Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  Now he could feel the foul air tickling his nose, stirring his hair. Everything seemed abnormally clear, and time had slowed to a crawl. Jesus, what a way to go out.

  The gun barrel pressed hard against his skull. D'Agosta squeezed his eyes tightly closed behind the blindfold, prayed for a quick end.

  He took a shallow breath, another. Then came a deafening gunshot. He fell forward into space…

  …Vaguely, as if at a great distance, he sensed a steel arm shooting out from behind and hauling him back from the utter brink. The hand let go, and D'Agosta collapsed immediately onto the rock-strewn grass. A moment later he heard a body—not his—hitting the water far below.

  "Vincent?"

  It was Pendergast.

  A snick and his blindfold was removed; another snick and Pendergast had cut off his gag. D'Agosta lay where he had fallen, stunned.

  "Wake up, Vincent."

  Slowly, D'Agosta came back. Pendergast was standing to one side, gun trained on his own minder, binding him to a tree. D'Agosta's man was nowhere to be seen.

  D'Agosta stumbled woodenly to his feet. He felt a strange wetness on his face. Tears? Dew from the grass? It seemed a miracle. He swallowed, managed to croak, "How… ?"

  But Pendergast simply shook his head and glanced into the yawning mouth of the shaft. "I think his shoe troubles are over." Then he glanced at the remaining guard and flashed him a brief, chilling smile.

  The man paled and mumbled something through his gag.

  Pendergast turned to D'Agosta. "Show me your finger."

  D'Agosta had forgotten all about it. Pendergast took his hand, examined it. "Done with a sharp knife. You're lucky: neither the bone nor the root of the nail was affected." He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his black shirt and bandaged it. "It might be wise to get you to a hospital."

  "The hell with that. We're going after Bullard."

  Pendergast raised his eyebrows. "I'm delighted to hear that we are of the same opinion. Yes, now is a good opportunity. As for your finger—"

  "Forget the finger."

  "As you wish. Here's your service piece."

  Pendergast handed him the Glock 9mm, then turned to his minder and aimed his own Les Baer at the man's temple. "You have one chance—only one—to tell us the best route out. I already know a great deal about the layout of this place, so any attempt to deceive will be detected and instantly answered with a bullet to the parietal lobe. Understand?"

  The man couldn't talk fast enough.

  An hour later, Pendergast and D'Agosta were driving south of Florence on the Via Volterrana, a dark, stone-walled road that curved along the hilltops south of the city. A faint scattering of lights winked from the surrounding hills.

  "How did you do it?" D'Agosta asked. He could still hardly believe it. "I thought we were about to buy the farm."

  They were still in their black stealth outfits, and only Pendergast's hands and face could be seen. In the dim light of the dashboard, his expression was hard and flat. "I have to admit a moment of discomfort back there myself. We were lucky they decided to separate, to kill us one at a time. That was their first mistake. The second was overconfidence and inattention. The third was my man keeping his gun pressed into me—which, of course, revealed exactly where the weapon was at all times. I always carry a few small tools in my shirt cuff, the hem of my trousers, other places. It's an old magicians' trick. I used these to pick the lock of my cuffs. Luckily, the Italian locks were rather crude. When we halted at the pit, I disarmed my opponent with a blow to the solar plexus, removed my blindfold and gag. I then shot the gun into the air while pushing a heavy rock into the quarry with my foot. Next I instructed my guard to order you brought forward—which he did as soon as he recovered his wind. I regret shooting your guard, but there would have been no way to manage both of them… I do not care for killing people in cold blood, but there was no help for it."

  He fell silent.

  D'Agosta felt his own anger grow. He had no sense of regret. His finger was throbbing painfully again, in time to the beat of his heart. Bullard. Pendergast had been correct: the man would pay dearly.

  The car swung around a curve, and there, a half mile ahead, D'Agosta could see the outline of a villa silhouetted against the faint glow of the night sky, a crenellated tower on one end framed by cypress trees.

  "Machiavelli's place of exile," murmured Pendergast.

  The car dipped into a valley, cruising along an ancient wall. Pendergast slowed as they approached an iron gate, then turned off the road. They hid the car in an olive grove and approached the gate.

  "I was expecting heavy security," Pendergast said after quickly examining the lock. "Instead, this gate's open." He peered through. "And the guardhouse appears to be unoccupied."

  "Are you sure we're at the right villa?"

  "Yes." He slowly eased the gate open, and they stepped into the darkness of the villa's great park. Two rows of cypresses lined a drive that led up a hill covered with more olive groves. Pendergast paused, dropping to his hands and knees to examine faint tread marks in the gravel of the drive. Then he stood, looked around, and nodded toward a dense forest of umbrella pines that lay to one side. "That way."

  They moved through the pines, Pendergast stopping every now and then, apparently looking for guards or other signs of security. "Odd," he murmured to himself. "Very odd."

  Soon they reached a thick hedge of laurel, immaculately clipped and impenetrable. They walked along the hedge to a locked gate, which Pendergast deftly picked. Beyond lay a formal Italian garden, low boxwood hedges laid in rectangular shapes, bordered by beds of lavender and marigolds. In the center stood a marble statue of a faun playing panpipes, water pouring from the pipes and splashing into a mossy pool below. Beyond rose the dark facade of the villa.

  They paused to examine the huge structure. It was stuccoed in a pale yellow. A loggia ran across the fourth floor, just under the tiled roof: a row of columns topped by Roman arches. The only sign of life was a faint, flickering glow through the open leaded windows of what appeared to be a grand salone on the second floor.

  Pendergast moved forward again and D'Agosta followed, the burbling fountain masking their footsteps. In another few minutes, they reached the outer wall of the villa itself. There was still no sign of any security.

  "Strange," whispered Pendergast.

  "Maybe Bullard isn't home."

  They passed under one of the great windows of the salone. That was when the smell hit D'Agosta. It was just a fleeting whiff, yet it felt like a physical blow. Instantly his anger turned to disbelief, then to creeping dread.

  "Sulfur."

  "Indeed."

  Fumbling half unconsciously for his cross, D'Agosta followed Pendergast around the side of the house to the great portone of the villa.

  "It's open," Pendergast said, slipping inside.

  After the briefest of hesitations, D'Agosta followed. They paused in the entryway, examining the great vaulted spaces of the piano terra, dark with ancient frescoes and trompe l'oeil.

  The smell was stronger here. Sulfur, phosphorus—and burned grease.

  Now Pendergast moved up the great sweep of stairs leading to the second floor and the salone. D'Agosta followed him down a vaulted hallway to a massive set of wooden doors, bolted and banded in iron. One was ajar, and a flickering light came from beyond.

  Pendergast pushed it wide.

  It took D'Agosta a moment to register. The light came, not from a burning candle or the great fireplace in the far wall, but from the middle of the room. There, in the center of a crude circle, something was in the last stages of burning, just a few licks of flame rising from charred lumps.

  It was the outline of a human being.

  With horror and disbelief, D'Agosta took in the smoldering, greasy outline; the ashy remnants of the skeleton, every fire-cracked bone in place, spread-eagled on the floor. There in its proper place was the belt buckle, there were the three metal buttons of a jacket. Where
one of the pockets had been was now a fused lump of euros. The remains of a gold pen rested among the ashes of the upper ribs. The burned bones of one hand still sported a pair of familiar-looking rings.

  But not all had burned. A single foot was perfectly preserved, burned only as far as the ankle. It looked absurdly like a movie prop, still encased in a beautifully polished handmade wing tip. And there at the other end was another piece of the body: just the side of the face, with one staring eye, a lock of hair, and a perfect pink ear, all intact, as if the fire that had consumed this person had suddenly ceased at a line drawn down the side of the head. The other half was mere skull, blackened, split and crumbled by heat.

  Enough of the face remained to leave no doubt who this was. Locke Bullard.

  D'Agosta found he'd been holding his breath. He let it out with a shudder, took in a lungful of what stank of sulfur and burned roast. As his faculties began to return, he noticed that the silk-draped walls and ceiling were covered with a greasy film. The large circle the body lay within appeared to have been incised into the floor, surrounded by mysterious symbols, the whole enclosed in a double pentagram. Nearby was a smaller circle—but this second circle was empty.

  D'Agosta couldn't find the energy to turn away. He felt a snap and realized he'd been gripping his cross so hard he'd broken the chain. He looked down at the object in his hand, so familiar and reassuring. It seemed incredible that it could be true; that everything the sisters had told him so many years ago was, in fact, real: but at this moment, there wasn't the slightest doubt in his mind that this, this , was the work of the devil himself.

  He glanced over at Pendergast and found he, too, was rooted to the spot, his face full of astonishment, shock—and disappointment. This means the end of a theory, D'Agosta thought to himself. And the loss of a witness. It was not just a shock. It was a terrible, perhaps even critical, blow to the investigation.

  But even as D'Agosta stared, Pendergast took out his cell phone and started dialing.

  D'Agosta could hardly believe his eyes. "Who are you calling?"

  "I'm calling the carabinieri. Italian law enforcement. We are guests here, and it is important to play by the rules." He spoke briefly in Italian, snapped the phone shut, turned back to D'Agosta. "We have about twenty minutes until the police arrive. Let us make the most of it."

  He began to make a quick tour of the crime scene, pausing at a small table on which several objects lay: an old piece of parchment, a strange-looking knife, a small pile of salt. D'Agosta simply watched, unable to bring himself to participate.

  "My, my," said Pendergast. "Our friend Bullard had been consulting a grimoire shortly before his, ah, demise."

  "What's a grimoire?"

  "A book of the black arts. They contain instructions for raising demons, among other things."

  D'Agosta swallowed. He wanted to get the hell out of here. This wasn't like Grove's death, or even Cutforth's—this had just happened. And this wasn't any normal killer. There was nothing Pendergast or any human law enforcement entity could do. Hail Mary, full of grace…

  Pendergast was bending over the knife. "What do we have here? An arthame, by the looks of it."

  D'Agosta wanted to tell Pendergast they had to get out, that forces a lot bigger than themselves were at work here, but he couldn't seem to form the words.

  "Note that the circle enclosing Bullard has a little piece scratched out—do you see?—over there. It's been turned into a broken circle."

  D'Agosta nodded mutely.

  "On the other hand, the smaller circle beside it was never complete to begin with. I believe it was constructed as a broken circle." Pendergast walked toward it and bent down, examining the circle intently. He removed a pair of tweezers from his cuff and plucked something from the center of the circle.

  "Right," D'Agosta managed to say, swallowing again.

  "I'm very curious to know what was in this broken circle—an object evidently placed there as a gift to the, ah, devil."

  "The devil." The Lord is with thee…

  Pendergast examined the tip of his tweezers closely, turning it this way and that. Then his eyebrows shot up, a look of astonishment on his face.

  D'Agosta stopped in midprayer. "What is it?"

  "Horsehair."

  And D'Agosta saw, or thought he saw, a flash of realization spread over the agent's pale features.

  "What is it? What does it mean?"

  Pendergast lowered the tweezers. "Everything."

  { 58 }

  Harriman strolled past the Plaza Hotel and into Central Park, breathing in the crisp air with relish. It was a glorious fall evening, the golden light tinting the leaves above his head. Squirrels ran around gathering nuts; mothers pushed babies in strollers; groups of bicyclists and Rollerbladers glided past on South Park Drive.

  His piece on Buck had run in the morning edition, and Ritts had loved it. The phones had been ringing all day, fax machines humming, reader e-mails flowing in. Once again, he'd touched a chord.

  On this glorious evening, Bryce Harriman strolled northward, back to the site of his earlier triumph, in search of fresh glory. What was needed now was an interview with the good Reverend Buck himself—a Post exclusive. And if anyone could get that exclusive, he could.

  As he came around the back of the Central Park Zoo and passed the old arsenal, he stopped in surprise. There was a tent here, an old canvas tent, pitched in the overgrown area just north of 65th Street along the Fifth Avenue side. As he walked up a small rise, more tents came into view. He crested the rise to find a veritable tent city spread before him, the smoke from dozens of fires rising into the autumn air.

  Harriman paused, surprise changing to a glow of satisfaction. He had done this. He had kept the story alive, identified a leader, kept the people coming. And now this.

  He moved into the outskirts of the camp. Some people, especially the numerous high school and college-aged kids, were wrapped only in newspapers; others had sleeping bags of various makes and colors; still others had makeshift tents made of sheets held up by sticks. A few had fancy tents from North Face and Antarctica Ltd.—trust fund brats from Scarsdale and Short Hills, probably.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of cops along the Fifth Avenue wall, eyeing the situation. And to his left were more cops, just standing around, keeping a low profile. No wonder: there must be five hundred people camped in here.

  He wandered into the encampment and down a makeshift alley between rows of tents. It was almost like a Depression-era shantytown, little narrow lanes built among the woodsy hollows and exposed rock faces: cooking fires, people sitting around on quilts and blankets drinking coffee. Here and there people were arriving with backpacks and setting up more tents. It had to extend at least to 70th Street: four square blocks of parkland. It was incredible. Had anything like this happened in New York before? Quickly, he got out his cell phone and ordered up a pool photographer.

  Harriman then stopped to ask directions and within minutes had located Buck's tent: a large army-surplus job near the camp's center. Just inside, he could make out Buck himself, seated at a card table and writing. He was a curiously dignified figure, and Harriman was reminded of old pictures he'd seen of Civil War generals. He hoped that damn photographer would hurry up.

  As Harriman approached the entrance to the tent, a young man cut him off. "Can I help you?"

  "I'm here to see Mr. Buck."

  "A lot of people are here to see the reverend. He's busy, can't be disturbed."

  "I'm Harriman from the Post."

  "And I'm Todd from Levittown." The aide-de-camp stood firm, blocking the way, a kind of dreamy, supercilious smile on his face.

  No asshole like a born-again asshole, Harriman thought. He glanced beyond the self-appointed guardian to Buck, working at his card table, ignoring them. What was that he saw, taped to the inside wall of the tent? A row of articles clipped from the Post. His articles. He felt emboldened.

  "The reverend will wa
nt to see me." He pushed past the fellow, ducked into the tent, and strode over to Buck, hand extended. "Reverend Buck?"

  The man rose. "And you are—?"

  "Harriman from the Post."

  "He just barged in, Reverend—," the aide-de-camp began.

  But a slow smile was spreading across Buck's face. "Harriman. It's all right, Todd, I've been expecting this gentleman."

  Deflated, Todd retreated to a corner of the tent, while Buck shook the extended hand. Seen up close, he looked shorter than he did while preaching. He wore a simple checked short-sleeved shirt and a pair of chinos: no blow-dried helmet of hair or polyester suits for this preacher. His forearms were meaty and one sported a tattoo. His handshake was a crusher. Ex-prison, guessed Harriman.

  "You've been waiting for me?" he asked.

  Buck nodded. "I knew you'd come."

  "You did?"

  "It's all part of the plan. Won't you sit down?"

  Harriman took a plastic seat at the card table and removed his microcassette recorder. "May I?"

  "Be my guest."

  Harriman turned it on, tested it, set it carefully on the table. "Perhaps we should begin with this plan of yours. Tell me about it."

  Buck smiled indulgently. "I was referring to God's plan."

  "Right. Okay. Which is?"

  Buck spread his hands. "What you see all around you. I am nothing, just one flawed human trying my best to fulfill God's plan. You, Mr. Harriman, whether you know it or not, are a part of that plan, too. An important part, as it turns out. Your articles have swelled this crowd, brought people together—those with ears to hear and eyes to witness."

  "Witness what?"

  "The rapture."

  "Excuse me?"

  "God's promise to his followers in the End Days. When the faithful will be lifted into heaven while the wicked sink into filth and fire." Buck hesitated briefly. And in that hesitation, Harriman detected a flash—just a flash—of nervousness. Perhaps the man was a little scared at what he'd unleashed.

  "What makes you think the End Days are here?"

  "God sent me a sign. It was your article in the newspaper, the article on the deaths of Grove and Cutforth, that first brought me here all the way from Yuma, Arizona."