Текст книги "Brimstone"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston,Lincoln Child
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

{ 56 }

 

Three a.m.

Locke Bullard stood in the enormous, vaulted alone of his villa, isolated on a hill south of Florence, his feelings betrayed only by the muscles working slowly above his massive jawline. He walked to the leaded windows that looked over the walled gardens, opened one with a shaking, knotted hand. The stars were obscured by clouds, the night sky perfectly black. A perfect night for this kind of business; as perfect as that other night had been, all those years ago. God, what he would give to undo that night .     He shivered at the memory, or maybe it was just the cool breath of the wind sighing through the ancient trees in the pineta beyond the garden.

He stood at the window for some time, struggling to calm himself, to suppress a growing feeling of dread. Below, on the terrace, the indistinct white shapes of marble statues glowed faintly. Soon it would be over, he reminded himself. And he would be free. Free. But right now, he had to keep calm  He had to put his old, rational view of the world aside, if only for one night. Tomorrow, he could tell himself it had all been a bad dream.

With a great effort he cleared his mind, tried to focus on something else, even briefly. Beyond the swaying tops of the umbrella pines, he could see the outlines of cypresses on the far hills, and then the distant cupola of the Duomo, next to Giotto's tower, brightly lit. Who was it that said only if you lived within sight of the Duomo were you a true Florentine? This was the same view Machiavelli had seen, exactly this: those hills, that famous dome, the distant tower. Perhaps Machiavelli had stood in this very spot five hundred years ago, working out the details of The Prince . Bullard had read the book when he was twenty. It was one of the reasons he'd jumped at the opportunity to own the villa Machiavelli was born and raised in.

Bullard wondered how Machiavelli would have reacted to this predicament. The great courtier would no doubt have felt the same things he did: dread and resignation  How do you make a choice when faced with a problem that has two solutions, both intolerable? He corrected himself: one was intolerable, the other unthinkable.

You accepted the intolerable.

He turned from the window and looked across the dim room at the clock on the mantelpiece. Ten minutes after three. He needed to make his final preparations.

He moved toward a table and lit a huge, ancient candle, whose glow illuminated an old piece of parchment: a certain page from a thirteenth-century grimoire. Then, taking up the ancient arthame knife that lay beside it, Bullard carefully began to score a circle in the terra-cotta floor of the room, working slowly, taking the utmost care to make sure the circle remained unbroken  When that was done, he took a piece of charcoal, specially prepared, and began to inscribe letters in Greek and Aramaic on the periphery of the circle, stopping now and then to consult the grimoire. He followed this by inscribing two pentagrams around it all. Next he inscribed a smaller circle-this one broken-beside the larger. He did not worry about being interrupted: he had dismissed all the security and the help. He wanted no chance of witnesses and-above all-no chance of interruption  When you were doing what he was about to do, raising what he hoped to raise, there could be no disruptions, no mistakes, nothing left out. The stakes were greater than his life-because, it seemed, the consequences would not end with his death.

He paused, preparations almost complete. It would not be long now. It would be over and then he could begin again. There would be, of course, minor loose ends to take care of: the disappearance of Pendergast and D'Agosta, for example; the Chinese and what had happened in Paterson. But it would be a relief to return to business as usual. Those problems, as tricky as they were, belonged to the real world, and he could handle them. They were small potatoes compared to this .

He went over the manuscript page again, then yet again, making sure he had missed nothing. Then, almost against his will, his gaze shifted to the old rectangular box sitting on the table. Now it was time for that .

He reached out, undid the brass latch. He caressed the polished surface of the box and then-with a terrible reluctance-opened it. A faint scent of antique wood and horsehair wafted upward. He breathed it in: this ancient perfume, this priceless scent  With a trembling hand, he reached into the darkness of the box, stroked the smooth object inside. He did not dare take it out-handling it had always frightened him a little. It was not made for him at all. It was made for others. Others who, if he was successful, would never see it again .

A sudden rush of regret, anger, fear, and helplessness staggered him. He was almost overwhelmed by the sheer force of it. Incredible that a thought could virtually bring him to his knees. He gasped again, breathing hard; took a firm grip on the heavy table. What had to be done, had to be done.

He carefully closed the box, latched it, and placed it on the ground inside the smaller, broken circle. He wouldn't look at it again, wouldn't torture himself further. With a troubled heart, he glanced over at the clock. It responded by chiming out the quarter hour, the bell-like tones a strange counterpoint to the oppressive darkness of the room. Bullard swallowed, worked his jaw, and finally, with a supreme effort, spoke the words he had memorized so carefully.

It was the work of ninety seconds to complete the incantation

At first, nothing happened. He strained, listening, but there was not a sound, not a sigh; nothing. Had he said it incorrectly? With the help gone, the place was as quiet as the tomb.

His eye drifted back to the manuscript page. Should he recite it again? But no-the ceremony had to be performed precisely, without deviation  Repetition could have disastrous, unimaginable consequences

As he waited, there in the faint light, he wondered if perhaps it wasn't true, after all: that it was all hollow superstition. But at this thought, such a desperate mixture of hope and uncertainty rose within him that he forced himself to push it aside. He was not wrong. There could be no other answer .

Then he felt, or thought he felt, a strange shifting of the air. A faint smell came to him, drifting across the alone . It was the acrid odor of sulfur

A breeze shifted the curtains of the window. The room seemed to grow dimmer, as if a great darkness was encroaching from all directions. He felt himself go rigid with fear and anticipation It was happening. The incantation was working, just as promised.

He waited, almost afraid to breathe. The smell got stronger, and now it almost seemed as if tendrils of smoke were drifting in the lazy air of the room, tendrils that licked about the windows and curled in the corners. He felt a strange sense of apprehension, of physical dread. Yes, it was a physical sensation, a harbinger of what was to come, and the air seemed to congeal with a rising warmth.

Bullard stood within the greater circle, his heart pounding, his eyes straining to see beyond the darkened doorway. A vague outline .     a lumbering, slow-moving shape .

He'd done it! He'd succeeded! He was coming! He was really coming .     !

{ 57 }

 

D'Agosta felt numb. The shot, the silence, and the final splash-this was really it.

"Come on," his minder said, giving him a push.

D'Agosta couldn't move; he couldn't believe what was happening.

"Move!" The man jabbed D'Agosta in the back of the head with his gun barrel.

He stumbled forward, mechanically trying to keep his footing among discarded pieces of stone. The moldy breath of the open shaft washed over him. Six steps, eight, a dozen.

"Stop."

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 alone . 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 alone . 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."