But there was no hurry. No hurry at all.
As he sipped his port, Fosco realized there was, in fact, a second loose end. Viola, Lady Maskelene. He thought of her, tending her bit of vineyard, strong limbs made tawny by the Mediterranean sun. Her bearing, her movements, had a mix of good breeding, catlike athleticism, and sexuality he found deliciously intoxicating. Her conversation sparkled like no other woman's he had met. She was bursting with vitality. She would bring warmth to any place she visited—even Castel Fosco…
A faint sound, like the scurry of dead leaves on stone, came from the darkness beyond the room.
Fosco paused in mid-sip.
Slowly, he put the glass down, stood, and walked to the main entrance to the salotto. Beyond lay the long gallery, lit only by the moon and the occasional wall sconce. Long ranks of suited armor lined the walls, glowing faintly in the pallid light.
Nothing.
Fosco turned thoughtfully. The old castle was full of rats; it was high time he had the head gardener in again to deal with them.
He began walking back toward the fire, feeling a chill that could not entirely be explained by the cool air.
Then he stopped again. There was one thing, he knew, that would put him in fine high spirits.
Taking a tack away from the fire, he made for the small doorway that led into his private workshop. He crossed the dark room, threading his way through a maze of lab tables and freestanding equipment, until he reached the wooden paneling of the rear wall. He knelt, ran one fat hand along the polished wainscoting, found a tiny detent. He pressed it. One of the wooden panels above his head popped ajar with a faint snick. Rising, the count pulled the panel wide, exposing a large safe retrofitted into the stonework of the wall. He punched a code into the safe's keypad, and its door sprung open. Carefully, reverently, the count reached inside and pulled out the small, coffin-shaped wooden case that held the Stormcloud Stradivarius.
He carried the case into the dining salotto and placed it on the table against the wall, well away from the heat of the fire, leaving it closed, so it would slowly accustom itself to the change in temperature. Then he returned to his seat. Compared to the chill of the lab, it was deliciously warm before the fire. He took another sip of port, thinking about what he would play. A Bach chaconne? A flashy Paganini? No: something simple, something clean, refreshing… Vivaldi. "La Primavera," from Le Quattro Stagioni.
After a few minutes, he rose again, walked over to the violin, undid the brass fastening, and lifted the lid. He did not play it, not yet: it would need at least another ten minutes to adjust to the ambient temperature and humidity. He merely gazed dotingly on its wondrous and mysterious finish, its sensual lines. Staring at the violin, Fosco felt a joy, a sense of completion, flood through him.
He returned to his comfortable chair, loosened his cravat, undid his waistcoat. The Stormcloud was back where it belonged: in the family seat. He had snatched it from the jaws of oblivion. It had been worth the expense, the extravagant planning, the danger, the lives. It was worth any cost, any struggle. As Fosco stared at it, glowing crimson in the warm reflected firelight, it seemed to him that the instrument was not of this world. Rather, it was the voice—the song—of the better world to come.
It was now very warm in the room. He rose, took up a poker, pushed the logs back a little, turned his chair from the fire. "La Primavera." The sweet, lively melody coursed through his mind as if he was already playing it. Five more minutes. He removed his cravat and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.
A log cracked loudly in the fireplace, startling him; he sat bolt upright, the port sloshing out of his glass and spilling onto his open waistcoat.
He sat back slowly, wondering at the sense of unease. Nerves: the affair had taken more of a toll on him than he'd thought. His stomach gave a small lurch, and he set down the glass of port. Perhaps he should have taken something stronger as a digestivo: a drop of Calvados, a grappa, or, even better, one of the excellent herbal digestives produced by the monks at Monte Senario.
A most unpleasant sensation of poor digestion now infused his stomach. He rose, lumbered over to the sideboard—how uncharacteristically heavy he felt on his feet!—and took out a small bottle of Amaro Borghini, filled a small glass with the reddish-brown liquid, and returned to the chair. His stomach was protesting vociferously, and he took a swallow, then a second, of the bitter liqueur. And as he did, he heard another sound, like a footfall, at the door.
He half rose, but felt weak and sank back. Naturally, there was nobody there. There couldn't be. The servants had all been given a few days off. It was his imagination playing tricks with him. It was the strain of the last few days. He was getting on in years for business such as this.
His innards were almost boiling with indigestion and he drained the glass, shifting in his chair, trying to get comfortable. The heat in the room had grown oppressive, but, blast it, there was no one to douse the fire. He fetched a deep, shuddering sigh. He would calm himself, then take out the Stormcloud and restore his previous mood with a leaping rendition of "La Primavera."
Only calmness did not come. He felt a strange oppression creep stealthily over him—a pressure that seemed to build slowly, layer on layer, from within. This was not indigestion; he was getting ill. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, aware that his heart was beating uncomfortably fast. He had caught a chill in the crypts, no doubt, hefting those heavy bricks, brought out by his unwise second visit to those clammy, nitred depths. He would take a holiday; leave tomorrow, in fact. The isle of Capraia, he told himself, would be a perfect spot…
He extended a trembling hand toward the glass of amaro, but the liqueur suddenly tasted wrong, like hot pitch and vinegar in his mouth—hot, even, in his hand. Burning hot. He rose with a cry, the glass falling away and dashing to pieces against the floor. Fosco whirled, stumbled, righted himself.
Porca miseria, what was happening?
He gasped, felt his eyes smart, felt his mouth go dry, his heart accelerate. For a moment, he wondered if he was having a fit of some kind, or perhaps a heart attack. He'd heard heart attacks often began with a feeling just like this: a feeling that something, something, was terribly wrong. But there was no localized pain to his chest or arm. Instead, the terrible oppression within grew, and still grew, until it enveloped him. His very guts seemed to writhe. He looked around frantically, but there was nothing—not the bottle of port, not the violin, not the furniture or the rich tapestries—nothing to give any aid or explanation
His insides felt as if they were crawling, boiling. He felt his mouth twitching, his eyes blinking uncontrollably, grimacing, his fingers jerking. The heat was like being suffocated with a burning blanket. His skin felt as if it was covered with a blanket of bees. Now fear and heat rose within him as one: an unendurable, irresistible heat that had nothing to do with the fire on the hearth—
Suddenly he knew. He knew.
"D'Agosta—!" he choked, but his throat closed up and no more words came out
He whirled toward the closed door of the salotto, staggered forward, fell over the side table with a crash, rose to his knees. His muscles were jerking spasmodically, but with an enormous effort of will, he began to crawl forward.
"Bastardo—!"It came out like a choked cry. As he did so, his limbs began to take on a life of their own, twitching and jerking with a horrible violence, but he had only a few more feet to go; he gave one superhuman lurch, seized the door handle. It was burning hot, and he felt his skin popping and sizzling, yet he clung tenaciously, heaved, turned—locked.
With a suppressed shriek he sank, collapsing at the door, writhing. The heat grew, and grew, like lava spreading itself through his veins. A terrible piercing whine, like the buzz of a monstrous gnat, filled his head. What was that he smelled burning? All of a sudden the count went rigid. His jaws clamped together involuntarily, grinding with such force his teeth chipped and split. Now, unbidden, his many sins and excesses paraded before him in a terribl
e blur. As the heat continued to grow—intolerable yet still increasing, an inferno of agony he could never have imagined possible—Fosco felt his vision grow dim and strange. His eyes jerked around the room, coming to rest on the fire, while reality itself began to distort, fall away, and he began to see things beyond…
…Oh, dear Jesus, what is that dark shape rising in the fire… ?
And now, summoning every last ounce of willpower he possessed—despite the teeth grinding into meal and the blood that filled his mouth and the swelling tongue that refused to move—Fosco began to slur, in something between a gargle and a groan, the words of the Lord's Prayer.
Pater noster…
He felt his skin blister, his oiled hair curl and smoke. He clawed his hands across the stone floor in agony, tearing away the nails in his efforts to get out the words:
…Qui es in coelis…
Over the shrieking buzz in his ears, Fosco could hear—as if rising from the deepest depths of the earth—the rich and terrible laughter, not of Sergeant D'Agosta, not of any earthly being…
…Sanctificetur…
He tried, with the last of a supreme effort of will, to continue the prayer, but the subcutaneous fat was boiling beneath the skin of his lips:
…Sanctiferrrrrrrr…
And then came the point where no sound, not even a scream, was possible to utter.
{ 87 }
Bryce Harriman ducked into the stale, smoke-fouled office of his editor, Rupert Ritts. He had been waiting for this moment a long, long time, and he was determined to enjoy it, drag it out as long as possible. It would be a story he'd tell his kids and grandkids, put in his memoirs. One of the moments he'd savor the rest of his life.
"Harriman!" Ritts came around from behind his desk—his idea of a show of respect—and seated himself on one corner. "Take a seat."
Harriman sat. Why not? Let Ritts talk a bit first.
"That was quite a piece you wrote on Hayward and that man, Buck. I'm almost sorry that cracker preacher got his ass sent back to Oklahoma. I hope he decides to move back to the Big Apple once his parole is up." He laughed and picked a piece of paper from his desk. "Here's something I bet you'll be interested to hear: newsstand circ for the week ending today." He waved the paper in Harriman's face. "Nineteen percent above this same time last year, six percent above last week, sixty percent sell-through."
Ritts grinned, as if the newsstand circulation and sell-through figures of the New York Post were the be-all and end-all of Harriman's existence. Harriman kicked back in the chair, listening, a practiced smile on his face.
"And look at this. Advertising revenues up three and a half."
Another pause so that Harriman might absorb and glorify in the stupendous news.
Ritts lit a cigarette. He snapped the lighter shut, exhaled. "Harriman, don't ever say I don't give credit where credit is due. This was your story from beginning to end. You did it. Sure, I helped with some ideas here and there, gave you the benefit of my experience, nudged you in the right direction once or twice—but this was your story."
Ritts paused, as if waiting. For what? Effusive, genuflecting thanks? Harriman leaned back and listened, still smiling.
"Anyway, as I was saying, you did this. You've been noticed, and I mean noticed, by the powers on high."
Who was that? Harriman wondered. The big cheese himself? That would be a joke. The guy probably couldn't even get into his father's club.
Now Ritts dropped his bomb. "Next week, I want you to be my guest at the annual News Corporation dinner at Tavern on the Green. This wasn't just my idea—although I heartily approved. It was"—and now his eyes flashed upward as if a heavenly host had issued the invitation—"his idea. He wants to meet you, shake your hand."
Meet me, shake my hand. This was beautiful. God, this was beautiful. He couldn't wait to tell his friends about this.
"It's black tie—you got one of those? If not, I rent mine at a place opposite Bloomingdale's. Discount Tux, best deal in the city."
Harriman could hardly believe his ears. What a bozo. Not even ashamed to admit he rented his tuxes. "I have one or two, thanks," he said coolly.
Ritts looked at him a little strangely. "You all right? You do know about the annual dinner, right? I mean, I've been in this business thirty years and let me tell you, this is something special. It's Thursday evening, drinks at six in the Crystal Room, dinner at seven. You and a guest. Bring your squeeze, if you have one."
Harriman sat forward. "I'm afraid that won't be possible."
"Come alone, then. No problem."
"You don't understand. I can't come at all. I'm otherwise engaged."
"What?"
"I’m busy."
There was a shocked silence. And then Ritts was off his perch. "You’re busy? Aren't you listening? I'm talking about dinner with the man himself! I'm talking about the News Corp. annual fucking dinner!"
Harriman rose and dusted his sleeve, on which Ritts's ashes had fallen as he'd waved his cigarette around in excitement.
"I've accepted an appointment as a reporter at a newspaper called the New York Times. Perhaps you know of it." Harriman slipped an envelope out of his pocket. "My letter of resignation." He laid it on the desk, right on the shiny place where Ritts usually perched his ass.
There it was. Said and done. He'd drawn it out about as long as he could. There was no point in wasting any more time: he had a new office to fix up, a lot to do. After all, Bill Smithback would be returning from his extended honeymoon on Monday to find the surprise of his life: Bryce Harriman, associate reporter, fellow colleague, occupying the office next door.
Now, that would be something.
God, life was good.
He turned and walked to the door, turning just once to get a final look at Ritts, standing there, mouth open, for once with nothing to say.
"See you around, old chap," Harriman said.
{ 88 }
The big jet hit the tarmac with a jolt; tipped back into the air at an angle; then settled once more onto the ground, thrust reversers screaming.
As the plane decelerated, a lazy voice came over the P.A. system. "This is your captain speaking. We've landed at Kennedy Airport, and as soon as we get clearance, we'll taxi to the gate. Meanwhile, y'all please keep your seats. Sorry about that bit of turbulence back there. Welcome to New York City."
Faint applause arose here and there from a sea of ashen faces, then died quickly away.
"Bit of turbulence," muttered the man in the aisle seat. "Is that what he calls it? Shit on a stick . You couldn't pay me enough to get back in a plane after this."
He turned to his seatmate, nudged him with his elbow. "Glad to be back on the ground, pal?"
The nudge brought D'Agosta back to the present. He turned slowly away from the window, through which he'd been staring without really seeing, and glanced at the man. "What's that?"
The man snorted in disbelief. "Come on, stop playing it cool. Me, my own life passed before my eyes at least twice the last half hour."
"Sorry." And D'Agosta turned back to the window. "Wasn't really paying attention."
D'Agosta walked woodenly through Terminal 8 on his way out of customs, suitcase in one hand. All around him, people were talking excitedly, hugging, laughing. He passed by them all, barely noticing, eyes straight ahead.
"Vinnie!" came a voice. "Hey, Vinnie. Over here!"
D'Agosta turned to see Hayward, waving, walking toward him through the crowds. Laura Hayward, beautiful in a dark suit, her black hair shining, her eyes as deep and blue as the water off Capraia. She was smiling, but the smile did not reach quite as far as those perfect eyes.
"Vinnie," she said, embracing him. "Oh, Vinnie."
Automatically, his arms went around her. He could feel the welcoming tightness of her clasp; the warmth of her breath on his neck; the crush of her breasts against him. It was like a galvanic shock. Had it really been only ten days since they last embraced? A shudder passed through him: he fe
lt strange, like a swimmer struggling upward from a very great depth.
"Vinnie," she murmured. "What can I say?"
"Don't say anything. Not now. Later, maybe."
Slowly, she released him.
"My God. What happened to your finger?"
"Locke Bullard happened."
They began to move through the baggage area. A silence grew between them, just long enough to become awkward.
"How's it been here?" he asked at last, lamely.
"Not much has happened since you called last night. We've still got ten detectives working the Cutforth murder. Technically. And from what I hear, that Southampton chief of police is catching holy hell for lack of progress on Grove."
D'Agosta gritted his teeth, started to speak, but Hayward put a finger to his lips.
"I know. I know. But that's the nature of the job sometimes. Now that Buck's out of the picture and the Post has moved on to other things, Cutforth's finally off the front page. Eventually it'll become just another unsolved murder. Along with Grove's, of course."
D'Agosta nodded.
"Amazing that it was Fosco. I'm floored."
D'Agosta shook his head.
"It's a hell of a thing, knowing who the perp is but being able to do nothing."
There was the ring of a claxon; an amber alarm flashed overhead; and a carousel nearby began to move.
"I was able to do something," he said in a low voice.
Hayward looked at him sharply.
"I'll explain in the car."
* * *
Ten minutes later they were on the Van Wyck Expressway, halfway back to Manhattan, Hayward at the wheel. D'Agosta sat beside her, idly looking out the window.
"So it was all about a violin," Hayward said. "The whole damn thing. A lousy violin."
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