Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Viola swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat. The fact she was still alive was nothing but a temporary reprieve. He wouldn't tell her all this if he meant to let her live.

He really wasgoing to kill her.

"I was giving you that as a little keepsake, a memento, since we shall part, never to see each other in this world again."

"I'm going somewhere?" she said, voice quavering now despite her best efforts.

"Oh, yes."

"Where?"

"You shall find out."

She could see he had his hand in his jacket pocket, fingering something. He took a step into the room. The door remained open behind him.

"Come here, Ice Princess."

She didn't move.

He took a second step forward, and a third. At that moment, she broke for the door. But somehow he had anticipated it, whirling and leaping toward her with the speed of a cat. She felt a shockingly powerful arm, tight as a steel cable, whip around her neck; the other hand slipped out of his pocket now, and in it was the sudden flash of a needle, and then she felt a burning sting in her upper thigh; there was the sensation of heat and an overpowering roar; and then the world abruptly shut down.

SIXTY-SIX

"Any idea what this is about?" Singleton said as they rode an express elevator to the rarefied upper floors of One Police Plaza.

Laura Hayward shook her head. If Commissioner Rocker had asked to see her alone, she might have expected it was more fallout over her fingering Pendergast for the murders. But she and Singleton had been asked to meet with the commissioner together. Besides, Rocker had always been a straight shooter. He wasn't political.

They emerged on the forty-sixth floor and walked down the plushly carpeted corridor to the commissioner's corner suite. A uniformed secretary in the large outer office took their names, dialed her phone, had a brief, hushed conversation, and waved them through.

Rocker's office was expansive but not ostentatious. Instead of the shooting awards and grinning photo ops that covered the office walls of most police brass, these walls sported watercolor landscapes and a couple of diplomas. Rocker was seated behind a large but utilitarian desk. Three couches were arrayed in a rough semicircle around it. Special Agent in Charge Coffey sat in the middle couch, flanked by Agents Brooks and Rabiner.

"Ah, Captain Hayward," Rocker said, rising. "Captain Singleton.

Thanks for coming." There was an unusual, strained quality to his voice she hadn't heard before, and his jaw was set in a tight line.

Agent Brooks and Agent Rabiner rose as well, leaping to their feet as if tickled by live wires. Only Coffey remained seated. He nodded coolly at them, small pale eyes in the big sunburned face moving from Hayward to Singleton and back to Hayward again.

Rocker waved vaguely at the sofas. "Please have a seat."

Hayward seated herself beside the window. So at last Coffey was deigning to bring them into his investigation. They hadn't heard a word from him or anybody else in the FBI since the meeting that morning. Instead, she'd kept herself and her detectives busy questioning additional museum employees and further developing the evidence. At least it had helped keep her mind off the manhunt going on sixty miles to the east, at what D'Agosta was doing– committing– on Long Island. Thinking about him, about the whole situation, gave her nothing but pain. She could never understand why he'd done it, why he'd made the decision he did. She'd given him an ultimatum, and under the circumstances an incredibly fair one. Do the right thing, come in out of the cold. And not just the right thing as a cop, but as a human being and a friend. She hadn't actually said it, but it had been clear enough: It's either me or Pendergast.

D'Agosta had made his choice.

Rocker cleared his throat. "Special Agent in Charge Coffey has asked me to convene this meeting to discuss the Duchamp and Green murders. I've asked Captain Singleton to be here as well, since both homicides took place in his precinct."

Hayward nodded. "I'm glad to hear that, sir. We've had precious little information from the Bureau about the progress of the manhunt, and-"

"I'm sorry, Captain," Rocker interrupted quietly. "Special Agent Coffey wishes to discuss transfer of evidence on the Duchamp and Green murders."

This stopped Hayward dead in her tracks. "Transfer of evidence? We've made all our evidence freely available."

Coffey crossed one trunklike leg over the other. "We're assuming control of the investigation, Captain."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"You don't have the power to do that," Hayward said.

"This is Captain Hayward's case," Singleton said, turning to Rocker, his voice quiet but strong. "She's been living it night and day. She's the one who found the connection between the D.C. and New Orleans homicides. She developed the evidence, she ID'd Pendergast. Besides, murder isn't a federal crime."

Rocker sighed. "I'm aware of all that. But-"

"Let me explain," Coffey said with a wave of the hand at Rocker. "The perp is FBI, one of the victims is FBI, the case crosses state boundaries, and the suspect's fled your jurisdiction. End of discussion."

"Agent Coffey is right," said Rocker. "It's their case. We'll naturally be on hand to assist-"

"We don't have a lot of time to jawbone," said Rabiner. "Let's get on with the particulars of evidence transfer."

Hayward glanced at Singleton. His face was flushed. "If it wasn't for Captain Hayward," he said, "there wouldn't be any manhunt."

"We're all just as pleased as punch at Captain Hayward's police work," said Coffey. "But the bottom line is, this is no longer an NYPD matter."

"Just give them what they need, please, Captain," Commissioner Rocker said, a note of exasperation in his voice.

Hayward glanced at him and realized he was pissed as hell at this development, but could do nothing about it.

She should have seen it coming. The federal boys were going for the gold, and on top of that, this Coffey seemed to have a personal animosity toward Pendergast. God help him and D'Agosta when the feds finally caught up with them.

Hayward knew she ought to feel outraged at all this. But through the numbness, all she could bring herself to feel was an upwelling of weariness. That, and a feeling of revulsion so strong that she simply could not bear to spend another moment in the same room with Coffey. And so, abruptly, she stood up.

"Fine," she said briskly. "I'll initiate the paperwork. You'll get your evidence as soon as the chain-of-evidence transfers are signed. Anything else?"

"Captain?" said Rocker. "I'm very grateful to you for your fine work."

She nodded, turned, and left the room.

She walked quickly toward the elevator, head lowered, breathing fast. As she did so, her cell phone rang.

She waited, getting her breathing under control. After a minute or two, the cell phone rang again.

This time she answered. "Hayward."

"Laura?" came the voice. "It's me. Vinnie."

Despite herself, she felt her heart rise into her throat. "Vincent, for God's sake. What the hell are you-?"

"Just listen, please. I have something very important to tell you."

Hayward took a deep breath. "I'm listening."

SIXTY-SEVEN

D'Agosta followed Pendergast into Penn Station, which-disgracefully-consisted of little more than an escalator entrance in the shadow of Madison Square Garden. It was a quiet evening, a Tuesday of no consequence, and at such a late hour, the area was almost deserted, save for a few homeless people and a man passing out sheets of his poetry. The two rode the escalator down to the waiting area, then took another that descended still farther, to the track level.

They were headed, D'Agosta noted with a certain grimness, for track 13.

Pendergast had barely spoken a word in the last half hour. As the appointed time drew nearer-as they came closer to seeing Viola and, inevitably, Diogenes-the agent had grown more and more tight-lipped and withdrawn.

The tracks were almost deserted, just a few maintenance men sweeping up trash and two uniformed cops at a security station, chatting and blowing on cups of coffee. Pendergast led the way to the far end of the platform, where the tracks disappeared into a dark tunnel.

"Be ready," Pendergast murmured as his pale eyes roved the tracks.

They waited for a moment. The two cops turned and walked into the security station.

"Now!"Pendergast said under his breath.

They jumped lightly off the platform onto the tracks and jogged away into the dimness. D'Agosta glanced back at the receding platform, ensuring nobody had noticed.

It was warmer belowground, hovering just around freezing, but it was a much damper cold, and it seemed to cut effortlessly through D'Agosta's purloined sports jacket. After another minute of jogging, Pendergast stopped, fished in his pocket, and pulled out a flashlight.

"We have some way to go," he said, shining the light down the long, dark tunnel. Several pairs of eyes-rat's eyes-gleamed out of the darkness ahead.

The agent set off again at a fast walk, his long legs striding down the middle of the tracks. D'Agosta followed, listening a little nervously for any sound of an approaching train. But all he could hear were their hollow footsteps, his own breathing, and the sound of water dripping from icicles in the ancient brick roof.

"So the Iron Clock is a railroad turntable?" he asked after a moment. He spoke more to break the strained silence than anything else.

"Yes. A very old one."

"I didn't know there were any turntables under Manhattan."

"It was built to manage the flow of train traffic in and out of the old Pennsylvania Station. In fact, it's the only remaining artifact from the original architecture."

"And you know how to find it?"

"Remember the subway murders we worked on some years back? I spent quite a bit of time then, studying the underground landscape of New York City. I still recall much of the layout beneath Manhattan, at least the more common routes."

"How do you think Diogenes knows about it?"

"That is an interesting fact, Vincent, and it has not escaped my attention."

They came to a metal door, set into an alcove in the tunnel wall, fastened with a rust-covered padlock. Pendergast stooped to examine the lock, tracing the heavy lines of rust with his finger. Then he stepped back, nodding to D'Agosta to do the same. Pulling his Wilson Combat 1911 from its holster, Pendergast fired it into the lock. A deafening roar cracked down the tunnel, and the broken lock fell to the ground in a cloud of rust. He leaned to the side and kicked open the door.

A stone staircase led down, exhaling a smell of mold and rot.

"How far down is it?"

"Actually, we're already at the grade of the Iron Clock. This is merely a shortcut."

The staircase was slippery, and as they descended, the air grew warmer still. After a long descent, the steps leveled out, broadening into an old brick tunnel with Gothic arches. Locked work sheds lined the tunnel.

D'Agosta paused. "Lights ahead. And voices."

"Homeless," Pendergast replied.

As they continued, D'Agosta began to smell woodsmoke. Shortly, they came across a group of ragged men and women sitting around a rudely built fire, passing around a bottle of wine.

"What's this?" one of them called out. "You fellows miss your train?"

The laughter subsided as they passed. From the darkness behind the group came the sudden crying of a baby.

"Jeez," D'Agosta muttered. "You hear that?"

Pendergast merely nodded.

They came to another metal door, from which someone had already cut away the lock. Opening the door, they climbed back up a long, wet staircase, dodging streams of water, and emerged onto a new set of tracks.

Pendergast paused, checking his watch. "Eleven-thirty."

More rats scurried away as they walked wordlessly down the tunnel for what seemed miles. No amount of walking seemed to warm D'Agosta against the damp chill. At one point, they passed a siding holding several wrecked train cars. Later, passing a series of stone alcoves, D'Agosta saw an ancient metal gear more than eight feet in diameter. Once in a while, he heard the distant rumble of trains, but nothing seemed to be running on the tracks they were walking on.

At last, Pendergast halted, switched off his flashlight, and nodded ahead. Peering into the darkness, D'Agosta saw that the tunnel ended in an archway of dim yellow light.

"That's the Iron Clock up ahead," Pendergast said in a low voice.

D'Agosta removed his Glock 29, slid open the magazine, checked it, and slipped it back into place.

"You know what to do?"

D'Agosta nodded.

They moved forward slowly and silently, Pendergast in front, D'Agosta close behind. He checked his watch, holding it mere inches from his nose: twelve minutes to midnight.

"Remember," Pendergast whispered. "Cover me from here."

D'Agosta flattened himself against the wall. From this vantage point, he had a good view into the enormous space ahead. What he saw almost took his breath away. It was a huge circular vault built of granite blocks streaked with limestone and grime, an incredible Romanesque underground massing. The floor of the vault was spanned by a railroad turntable: a single length of track stretching from one wall to another, set into a vast iron circle. Twelve arched tunnels, spaced equally apart, entered the vault. Each bore a small, grime-covered light above its mouth, along with a carved Roman numeral, I through XII.

So that's the Iron Clock,he thought.

His dad had been a railroad buff, and D'Agosta knew something about railroad turntables. The revolving carousels were usually found at a railroad's terminus: a single track led into the turntable, and lying beyond would be a semicircular roundhouse with bays for locomotive storage. Here, however, hard by Penn Station and within one of the world's busiest networks of railroad tracks, the turntable clearly had a different purpose: it was simply a nexus, a way to allow trains to go from one series of tracks and tunnels to another.

The sound of dripping water echoed in the vast space, and he could see, far above, icicles on the upper vaulting. The drops came spinning down through a dirty circle of lights to land in black puddles below.

He wondered if-out there somewhere, in the darkness of one of the other eleven railroad tunnels-Diogenes was waiting.

Just then he heard a faint rumble, followed by a growing rush of air. Pendergast retreated back into the tunnel, motioning D'Agosta to do the same. A moment later, a commuter train burst out of one of the tunnel mouths and went thundering over the turntable, windows flashing by as it shot through the space, then rocketed back into darkness. The roar died to a rumble, then a murmur. And then, with a loud clanking noise, the single section of track in the center of the Iron Clock began to rotate, halting with a clang as it connected two other tunnels, preparing for the next train.

The tunnels it now connected were tunnel XII and the tunnel they themselves were in: tunnel VI.

All fell silent again. D'Agosta saw the dark shapes of rats-some the size of small dogs-scurrying along the shadows at the far edge of the roundhouse. Water dripped steadily. The place smelled of rot and decay.

Pendergast stirred, gestured toward his watch. Six minutes to midnight. Time to act. He grasped D'Agosta's hand.

"You know what to do?" he repeated.

D'Agosta nodded.

"Thank you, Vincent," he said. "Thank you for everything."

Then Pendergast turned and stepped out of the tunnel, into the dim light. Two steps. Three.

D'Agosta remained in the shadows, Glock in hand. The great vault of the roundhouse remained empty and silent, the dark tunnels like so many open mouths, icicles gleaming like teeth.

Pendergast took another step, then stopped.

"Ave, frater!"

The voice boomed out into the dank, dark space, echoing from all quarters, so that it was impossible to tell its source. D'Agosta stiffened, straining to see into the black openings of the other tunnels visible from his own, but he could see no sign of Diogenes.

"Don't be shy, brother. Let's have a look at that pretty face of yours. Step a little farther into the light."

Pendergast took a few more steps into the open area. D'Agosta waited, gun in hand, covering him.

"Did you bring it?" came the echoing voice. The tone was leering, almost a snarl; yet there was a curious hunger in it.

In reply, Pendergast raised one hand, twisting his wrist as he did so. The diamond suddenly appeared, dull in the dim light.

D'Agosta heard a sharp intake of breath, like the crack of a whip, come out of the darkness.

"Bring me Viola," Pendergast said.

"Easy, now, brother. All in good time. Step onto the turntable."

Pendergast stepped over the iron circle and onto the track bed.

"Now walk forward, to the center of the track. You'll find an old hole cut in the iron plate. Inside that is a small velvet box. Put the stone in there. And do hurry-we wouldn't want another passing train to end all this prematurely."

Again, D'Agosta strained to locate the voice, but it was impossible to know in which tunnel Diogenes might be hiding. Given the peculiar acoustics of the vaulted space, he could be anywhere.

Pendergast walked forward guardedly. Reaching the center of the roundhouse, he knelt, picked up the velvet box, placed the diamond inside it, replaced it by the track.

Then, abruptly, he rose, pulling out his Wilson Combat and aiming it at the diamond. "Bring me Viola," he repeated.

"Whoa! Brother! This rashness is unlike you. We go by the book. Now step back while my man takes a look to make sure it's real."

"It is real."

"I trusted you once, long ago. Remember? Look where it got me." A strange sigh, almost like a moan, came out of the darkness. "Forgive me if I don't trust you again. Mr. Kaplan? Do your stuff, if you please."

A terrified, disheveled man stumbled out of tunnel XI into the faint light. He blinked, looking around in bewilderment. He was wearing a dark suit and black cashmere coat, muddied and torn. On his bald head was a headband loupe, and he held a light in one hand.

D'Agosta immediately recognized him as the man they'd abducted earlier.

He looked like he'd had an unusually bad day.

Kaplan took a tottering step forward, then stopped again. He stared about, uncomprehending. "Who…? What…?"

"The diamond is in a box at the center. Go examine it. Tell me if it's Lucifer's Heart."

The man looked around. "Who's speaking? Where am I?"

"Frater,show Kaplan the diamond."

Kaplan stumbled forward. Pendergast waved his gun in the direction of the box.

The sight of the gun seemed to wake Kaplan from his stupor. "I'll do what you say, but please don't kill me!" he cried. "I have children."

"And you shall see your dimpled lunatics again– ifyou do as I say," came the disembodied voice of Diogenes.

The man stumbled again, recovered, knelt over the diamond, and picked it up. He lowered the loupe over his eye, switched on the small light, and examined the stone.

"Well?" came Diogenes's voice, high and strained.

"A moment!" the man almost sobbed. "Give me a moment, please."

He peered at it, the light blossoming inside the diamond, turning it into a glowing orb of cinnamon. "It looks like Lucifer's Heart, all right," he said, his voice hushed.

" 'Looks like' won't do, Mr. Kaplan."

The man continued to peer into the diamond, his hands shaking. Then he straightened. "I'm sure it is," he said.

"Be sure, now. Your life, and the lives of your family, depend on your accurate appraisal."

"I'm sure. There's no other diamond like it."

"The diamond has one microscopic flaw. Tell me where it is."

Kaplan returned to his examination. A minute passed, then two.

"There's a faint inclusion about two millimeters from the center of the stone, in the one o'clock direction."

A hiss-perhaps of triumph, perhaps something else-came from the darkness. "Kaplan, you may go. Tunnel VI is your exit. Frater,remain where you are."

With a grateful sob, the man hurried toward tunnel VI and the waiting D'Agosta, stumbling, half sprawling in his zeal to get away. A moment later, he arrived in the darkness of the tunnel mouth, panting heavily.

"Thank God," he sobbed. "Thank God."

"Get behind me," said D'Agosta.

Kaplan peered at D'Agosta, fear replacing relief as he recognized the face. "Wait a minute. You're the cop who-"

"Let's worry about that later," D'Agosta said, pushing him farther into the protective darkness. "We'll have you out of here soon."

"And now, the moment you've been waiting for." Diogenes's voice echoed around the vaulted space. "I present you-Lady Viola Maskelene!"

As D'Agosta peered out, Viola Maskelene suddenly stepped out of the darkness of tunnel IX. She paused in the light, blinking uncertainly.

Pendergast took an involuntary step forward.

"Don't move,brother! Let her come to you."

She turned and looked at Pendergast, took a step forward, not quite steadily.

"Viola!" Pendergast took another step forward.

There was a sudden gunshot, deafening in the enclosed space. A puff of dirt sprang up near Pendergast's outstretched shoe. Instantly, the agent dropped into a crouch, gun in hand, moving its barrel from tunnel mouth to tunnel mouth.

"Go ahead, brother. Return fire. Pity if a stray round takes down your Lady Eve."

Pendergast turned. Viola had frozen at the sound of the gunshot.

"Come to me, Viola," he said.

She stared at him. "Aloysius?" she asked weakly.

"I'm right here. Just come to me, slow and steady."

"But you… you…"

"It's all right now. You're safe. Come to me." He held out his arms.

"What a touching scene!" said Diogenes. This was followed by mocking, cynical laughter.

She took a shaky step, another, another-and collapsed in Pendergast's arms.

Pendergast cradled her protectively, lifting her chin with a gentle hand and looking at her face. "You drugged her!" he said.

"Pooh. Nothing more than a few milligrams of Versed to keep her quiet. Don't be concerned-she's intact."

D'Agosta could now hear Pendergast murmuring into Viola's ear, but he couldn't catch the words. She shook her head, pulled away, swayed. He grasped her again, steadying her. Then he helped her toward the tunnel opening.

"Bravo, gentlemen, I do believe we're done!" came Diogenes's triumphant voice. "Now you may all leave by tunnel VI. In fact, you mustleave by tunnel VI. I would insist upon it. And you had better hurry-the midnight Acela will be coming down track VI in five minutes, bound for Washington. It accelerates quickly out of the station and will already be going close to eighty. If you don't reach the first alcove, three hundred yards down the tracks, you'll be so much paste on the tunnel walls. I'll shoot any stragglers. So get moving!"

Pendergast helped Viola back into the darkness, passed her to D'Agosta.

"Get her and Kaplan out of here," he murmured, placing his flashlight in D'Agosta's hand.

"And you?"

"I have unfinished business."

This was the answer D'Agosta had feared. He put out a restraining hand. "He'll kill you."

Pendergast gently shook himself free.

"You can't!"D'Agosta whispered urgently. "They'll be-"

"Did you hear me?" Diogenes's voice rang out. "You've now got four minutes!"

"Go!"said Pendergast fiercely.

D'Agosta shot him a final glance. Then he wrapped his arm around Viola, turned toward Kaplan, gave him a gentle nudge. "Come on, Mr. Kaplan. Let's go."

He switched on the flashlight and, turning away from the Iron Clock, led the way quickly down the tracks.