Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  D'Agosta followed Pendergast to the right. This passageway led past more old tombs, decorated with sculptures and relief, ending in another iron door. In a moment, Pendergast had it open.

  The flashlight disclosed a much cruder tunnel beyond, fashioned out of the rock itself. Shelves were cut into the rude walls, each with its own pile of bones, a skull, and bits of rag. Some of the skeletons had rings on their bony fingers, or bits of jewelry and necklaces scattered among the rib cages. There was the faint rustling of mice, and a few furry bullets shot across the dirt floor, heading for cover. Farther on were rows of newer tombs, narrow edge out, as in a mausoleum. Each niche was covered with a marble plaque.

  As they walked, the dates on the plaques grew more recent. Some had photographs of the deceased affixed to the front, unsmiling nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century faces marked by hardship and disappointment. A scattering of vacant crypts with blank marble plaques appeared. Others had a name and birthdate but no date of decease. Pendergast swept his flashlight from left to right and back again as they progressed. Ahead, D'Agosta could make out the terminal wall of the crypt. And there, isolated at the end, in the bottom row, was the tomb they were looking for:

  CARLO VANNI

  1948—2003

  Pendergast reached into his suit coat and removed a thin cloth, which he quickly spread on the stone floor in front of the crypt. Next, he produced a narrow crowbar and a long metal blade with a curved end. He shimmed the blade behind the marble plaque, moved it slowly along all four edges, then stuck the crowbar into the newly created joint and gave a sharp tug. The plaque popped loose with a faint cloud of dust. Pendergast caught it deftly and laid it on the cloth.

  The dark hole exhaled a nasty, burned smell.

  Pendergast shone his flashlight into the niche. "Give me a hand, please."

  D'Agosta knelt beside him. He avoided looking in the hole; it didn't seem decent somehow.

  "You grab the left foot, I'll grab the right, and we'll slide him out. It's our good fortune that Vanni's niche is at floor level."

  Now D'Agosta forced himself to look. In the dimness, all he could see were the soles of two shoes, each with a hole in it.

  "Ready?"

  D'Agosta nodded. He reached in, grabbed the shoe.

  "On second thought, grasp it above the ankle. We wouldn't want the foot coming off at the anklebone."

  "Right." D'Agosta moved his hand up, around the pant leg. It felt like grabbing a knotty bone, except there was a crackle of something else under there, like parchment, that almost turned his stomach. The smell was appalling.

  "At the count of three, pull slowly and easily. One, two, three…"

  D'Agosta pulled, and after a moment of sticky resistance, the body came free and began sliding out, surprisingly light.

  "Keep going."

  D'Agosta backed up, pulling as he went, until the corpse was entirely out of the niche. A nest of earwigs was exposed, the panicked insects racing off in all directions. D'Agosta jumped back, slapping at several that had dashed up his leg.

  Carlo Vanni lay before them, arms crossed, hands folded around a crucifix, eyes wide open but black and wrinkled. The lips had drawn back from the teeth, which were no more than rotten stumps. The man's white hair had been slicked down with some formidable substance, because not a strand was out of place. The suit had holes in it from insect activity but was otherwise intact, if a bit dusty. The only obvious sign of burning was on the hands themselves, which were black and twisted, the fingernails curled up in little scrolls.

  "Hold the light, please, Vincent."

  Pendergast bent over the body, placed a knife at the corpse's throat, and in one motion slit the clothes from neck to navel. He pulled them aside. Paper wadding, used to bulk up the suit, filled the sunken abdomen. Pendergast pulled this away to reveal a blackened torso, skin peeling away in dusty burned sheets. Burned ribs sprang from the rib cage, charred ends exposed.

  D'Agosta made an effort to keep the light steady.

  Pendergast removed a piece of paper from his pocket and laid it beside the body. D'Agosta saw it was the copy of the M.E.'s report, a photocopy of an X-ray showing the location of the drops of metal. Next, he fitted a jeweler's loupe to his eye, bending close to the body as he adjusted the objective. With the knife in one hand and a pair of surgical tweezers in the other, he began to poke into the abdomen. Faint crackling sounds rose up.

  "Ah!" He held up a frozen droplet of metal, suspended between the tweezers, then dropped it into a test tube and reapplied himself to the corpse.

  From the darkness behind them came a sound.

  D'Agosta straightened immediately, turning the light back down the crypt. "You hear that?"

  "A rat. The light, if you please?"

  D'Agosta returned the light to Vanni, heart pounding. There was a lot to be said for waiting for the paperwork to come through. A year? Make that two.

  There was another sound and D'Agosta swept the light back. A rat the size of a small cat crouched and blinked, showing its teeth with a little hiss.

  "Shoo!" D'Agosta kicked some dirt at it and it slunk away.

  "The light?"

  D'Agosta swung the light back. "Nasty buggers."

  "Here's another." Pendergast put a long dribble of frozen metal into the test tube. "Interesting. This metal penetrated more than six inches of flesh. These droplets weren't merely splattered on the corpse: they entered the body at high velocity. The result, I would guess, of a small explosion."

  Pendergast extracted a third and fourth droplet, stoppered the tube, removed the loupe. Everything disappeared back into his suit. "I think we're done here," he said, glancing up at D'Agosta. "Let's return Mr. Vanni to his resting place."

  D'Agosta bent and, once again taking hold of the corpse, helped shove him back into the niche.

  Pendergast whisked the bits and pieces of the body that had broken off onto the M.E.'s report and tipped them into the niche. He then removed a small tube of construction cement, dabbed it around the edges of the marble plaque, and fitted it back in place, tapping here and there to seal it.

  He stepped back, looked at his handiwork. "Excellent."

  They exited the crypt and climbed into the church. The door was still closed and locked. Pendergast unlocked it, and D'Agosta covered him while he flitted across the courtyard. A moment later he heard Pendergast's voice. "It's all right."

  D'Agosta stepped out into the warm night, immeasurably relieved to be free of the tomb. He brushed at his arms and legs, feeling the smell, the mold, still clinging to his clothes. Ahead, Pendergast was pointing toward the darkness of the hill. A pair of taillights could be seen winding down the mountainside a half mile below them.

  "That's our man." His light came on, revealing unfamiliar shoe tracks clearly outlined in the short, dew-laden grass.

  "What was he doing?"

  "It seems they no longer want to kill us. Rather, they are merely anxious to keep track of how much we know. Now, why do you think that is, Vincent?"

  { 71 }

  Hayward never liked the sensation of déjà vu, and she was feeling it especially strongly this afternoon, sitting in the same room, with the same people, listening to the same arguments she'd heard twenty-four hours earlier. Only now it was ass-covering time. It reminded her of musical chairs: as soon as the music stopped in this room, some poor schmuck would no doubt be left standing, ass exposed and ready to be kicked.

  Grable seemed to be trying hard to make sure that exposed ass was hers.

  He was in the middle of a long-winded account of the botched arrest attempt, an account that somehow transformed his own craven and erratic behavior into restraint and heroism. The story went on and on, the climax coming when he was obliged to fire into the air to warn the savage crowd. As a result they'd been able to depart in good order, upholding the dignity of the New York City Police Department, even if they had failed in their objective of arresting Buck. Throughout the account, there was the faint imp
lication that he had done all the work, taken all the risks, while Hayward had been a reluctant participant at best. He even managed to give the impression of refraining from criticism, as if she'd been a dead weight on the whole operation.

  If he was as good in the field as he is at ass-covering, Hayward thought grimly, we wouldn't be here right now. She considered responding, but decided she didn't want to play that particular game. If she pointed out that Grable had run like a cur with its tail tucked between its legs, that he had fired in panic and lost his gun—well, it might set the record straight, but it would do her no good. Her mind wandered, tuning out the parade of half-truths.

  One bright note was that Pendergast and D'Agosta seemed to be making progress in Italy. And Pendergast was out of her hair, no doubt making some Italian police officer's life miserable. On the other hand, she missed D'Agosta. Missed him even more than she'd thought she would.

  It was Wentworth's turn next, and she made an effort to concentrate. He expounded at length on the psychology of crowds, trotting out quotations on megalomania from file cards specially prepared for the occasion. It was a huge smokescreen of words and theories, piled one on top of another, signifying nothing. This was followed by some neighborhood honcho, talking about how upset the mayor was, how everybody was up in arms, how all the important people of the city were beside themselves that nothing was being done.

  No one, it seemed, had any ideas on how to get Buck out of Central Park.

  Rocker heard them all out with the same tired expression on his face, an expression which betrayed nothing of his inner thoughts. Finally, the tired eyes came to rest on her.

  "Captain Hayward?"

  "I have nothing to add." She said it perhaps a little more curtly than she intended.

  Rocker's eyebrows raised just slightly. "So you agree with the gentlemen here?"

  "I didn't say that. I said I had nothing to add."

  "Did you find out anything more on Buck's record? An outstanding warrant, perhaps?"

  "Yes," said Hayward, having spent part of the morning on the phone. "But it isn't much. He's wanted in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, for violating parole."

  "Violating parole!" Grable laughed. "What a joke. The laws he's broken here include assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest, attempted kidnapping—I mean, we got enough here to put him away for years."

  Hayward said nothing. Fact is, the parole violation was the only charge that would stick. As far as the others went, there were dozens of witnesses who would testify truthfully that Grable had drawn and fired his gun with no real provocation, that Buck had not, in fact, resisted arrest, that the crowd had parted like the damn Red Sea to let them go, and that Grable had run, leaving his gun in the dust.

  Rocker nodded. "What now?"

  Silence.

  Rocker was still looking at Hayward. "Captain?"

  "I'd suggest just what I suggested in the first meeting."

  "Even after your, ah, unpleasant experience this morning?"

  "Nothing happened this morning to change my mind."

  That produced a long, leaden silence. Grable was shaking his head, as if to say, Some people never learn.

  "I see. You suggested going in alone, is that right?"

  "Right. I go in there and ask for Buck's cooperation in sending his people home for a shower and change of clothes. We'll promise him a parade permit in return. Treat him with respect. Deliver a fair, honest warning."

  There was a snort of derision from Grable.

  Rocker turned. "Captain Grable, you have something to say?"

  "I was there, Commissioner. Buck is crazy. He's a dangerous ex-murderer. And his followers are like Jonestown, real fanatics. She goes in there alone, without a large force to protect her, they'll take her hostage. Or worse."

  "Commissioner, I respectfully disagree with Captain Grable. It's been almost a week now, and Buck and his followers have been reasonably well behaved and orderly. I believe it's worth a try."

  Wentworth had joined in the head-shaking.

  "Dr. Wentworth?" Rocker said.

  "I would give Captain Hayward's plan a very low probability of success. Captain Hayward is not a psychologist, and her prognostications of human behavior are simply lay opinion, not based on scientific study of human psychology."

  Hayward looked at the commissioner. "I'm not one to toot my own horn, sir, but the fact is, I do have an M.S. in forensic psychology from NYU. Since I believe Dr. Wentworth is an assistant professor at the College of Staten Island—CUNY, it's understandable that we never met academically."

  In the uncomfortable silence, it seemed to Hayward that Rocker might even be suppressing a little smile of his own.

  "I stand by my earlier comment," Wentworth said acidly.

  Rocker ignored him, still speaking to Hayward. "And that's it?"

  "That's it."

  "You better have a SWAT team standing by to extract Captain Hayward, along with paramedics, for when the inevitable occurs," said Grable.

  Rocker looked down at his hands, his brow creased. Then he raised his head again. "Sunday is the day after tomorrow. I'd already decided on using the relative calm to go in with overwhelming force and arrest this man. But I hate to take a step like that until all avenues have been tried. I'm inclined to let Captain Hayward have a shot at it. If she can get Buck out of there without tear gas and water cannon, I'm all for it." He turned to Hayward. "You do your thing at noon. If it doesn't work, we move in, as scheduled."

  "Thank you, sir."

  A beat. "Hayward, are you sure this plan of yours is going to work?"

  "No, sir."

  Rocker smiled. "That's all I wanted to hear—a little goddamned humility for a change." His eyes raked the rest of them, then returned to Hayward. "Go to it, Captain."

  { 72 }

  D'Agosta looked out at the vague outlines of the island looming off the ferry's port bow, rising steep and blue from the sea, shimmering slightly in the midmorning light. Capraia: outermost of the Tuscan islands, a mountaintop lost in the wide ocean. It looked unreal, almost fairylike. The Toremar car ferry chiseled its way forward, squat steel bows stubbornly parting the turquoise water as it plowed toward its destination.

  Pendergast stood beside D'Agosta, sea breeze ruffling his blond hair, his finely cut features like alabaster in the glare of the sun. "A most interesting island, Vincent," he was saying. "Once a prison for the most dangerous and intelligent criminals in Italy—Mafia capos and serial escapees. The prison closed in the mid-sixties, and now most of the island is a national park."

  "Strange place to live."

  "It is actually the most charming of all the Tuscan islands. There is a small port and a tiny village on a bluff, connected by the island's only road, which is all of half a mile in length. There's been no ugly development, thanks to the fact that the island doesn't have any beaches."

  "What's the woman's name again?"

  "Her name is Viola Maskelene. Lady Viola Maskelene. I couldn't find out much about her on short notice—she's a private person. It seems she spends her summers on the island, leaving at the end of October. Travels the rest of the year, or so I've been informed."

  "You sure she's home?"

  "No. But I prefer to take the chance of surprising our quarry."

  "Quarry?"

  "In an investigative sense. We're dealing with a sophisticated and well-traveled Englishwoman. As the only great-grandchild of Toscanelli's greatest love, she is in the best position to know the family secrets."

  "She might be a tough nut to crack."

  "Quite possibly. Hence the surprise approach."

  "How old is she?"

  "I assume middle-aged, if my calculations are correct."

  D'Agosta glanced at him. "So what's the family story?"

  "It was one of those torrid nineteenth-century affairs one reads about. The stuff of opera. Viola Maskelene's great-grandmother, a famous Victorian beauty, married the Duke of Cumberland, thirty years her senior and as
cold and correct a man as you could find. Toscanelli seduced her only a few months after her marriage, and they carried on a legendary affair. An illegitimate daughter came of the union, and the poor duchess died in childbirth. That child was Lady Maskelene's grandmother."

  "What did the duke have to say about all that?"

  "He may have been cold, but he also seems to have been a rather decent sort. After his wife's death, he took steps to legally adopt the child. The greater titles and estates were entailed away, but the daughter inherited a lesser title and some land in Cornwall."

  The ferry throbbed beneath their feet, and the island seemed to gain weight and substance as they approached. As they stood silently, Pendergast drew the test tube out of his pocket. He held it up, the melted droplets taken from Vanni's corpse the night before glittering in the sun. "We haven't spoken yet about these."

  "Yeah. But I've been thinking about them."

  "So have I. Perhaps, Vincent, the time has come at last for each of us to turn over a card."

  "You first."

  Pendergast smiled faintly and held up a finger. "Never. As the officer in charge, I reserve the right to call your hand."

  "Pulling rank on me?"

  "Precisely."

  "Well, I'd say those drops came from some device which malfunctioned, spraying molten metal into Vanni and burning him terribly."

  Pendergast nodded. "What kind of device?"

  "Some device meant to torch Vanni. Same device that killed the others. But in Vanni's case, it didn't seem to work, so he had to be shot afterwards."

  "Bravo."

  "Your theory?"

  "I reached the same conclusions. Vanni was an early victim—perhaps a test subject—of a highly specialized killing device. It appears we are dealing with a flesh-and-blood assassin, after all."