Текст книги "Brimstone"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston,Lincoln Child
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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

{ 69 }

 

The cellar of the carabinieri barracks looked more like the dungeon it had once been than a basement, and as D'Agosta followed Colonnello Esposito and Pendergast through the winding tunnels of undressed stone, streaked with cobwebs and lime, he was half surprised to find no skeletons chained to the walls.

The colonnello paused at an iron door, opened it. "As you'll see, alas, we have yet to join the twenty-first century," he said as he gestured for them to enter.

D'Agosta stepped into a room wall-to-wall with filing cabinets and open shelves. Fascicles of documents sat on the shelves, tied up in twine. Some were so old and moldy they must have dated back centuries. An officer in a neat uniform of blue and white, with a smart red stripe down the outside of the slacks, stood and saluted crisply.

"Basta," said the colonnello in a tired voice, then gestured at some old wooden chairs arranged around a long table. "Please sit."

As they seated themselves, the colonnello spoke to the younger officer, who in turn produced a dozen folders and laid them on the table. "Here are the summaries of the homicides that fell within your requirements: unsolved murders over the last year in which the victim was found burned. I have been through them myself and found nothing of the slightest interest. I am much more concerned about what happened up at La Verna this morning."

Pendergast took the first folder, opened it, slid out the case summary. "I regret that more than I can say."

"I regret it even more. Things were tranquil here until you arrived-and then .    " He opened his hands and smiled wanly.

"We are almost there, Colonnello."

"Then let us pray you get there, wherever 'there' may be, as soon as possible."

Pendergast began reading through the case summaries, passing each to D'Agosta as he completed it. The only sound was the gentle whisper of forced air, carried into the basement by shiny aluminum ducts that snaked along the vaulted ceilings in a futile attempt to bring fresh air into these depths. D'Agosta looked at each case and its associated photograph, struggling to comprehend the Italian, able to get the gist but no more. Occasionally he jotted down a note-more to have something to report to Hayward on their next call than for his own recollection.

In less than an hour, they'd gone through them all.

Pendergast turned to D'Agosta. "Anything?"

"Nothing stood out."

"Let us take a second pass."

The colonnello glanced at his watch, lit a cigarette.

"There's no need for you to stay," said Pendergast.

Esposito waved his hand. "I am quite content to be buried down here, out of reach, my cell phone dead. It is not so pleasant upstairs, with the Procuratore della Repubblica calling every half hour-thanks again, I fear, to you " He looked around. "All that's lacking is an espresso machine." He turned to the officer.  "Caffè per tutti."

"Sissignore."

D'Agosta heaved a sigh and began leafing again through the barely comprehensible files. This time he paused at a black-and-white photo of a man lying in what looked like an abandoned building. The corpse lay curled in a cracked cement corner, very badly burned. It was a typical police photo, sordid, vile.

But there was something else. Something wrong.

Pendergast instantly detected his interest. "Yes?"

D'Agosta slid the photo over. Pendergast scrutinized it for a few seconds. Then his eyebrows shot up. "Yes, I do see."

"What is it?" asked the colonnello , reluctantly leaning forward.

"This man. You see the small pool of blood there, underneath him? He was burned and then shot."

"And so?"

"Usually victims are shot, then burned, to conceal evidence. Have you ever heard of burning a man first and then shooting him?"

"Frequently. To extract information."

"Not over half the body. Torture burning is localized."

Esposito peered at the photo. "That means nothing. A maniac, perhaps."

"May we see the complete file?"

The colonnello shrugged, rose, shuffled to a distant cabinet, then returned with a fat bundle of documents. He put it on the table, cut the twine with his pocketknife.

Pendergast looked through the documents, pulled one out, began to summarize in English: "Carlo Vanni, aged sixty-nine, retired farmer, body found in a ruined casa colonica in the mountains near Abetone. There was no physical evidence recovered at the site, no fingerprints, fibers, shell casings, prints, tracks." He glanced up. "This does not look like the work of a maniac to me."

A slow smile gathered on the colonnello 's face. "Even among the carabinieri, incompetence has been known to occur. Just because no evidence was recovered does not mean there was no evidence to recover."

Pendergast flipped the page. "A single shot to the heart. And what's this? Some droplets of molten aluminum recovered by the medico legale , burned deep into the man's flesh."

He flipped another page.

"Now, this is even more intriguing. Several years before his murder, Vanni was accused of molesting children in the local community. He got off on a technicality. The police theorized that the murder was simple vengeance, and it appears they did not try very hard to find the killer."

The colonnello stubbed out his cigarette. "Allora.  A revenge killing, someone from the community. The killer wanted to make this pedophile suffer for what he had done. Hence the burning, then the shot to the heart. It explains everything."

"It would seem so."

A long silence.

"And yet," said Pendergast, almost to himself, "it's too perfect. If you wanted to kill someone, Colonnello, but it made no difference who it was, who would you choose? A man exactly like this: guilty of a heinous crime but never punished for it. A man with no family, no important connections, no job. The police aren't going to exert themselves to find the killer, and the townspeople will do all they can to hinder the investigation."

"That is too clever, Agent Pendergast. Never in my life have I dealt with a criminal who would be capable of such sophisticated planning. And why kill someone at random? It is like something out of Dostoevsky."

"We are not dealing with an ordinary criminal, and our killer had a very specific reason to kill." Pendergast laid the file down and gazed at D'Agosta. "Vincent?"

"Worth pursuing."

"May I have a copy of the report of the medico legale ?" Pendergast asked.

The colonnello murmured to the officer, who had just returned with the coffee. The man took the folder to a photocopy machine, returning with the copy a moment later.

The colonnello handed it to Pendergast, then lit a cigarette, his face creased with irritation. "I hope you are not going to ask me for an exhumation order."

"I'm afraid we are."

Esposito sighed, smoke dribbling out of his nostrils. "Mio Dio.  This is all I need. You realize how long this will take? At least a year."

"Unacceptable."

The colonnello nodded. "That's Italy." A thin smile worked itself into his face. "Of course .    "

"Of course what?"

"You could always go the unofficial route."

"You mean, grave robbing?"

"We prefer to call it il controllo preliminare . If you find something, then you do the paperwork."

Pendergast rose. "Thank you, Colonnello."

"For what? I said nothing." And he made a mock bow. "Besides, the place is out of my jurisdiction. A satisfactory arrangement for all concerned-save perhaps Carlo Vanni."

As they were leaving, the colonnello called after them. "Do not forget to pack panini and a good bottle of Chianti. The night, I fear, will be long and chilly."

{ 70 }

 

The church where Carlo Vanni was interred lay in the foothills of the Apennines above the town of Pistoia, at the end of a winding road that seemed to climb forever through darkness. Their replacement Fiat wound back and forth, the headlights stabbing into darkness at each turn.

"We should be prepared for company," said Pendergast.

"You think they know we're here?"

"I know it. A car's trailing us. I glimpsed it a couple of times three or four switchbacks down the mountain. He'll have to park below the church, and I don't intend to be surprised. Are you familiar with the move-and-cover approach to an objective?"

"Sure."

"You'll cover me while I move, then I'll signal you to follow, like this." And he gave a low hooting sound indistinguishable from an owl's.

D'Agosta grinned. "Your talents always manage to surprise me. Rules of engagement?"

"We're dealing with a potential killer, but we can't shoot first. Wait for the first shot, then shoot to kill."

"Meanwhile, you're down."

"I can take care of myself. Here we are." Pendergast slowed, making the final turn. "Check weapons."

D'Agosta removed his Glock, ejected the magazine, made sure it was at its maximum fifteen-round capacity, slammed it home, and racked the slide. Pendergast drove past the church and parked in a turnout near the end of the road and exited the vehicle.

The smell of crushed mint rose around them. It was a chill, moonless night. There was a scattering of bright stars above the dark line of cypresses. The church itself stood below, faintly silhouetted against the distant glow of Pistoia. Crickets trilled in the darkness. It was a perfect place for a tomb robbing, thought D'Agosta-quiet and isolated.

Pendergast touched his shoulder and nodded toward a dark copse of trees about a hundred yards downhill. D'Agosta crouched in the shadows of the car, gun drawn, as Pendergast darted silently down toward the copse, disappearing into the darkness.

A minute later, D'Agosta heard a low hoot.

He rose, moved quickly toward the trees, and joined Pendergast. Beyond stood the church: small and very ancient, built of stone blocks with a square tower. The front entrance-a Gothic arch over a wooden door-was closed.

Pendergast touched D'Agosta's arm again, nodded this time toward the entrance. D'Agosta retreated into the shadows, waiting.

Pendergast shot across the courtyard in front of the church. D'Agosta could just make out his silhouette, black against black, before the door. There was the sound of a locked door being tried. This was followed by the faint scraping of iron against iron as Pendergast picked the lock, and then a dull creak as the door opened. Pendergast slipped quickly inside. Within moments, another hoot of an owl. Taking a deep breath, D'Agosta ran across the open piazza and past the door. Pendergast immediately closed it behind him and, inserting a narrow device into the keyhole, relocked it.

D'Agosta turned, crossed himself. The interior of the church was cool and smelled of wax and stone. A few candles guttered before a painted wooden statue of the Virgin, throwing a dim orange light across the small nave.

"You take the left side, I'll take the right," said Pendergast.

They moved down opposite walls of the ancient church, guns drawn. It was empty save for the statue of the Virgin, a confessional with a drawn curtain, and a rough altar with a crucifix.

Pendergast crept up to the confessional, took hold of the curtain, jerked it aside.

Empty.

D'Agosta watched him put his gun away and glide to a small, rusted iron door set into a far corner. He bent over the lock and-with another rattle and scrape-opened it to reveal a descending stone staircase. Pendergast switched on his flashlight and probed into the murk.

"This isn't the first tomb I've disturbed," murmured Pendergast as D'Agosta drew up beside him, "but it promises to be one of the most interesting."

"Why was Vanni buried down here, and not in a cemetery outside?"

They passed through the doorway, and Pendergast gently closed and locked the door behind them. "Because of the steep hill, the church has no outside camposanto . All the dead are buried down in the crypts, cut into the hillside underneath the church."

They descended the staircase to find themselves in a low, vaulted space. D'Agosta's nostrils filled with the smell of mold. To the left, the flashlight revealed some medieval sarcophagi, several with the bodies of the deceased carved in marble on the lids, as if asleep. One was shown in a suit of armor; another was dressed as a bishop.

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 implication 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."