Текст книги "Brimstone"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston,Lincoln Child
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

{ 14 }

 

D'Agosta moved fast through the trees, seeking the darkest area of the park-a dense growth of trees and shrubs along an embankment leading down to the West Side Highway. He paused just long enough to glance back. Two figures were running after him, guns gleaming in their fists.

Staying low, weaving between the trees, D'Agosta unsnapped the holster of his Glock. He withdrew the weapon, racked the slide. It was the chosen weapon of most modern police departments, and D'Agosta hadn't been given a choice about carrying it, on duty or off. It didn't have the punch of his personal .45, but it was light and reliable, and best of all, it held fifteen rounds. He'd left his extra clip in his desk drawer that morning-who needed an extra clip for a day of interviews?

The men were already into the woods, moving fast. D'Agosta ran on, heedless of the noise he was making-the brush wasn't heavy enough to conceal him for more than a minute or two, at best. He headed south, twigs crackling underfoot. If he could lose them, even temporarily, maybe he could get back onto Riverside Drive and head toward Broadway. They wouldn't dare follow onto such a busy street. He quickly checked off his options. The nearest precinct house was located at 95th between Broadway and Amsterdam-that's where he'd head for.

He could hear the men running behind him. One shouted out to the other, and a fainter response came back. D'Agosta immediately understood what had happened: they had divided and were still pursuing, one on either side of the narrow strip of park.

Shit.

Keeping low, he ran through the woods, gun in hand. No time to stop and strategize; no time to use his radio; no time for anything but a flat-out run. The faint lights of Riverside Drive flickered through the trees on his left; to his right lay the long, brush-filled slope running steeply down toward the West Side Highway. He could hear the droning rush of cars far below him. He briefly considered running down the embankment and trying to get out on the highway, but it would be easy to get hung up in the nasty bracken that clogged the slope.

If that happened, he'd be a sitting duck, fired on from above.

The stretch of woods ended abruptly, and he burst out into a moonlit scene of parallel walkways overlooking the river, gardens and trees between them. It was exposed, but he had no choice but to keep moving.

Who the fuck's chasing me? Muggers? Cop haters? It didn't make sense. He was no longer just a target of opportunity. These killers were determined. They had followed him uptown. They were after him for a reason.

He ran past the first formal garden, behind rows of iron benches, keeping low. Suddenly he saw something off to his left: a red spot of light chasing him, dancing around like an agitated firefly.

Laser sight.

He threw himself to the right as the shot came. It hit the metal bench with a sickening ricochet and hummed off into the darkness. D'Agosta fell into the flower bed, rolled clumsily, and rose on his knees in firing position. He saw a dark shape moving fast against the dimness of the open grass and fired-once, twice-rolled to the side, rose to his feet, and took off running again, cursing himself for not having kept up with his shooting practice. But even missed shots had a good effect-making them careful, slowing them down. At least that was the theory. He passed the far side of the garden and ducked in among the trees.

Another jiggling red dot. He threw himself to the asphalt as the shot came, rolled, tearing his knee open against the pavement, and was up again and running. The shooters were using some big-caliber sidearms and knew what they were doing. His own shots hadn't slowed them down at all.

These guys were professional assassins.

He ran through a playground, desperately leaping first the teeter-totter, then the sandbox, and across a small square with a fountain, gasping with the effort. Jeez, he was out of shape, gone to seed. Long gone were the days in the police gym, keeping trim and fit.

He cut across a small square with a fountain, jumped a stone parapet, and was back on the steep, woodsy embankment leading down to the highway. He crouched behind the stone wall, waiting. They would have to cross the open walkway. That's when he'd have a shot at them. He held the weapon tightly in a two-hand combat grip, steadied himself, tried to get control of his wild breathing. Don’t squeeze the trigger. When it goes off, it should almost be a surprise. Make every shot count.

Now! The dark shapes emerged from the trees, moving fast. He fired: once, twice, thrice.

The red lights were dancing around the branches over his head, and he screamed an obscenity as he forgot his own careful advice and fired again and again at the dim shapes. He could hear nothing over the bark of his firearm, but he could feel the slap of bullets hitting the stone right before his face. These bastards didn't miss a beat.

He, on the other hand, had missed by a mile, and no wonder. He hadn't taken a turn at the range in three damn years, and his shooting was as old and stale as all those shooting awards that hung on his wall.

He scrambled back from the stone wall, running along it in a low crouch, praying his back wasn't exposed. As he ran, he popped the clip from the gun, peering at it in the dim light. Empty. That left him only two shots in the chamber .     thirteen rounds wasted.

Suddenly he saw something come into view through the trees up ahead: the bridge over the 110th Street off-ramp. The whole thing was chain-linked like a cage. If he got caught in there, he'd be the proverbial fish in a barrel.

But turning back-jumping back over the stone wall and crossing the open walkway-meant running right into the arms of his pursuers. And that would be suicide.

He glanced down to his right. There was only one other choice. It was the highway or nothing. Get out on the West Side Highway, stop traffic, create a snarl, radio for help. They wouldn't pursue him or shoot at him out there.

Without waiting to reconsider, he charged down the steep embankment, clawing through the brambles and sumac and poison ivy, half falling, half rolling. The branches tore cruelly through the fabric of his uniform, and the sharp rocks of the embankment bruised his shoulders and knees.

Whang! sounded the shot.

Ahead, the embankment dropped away steeply. He fell, rolled as far as he could, forced himself back onto his feet, and began running again, casting one brief look back. He could hear them crashing through the brush not thirty feet above him. In desperation, he wheeled, squeezed off a shot at the closest figure. It ducked to the side, then charged forward again. D'Agosta turned and ran with all his might. His heart was racing dangerously. The rush of cars was suddenly louder, the lights flashing through the trees, flashing on him for a moment.

Whang! Whang!

He ducked, zigzagged. The highway was just fifty feet ahead. The headlights were now flashing across him, making a clear target.

Thirty more feet. The trees were thinning, giving way to garbage and weeds.

Whang!

The embankment leveled out. Twenty more feet to the edge of the trees and the highway. He ran flat out, making a beeline-

Boom. And he was thrown back.

D'Agosta lay there for a moment, stunned, thinking he'd been hit, that it was over. Then he realized he'd run full tilt into the chain-link fence that ran just above the highway. His eyes took it in within the space of a heartbeat: the concertina wire at the top, the crappy fence all mangled and twisted by junkies, the skeletons of cars lying on the verge below the far side. Of course. In the old days, he had driven that highway a million times, seen that fence leaning dangerously above him, stuffed with trash and decaying leaves. One more thing he'd forgotten in those years in British Columbia. He was trapped.

This was it. He rose on one knee and turned to make his stand. One round, two men.

The math wasn't good.

{ 15 }

 

A low fire burned in the grate, casting a ruddy light on the walls of books and chasing the damp chill from the air. Two wing chairs occupied the space on either side of the fire. In one sat Special Agent Pendergast, and in the other Constance Greene, pale and slender in a beautifully pressed and pleated dress. To one side sat the remains of an evening tea service: cups and saucers, strainer, creamer, digestive biscuits. The still air smelled of wood polish and buckram, and on all sides the bookshelves climbed, row after row, toward the high ceiling, the old leather-bound books that lined them gleaming with gold stamping in the firelight.

Pendergast's silvery eyes glanced toward a clock above the mantelpiece, then flickered back to the old newspaper he was reading. His murmured voice picked up where it had left off.

"'August 7, 1964. Washington-In an 88-4 vote today, the U.S. Senate authorized President Johnson the use of "all necessary measures" to repel armed attacks against U.S. forces in Vietnam. The vote was in response to the shelling of two U.S. Navy ships by North Vietnam in the Gulf of Tonkin' .    "

Constance listened intently as he went on. There was a rustle as Pendergast gently turned the fragile, yellowed page.

The girl held up her hand, and Pendergast paused.

"I'm not sure I can bear another war. Will it be a bad one?"

"One of the worst. It will tear apart the country "

"Let us save this war for tomorrow, then "

Pendergast nodded, carefully folding up the newspaper and putting it aside.

"I can scarcely believe the cruelty of the last century. It staggers the soul."

Pendergast inclined his head in agreement.

She shook her head slowly, and the glow of the flames reflected in her dark eyes and straight black hair. "Do you think this new century will be as barbarous?"

"The twentieth century showed us the evil face of physics. This century will show us the evil face of biology. This will be humanity's last century, Constance."

"So cynical?"

"May God prove me wrong."

A bank of embers collapsed, opening a glowing wound in the fire. Pendergast stirred. "And now, perhaps, shall we move on to the results of your search?"

"Certainly." Constance rose and walked toward one wall of bookshelves, returning with several octavo volumes. "The abbot Trithemius, theLiber de Angelis , the McMaster text, The Sworn Book of Honorius , the Secretum Philosophorum , and, of course, Ars Notorium . Treatises on selling one's soul, raising the devil, and the like." She placed the volumes on a side table. "All alleged eyewitness accounts. Latin, Ancient Greek, Aramaic, Old French, Old Norse, and Middle English. Then there are the grimoires."

"Textbooks of magic," Pendergast said, nodding.

"The Key of Solomon is the best known. Many of these documents belonged to secret societies and orders, which were common among the nobility of the Middle Ages. Apparently, these societies were often active in satanic practices."

Pendergast nodded again. "I am particularly interested in accounts of the devil claiming his due."

"There are many. For example"-she indicated the wormy cover of the Ars Notorium with a faint look of distaste-"the Tale of Geoffrey, magister of Kent."

"Go on."

"The tales don't vary greatly from the Faustian theme, except in the details. A highly learned man, restless and dissatisfied; a manuscript; raising the devil; promises made, promises broken; a warm end. In this case, Magister Geoffrey was a doctor of philosophy at Oxford in the early 1400s, a chemist and mathematician. His great passion was the mystery of the prime numbers. He spent years in his studio, calculating the primes out to five digits. Some of the calculations involved more than a year of work, and they say he needed a little help to finish them. Hence, the pact with Lucifer. There was talk in Oriel College of chanting, ugly smells, unexplained noises, and strange lights burning in the scholar's chambers long after midnight. The magister continued to teach and do his alchemical experiments. His fame spread far and wide. He was said to have discovered the arcanum for transforming lead into gold, and he was admitted into the Order of the Golden Chalice by King Henry VI himself. He published his great work The Nyne Numbers of God and was known across Europe for his wisdom and learning.

"But then things began to change. At the height of his fame, he became nervous, suspicious, strange. He was often ill, confined to his chambers. He jumped at every noise. He seemed to grow thin, his eyes staring 'like the great hollow eyes of a calf in the slaughter.' He ordered brass locks and had his doors clad and banded in iron.

"And then one day his students missed him at breakfast. They went to his chambers. The door was locked, the iron hot to the touch. There was a smell of phosphorus and sulfur. Only with great effort could they break it down.

"They beheld a terrible sight. Geoffrey, magister of Kent, lay on his wooden pallet, fully dressed, as if laid out for burial. There were no cuts on his skin, no breaks, no bruising. And yet his heart lay next to the body, partially burned and still smoking. They said it wouldn't stop beating until it had been sprinkled with holy water. Then it burst. The details are rather .     unpleasant."

Pendergast glanced at the girl. She leaned forward, took a sip of tea, replaced the cup, smiled.

"And do the texts describe just how the Prince of Darkness was conjured?"

"They drew circles around themselves. Generally, nine feet in diameter. They were usually drawn with an arthame , or ceremonial knife. Frequently, there were smaller circles or pentacles within the larger one. Above all, it was critical that the circle not be broken during the ceremony-as long as he remained within the circle, the conjurer was safe from the demons he summoned."

"And once the demons were summoned?"

"A contract was made. The usual: wealth, power, knowledge, in return for one's immortal soul. Faust, of course, is the prototypical story-particularly in the way it ends."

Pendergast nodded encouragingly.

"After making his personal deal with the devil, Faust had all the power, earthly and unearthly, he had always craved. But he had other things as well. He complained of never being alone: of eyes in the walls watching him, of noises, strange noises like the clicking of teeth. Despite having everything mortal beings can possess, he grew restless. Eventually, as the days of his contract grew short, he took to reading the Bible, loudly proclaiming his repentance. He spent his last evening in the company of his drinking companions, weeping bitterly, bewailing his sins, begging heaven to slow the passage of hours."

"O lente, lente, currite noctis equi," Pendergast intoned quietly.

"Dr. Faustus, Act 5, scene 2," Constance said immediately.

" The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned."

A small smile broke across Pendergast's features.

"According to legend, terrible screams were heard issuing from his rooms after midnight. None of his guests dared investigate. In the morning, they found his bedchamber turned into an abattoir. The walls were painted in blood. Somebody found a lone eyeball in a corner of the room. The crushed, limp remains of his skull clung to one wall. The rest of his body was found in the alley below, thrown over a pile of horse manure. They said-"

She was interrupted by a knock at the library door.

"That would be Sergeant D'Agosta," Pendergast said, glancing up at the clock. "Come in," he called in a louder voice.

The door opened slowly and Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta stepped into the library: dirty, clothes torn, scratched, bleeding.

Pendergast rose abruptly from his chair. "Vincent!"

{ 16 }

 

D'Agosta slumped in a chair, feeling dazed and in shock. It seemed one-half of his body was numb, and the half that wasn't was throbbing in pain. The old mansion gave him the creeps, so damp, cold, and dark. Was this really where Pendergast was now living? Here the guy had a beautiful place on Central Park West, but chose instead to live in deepest Harlem, in a spookhouse of a museum no less, all stuffed animals and skeletons and shelves covered with weird crap. At least this library was like an oasis: soft chairs, a roaring fire. Pendergast had a guest, it seemed, but for the moment D'Agosta felt too scratched, bruised, and wiped out to care.

"You look like you just escaped from the devil," Pendergast said.

"I did."

"Sherry?"

"You wouldn't happen to have a cold Bud?"

Pendergast looked pained. "Would a Pilsner Urquell do?"

"If it's beer, it'll do."

The other occupant of the library-a young woman in a long salmon-colored dress-rose and left the room. Within a few minutes, she was back, bearing a glass of beer on a salver. D'Agosta took it and drank gratefully. "Thanks, uh .    "

"Constance," came the soft reply.

"Constance Greene," said Pendergast. "My ward. This is Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta, a trusted associate of mine. He's assisting in this case."

D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. His ward? What the hell did that mean? He looked back more curiously at the girl. She was beautiful, in a pale, delicate kind of way. Her dress was very proper and demure, but the breasts that swelled the lace-front brought a most undemure stirring to D'Agosta's loins. Despite the old-fashioned clothes, she looked no older than twenty. But those violet eyes of hers, so alert and intelligent, somehow didn't look like the eyes of a young girl at all. Not at all.

"Glad to meet you," said D'Agosta, straightening up in his chair and wincing.

"Are you hurt?" Pendergast asked.

"Just about everywhere." D'Agosta took another long pull.

"Tell us what happened."

D'Agosta set down the glass. "I'll start at the beginning. I visited Lady Milbanke first. She was a complete wash. All she wanted to do was talk about her new emerald necklace. Cutforth wasn't much better: lied about the reason Grove called him, answered questions evasively if at all. Last was Bullard, at the New York Athletic Club. Claims he hardly knew Grove, doesn't know why he called, can't really remember what they chatted about, doesn't know how Grove got his number. A liar through and through, and didn't even bother to hide it."

"Interesting."

"Yeah, a real piece of work. Big, ugly, arrogant motherf-" D'Agosta glanced at the girl. "Man. Basically, he blew me off. I left, ate dinner at Mullin's Pub over on Broadway. Caught sight of a gold Impala more than once. Took the subway to 96th and walked over to Riverside. Hoofed it from there. The Impala reappeared again around 130th."

"Heading north or south?"

D'Agosta wondered why that was important. "North."

Pendergast nodded.

"I saw something was about to come down, so I ran into Riverside Park. Two guys jumped out and chased me, shooting laser-sighted handguns: accurate, large-caliber. Chased me through the park. I ran down toward the West Side Highway and came up against a chain-link fence. I really thought it was over. Then I noticed a recent car wreck fifty yards on. Some shitbox had gone through the fence, making a gap. Just left the car rotting there. I dove through the gap, lost them on the highway, flagged down a car. It let me off at the next exit, but I couldn't get a cab and had to walk the thirty blocks back down. Sticking to the shadows the whole way, watching out for that Impala-it took quite some time."

Pendergast nodded again. "So one of the men followed you onto the subway, the other drove the car. They reconnected and tried to cut you off."

"That's how I figured it. An old trick."

"Did you return fire?"

"Lot of good it did me."

"Ah! And your vaunted shooting ability?"

D'Agosta looked down. "Little rusty."

"The question is, who sent them?"

"It seemed to happen awful damn fast after I got Bullard stirred up."

"Perhaps too fast."

"Bullard didn't look like the kind of guy who would wait. He's the decisive type."

Pendergast nodded.

Throughout this recitation, the young woman had listened politely. Now she rose from the couch. "With your permission, I'll leave you to discuss this matter amongst yourselves." She had a precise, mannered way of speaking, and a faint accent that for some reason reminded D'Agosta of old black-and-white movies. She came over and kissed Pendergast lightly on the cheek. "Good night, Aloysius." Then she turned toward D'Agosta and nodded. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sergeant."

A moment later the door to the library closed, and silence fell.

"Ward, huh?" said D'Agosta.

Pendergast nodded.

"Where'd she come from?"

"I inherited her with the house."

"How the heck do you 'inherit' someone? She a relative?"

"Not a relative. It's rather complicated. This house and its collections were passed down to me from my great-uncle Antoine. She was discovered in the house by an acquaintance of mine who cataloged the mansion's collections during the summer. She'd been hiding here."

"For how long?"

There was a pause. "A good while."

"What is she, a runaway? Doesn't she have family?"

"She's an orphan. My great-uncle had taken her in, looked after her welfare, educated her."

"Yeah? He sounds like a saint."

"Hardly. As it happens, Constance was the only person he ever cared for. In fact, he continued caring for her long after he'd stopped caring even about himself. He was a misanthrope, but she was the exception that proved his rule. In any case, it seems I'm her only family now. But I must ask you not to mention any of this in her presence. The last six months have been exceptionally .     trying for her."

"How so?"

"That is something better left in the past. Suffice it to say, Vincent, that Constance is the innocent beneficiary of a set of diabolical experiments conducted long ago. Seeing how her own family was victimized early on by those experiments, I feel bound to look after her well-being. It's a complication I certainly did not anticipate. However, her knowledge of this house and its library is proving invaluable. She will make an excellent research assistant and curator."

"At least she's not hard to look at." When he felt Pendergast's un-amused gaze on him D'Agosta cleared his throat and added hastily, "How did your own interviews go?"

"Montcalm could add little to what we already know. He was away until yesterday, traveling. It seems that Grove left a frantic message with his assistant: How does one break a contract with the devil? The assistant threw the note away-apparently Montcalm is a magnet for cranks and gets many such messages. He could add nothing else. Fosco, on the other hand, proved to be most interesting."

"I hope you really sweated him."

"I'm not sure who sweated who."

D'Agosta could not imagine anyone sweating Pendergast. "Is he involved?"

"That depends on what you mean by involved. He is a remarkable man, and his recollections proved to be invaluable."

"Well, the jury's still out on both Cutforth and Bullard."

"You said Cutforth was a liar, as well as Bullard. How do you know?"

"He told me Grove had called him in the middle of the night, wishing to buy some piece of rock memorabilia. I bluffed him by saying Grove hated rock music. His look gave him away immediately."

"A crude lie."

"He's a crude man, and pretty stupid to boot. I imagine he's good at what he does, though, given all the dough he's made."

"Intelligence, culture, and education are not qualities generally associated with the popular music business."

"Well, Bullard's on another level. He's crude, too, but highly intelligent. I wouldn't underestimate him. The fact is they both know a lot more about Grove's death than they're telling. We can crack Cutforth, I'm pretty sure-he's a wuss-but Bullard's going to be a tough nut."

Pendergast nodded. "The forensic report on Grove's body should be ready tomorrow. That may give us badly needed information. The critical thing now is to find the connection between Bullard, Cutforth, and Grove. If we find that connection, Vincent, we'll have the key to this entire mystery."