never really appreciated it. I thought it would be great to get out of the city, live in the country, breathe fresh air for a change, listen to the birds chirping, watch the leaves turn color. I wanted to go fishing every Sunday. But you know what? Fishing is boring, the birds wake you up in the morning, and instead of Le Cirque, up in Radium Hot Springs you've got Betty Daye's Family-Style Restaurant."

  "Where you can feed a family of four for what it costs here to buy a donut."

  "Yeah, but who wants chicken-fried steak at four ninety-nine when you can have duck magret dusted with Espelette pimento for only forty-one bucks?"

  Hayward laughed. "That's what I love about New York—nothing's normal. Everything's totally over the top. Here we are having dinner in the same room with Madonna and Michael Douglas."

  "New York'll drive you crazy, but it's never boring."

  She took a sip of wine and the waiter rushed over to refill her glass. "Is there really a town called Radium Hot Springs up there? It sounds like a joke."

  "I've been there. I'm pretty sure it's real."

  "What was it like?"

  "I kid about it, but it wasn't a bad place. Small town, good values. Canadians are a friendly bunch. But it wasn't home. I always felt like an exile, you know what I mean? And it was too damn quiet. I thought I'd go crazy, I couldn't concentrate with all those chirping birds. Give me the roar of rock-solid Friday afternoon Midtown gridlock, stretching from river to river. Man, that's the voice of life itself."

  Hayward laughed as their main courses arrived with a flurry of white-gloved waiters.

  "I could definitely get used to this," said D'Agosta, leaning back and tucking into his duck magret, following it with a swig of Chardonnay.

  Hayward placed a sea scallop étuvée in her mouth and savored it. She didn't believe she had ever tasted anything quite so good in her life. "You did well, Vinnie," she said with a smile. "You really did well."

  { 44 }

  D'Agosta had never been in the place before, but everything about it was dismally familiar. At least the sharp tang
of alcohol and formaldehyde and God only knew what other chemicals helped chase away a lingering hangover. He and Laura Hayward hadn't left the restaurant until 11:30 the night before. At the sommelier's suggestion, he'd splurged on a demi bottle of dessert wine—Château d'Yquem 1990, it had cost him a week's pay at least—and it had proved to be the most wonderful wine he'd ever tasted. The whole evening had proved wonderful, in fact.

  What a tragedy that it had to be followed up by this.

  The mingled smell of formalin, bodily fluids, and decomposition; the overly clean stainless-steel surfaces; the bank of refrigerating units; the sinister-looking diener lurking in the background; the attending pathologist—and of course the cadaver, star of the show, lying in the middle of the room on an old marble autopsy table, illuminated by its very own spotlight. It had been autopsied—disassembled was more like it—and a bunch of withered, sliced-and-diced organs lay arrayed around the corpse, each in its own plastic container: brain, heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and a bunch of other dark lumps D'Agosta did not care to guess at.

  Still, this wasn't as bad as some. Maybe it was because the parade of insects had come and gone and the corpse had decayed to the point where it was as much skeleton as flesh. Or perhaps it was because the smell of suppuration had almost been replaced by a smell of earth. Or maybe—D'Agosta hoped—maybe he was finally getting used to it. Or was he? He felt that familiar tightening in his throat. At least he'd been smart enough to skip breakfast.

  He watched the doctor standing at the head of the corpse, round black glasses pulled down on his nose, thumbing through a clipboard. He was a laconic type, with salt-and-pepper hair and a slow, economical way of talking. He looked irritated. "Well, well," he said, flipping over papers. "Well, well."