The Diogenes Trilogy: Brimstone, Dance of Death, and the Book of the Dead
Author: Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child
Date: 2012-12-01 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Thriller; Crime; Horror; Fiction
Description: Now, available for the first time together in a single volume: a digital-only, value-priced omnibus edition of the "Diogenes Trilogy": Brimstone , Dance of Death , and The Book of the Dead --featuring Pendergast's mysterious brother--by #1 New York Times bestselling authors Preston & Child. BRIMSTONE: A body is found in the attic of a fabulous Long Island estate. There is a hoofprint scorched into the floor, and the stench of sulfur chokes the air. When FBI Special Agent Pendergast investigates the gruesome crime, he discovers that thirty years ago four men conjured something unspeakable. Has
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Rights: Omnibus copyright © 2012 by Splendide Mendax, Inc. and Lincoln Child

Begin Reading Trilogy

Table of Contents

Brimstone

Dance of Death

The Book of the Dead

A Preview of Two Graves

Newsletters

Copyright Page

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

BRIMSTONE

Douglas Preston
dedicates this book to
Barry and Jody Turkus.

Lincoln Child
dedicates this book to
his daughter, Veronica.

{ 1 }

Agnes Torres parked her white Ford Escort in the little parking area outside the hedge and stepped into the cool dawn air. The hedges were twelve feet high and as impenetrable as a brick wall; only the shingled peak of the big house could be seen from the street. But she could hear the surf thundering and smell the salt air of the invisible ocean beyond.

Agnes carefully locked the car—it paid to be careful, even in this neighborhood—and, fumbling with the massive set of keys, found the right one and stuck it into the lock. The heavy sheet-metal gate swung inward, exposing a broad expanse of green lawn that swept three hundred yards down to the beach, flanked by two dunes. A red light on a keypad just inside the gate began blinking, and she entered the code with nervous fingers. She had thirty seconds before the sirens went off. Once, she had dropped her keys and couldn’t punch in the code in time, and the thing had awakened practically the whole town and brought three police cars. Mr. Jeremy had been so angry she thought he would breathe fire. It had been awful.

Agnes punched the last button and the light turned green. She breathed a sigh of relief, locked the gate, and paused to cross herself. Then she drew out her rosary, held the first bead reverently between her fingers. Fully armed now, she turned and began waddling across the lawn on short, thick legs, walking slowly to allow herself time to intone the Our Fathers, the Hail Marys, and the Glory Bes in quiet Spanish. She always said a decade on her rosary when entering the Grove Estate.

The vast gray house loomed in front of her, a single eyebrow window in the roof peak frowning like the eye of a Cyclops, yellow against the steel gray of the house and sky. Seagulls circled above, crying restlessly.

Agnes was surprised. She never remembered that light on before. What was Mr. Jeremy doing in the attic at seven o’clock in the morning? Normally he didn’t get out of bed until noon.

Finishing her prayers, she replaced the rosary and crossed herself again: a swift, automatic gesture, made with a rough hand that had seen decades of domestic work. She hoped Mr. Jeremy wasn’t still awake. She liked to work in an empty house, and when he was up, everything was so unpleasant: the cigarette ashes he dropped just behind her mop, the dishes he heaped in the sink just after she had washed, the comments and the endless swearing to himself, into the phone or at the newspaper, always followed by a harsh laugh. His voice was like a rusty knife—it cut and slashed the air. He was thin and mean and stank of cigarettes and drank brandy at lunch and entertained sodomites at all hours of the day and night. Once he had tried to speak Spanish with her but she had quickly put an end to that. Nobody spoke Spanish to her except family and friends, and Agnes Torres spoke English perfectly well enough.

On the other hand, Agnes had worked for many people in her life, and Mr. Jeremy was very correct with her employment. He paid her well, always on time, he never asked her to stay late, never changed her schedule, and never accused her of stealing. Once, early on, he had blasphemed against the Lord in her presence, and she had spoken to him about it, and he had apologized quite civilly and had never done it again.

She came up the curving flagstone path to the back door, inserted a second key, and once again fumbled nervously with the keypad, turning off the internal alarm.

The house was gloomy and gray, the mullioned windows in front looking out on a long seaweed-strewn beach to an angry ocean. The sound of the surf was muffled here and the house was hot. Unusually hot.

She sniffed. There was a strange smell in the air, like a greasy roast left too long in the oven. She waddled into the kitchen but it was empty. The dishes were heaped up, and the place was a mess as usual, stale food everywhere, and yet the smell wasn’t coming from here. It looked like Mr. Jeremy had cooked fish the night before. She didn’t usually clean his house on Tuesdays, but he’d had one of his countless dinner parties the prior evening. Labor Day had come and gone a month before, but Mr. Jeremy’s weekend parties wouldn’t end until November.

She went into the living room and sniffed the air again. Something was definitely cooking somewhere. And there was another smell on top of it, as if somebody had been playing with matches.

Agnes Torres felt a vague sense of alarm. Everything was more or less as she had left it when she went away yesterday, at two in the afternoon, except that the ashtrays were overflowing with butts and the usual empty wine bottles stood on the sideboard, dirty dishes were piled in the sink, and someone had dropped soft cheese on the rug and stepped in it.

She raised her plump face and sniffed again. The smell came from above.

She mounted the sweep of stairs, treading softly, and paused to sniff at the landing. She tiptoed past Grove’s study, past his bedroom door, continued down the hall, turned the dogleg, and came to the door to the third floor. The smell was stronger here and the air was heavier, warmer. She tried to open the door but found it locked.

She took out her bunch of keys, clinked through them, and unlocked the door. Madre de Dios—the smell was much worse. She mounted the steep unfinished stairs, one, two, three, resting her arthritic legs for a moment on each tread. She rested again at the top, breathing heavily.

The attic was vast, with one long hall off which were half a dozen unused children’s bedrooms, a playroom, several bathrooms, and an unfinished attic space jammed with furniture and boxes and horrible modern paintings.

At the far end of the hall, she saw a bar of yellow light under the door to the last bedroom.

She took a few tentative steps forward, paused, crossed herself again. Her heart was hammering, but with her hand clutching the rosary she knew she was safe. As she approached the door, the smell grew steadily worse.

She tapped lightly on it, just in case some guest of Mr. Jeremy was sleeping in there, hungover or sick. But there was no response. She grasped the doorknob and was surprised to find it slightly warm to the touch. Was there a fire? Had somebody fallen asleep, cigarette in hand? There was definitely a faint smell of smoke, but it wasn’t just smoke somehow: it was something stronger. Something foul.

She tried the doorknob, found it locked. It reminded her of the time, when she was a little girl at the convent school, when crazy old Sister Ana had died and they had to force open her door.

Somebody on the other side might need her assistance; might be sick or incapacitated. Once again she fumbled with the keys. She had no idea which one went to the door, so it wasn’t until perhaps the tenth try that the key turned. Holding her breath, she opened the door, but it moved only an inch before stopping, blocked by something. She pushed, pushed harder, heard a crash on the other side.

Santa María, it was going to wake up Mr. Jeremy. She waited, but there was no sound of his tread, no slamming bathroom door or flushing toilet, none of the sounds that signaled his irascible rising.

She pushed at the door and was able to get her head inside, holding her breath against the smell. A thin screen of haze drifted in the room, and it was as hot as an oven. The room had been shut up for years—Mr. Jeremy despised children—and dirty spiderwebs hung from the peeling beadboard walls. The crash had been caused by the toppling of an old armoire that had been pushed up against the door. In fact, all the furniture in the room seemed to have been piled against the door, except for the bed. The bed, she could see, was on the far side of the room. Mr. Jeremy lay on it, fully clothed.

“Mr. Jeremy?”

But Agnes Torres knew there would be no answer. Mr. Jeremy wasn’t sleeping, not with his charred eyes burned permanently open, the ashy cone of his mouth frozen in a scream and his blackened tongue—swelled to the size of a chorizo sausage—sticking straight up from it like a flagpole. A sleeping man wouldn’t be lying with his elbows raised above the bed, fists clenched so hard that blood had leaked between the fingers. A sleeping man wouldn’t have his torso scorched and caved in upon itself like a burned log. She had seen many dead people during her childhood in Colombia, and Mr. Jeremy looked deader than any of them. He was as dead as they come.

She heard someone speaking and realized it was herself, murmuring En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo . . . She crossed herself yet again, fumbling out her rosary, unable to move her feet or take her eyes from the scene in the room. There was a scorched mark on the floor, right at the foot of the bed: a mark which Agnes recognized.

In that moment, she understood exactly what had happened to Mr. Jeremy Grove.

A muffled cry escaped her throat and she suddenly had the energy to back out of the room and shut the door. She fumbled with the keys and relocked it, all the while murmuring Creo en Dios, Padre todopoderoso, creador del cielo y de la tierra. She crossed herself again and again and again, clutching the rosary and holding it up to her chest as she backed down the hall, step by step, sobs mingling with her mumbled prayers.

The cloven hoofprint burned into the floor told her everything she needed to know. The devil had finally come for Jeremy Grove.

{ 2 }

The sergeant paused from stretching the yellow police tape to take in the scene with a jaundiced eye. It was a mess that was about to become a fucking mess. The barricades had been set up too late, and rubberneckers had overrun the beach and dunes, ruining any clues the sand might have held. Then the barricades had been set up in the wrong places and had to be moved, trapping a matched set of his-and-hers Range Rovers, and the two people were now out of their cars, yelling about important appointments (hairdresser, tennis) and brandishing their cell phones, threatening to call their lawyers.

That wet sound over his shoulder was the shit already hitting the fan. It was the sixteenth of October in Southampton, Long Island, and the town’s most notorious resident had just been found murdered in bed.

He heard Lieutenant Braskie’s voice. “Sergeant, you haven’t done these hedges! Didn’t I tell you I wanted the whole crime scene taped?”

Without bothering to respond, the sergeant began hanging the yellow tape along the hedge surrounding the Grove Estate. As if the twelve-foot hedge with the concertina wire hidden within wasn’t enough to stop a reporter, but the plastic tape was. He could see the TV trucks already arriving, vans with satellite uplinks, and could hear the distant dull thud of a chopper. The local press were piling up against the Dune Road barricade, arguing with the cops. Meanwhile, backup squad cars were arriving from Sag Harbor and East Hampton along with the South Fork homicide squad. The lieutenant was deploying these newcomers along the beaches and dunes in a failing attempt to keep the public at bay. The SOC boys were arriving, and the sergeant watched them entering the house, carrying their metal crime lab suitcases. There was a time when he would have been with them, even directing them—but that was a long time ago, in another place.

He continued hanging tape on the hedges until he reached the dunes along the beach. A few cops were already there, keeping back the curious. They were pretty much a docile crowd, staring like dumb animals toward the shingled mansion with its peaks and turrets and funny-looking windows. It was already turning into a party. Someone had fired up a boom box and some buffed-up guys were cracking beers. It was an unusually hot Indian summer day and they were all in shorts or swimming trunks, as if in denial over the end of summer. The sergeant scoffed, imagined what those cut bodies would look like after twenty years of beer and chips. Probably a lot like his.

He glanced back at the house and saw the SOC boys crawling across the lawn on hands and knees, the lieutenant striding alongside. The guy didn’t have a clue. He felt another pang. Here he was, pulling crowd control, his training and talent wasted while the real police work went on somewhere else.

No use thinking about that now.

Now the TV trucks had unpacked, and their cameras were set up in a cluster, with a good angle on the mansion, while the glamour-boy correspondents yammered into their microphones. And wouldn’t you know it: Lieutenant Braskie had left the SOC boys and was heading over to the cameras like a fly to a fresh pile.

The sergeant shook his head. Unbelievable.

He saw a man running low through the dunes, zigzagging this way and that, and he took off after him, cutting him off at the edge of the lawn. It was a photographer. By the time the sergeant reached him, he’d already dropped to his knee and was shooting with a telephoto as long as an elephant’s dick toward one of the homicide detectives from East Hampton, who was interviewing a maid on the veranda.

The sergeant laid a hand on the lens, gently turning it aside.

“Out.”

“Officer, come on, please—”

“You don’t want me to confiscate your film, do you?” He spoke kindly. He’d always had a soft spot for people who were just trying to do their job, even if they were press.

The man got up, walked a few paces, turned for one final quick shot, and then scurried off. The sergeant walked back up toward the house. He was downwind of the rambling old place, and there was a funny smell in the air, like fireworks or something. He noticed the lieutenant was now standing in the middle of the semicircle of TV cameras, having the time of his life. Braskie was planning to run for chief in the next election, and with the current chief on vacation, he couldn’t have gotten a better break than if he’d committed the murder himself.

The sergeant took a detour around the lawn and cut behind a small duck pond and fountain, keeping out of the way of the SOC team. As he came around some hedges he saw a man in the distance, standing by the duck pond, throwing pieces of bread to the ducks. He was dressed in the gaudiest day-tripper style imaginable, complete with Hawaiian shirt, Oakley Eye Jacket shades, and giant baggy shorts. Even though summer had ended over a month ago, it looked like this was the man’s first day in the sun after a long, cold winter. Maybe a dozen winters. While the sergeant had some sympathy for a photographer or reporter trying to do his job, he had absolutely no tolerance for tourists. They were the scum of the earth.

“Hey. You.”

The man looked up.

“What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know this is a crime scene?”

“Yes, Officer, and I do apologize—”

“Get the hell out.”

“But, Sergeant, it’s important the ducks be fed. They’re hungry. I imagine that someone feeds them every morning, but this morning, as you know—” He smiled and shrugged.

The sergeant could hardly believe it. A guy gets murdered, and this idiot is worried about ducks?

“Let’s see some ID.”

“Of course, of course.” The man started fishing in his pocket, fished in another, then looked up sheepishly. “Sorry about that, Officer. I threw on these shorts as soon as I heard the terrible news, but it appears my wallet is still in the pocket of the jacket I was wearing last night.” His New York accent grated on the sergeant’s nerves.

The sergeant looked at the guy. Normally he would just chase him back behind the barriers. But there was something about him that didn’t quite wash. For one thing, the clothes he was wearing were so new they still smelled of a menswear shop. For another thing, they were such a hideous mixture of colors and patterns that it looked like he’d plucked them randomly from a rack in the village boutique. This was more than just bad taste—this was a disguise.

“I’ll be going—”

“No, you won’t.” The sergeant took out his notebook, flipped back a wad of pages, licked his pencil. “You live around here?”

“I’ve taken a house in Amagansett for a week.”

“Address?”

“The Brickman House, Windmill Lane.”

Another rich asshole. “And your permanent address?”

“That would be the Dakota, Central Park West.”

The sergeant paused. Now, that’s a coincidence. Aloud, he said, “Name?”

“Look, Sergeant, honestly, if it’s a problem, I’ll just go on back—”

“Your first name, sir?” he said more sharply.

“Is that really necessary? It’s difficult to spell, even more difficult to pronounce. I often wonder what my mother was thinking—”

The sergeant gave him a look that shut him up quick. One more quip from this asshole, and it would be the cuffs.

“Let’s try again. First name?”

“Aloysius.”

“Spell it.”

The man spelled it.

“Last?”

“Pendergast.”

The pencil in the sergeant’s hand began writing this down, too. Then it paused. Slowly the sergeant looked up. The Oakleys had come off, and he found himself staring into that face he knew so well, with the blond-white hair, gray eyes, finely chiseled features, skin as pale and translucent as Carrara marble.

“Pendergast?”

“In the very flesh, my dear Vincent.” The New York accent was gone, replaced by the cultured southern drawl he remembered vividly.

“What are you doing here?”

“The same might be asked of you.”

Vincent D’Agosta felt himself coloring. The last time he had seen Pendergast he had been a proud New York City police lieutenant. And now here he was in Shithampton, a lowly sergeant decorating hedges with police tape.

“I was in Amagansett when the news arrived that Jeremy Grove had met an untimely end. How could I resist? I apologize for the outfit, but I was hard-pressed to get here as soon as possible.”

“You’re on the case?”

“Until I’m officially assigned to the case, I can do nothing but feed the ducks. I worked on my last case without full authorization, and it, shall we say, strained some high-level nerves. I must say, Vincent, running into you is a most welcome surprise.”

“For me, too,” said D’Agosta, coloring again. “Sorry, I’m really not at my best here—”

Pendergast laid a hand on his arm. “We shall have plenty of time to talk later. For now, I see a large individual approaching who appears to be suffering from emphraxis.”

A low-pitched, menacing voice intruded from behind. “I hate to break up this little conversation.” D’Agosta turned to see Lieutenant Braskie.

Braskie stopped, stared at Pendergast, then turned back to D’Agosta. “Perhaps I’m a little confused here, Sergeant, but isn’t this individual trespassing at the scene of a crime?”

“Well, uh, Lieutenant, we were—” D’Agosta looked at Pendergast.

“This man isn’t a friend of yours, now, is he?”

“As a matter of fact—”

“The sergeant was just telling me to leave,” interjected Pendergast smoothly.

“Oh, he was, was he? And if I may be so bold as to inquire what you were doing here in the first place, sir?”

“Feeding the ducks.”

“Feeding the ducks.” D’Agosta could see Braskie’s face flushing. He wished Pendergast would hurry up and pull out his shield.

“Well, sir,” Braskie went on, “that’s a beautiful thing to do. Let’s see some ID.”

D’Agosta waited smugly. This was going to be good.

“As I was just explaining to the officer here, I left my wallet back at the house—”

Braskie turned on D’Agosta, saw the notebook in his hand. “You got this man’s information?”

“Yes.” D’Agosta looked at Pendergast almost pleadingly, but the FBI agent’s face had shut down completely.

“Did you ask him how he got through the police cordon?”

“No—”

“Don’t you think maybe you should?”

“I came through the side gate in Little Dune Road,” Pendergast said.

“Not possible. It’s locked. I checked it myself.”

“Perhaps the lock is defective. At least, it seemed to fall open in my hands.”

Braskie turned to D’Agosta. “Now, at last, there’s something useful you can do. Go plug that hole, Sergeant. And report back to me at eleven o’clock sharp. We need to talk. And as for you, sir, I will escort you off the premises.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

D’Agosta looked with dismay at the retreating form of Lieutenant Braskie, with Pendergast strolling along behind him, hands in the pockets of his baggy surfer shorts, head tilted back as if taking the air.

{ 3 }

Lieutenant L. P. Braskie Jr. of the Southampton Police Department stood beneath the trellis of the mansion’s grape arbor, watching the SOC team comb the endless acreage of lawn for clues. His face wore a stolid mask of professionalism as he thought of Chief MacCready playing golf in the Highlands of Scotland. He pictured in his mind the links of St. Andrews in autumn: the narrow doglegs of greensward, the grim castle, the barren moors beyond. He’d wait until tomorrow to give the chief a call, let him know what was going on. MacCready had been chief for twenty years, and this golf trip was one more reason why Southampton needed fresh blood. Braskie was a local boy with roots in the town and friends in City Hall, and he’d also managed to build up some powerful relationships among the summer people. A favor here and a favor there worked wonders. A foot in both worlds. He’d played his cards well.

And now this. They’d have the perp in the bag in a week or two, and come November and the elections, he’d be a shoo-in. Maybe he’d call MacCready the day after tomorrow: Gee, Chief, I really hesitated to interrupt your hard-earned vacation . . .

Braskie knew, from long experience in South Fork homicide, that the first twenty-four hours of a murder investigation were often the most crucial. Fact was, if you didn’t get on the trail and follow it right away, you might as well hang up your hat. Find ingress and egress, and everything that followed—forensic evidence, murder weapon, witnesses, motive—would form a chain leading to the perp. Braskie’s job wasn’t to do the work himself but to make sure everyone else did theirs. And there was little question in his mind that the weak link in this chain was Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta. He didn’t do what he was told. He knew better. Story was, D’Agosta had once been a homicide lieutenant himself in the NYPD, and a good one. Quit to write mystery novels, moved to Canada, went broke, and had to come back with his tail tucked firmly between his butt cheeks. Couldn’t get a job in the city and ended up out here. If Braskie were chief, he’d never have hired someone like that in the first place—the guy might know his stuff, but he was guaranteed trouble. Not a team player. Had a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan.

Braskie checked his watch. Eleven o’clock, and speak of the devil. He watched D’Agosta approach the trellis—a real type, fringe of black hair hanging over his collar, growing gut, attitude oozing from his pores like B.O. Here in Southampton, he stuck out like a bunion. No great surprise the man’s wife had decided to stay behind in Canada with their only kid.

“Sir,” said D’Agosta, able to make even that single word a trifle insolent.

Braskie shifted his gaze back to the SOC team combing the lawn. “We’ve got an important case here, Sergeant.”

The man nodded.

Braskie narrowed his eyes, looked toward the mansion, toward the sea. “We don’t have the luxury of screwing it up.”

“No, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I have to tell you, D’Agosta, that ever since you came on the force, you’ve made it pretty clear that Southampton isn’t where you want to be.”

D’Agosta said nothing.

He sighed and looked straight at D’Agosta, only to find the pugnacious face staring back at him. His “go ahead, make my day” face. “Sergeant D’Agosta, do I really need to spell it out? You’re here. You’re a sergeant in the Southampton Police Department. Get over it.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, sir.”

This was getting irritating. “D’Agosta, I can read your mind like a book. I don’t give a shit what happened before in your life. What I need is for you to get with the program.”

D’Agosta didn’t answer.

“Take this morning. I saw you talking to that intruder for a good five minutes, which is why I had to intervene. I don’t want to be riding your ass, but I can’t have one of my sergeants eating up his time explaining to some shitcake why he has to leave. That man should’ve been ejected immediately, no discussion. You think you can do things your way. I can’t have that.”

He paused, scrutinizing Sergeant D’Agosta carefully, thinking he might have detected a smirk. This guy really had a problem.

The lieutenant caught the glimpse of a loudly dressed presence to his right. It was that same scumbag in the Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts, and expensive sculpted shades, approaching the grape arbor as cool as could be, once again inside the police cordon.

Braskie turned to D’Agosta, speaking calmly. “Sergeant, arrest that man and read him his rights.”

“Wait, Lieutenant—”

He couldn’t believe it: D’Agosta was going to argue with him. After everything he’d just told him. His voice became even quieter. “Sergeant, I believe I just gave you an order.” He turned to the man. “I hope you brought your wallet with you this time.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” The man reached into his pocket.

“No, I don’t want to see it, for chrissakes. Save it for the booking sergeant down at the station.”

But the man had already extracted the wallet in one smooth movement, and as it fell open, Braskie caught the flash of gold.

“What the—?” The lieutenant stared.

“Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The lieutenant felt the blood rush to his face. The man had set him up. And there was no reason, none, for the FBI to justify their involvement. Or was there? He swallowed. This needed to be dealt with carefully. “I see.”

The wallet shut with a slap and disappeared.

“Any particular reason for the federal interest?” asked Braskie, trying to control his voice. “We’ve been treating it as a simple murder.”

“There’s a possibility that the killer or killers might have come and left by boat from across the sound. Perhaps Connecticut.”

“And?”

“Interstate flight.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?”

“It’s a reason.”

Yeah, right. Grove had probably been laundering money or dealing drugs. Or maybe he was even involved in terrorism. These days, with all the shit going down in the world, you couldn’t break wind without a phalanx of feds dropping down on you like a ton of manure. Whatever the case, this put a whole new spin on things, and he had to make the best of it.

The lieutenant swallowed, held out his hand. “Welcome to Southampton, Agent Pendergast. If there’s anything I or the Southampton P.D. can do for you, just let me know. While the chief is on vacation, I’m acting chief, so you just come to me for anything. We’re here to serve.”

The man’s handshake was cool and dry. Just like the man himself. Braskie hadn’t seen a fed quite like him before. He looked even paler than that artist who used to come out here—what was his name?—the weird blond guy who did the Marilyn Monroes. Autumn or not, by the end of the day, this guy was going to need a quart of Solarcaine and a pitcher of martinis before he could even sit down.

“And now that we’ve straightened things out,” the man named Pendergast said pleasantly, “may I ask you for the courtesy of a tour? I trust the immediate workups have been completed, clearing the way for us.” He looked at D’Agosta. “You will accompany us, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

Braskie sighed. When the FBI arrived, it was like getting the flu: nothing you could do about it but wait for the headache, fever, and diarrhea to go away.

{ 4 }

Vincent D’Agosta followed Pendergast and Braskie across the lawn. Over in the shade of a vast patio, the South Fork homicide squad had set up an impromptu interrogation center with a video camera. There weren’t too many people to interview beyond the domestic who’d found the body, but it was toward this shady spot that Pendergast directed his footsteps, walking so swiftly that D’Agosta and Braskie almost had to jog to keep up.

The chief detective from East Hampton rose. He was a guy D’Agosta had never seen before, small and dark, with large black eyes and long lashes.

“Detective Tony Innocente,” said Braskie. “Special Agent Pendergast, FBI.”

Innocente rose, held out his hand.

The domestic sat at the table, a short, stolid-looking woman. For someone who had just discovered a stiff, she looked pretty composed, except for a certain unsettled gleam in the eyes.

Pendergast bowed to her, held out his hand. “Agent Pendergast.”

“Agnes Torres,” she said.

“May I?” Pendergast looked inquisitively at Innocente.

“Be my guest. Videotape’s rolling, FYI.”

“Mrs. Torres—”

“Miss.”

“Thank you. Miss Torres, do you believe in God?”

Innocente exchanged a glance with the other detectives. There was an awkward silence.

“Yes,” she said.

“You are a devout Catholic?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you believe in the devil?”

Another long pause.

“Yes, I do.”

“And you have drawn your own conclusions from what you saw upstairs in the house, have you not?”

“Yes, I have,” said the woman, so matter-of-factly it sent an odd shudder through D’Agosta.

“Do you really think the lady’s beliefs are relevant?” Braskie interjected.

Pendergast turned his pale eyes on the man. “What we believe, Lieutenant, shapes what we see.” He turned back to her. “Thank you, Miss Torres.”

They continued to the side door of the house. A policeman opened it for them, nodding at the lieutenant. They gathered in the foyer, where Braskie paused.

“We’re still trying to get a handle on ingress and egress,” he said. “The gate was locked and the grounds were alarmed. Circuit breakers and motion sensors, activated by keypad. We’re checking out who had the codes. The doors and windows to the house were also locked and alarmed. There are motion detectors throughout the house as well as infrared sensors and lasers. We’ve tested the alarm system and it’s working perfectly. As you can see, Mr. Grove had a rather valuable collection of art, but nothing seems to be missing.”

Pendergast cast an admiring glance toward one of the nearby paintings. To D’Agosta, it looked like a cross between a pig, a pair of dice, and a naked woman.

“Mr. Grove had a party last night. It was a small party, five in all.”

“Do you have the guest list?”

Braskie turned to D’Agosta. “Get the list from Innocente.”

Pendergast stayed D’Agosta with a hand. “I should prefer that the sergeant stay here and listen, Lieutenant, if you could spare another officer.”

Braskie paused long enough to cast a suspicious glance at D’Agosta, then gestured to another cop in the room.

“Pray continue.”

“By all accounts, the last guest was gone by 12:30. They all pretty much left together. From that point until 7:30 this morning, Grove was alone.”

“Do you have a time of death?”

“Not yet. The M.E. is still upstairs. We know he was alive at 3:10 A.M. because that’s when he called a Father Cappi.”

“Grove called a priest?” Pendergast seemed surprised.

“It seems Cappi had been an old friend, but he hadn’t seen Grove in thirty, forty years. They had some kind of falling-out. Anyway, it didn’t matter: all Grove got was the answering machine.”

“I’ll need a copy of the message.”

“Certainly. Grove was hysterical. He wanted Father Cappi to come over right away.”

“With a Bible, cross, and holy water, by chance?” Pendergast asked.

“I see you’ve already heard about the call.”

“No, it was just a guess.”

“Father Cappi arrived at eight this morning. He came straight after getting the message. But, of course, by then it was too late, and all he could do was give the body the last rites.”

“Have the guests been questioned?”

“Preliminary statements. That’s how we know when the party broke up. It seems Grove was not in good form last night. He was excited, garrulous, some say frightened.”

“Could anyone have stayed behind, or perhaps slipped back inside after the guests had left?”

“That’s a theory we’re working on. Mr. Grove had, ah, perverse sexual tastes.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

“He liked men and women.”

“And the perverse sexual tastes?”

“Just what I said. Men and women.”

“You mean he was bisexual? As I understand it, thirty percent of all men have such tendencies.”

“Not in Southampton they don’t.”

D’Agosta stifled a laugh with a burst of coughing.

“Excellent work so far, Lieutenant. Shall we move on to the scene of the crime?”

Braskie turned, and they followed him through the house. The peculiar smell that D’Agosta had caught a whiff of out on the lawn was much stronger here. Matches, fireworks, gunpowder—what exactly was that? It mingled with a smell of burned wood and a gamy roast of some kind. It reminded D’Agosta of the bear meat he had once tried roasting at his house outside Invermere, British Columbia, brought to him by a friend. His wife had walked out in disgust. They’d ended up ordering pizza.

They mounted one set of stairs, threaded a winding hallway, came to a second staircase.

“This door was locked,” said Braskie. “The housekeeper opened it.”

They climbed the narrow, creaking staircase to the attic floor. At the top was a long hall with doors left and right. At the far end, one door was open and a bright light shone out. D’Agosta breathed through his mouth.

“The door to that far room and its window were also locked,” Braskie continued. “The deceased, it appears, piled furniture up against it from the inside.” He stepped across the threshold, Pendergast and D’Agosta following. The stench was now overpowering.

It was a small bedroom tucked beneath the eaves of the house, with a single dormer window looking out toward Dune Road. Jeremy Grove lay on the bed at the far side of the room. He was fully dressed, although the clothes had been slit in places to accommodate the M.E.’s investigations. The M.E. was standing beside the bed, back turned, writing on a clipboard.

D’Agosta dabbed his brow. Maybe it was the sun on the roof, maybe the bright lights in the room, but it was stifling. The smell of badly baked meat clung to him like greasy perspiration. He waited near the door while Pendergast circled the corpse, his body tensed like an eagle, examining it from every angle, the look on his face so eager it was unsettling.

The dead man lay on the bed, eyes goggled with blood, his hands clenched. The flesh was a strange tallow color, and its texture seemed off somehow. But it was the expression on the man’s face, the rictus of horror and pain, that forced D’Agosta to look away. In his long years as a New York cop, D’Agosta had accumulated a small, unwelcome library of images stored in his mind that he’d never forget as long as he lived. This added one more.

The M.E. was putting away his tools, and two newly arrived assistants were getting ready to bag the body and load it onto a stretcher. Another cop was kneeling on the floor, cutting out a piece of floorboard that had a mark burned into it.

“Doctor?” Pendergast said. The M.E. turned and D’Agosta was surprised to see it was a woman, hair hidden under her cap, a young and very attractive blonde. “Yes?”

Pendergast swept open his shield. “FBI. May I trouble you with a few questions?”

The woman nodded.

“Have you established the time of death?”

“No, and I can tell you that’s going to be a problem.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

“We knew we were in trouble when the anal probe came back at one hundred eight degrees.”

“That’s what I was going to tell you,” said Braskie. “The body’s been heated somehow.”

“Correct,” said the doctor. “The heating took place most strongly on the inside.”

“The inside?” Pendergast asked.

D’Agosta could have sworn he’d heard a note of disbelief in the voice.

“Yes. It was as if—as if the body was cooked from the inside out.”

Pendergast looked closely at the doctor. “Was there any evidence of burning, surface lesions, on the skin?”

“No. Externally, the body is virtually unmarked. Fully dressed. Aside from a single, rather unusual burn on the chest, the skin appears unbroken and unbruised.”

Pendergast paused a moment. “How could that be? A fever spike?”

“No. The body had already cooled from a temperature greater than one hundred twenty degrees—far too high to be biological. At that temperature, the flesh partially cooks. All the usual things you use to establish time of death were completely disrupted by this heating process. The blood’s cooked solid in the veins. Solid. At those temperatures, the muscle proteins begin to denature, so there’s no rigor—and the temperature killed most bacteria, so there’s been no decomposition to speak of. And without the usual spontaneous enzymatic digestion, there’s no autolysis, either. All I can say now is he died between 3:10 A.M., when he apparently made a telephone call, and 7:30, when he was discovered dead. But, of course, that’s a nonmedical judgment.”

“That, I assume, is the burn you referred to earlier?” Pendergast pointed at the man’s chest. There, burned and charred into the sallow skin like a brand, was the unmistakable imprint of a cross.

“He was found wearing a cross around his neck, very expensive by all appearances. But the metal had partially melted and the wood burned away. It seemed to have been set with diamonds and rubies; they were found among the ashes.”

Pendergast nodded slowly. After a moment, he thanked the doctor and turned his attention to the man working on the floor. “May I?”

The officer stepped back and Pendergast knelt beside him.

“Sergeant?”

D’Agosta came over and Braskie hastened to follow.

“What do you make of that?”

D’Agosta looked at the image burned into the floor. The finish around it was blistered and cracked, but there was no mistaking the mark of a huge cloven hoof, deeply branded into the wood.

“Looks like the murderer had a sense of humor,” D’Agosta muttered.

“My dear Vincent, do you really think it’s a joke?”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

D’Agosta found Braskie staring at him. The “my dear Vincent” hadn’t gone down well at all. Meanwhile, Pendergast had gotten down on his hands and knees and was sniffing around the floor almost like a dog. Suddenly a test tube and tweezers appeared out of his baggy shorts. The FBI agent picked up a brownish particle, held it to his nose a moment; then, sniffing, stretched it out toward the lieutenant.

Braskie frowned. “What’s that?”

“Brimstone, Lieutenant,” said Pendergast. “Good Old Testament brimstone.”

{ 5 }

The Chaunticleer was a tiny six-table restaurant, tucked into an Amagansett side street between Bluff Road and Main. From his narrow wooden seat, D’Agosta looked around, blinking. Everything seemed to be yellow: the yellow daffodils in the window boxes; the yellow taffeta curtains on the yellow-painted windows; the yellow linen tablecloths. And what wasn’t yellow was an accent of green or red. The whole place looked like one of those octagonal French dinner plates everybody paid so much money for. D’Agosta closed his eyes for a moment. After the musty dark of Jeremy Grove’s attic, this place seemed almost unbearably cheerful.

The proprietress, a short, red-faced, middle-aged woman, bustled up. “Ah, Monsieur Pendergast,” she said. “Comment ça va?”

“Bien, madame.”

“The usual, monsieur?”

“Oui, merci.”

The woman turned her gaze on D’Agosta. “And you, Officer?”

D’Agosta glanced at the menu—scrawled in white chalk on a slate near the door—but half the dishes he didn’t recognize, and the other half held no interest for him. The reek of Jeremy Grove’s flesh was still strong in his nostrils. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

“Anything to drink?”

“A Bud. Frosty.”

“So sorry, monsieur, but we have no liquor license.”

D’Agosta licked his lips. “Then bring me an iced tea, please.”

He watched the woman depart, then glanced across the table at Pendergast, now dressed in his usual black suit. He still couldn’t get over the shock of running into him like this. The man looked no different than the last time he’d seen him, years before. D’Agosta, embarrassed, knew the same couldn’t be said for himself. He was five years older, ten years heavier, and two stripes lighter. What a life.

“How’d you find this place?” he asked.

“Quite by accident. It’s just a few blocks from where I’m staying. It may well be the only decent restaurant in the Hamptons undiscovered by the beautiful people. Sure you won’t change your mind about lunch? I really do recommend the eggs Benedict. Madame Merle makes the best hollandaise sauce I’ve tasted outside Paris: light yet silky, with the merest hint of tarragon.”

D’Agosta shook his head quickly. “You still haven’t told me why you’re out here.”

“As I mentioned, I’ve taken a house here for the week. I’m—what is that phrase?—location scouting.”

“Location scouting? For what?”

“For the, shall we say, convalescence of a friend. You’ll meet her in due course. And now I’d like to hear your story. The last I knew, you were in British Columbia, writing novels. I have to say, I found Angels of Purgatory to be readable.”

“Readable?”

Pendergast waved his hand. “I’m not much of a judge when it comes to police procedurals. My taste for sensational fiction ends with M. R. James.”

D’Agosta thought he probably meant P. D. James but let it pass. The last thing he wanted to do was have a “literary conversation.” He’d had more than enough of those the last few years.

The drinks arrived. D’Agosta took a big gulp of iced tea, found it was unsweetened, tore open a packet of sugar. “My story’s soon told, Pendergast. I couldn’t make a living at writing, so I came home. Couldn’t get my old place back on the NYPD. The new mayor’s downsizing the force, and besides, I’d made more than my share of enemies on the job. I was getting desperate. Heard about the opening in Southampton and took it.”

“I imagine there are worse places to work.”

“Yeah, you’d think so. But after spending a summer chasing people whose dogs have just left a steaming load on the beach, you’d think different. And the people out here—you give a guy a speeding ticket, and the next thing you know, some high-priced lawyer’s down at the station with writs and subpoenas, raising hell. You should see our legal bills.”

Pendergast took a sip of what appeared to be tea. “And how is working with Lieutenant Braskie?”

“He’s an asshole. Totally political. Gonna run for chief.”

“He seemed competent enough.”

“A competent asshole, then.”

He found Pendergast’s cool gaze on him, and he fidgeted. He’d forgotten about those eyes. They made you feel like you had just been stripped of your secrets.

“There’s a part of your story you left out. Back when we last worked together, you had a wife and son. Vincent Junior, I believe.”

D’Agosta nodded. “Still got a son. He’s back in Canada, living with my wife. Well, my wife on paper, anyway.”

Pendergast said nothing. After a moment, D’Agosta fetched a sigh.

“Lydia and I weren’t that close anymore. You know how it is: being on the force, working long hours. She didn’t want to move to Canada to begin with, especially a place as remote as Invermere. When we got there, having me in the house all day long, trying to write . . . well, we got on each other’s nerves. And that’s putting it mildly.” He shrugged, shook his head. “Funny thing was, she grew to like it up there. Seems my moving back here was just about the final straw.”

Madame Merle returned with Pendergast’s order, and D’Agosta decided it was time to change the subject. “What about you?” he asked almost aggressively. “What have you been up to? New York keeping you busy?”

“Actually, I’ve recently returned from the Midwest. Kansas, to be precise, where I was handling a case—a small case, but not without its, ah, interesting features.”

“And Grove?”

“As you know, Vincent, I have an interest—some might call it an unhealthy interest—in unusual homicides. I’ve traveled to places far more distant than Long Island in pursuit of them. A bad habit, but very hard to break.” Pendergast pierced an egg with his knife, and yolk flooded out over the plate. More yellow.

“So, are you official?”

“My freelancing days are over. The FBI is a different place. Yes, I’m official.” And he patted the cell phone in his pocket.

“What’s the hook? I mean, for the feds. Drugs? Terrorism?”

“Just what I told Lieutenant Braskie—possibility of interstate flight. It’s weak, but it will have to serve.” Pendergast leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. “I need your help, Vincent.”

D’Agosta looked over. Was he kidding?

“We made a good team once.”

“But I’m . . .” He hesitated. “You don’t need my help.” He said it more angrily than he meant. He found those damn eyes on him again.

“Not as much as you need my help, perhaps.”

“What do you mean? I don’t need anybody’s help. I’m doing fine.”

“Forgive the liberty, but you are not doing fine.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re working far below your capacity. Not only is that a waste of your talents, but it’s all too clear in your attitude. Lieutenant Braskie seems to be basically decent, and he may be somewhat intelligent, but you do not belong under his supervision. Once he’s chief, your relationship will only grow worse.”

“You think that asshole is intelligent and decent? Christ, if you could spend a day working for him, you’d change your tune.”

“It’s you, Vincent, who needs to change your tune. There are far worse policemen than Lieutenant Braskie, and we’ve worked with them.”

“So you’re going to save me, is that it?”

“No, Vincent. It’s the case that will save you. From yourself.”

D’Agosta stood up. “I don’t have to take this shit from you or anyone.” He pulled out his wallet, dropped a crumpled five on the table, and stalked out.

Ten minutes later D’Agosta found Pendergast in the same place he’d left him, the crumpled bill still sitting there. He pulled out the chair, sat down, and ordered another iced tea, his face burning. Pendergast merely nodded as he finished the last bite of his lunch. Then he removed a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and laid it gently on the table.

“This is a list of the four people who attended Jeremy Grove’s last party, and the name and number of the priest who received his final phone call. It’s as good a place to start as any. Considering how short the list is, there are some rather interesting names on it.” He pushed the paper across the table.

D’Agosta nodded. The burning sensation began to ebb as he looked at the names and addresses. Something began to stir in him: the old excitement of working a case. A good case.

“How’s this going to work, with me being on the Southampton P.D. and all?”

“I will arrange with Lieutenant Braskie to get you assigned as the local FBI liaison officer.”

“He’ll never go for it.”

“On the contrary, he will be only too happy to get rid of you. And in any case, it won’t be presented as a request. Braskie, as you pointed out, is a political animal, and he will do as he is told.”

D’Agosta nodded.

Pendergast checked his watch. “Almost two. Come on, Vincent, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us. Priests dine early, but we might just catch Father Cappi if we hurry.”

{ 6 }

D’Agosta felt like he’d been swallowed by Ahab’s white whale, cushioned as he was in the white leather interior of a ’59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith. Chauffeured, no less. Pendergast had certainly come up in the world since the bad old days of the museum murders, when he drove a late-model Buick from the Bureau pool. Maybe a relative died and left him a few billion. He glanced over. Or maybe the time for dissembling had simply passed.

The car was cruising up Route 9, along a beautiful stretch of the middle Hudson Valley north of Poughkeepsie. After months spent among low sand dunes and beach scrub, D’Agosta found the lush greenery and rolling hills a relief to the eyes. Here and there, old mansions could be seen: set far back from the road, overlooking the river or tucked in among copses of trees. Some had signs identifying them as monasteries or retreats; others still seemed to be in private ownership. Despite the warmth of the day, there were already strong traces of fall coloring in the trees that marched up the gentle slopes.

The car slowed, then slid into a long cobbled driveway, coming at last to a noiseless stop beneath a red-brick porte-cochère. As he stepped out of the car, D’Agosta found himself before a rambling, Flemish-style mansion. A narrow bell tower at the flank of the building appeared to be a later addition. Beyond, well-tended greensward swept down toward the Hudson. A plaque screwed into the facade announced that the structure was built in 1874 and was now designated a historic site on the National Register of Historic Places.

Their knock was answered by a cowled monk in brown robes, a silken rope tied around his waist. Without a word, he ushered them into an elegant interior smelling of time and wax polish. Pendergast bowed and presented the monk with a card; in turn, the monk nodded and beckoned. They followed him through several turnings and twistings of corridors to a spartan room, whitewashed and bare save for a single crucifix and two rows of hard wooden chairs along opposite walls. A single window near the exposed rafters let in a bar of light.

The monk bowed and withdrew. Moments later, another figure appeared in the door. He, too, was dressed in a monk’s habit, but when he drew back the collar, D’Agosta was surprised to find a man well over six feet, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with black eyes that sparkled with vigor. In the background, he could hear the faint peal of bells as the changes began to ring in the tower. Somehow it gave him the shivers.

“I’m Father Bernard Cappi,” the man said. “Welcome to the Hyde Park Carthaginian Monastery. Here we’re under a vow of silence, but we meet in this particular room once a week to talk. We call it the Disputation Chamber, because this is where we piss and moan. You build up a lot of resentments in a week of silence.” He swept his robes back, taking a seat.

“This is my associate, Sergeant D’Agosta,” Pendergast said, following the monk’s lead. “He may want to ask questions as well.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The priest crushed his hand in greeting. This is no gentle lamb of God, thought D’Agosta. He eased down in the chair, shifting, trying hard to get comfortable. He failed. The room, despite the sunny day outside, felt cold and damp. God, he would never make a good monk.

“I sincerely apologize for this intrusion,” said Pendergast.

“Quite all right. I just hope I can be of help. This is a tragic business.”

“We’ll take as little of your time as possible. Perhaps we should begin with the telephone call.”

“As I told the police, the call came to my home at 3:10 in the morning—the answering machine registered the time—but every year I take a two-week retreat here, and so I wasn’t home to receive it. I check my messages upon rising—it’s a violation of the rules, but I’ve got an elderly mother. I immediately headed out to Long Island, but, of course, it was too late.”

“Why did he call you?”

“That’s a complicated question requiring a long answer.”

Pendergast nodded at him to proceed.

“Jeremy Grove and I go way back. We met at Columbia as students many years ago. I went on to the priesthood, and he went to Florence to study art. In those days, we were both—well, I wouldn’t call us religious in the usual sense of the word. We were both spiritually intrigued. We used to argue to all hours of the morning about questions of faith, epistemology, the nature of good and evil, and so forth. I went on to study theology at Mount St. Mary’s. We continued our friendship, and a few years later I officiated over Grove’s marriage.”

“I see,” murmured Pendergast.

“Grove stayed in Florence and I visited him several times. He was living in a beautiful villa in the hills south of the city.”

D’Agosta cleared his throat. “Where’d he get his money?”

“An interesting story, Sergeant. He bought a painting at an auction at Sotheby’s that was billed as being by a late follower of Raphael. Grove was able to prove it as the hand of the master himself, turned around and sold it for thirty million dollars to the Met.”

“Nice.”

“Indeed. Anyway, while living in Florence, Grove had become quite devout. In an intellectual kind of way, as some people do. He loved to engage me in discussion. There is, Mr. Pendergast, such a thing as a Catholic intellectual, and that was Grove.”

Pendergast nodded.

“He was very happily married. He adored his wife. And then, quite abruptly, she left him, ran off with another man. To say that Grove was devastated is not saying enough. He was destroyed. And he focused his anger on God.”

“I see,” Pendergast replied.

“Grove felt betrayed by God. He became . . . well, you certainly couldn’t call him an atheist or an agnostic. Rather, he picked a fight with God. He deliberately embarked on a life of sin and violence against God, which in reality was a life of violence against his own higher self. He became an art critic. Criticism is a profession which allows one a certain license to be vicious outside the bounds of normal civilized behavior. One would never tell another person in private that his painting was a revolting piece of trash, but the critic thinks nothing of making the same pronouncement to the world as if he were performing a high moral duty. There is no profession more ignoble than that of the critic—except perhaps that of the physician presiding at an execution.”

“You’re right there,” said D’Agosta with feeling. “Those who can’t do, teach, and those who can’t teach, critique.”

Father Cappi laughed. “Very true, Sergeant D’Agosta.”

“Sergeant D’Agosta is a writer of mysteries,” explained Pendergast.

“Is that so! I love detective stories. Give me a title.”

“Angels of Purgatory is his latest.”

“I’ll buy it immediately.”

D’Agosta mumbled his thanks. For the second time that day, he found himself feeling embarrassed. He would have to talk to Pendergast about sounding off about his abortive writing career.

“Suffice to say,” the priest continued, “Grove made a splendid critic. He surrounded himself with the most degraded, selfish, and cruel people he could find. Everything he did was excessive—drinking, eating, sex, money, gossip. He gave dinner parties like a Roman emperor, and he was often on television, savaging this person or that—in the most charming way, of course. His articles in the New York Review of Books were avidly read. Naturally he was a huge hit in New York City society.”

“And your relationship to him?”

“He couldn’t forgive me for what I represented. Our relationship simply couldn’t continue.”

“When was this?” D’Agosta asked.

“Grove’s wife ran off in 1974, and we had our falling-out shortly thereafter. I haven’t heard from him since. Not until this morning, that is.”

“The message?”

The priest removed a microcassette recorder from his pocket. “I made a copy before turning it over to the police.”

Holding it up in one hand, he pressed the play button. There was a beep. Then:

Bernard? Bernard! It’s Jeremy Grove. Are you there? Pick up the phone, for God’s sake!

The voice was high, strained, tinny.

Listen, Bernard, I need you here, now. You’ve got to come. Southampton, 3001 Dune Road. Come immediately. It’s . . . it’s horrible. Bring a cross, Bible, holy water. My God, Bernard, he’s coming for me. Do you hear? He’s coming for me! I need to confess, I need forgiveness, absolution . . . For the love of God, Bernard, pick up the phone—

His voice was cut off by the message machine using up its allotted time. The harsh voice echoed into silence in the bare, whitewashed room. D’Agosta felt a shiver of horror.

“Well,” said Pendergast after a moment. “I’d be curious to hear your thoughts on that, Father.”

Father Cappi’s face was grim. “I believe he felt damnation was upon him.”

“Damnation? Or the devil?”

Cappi shifted uncomfortably. “For whatever reason, Jeremy Grove knew his death was imminent. He wanted to obtain forgiveness before the end. That was even more important to him than calling the police. Grove, you see, never stopped believing.”

“Are you familiar with the physical evidence at the scene of the crime: the burned hoofprint, the traces of sulfur and brimstone, the peculiar heating of the body?”

“I was told, yes.”

“How do you explain it?”

“The work of a mortal man. Grove’s killer wished to make a statement about what kind of man Grove was. Hence the hoofprint, brimstone, and all the rest.” Father Cappi slid the tape recorder back into his cassock. “There’s nothing mysterious about evil, Mr. Pendergast. It’s here all around us, I see it every day. And I somehow doubt the real devil, whatever form he might take, would wish to draw such unwelcome attention to his way of doing business.”

{ 7 }

In the first darkness following sunset, the man known only as Wren walked up the broad, trash-strewn thoroughfare of upper Riverside Drive. To his left lay the black outlines of Riverside Park and the Hudson River beyond; to his right, the vast hulks of once-great mansions, now empty and decaying. Wren’s shadow flitted from streetlamp to streetlamp as the last touch of red left the incarnadine sky. Despite the gentrification creeping up from southern Manhattan, this remained a dangerous neighborhood, one in which few would wish to be caught after dark. But there was something about Wren—the cadaverousness of his features, perhaps; or his quick, stealthy scuttle of a walk; or the wild shock of white hair, unnaturally thick for a man of his years—that kept predators at bay.

Now Wren stopped before a large Beaux Arts mansion that fronted Riverside Drive from 137th to 138th Streets. The four-story pile was surrounded by a tall spiked-iron fence, furred in rust. Beyond the fence, the lawn was overgrown with weeds and ancient ailanthus bushes. The mansion itself seemed in decrepitude: windows securely boarded up with tin, slate roof tiles chipped, widow’s walk missing half its metal posts.

The iron gate blocking the entrance was ajar. Without pausing, Wren slipped through the opening and down the cobbled drive to the porte-cochère. Here, trash had accumulated in the corners, blown by the wind into fantastic shapes. In the blackness beneath the carriageway entrance was set a lone oaken door, festooned with graffiti but solid-looking nonetheless. Wren raised his bony hand, rapped once, then again.

The echo of his knock was lost in the vast spaces within. For a minute, perhaps two, all remained still. Then there was the rasp of a heavy lock being turned, and the door slowly creaked open. Yellow light filtered out. Pendergast stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the paleness of his features enhanced by the incandescent glow of the hallway. Without a word, he ushered Wren in, then closed and locked the door behind them.

Wren followed the FBI agent through the marbled entranceway and into a long, wood-paneled gallery. Then he stopped abruptly. The last time he had seen this house was during the summer, when he’d spent several weeks cataloging the mansion’s vast collections while Pendergast was taking his vacation in Kansas. At the time, the inside of the house had been as much a ruin as the outside: paneling torn away, floorboards ripped up, plaster and lath exposed, the by-products of an intense search. Along with Pendergast, Wren was one of only four—no, that would be five—living beings who knew the results of that search, and what those results meant.

But now the chestnut wainscoting shone with fresh polish; the walls had been replastered and covered in muted Victorian wallpaper; and everywhere, brass and copper fittings glowed in the dim light. In dozens of inlaid nooks and on marble plinths sat specimens from a magnificent collection: meteorites, gemstones, rare butterflies, fossils of long-extinct species. Within this house, a cabinet of curiosities unmatched by any other had been restored to a magnificence it had not enjoyed in a hundred years. Yet it was a cabinet destined to remain hidden from the world.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Wren said, waving his hand around the room.

Pendergast inclined his head.

“I’m amazed you accomplished it so quickly. Just two months ago the house was a shambles.”

Pendergast began leading the way down the gallery. “Cajun craftsmen and carpenters from south of the Bayou Têche served my family well in earlier years. They proved themselves invaluable once again. Though they did not approve of the—shall we say—environs?”

Wren chuckled faintly, tunelessly. “I have to agree with them. It seems odd, you taking up residence here, when you have such a delightful place down at the Dakota that’s—” He stopped in midsentence, eyes widening in understanding. “Unless . . . ?”

Pendergast nodded. “Yes, Wren. That is the reason. One of them, anyway.”

They were now passing into a vast reception hall, its domed ceiling repainted a Wedgwood blue. Rippled glass cabinets lined the walls, full of more artifacts, beautifully displayed. Small mounted dinosaur skeletons and taxidermied animals were arrayed around the parquet floor. Wren plucked at Pendergast’s sleeve. “How is she?”

Pendergast stopped. “She is well. Physically. Emotionally, as well as could be expected. We’re making slow progress. It’s been so long, you see.”

Wren nodded his understanding. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a DVD.

“Here it is,” he said, passing it to Pendergast. “A complete inventory of the collections within this house, cataloged and indexed to the best of my ability.”

Pendergast nodded.

“It still amazes me that the world’s preeminent cabinet of curiosities is housed under this roof.”

“Indeed. And I trust you found the pieces I gave you from it payment enough for your services?”

“Oh, yes,” Wren whispered. “Yes, yes, they were definitely payment enough.”

“As I recall, you were so long on restoring a certain Indian ledger book I was afraid the rightful owner would get restive.”

“One can’t hurry art,” Wren sniffed. “And it was such a beautiful ledger book. It’s just that . . . it’s just time, you know. Time bears away all things, as Virgil said. It’s bearing away my books right now, my lovely books, faster than I can restore them.” Wren’s domicile was the seventh and deepest sub-basement of the New York Public Library, where he held court over uncataloged legions of decaying books, their endless stacks navigable by no one but himself.

“Indeed. Then it must be a relief to know that your work here is done.”

“I’d have inventoried the library as well, but she seems to retain everything about it in her head.” And Wren allowed himself a bitter laugh.

“Her knowledge of this house is remarkable, and I’ve found uses for it already.”

Wren glanced at him inquiringly.

“I’m planning to ask her to examine the library’s holdings on Satan.”

“Satan? That’s a broad topic, hypocrite lecteur.”

“As it happens, I’m interested in just one aspect. The death of human beings at the hand of the devil.”

“You mean, as in selling one’s soul? Payment for services rendered, that kind of thing?”

Pendergast nodded.

“It’s still a broad topic.”

“I’m not interested in literature, Wren. I’m interested solely in nonfiction sources. Primary sources. Preferably first-person and eyewitness accounts.”

“You’ve been in this house too long.”

“I find it’s beneficial to keep her occupied. And, as you said yourself, she knows the library’s holdings so well.”

“I see.” And Wren let his gaze stray toward a set of doors in the far wall.

Pendergast followed his gaze. “You wish to see her?”

“Are you surprised? I’m practically her godfather, after what happened here this summer. You forget my role.”

“I forget nothing, and will always be in your debt for that, if nothing else.” And without another word, Pendergast stepped forward and noiselessly opened the doors.

Wren peered through them. His yellow eyes grew bright. On the far side lay a large and sumptuously appointed library. Case after case of richly bound books rose to the ceiling, firelight warming their leather spines. A dozen small sofas and wing chairs were arranged across a thick Persian carpet. In one of the chairs, sitting before the fire, was a young woman, paging through an oversize book of lithographs. She was wearing a pinafore over a white dress and black stockings, and as she turned another page, the firelight shone on her slender limbs, her dark hair and eyes. On a low table nearby sat a tea service, laid out for two.

Pendergast cleared his throat gently and the girl looked up. Her eyes went from the FBI agent to Wren, and for a moment, fear flashed through them. But then recognition spread across her features. She put the book aside, stood up, smoothed her pinafore, and waited for the two men to approach.

“How are you, Constance?” Wren asked in as soothing a croak as he could manage.

“Very well, Mr. Wren, thank you.” Constance gave a small curtsy. “And yourself?”

“Busy, very busy. My books take up all my time.”

“I shouldn’t think one would speak grudgingly of such a noble occupation.” Constance’s tone was grave, but the faintest of smiles touched her lips—in amusement? condescension?—and was gone again before Wren could be sure.

“No, no, of course not.” Wren tried not to stare. How, in such a short time, could he have forgotten that studied voice with its quaint constructions? How could he forget those eyes, so very ancient, yet set in such a young and beautiful face? He cleared his throat. “So tell me, Constance, how you pass your days.”

“Rather tranquilly. In the mornings, I read Latin and Greek, under the direction of Aloysius. My afternoons are my own, and I generally spend them browsing the collections, correcting the occasional inaccurate label I happen to come across.”

Wren darted a quick look at Pendergast.

“We have a late tea, during which Aloysius generally reads to me from the newspapers. After dinner, I practice the violin. Wretchedly. Aloysius suffers me to believe he finds my playing bearable.”

“Dr. Pendergast is the most honest of people.”

“Let us say Dr. Pendergast is the most tactful of people.”

“Be that as it may, I’d love to hear you play sometime.”

“I would be delighted.” And Constance curtsied again.

Wren nodded, turned to leave.

“Mr. Wren?” Constance called after him.

Wren turned, beetled eyebrows raised in query.

She looked back at him. “Thank you again. For everything.”

Pendergast quietly shut the doors to the library and accompanied Wren back down the echoing galleries.

“You read her the newspapers?” Wren asked.

“Just selected articles, of course. It seemed the easiest form of—how best to put it?—social decompression. We’re now up to the 1960s.”

“And her nocturnal, ah, rambles?”

“Now that she’s under my care, there’s no need for foraging. And I’ve decided on the site of her recuperation: my great-aunt’s estate on the Hudson. It’s deserted these days. It should be a good reintroduction to sunlight, if handled gently enough.”

“Sunlight.” Wren repeated the word slowly, as if tasting it. “It still seems impossible she was there all that time, after what happened, in those tunnels down by the river access. I keep wondering why she revealed herself to me.”

“Perhaps she’d grown to trust you. She’d watched you at work long enough, over the summer. You clearly loved the collections, which are precious to her as well. Or perhaps she had just reached the point where human contact was necessary, no matter what the risk.”

Wren shook his head. “Are you sure, really sure, she’s only nineteen years old?”

“That question is more difficult than it sounds. Physically, her body is that of a nineteen-year-old.”

They had reached the front door, and Wren waited for Pendergast to unlock it. “Thank you, Wren,” the FBI agent said, opening the door. Night air rushed in, carrying with it the faint sounds of traffic.

Wren stepped through the door, paused, turned back. “Have you decided what you’re going to do about her?”

For a moment, Pendergast did not reply. Then he nodded silently.

{ 8 }

The Renaissance Salon of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of the museum’s most remarkable spaces. Taken piece by piece, stone by stone, from the ancient Palazzo Dati of Florence and reassembled in Manhattan, it re-created in perfect detail a late Renaissance salone. It was the most imposing and austere of all the grand galleries in the museum, and for this reason, it was chosen for the memorial service of Jeremy Grove.

D’Agosta felt like an idiot in his cop’s uniform, with its Southampton P.D. patch in gold and blue and its lowly sergeant’s stripes. People turned toward him quickly, stared as if he was some kind of freak, and then just as quickly dismissed him as hired help and turned away.

As he followed Pendergast into the hall, D’Agosta was surprised to see a long table groaning with food, and another sporting enough bottles of wine and liquor to lay low a herd of rhinos. Some memorial service. More like an Irish wake. D’Agosta had been to a few of those during his NYPD days and felt lucky to have survived them. They’d obviously set this whole thing up with remarkable speed—Grove had been dead only two days.

The room was crowded. There were no chairs: people were meant to mingle, not sit reverentially. Several television crews had set up their gear near a carpet-covered stage, which was bare save for a small podium. A harpsichord stood in a far corner of the salon, but it was barely audible over the noise of the crowd. If there was anybody shedding tears over Grove, they were hiding it pretty well.

Pendergast leaned over. “Vincent, if you are interested in any comestibles, now is the time to act. With a crowd like this, they won’t last long.”

“Comestibles? You mean that food on the table? No, thanks.” His dalliance with the literary world had taught him that events like these served things like fish eggs and cheese that smelled so bad it encouraged you to check the bottom of your shoes.

“Then shall we circulate?” Pendergast began moving sylphlike through the crowd. Now a lone man mounted the stage: impeccably dressed, tall, hair carefully groomed back, face glistening with a professional makeup job. The crowd hushed even before he reached the microphone.

Pendergast took D’Agosta’s elbow. “Sir Gervase de Vache, director of the museum.”

The man plucked the microphone from the podium, his elegant figure straight and dignified.

“I welcome you all,” he said, apparently feeling it unnecessary to introduce himself. “We are here to memorialize our friend and colleague Jeremy Grove—but as he would have wanted it: with food, drink, music, and good cheer, not long faces and lugubrious speeches.” He spoke with a trace of a French accent.

Although Pendergast had stopped the moment the director gained the stage, D’Agosta noticed that the FBI agent was still scouring the room with his restless eyes.

“I first met Jeremy Grove some twenty years ago, when he reviewed our Monet exhibition for Downtown. It was—how shall I say it?—a classic Grove review.”

There was a ripple of knowing laughter.

“Jeremy Grove was, above all else, a man who told the truth as he saw it, unflinchingly and with style. His rapier wit and irreverent sallies enlivened many a dinner party . . .”

D’Agosta tuned out. Pendergast was still ceaselessly scanning the room, and now he began moving again, slowly, like a shark that has just scented blood in the water. D’Agosta followed. He liked to watch Pendergast in action. There, at the liquor table, pouring himself a stiff drink, was a striking young man dressed entirely in black, with a neat goatee. He had exceptionally large, deep, liquid eyes, and fingers that were even more spidery than Pendergast’s.

“Maurice Vilnius, the abstract expressionist painter,” Pendergast murmured. “One of many beneficiaries of Grove’s ministrations.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I recall a review Grove wrote of Vilnius’s paintings some years back. The phrase that best sticks in my mind is: These paintings are so bad they inspire respect, even awe. It takes a special kind of talent to produce mediocrity at this level. Vilnius has such talent in abundance.”

D’Agosta swallowed a laugh. “That’s worth killing over.” He hastily put his face in order; Vilnius had turned to see them approach.

“Ah, Maurice, how are you?” Pendergast asked.

The painter raised two very black eyebrows. As a fellow sufferer of bad reviews, D’Agosta had expected to see anger, or at least resentment, on the flushed face. Instead, it wore a broad smile.

“Have we met?”

“My name’s Pendergast. We met briefly at your opening at Galerie Dellitte last year. Beautiful work. I’ve been considering acquiring a piece for my apartment in the Dakota.”

Vilnius’s smile grew broader. “Delighted.” He spoke with a Russian accent. “Come by anytime. Come by today. It would make my fifth sale this week.”

“Indeed?” D’Agosta noticed Pendergast was careful to keep surprise from his voice. In the background, the director’s voice droned on: “. . . a man of courage and determination, who did not go gently into that good night . . .”

“Maurice,” Pendergast continued, “I’d like to speak with you about Grove’s last—”

Suddenly, a middle-aged woman came up to Vilnius, her cadaverous figure draped in a sequined dress. In tow was a tall man in a black tuxedo, his bald head polished to gemstone brilliance.

The woman tugged at Vilnius’s sleeve. “Maurice, darling, I just had to congratulate you in person. That new review is simply wonderful. And so long overdue.”

“You’ve seen it already?” Vilnius replied, turning toward these new arrivals.

“Just this afternoon,” the tall man replied. “A proof copy was faxed to my gallery.”

“. . . and now, one of Jeremy’s beloved sonatas by Haydn . . .”

People continued talking, ignoring the man at the podium. Vilnius glanced back toward Pendergast for a moment. “Nice to have met you again, Mr. Pendergast,” he said, drawing a card from his pocket and handing it to the FBI agent. “Please drop by the studio anytime.” Then he turned back to the woman and her escort. As they walked away, D’Agosta could hear Vilnius saying, “It’s remarkable to me how quickly news spreads. The review isn’t even due to be published for another day.”

D’Agosta looked at Pendergast. He, too, was watching Vilnius walk away. “Interesting,” he murmured under his breath.

They drifted back into the crowd. De Vache had concluded his speech, and the noise level had risen once again. The harpischord had resumed but was now completely inaudible over the drinking, eating, and gossiping.

Suddenly, Pendergast took off at high speed, arrowing through the crowd. D’Agosta realized his aim was the director of the Met, stepping down from the stage.

De Vache paused at their approach. “Ah, Pendergast. Don’t tell me you’re on the case.”

Pendergast nodded.

The Frenchman pursed his lips. “Is this official? Or were you perhaps a friend of his?”

“Did Grove have any friends?”

De Vache chuckled. “True, very true. Friendship was a stranger to Jeremy, something he kept at arm’s length. The last time I met him was—let me see—at a dinner party. I recall he asked the man across from him—a perfectly harmless old gentleman with dentures—to stop clacking his front incisors while he ate; that he was a man, not a rat. Someone later dripped sauce on his tie, and Jeremy inquired if perchance he was related to Jackson Pollock.” Sir Gervase chuckled. “And that was just one dinner party. Can a man who routinely talks this way have friends?”

Sir Gervase was called away by a group of jewelry-laden matrons. He apologized to Pendergast, nodded at D’Agosta, then turned away. Pendergast’s eyes went back to roaming the room, finally locking on a group of people near the harpsichord. “Voilà,” he said. “The mother lode.”

“Who?”

“Those three talking together. Along with Vilnius, whom you just met, they were the guests at Grove’s last dinner party. And our reason for being here.”

D’Agosta’s eye landed first on an unexceptional-looking man in a gray suit. Beside him stood a wraithlike elderly woman, covered with powder and rouge, dressed to the nines, manicured, coiffed, and no doubt Botoxed in an ultimately failed attempt to look less than sixty. She wore a necklace of emeralds so big D’Agosta feared her scrawny shoulders would tire carrying their weight. But the standout among the group was the figure at her other elbow: an enormously fat man in a gorgeous, dove-gray suit, replete with silk waistcoat, white gloves, and gold chain.

“The woman,” murmured Pendergast, “is Lady Milbanke, widow of the seventh Baron Milbanke. She is said to be a poisonous gossip, a drinker of absinthe, and an indefatigable séance organizer and raiser of the dead.”

“She looks like she needs a little raising from the dead herself.”

“Vincent, I have missed your trenchant sense of humor. The heavyset gentleman is undoubtedly Count Fosco. I have long heard of him, but this is the first time I’ve seen him.”

“He must weigh three hundred pounds if he weighs an ounce.”

“And yet observe how lightly he carries himself. And the tall gentleman in the gray suit is Jonathan Frederick, the art critic for Art & Antiques.”

D’Agosta nodded.

“Shall we venture into the lion’s den?”

“You’re the boss.”

Immediately, Pendergast strode over, smoothly and shamelessly insinuated himself into the group, and, seizing Lady Milbanke’s hand, raised it toward his lips.

The old woman blushed beneath her makeup. “Have we had the pleasure—?”

“No,” said Pendergast. “More’s the pity. My name is Pendergast.”

“Pendergast. And who is your friend? A bodyguard?” This elicited a round of titters from the group.

Pendergast chuckled along with them. “In a manner of speaking.”

“If he’s moonlighting,” the tall man named Frederick said, “he should do so out of uniform. This is, after all, a memorial service.”

D’Agosta noted that Pendergast did not bother to correct the man about the moonlighting. Instead, he shook his head sadly, ignoring the comment. “Terribly sad about Grove, don’t you think?”

Nods all around.

“I heard a rumor he gave a dinner party the night of his death.”

There was a sudden silence.

“Well now, Mr. Pendergast,” said Lady Milbanke. “What an extraordinary comment. You see, we were all at that dinner party.”

“Indeed. They say the murderer might have been a guest at the party.”

“How exciting!” cried Lady Milbanke. “It’s just like an Agatha Christie novel. As a matter of fact, we each had our own motives to do away with Grove. At least, we used to.” She exchanged brief glances with the others. “But then, we weren’t the only ones. Isn’t that so, Jason?” And, raising her voice, she beckoned a young man who was passing by, champagne flute in one hand. An orchid drooped from the buttonhole of his fawn jacket, and his hair was the color of marmalade.

The youth stopped, frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“This is Jason Prince.” She laughed teasingly. “Jason, I was just telling Mr. Pendergast here how many people in this room had cause to murder Jeremy Grove. And you’re known to be a jealous lad.”

“She’s full of crap, as usual,” said Prince, his face flushing. Turning on his heels, he strode away.

Lady Milbanke issued another tinkle of laughter. “And Jonathan here had been skewered by Grove more than once in his time. Right, Jonathan?”

The gray-haired man smiled ironically. “I joined a rather large club.”

“He called you the inflatable love doll of art critics, didn’t he?”

The man didn’t bat an eye. “Grove did have a turn of phrase. But I thought we agreed this was all behind us, Evelyn. That was more than five years ago.”

“And then there’s the count. A prime suspect. Look at him! Obviously a man of dark secrets. He’s Italian, and you know them.”

The count smiled. “We Italians are devious creatures.”

D’Agosta looked at the count with curiosity. He was struck by the man’s eyes, which were a dark gray color, with the unique clearness of deep water. The man had long gray hair, swept back, and skin as pink as a baby’s, despite his age, which had to approach sixty.

“And then there’s me,” Lady Milbanke continued. “You might think I had the best motive of all to murder him. We were once lovers. Cherchez la dame.”

D’Agosta shuddered and wondered if such a thing was physically possible.

The critic, Frederick, seemed to be equally put off by this image, because he began backing off. “Excuse me, there’s someone I need to speak with.”

Lady Milbanke smiled. “About your new appointment, I suppose?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Mr. Pendergast, a pleasure to have met you.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation. D’Agosta found that the count’s gray eyes had settled on Pendergast and that a small smile was playing about his lips. “Pray tell, Mr. Pendergast,” said the count. “What is your official interest in this case?”

Pendergast didn’t react. By way of response, he slipped a hand into his jacket and removed his wallet, opening it slowly and reverently, as if it was a case of jewels. The gold badge flashed in the lights of the great hall.

“Ecce signum!” the count cried delightedly.

The old lady took a step back. “You? Police?”

“Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Lady Milbanke rounded on the count. “You knew and didn’t tell me? And here I’ve made all of us into suspects!” Her voice had lost its undertone of amusement.

The count smiled. “I knew the minute he approached that he was of the constabulary.”

“He doesn’t look like an FBI agent to me.”

The count turned to Pendergast. “I hope Evelyn’s information will be useful to you, sir?”

“Very,” said Pendergast. “I have heard much about you, Count Fosco.”

The count smiled.

“I believe you and Grove have been friends a long time?”

“We shared a love of music and art, and that highest marriage of the two: opera. Are you by chance a lover of opera?”

“I am not.”

“No?” The count arched his eyebrows. “And why not?”

“Opera has always struck me as vulgar and infantile. I prefer the symphonic form: pure music, without such props as sets, costumes, melodrama, sex, and violence.”

It seemed to D’Agosta the count had gone stock-still. But then he realized Fosco was laughing silently, visible only from an internal convulsion. The laugh went on for quite a long time. Then he wiped the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief and patted his plump hands together lightly, in appreciation. “Well, well. I see you are a gentleman with firm opinions.” He paused, leaned toward Pendergast, and began to sing in a low tone, his deep bass voice barely keeping above the noise of the room.

Braveggia, urla! T’affretta
a palesarmi il fondo dell’alma ria!

He paused, leaned back, beaming around. “Tosca, one of my favorites.”

D’Agosta saw Pendergast’s lips tighten a little. “Shout, braggart,” he translated. “What a rush you’re in to show me the last dregs of your vile soul!”

The group became still at what appeared to be an insult directed at the count. But the count only broke into a smile himself. “Bravo. You speak Italian.”

“Ci provo,” said Pendergast.

“My dear fellow, if you can translate Puccini that well, I should say you do much better than merely trying. So you dislike opera. I can only hope you are less of a philistine when it comes to art. Have you had a chance to admire that Ghirlandaio over there? Sublime.”

“Getting to the case,” said Pendergast, “I wonder, Count, if you could answer a few questions?”

The count nodded.

“What was Grove’s mood on the night of his death? Was he upset? Frightened?”

“Yes, he was. But come, shall we take a closer look?” The count moved toward the painting. The others followed.

“Count Fosco, you were one of the last people to see Jeremy Grove alive. I would appreciate your help.”

The count patted his hands together again. “Forgive me if I seem flippant. I want to help. As it happens, your line of work has always fascinated me. I’m an ardent reader of English mysteries; they are perhaps the only thing the English are good for. But I must confess myself unused to being the subject of detection. Not an altogether agreeable feeling.”

“It is never agreeable. What makes you think Grove was upset that night?”

“Over the course of the evening, he couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes. He hardly drank at all, a striking departure from his usual habits. At times, he spoke loudly, almost giddily. Other times he wept.”

“Do you know why he was upset?”

“Yes. He was in fear of the devil.”

Lady Milbanke clapped her hands in an excess of excitement.

Pendergast peered at Fosco intently. “And what makes you think that?”

“As I was leaving, he asked me a most peculiar question. Knowing I was Catholic, he begged to borrow my cross.”

“And?”

“I loaned it to him. And I must admit to being a trifle alarmed about its safety since reading the morning papers. How may I retrieve it?”

“You can’t.”

“And why not?”

“It’s been entered into evidence.”

“Ah!” the count said, relieved. “But in time I may retrieve it, yes?”

“I don’t see why you’d want to, save perhaps the jewels it held.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s been burned and melted beyond all recognition.”

“No!” the count cried. “A priceless family relic, passed down for a dozen generations. And it was a present to me from my nonno, on my confirmation!” He mastered himself quickly. “Fate is a capricious thing, Mr. Pendergast. Not only did Grove die a day too soon to do me an important service, but he took my prized heirloom as partner to his destruction. So goes life.” He dusted his hands. “And now an exchange of information, perhaps? I have satisfied your curiosity, you satisfy mine.”

“I regret I can’t talk about the case.”

“My dear sir, I don’t speak of the case. I speak of this painting! I would value your opinion.”

Pendergast turned to the painting and said, in an offhand way, “I detect the influence of the Portinari Triptych in those peasants’ faces.”

Count Fosco smiled. “What genius! What foresight!”

Pendergast inclined his head slightly.

“I speak not of you, my friend, but of the artist. You see, that must have been quite a feat, since Ghirlandaio painted this little panel three years before the Portinari Triptych arrived in Florence from Flanders.” He beamed, looking around at his audience.

Pendergast coolly returned the gaze. “Ghirlandaio saw the studies for the painting which were sent to the Portinari family five years before the altarpiece arrived. I’m surprised, Count, to find you not in possession of that fact.”

The count lost his smile for only a moment. Then he clapped with genuine admiration. “Well done, well done! It seems you have bested me on my home turf. I really must get to know you better, Mr. Pendergast: for a member of the carabinieri, you are exceptionally cultivated.”

{ 9 }

D’Agosta listened to the distant ringing from the earpiece, so faint the other phone could have been ringing on the moon. If only his son, Vincent, would answer. He really didn’t want to talk to his wife.

There was a click and that familiar voice came on. “Yes?” She never said hello, she always said yes, as if his call was already an imposition.

“It’s me.”

“Yes?” she repeated.

Jesus Christ. “Me, Vinnie.”

“I know who it is.”

“I’d like to talk to my son, please.”

There was a pause. “You can’t.”

D’Agosta felt a flare of anger. “Why not?”

“Here in Canada we have something called school.”

D’Agosta felt stupefied. Of course. It was Friday, close to noon. “I forgot.”

“I know you forgot. Just like you forgot to call on his birthday.”

“You left the phone off the hook.”

“The dog must’ve knocked it off the hook. But you could have sent a card, a present.”

“I did send a card and a present.”

“It arrived the day after.”

“I sent it ten days before his birthday, for chrissakes. You can’t blame me for slow mail.” This was insane. Once again he was letting himself get dragged into a senseless argument. Why did they feel this desperate need to fight? The best thing to do was just not respond.

“Look, Lydia, I’ll call later tonight, okay?”

“Vincent’s going out with friends.”

“I’ll call tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll probably miss him. He’s got baseball practice all day—”

“Have him call me, then.”

“You think we can afford to make long-distance calls on what you’re paying?”

“You know I’m doing the best I can. No one’s stopping you from moving back here, you know.”

“Vinnie, you dragged us kicking and screaming up here. We didn’t want to go. It was tough at first. But then something amazing happened. I made a life here. I like it here. And so does Vincent. We have friends, Vinnie. We’ve got a life. And now, just when we’re on our feet again, you want us to go back to Queens. Let me tell you, I’m never going back to Queens.”

D’Agosta said nothing. It was just the kind of declaration he hadn’t wanted to provoke. Jesus, he had really blown it with this phone call. And all he wanted to do was talk to his son.

“Lydia, nothing’s engraved in stone. We can work something out.”

“Work something out? It’s time we faced—”

“Don’t say it, Lydia.”

“I am going to say it. It’s time we faced the facts. It’s time—”

“Don’t.”

“—time we got divorced.”

D’Agosta slowly hung up the phone. Twenty-five years, just like that. He felt short of breath; almost sick. He wouldn’t think about it. He had work to do.

The Southampton police headquarters was located in a charming, if dilapidated, old wooden building that had once been the clubhouse of the Slate Rock Country Club. The police force must have labored hard, D’Agosta reflected bleakly, to turn its insides into a typical charmless linoleum, cinder-block, and puke-colored police station. It even had that universal headquarters smell: that combination of sweat, overheated photocopy machines, dirty metal, and chlorine cleaning agents.

D’Agosta felt a knot in his gut. He’d been out of the place for three days now, running around with Pendergast, reporting to the lieutenant by phone. Now he had to face the lieutenant in person. The phone call to his wife had left him a wreck. He really should have waited and called her later.

He walked through the outer offices, nodding this way and that. Nobody looked particularly glad to see him; he wasn’t popular with the regular guys. He hadn’t joined the bowling club or hung out with them at Tiny’s, tossing darts. He’d always figured he was just passing through on his way back to NYC, hadn’t thought it worth the time to make friends. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

Shaking such thoughts away, he rapped on the frosted-glass door that led to the lieutenant’s small office. Faded gold letters, edged in black, spelled out BRASKIE.

“Yeah?” came the voice.

Inside, Braskie sat behind an old metal desk. To one side was a stack of newspapers, from the Post and the Times to the East Hampton Record, all with front-page stories about the case. The lieutenant looked terrible: dark circles under the eyes, face lined. D’Agosta almost felt sorry for him.

Braskie nodded him into a seat. “News?”

D’Agosta ran through everything while Braskie listened. When he was done, Braskie wiped his hand over his prematurely thinning scalp and sighed. “The chief gets back tomorrow, and basically all we’ve got so far is jack. No entry or egress, no latents, no hair or fiber, no eyewitnesses, no nothing. When’s Pendergast coming?”

He sounded almost hopeful, he was that desperate.

“Half an hour. He wanted me to make sure it was all ready.”

“It’s ready.” The lieutenant rose with a sigh. “Follow me.”

The evidence room was housed in a series of portable, container-type structures, fitted end-to-end behind the police station, at the edge of one of Southampton’s last remaining potato fields. The lieutenant swiped his card through the door scanner and entered. Within, D’Agosta saw that Joe Lillian, a fellow sergeant, was laying out the last of the evidence on a table in the middle of the long, narrow space. On both sides, shelves and lockers stretched back into the gloom, crammed with evidence going back God knew how many years.

D’Agosta eyed the table. Sergeant Lillian had done a nice job. Papers, glassine envelopes, sample tubes—everything was tagged and laid out neat as a pin.

“Think this’ll meet with your special agent’s approval?” Braskie asked.

D’Agosta wasn’t sure if it was sarcasm or desperation he detected in Braskie’s voice. But before he could contemplate a reply, he heard a familiar honeyed voice behind them.

“Indeed it does, Lieutenant Braskie; indeed it does.”

Braskie fairly jumped. Pendergast stood inside the doorway, hands behind his back; he must’ve somehow slipped in behind them.

Pendergast strolled up to the table, hands still clasped behind his back, lips pursed, examining the evidence as keenly as a connoisseur admiring a table laden with precious art.

“Help yourself to anything,” said Braskie. “I’ve no doubt your forensics lab is better than ours.”

“And I doubt the killer left any forensic evidence beyond that which he wanted to leave. No, for the moment I’m merely browsing. But what’s this? The melted cross. May I?”

Sergeant Lillian picked up the envelope holding the cross and handed it to Pendergast. The agent held it gingerly, turning it slowly this way and that. “I’d like to send this to a lab in New York.”

“No problem.” Lillian took it back and laid it in a plastic evidence container.

“And this charred material.” Pendergast next picked up a test tube with some burned chunks of sulfur. He unstoppered it, waved it under his nose, restoppered it.

“Done.”

Pendergast glanced at D’Agosta. “Anything that interests you, Sergeant?”

D’Agosta stepped forward. “Maybe.” He swept an eye over the table, nodded toward a packet of letters.

“Everything’s been gone over by forensics,” said Lillian. “Go ahead and handle it.”

D’Agosta picked up the letters and slipped one out. It was from the boy, Jason Prince, to Grove. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a smirk growing on Lillian’s face. What the hell did he think was so funny? D’Agosta began to read.

Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Reddening, D’Agosta put the letters down.

“Learn something new every day, huh, D’Agosta?” Lillian asked, grinning.

D’Agosta turned back to the table. There was a small stack of books: Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe; The New Book of Christian Prayers; Malleus Maleficarum.

“The Witches Hammer,” Pendergast said, nodding at the last title. “The professional witch-hunting manual of the Inquisition. A font of information on the black arts.”

Beside the books was a stack of Web printouts. D’Agosta picked up the top sheet. The site was called Maledicat Dominus; this particular page appeared to be devoted to charms or prayers for warding off the devil.

“He visited a bunch of sites like that in the last twenty-four hours of his life,” said Braskie. “Those were the pages he printed out.”

Pendergast was now examining a wine cork with a magnifying glass. “What was the menu?” he asked.

Braskie turned to a notebook, flipped open some pages, and passed it to Pendergast.

Pendergast read aloud. “Dover sole, grilled medallions of beef in a burgundy and mushroom reduction, julienned carrots, salad, lemon sherbet. Served with a ’90 Petrus. Excellent taste in wine.”

Handing back the notebook, Pendergast continued his prowl. He bent forward, picked up a wrinkled piece of paper.

“We found that balled up in the wastebasket. Appears to be a proof sheet of some kind.”

“It’s an advance print of an article for the next issue of Art Review. Due on the newsstands tomorrow, if I’m not mistaken.” Pendergast smoothed the paper, once again began to read out loud. “‘Art history, like any other great discipline, has its own sacred temples: places and moments any self-respecting critic would give his eyeteeth to have attended. The first impressionist exhibition on the Boulevard des Capucines in 1874 was one; the day Braque first saw Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon is another. I am here now to tell you that the Golgotha series of Maurice Vilnius—now on display in his East Village studio—will be another such watershed moment in the history of art.’”

“At the memorial service yesterday, I thought you said Grove hated Vilnius’s stuff,” D’Agosta said.

“And so he did—in years past. But he seems to have suffered a change of heart.” Pendergast replaced the paper on the desk with a thoughtful expression. “It certainly explains why Vilnius was in such a good mood last night.”

“We found another, similar article sitting beside his computer,” Braskie said, pointing to another sheet on the table. “Printed out but not signed. Appears to be by Grove, however.”

Pendergast picked up the indicated sheet. “It’s an article to Burlington Magazine, titled ‘A Reappraisal of Georges de la Tour’s The Education of the Virgin.’” He glanced over it quickly. “It’s a short article by Grove retracting his own earlier review, where he labeled the de la Tour painting a forgery.” He replaced the sheet. “He appears to have changed his mind about a lot of things in his final hours.”

Pendergast glided along the table, then stopped once again, this time before a sheaf of telephone records. “Now, these will be helpful, don’t you think, Vincent?” he said, handing them to D’Agosta.

“Just got the warrant for their release this morning,” said Braskie. “Clipped to the back are names and addresses and a short identification of each person he called.”

“Looks like he made a lot of calls on his last day,” said D’Agosta, flipping through.

“He did,” said Braskie. “To a lot of strange people.”

D’Agosta turned over the records and looked at the list. It was strange: An international call to Professor Iain Montcalm, New College, Oxford, Medieval Studies Department. Other, local calls to Evelyn Milbanke; Jonathan Frederick. A variety of calls to directory information. After midnight, calls to Locke Bullard, the industrialist; one Nigel Cutforth; and then—even later—the call to Father Cappi.

“We plan to interview them all. Montcalm, by the way, is one of the world’s experts on medieval satanic practices.”

Pendergast nodded.

“Milbanke and Frederick were at the last dinner party, and the calls were probably about organizing it. We have no idea why he called Bullard. We don’t have any evidence that he ever met the guy. Cutforth is also a cipher. He’s some kind of record producer, again no indication that he and Grove ever crossed paths. Yet in both cases, Grove had their private numbers.”

“What about all these calls to directory information?” D’Agosta asked. “He must have called at least a dozen different cities.”

“As far as we can tell, he was trying to track down somebody by the name of Beckmann. Ranier Beckmann. His Internet search activity bears this out, too.”

Pendergast laid down a dirty napkin he had been examining. “Excellent work, Lieutenant. Do you mind if we interview some of these people as well?”

“Be my guest.”

D’Agosta and Pendergast climbed into the agent’s Rolls, idling ostentatiously in front of the police station, the driver in full livery. As the powerful vehicle accelerated away from the station, Pendergast slipped a leather notebook from his pocket, opened it to a fresh page, and began making notations with a gold pen. “We seem to have an embarrassment of suspects.”

“Yeah. Like about everyone Grove ever knew.”

“With the possible exception of Maurice Vilnius. Even so, I suspect the list will shorten itself rather quickly. Meanwhile, we have our work cut out for us tomorrow.” He handed the list to D’Agosta. “You speak with Milbanke, Bullard, and Cutforth. I’ll take Vilnius, Fosco, and Montcalm. And here are some identification cards from the FBI Southern District of Manhattan Field Office. If anybody objects to the questions, give them one of these.”

“Anything in particular I should be looking for?”

“Strictly routine police work. We’ve reached the point in the case where we must regrettably put on those old-fashioned gumshoes. Isn’t that how they say it in those detective novels you used to write?”

D’Agosta managed a wry smile. “Not exactly.”

{ 10 }

Nigel Cutforth, sitting in his Bauhaus-style breakfast nook 1,052 feet above Fifth Avenue, lowered the latest issue of Billboard and sniffed the air. What was it with the ventilation in his apartment these past few days? This was the third time that sulfurous stink had come up into his apartment. Twice those yahoos from building maintenance had come up, and twice they’d found nothing.

Cutforth slapped down the paper. “Eliza!”

Eliza was Cutforth’s second wife—he’d finally dumped the old bag who had worn herself out bearing him children and found something fresher—and there she stood in the doorway, in her exercise tights, brushing her long blonde hair with her head tilted to one side. Cutforth could hear the crackle of static.

“There’s that smell again,” he said.

“I’ve got a nose, too,” she said, swinging one mass of hair back and pulling another forward.

There was a time not so long before when Cutforth liked watching her mess with her hair. Now it was beginning to get on his nerves. She wasted half an hour a day on it, at least.

As she continued brushing, Cutforth felt his irritation rise. “I paid five and a half mil for this apartment, and it smells like a goddamn science experiment. Why don’t you call maintenance?”

“The phone’s right there, next to your elbow.”

Cutforth didn’t care for the tone she was taking with him.

She swung the last part of her hair back, shook it out, straightened. “I’ve got my spin workout in fifteen minutes. I’m already late.”

With that, she vanished from the doorway. Cutforth could hear her banging the hall closet, getting on her tennis shoes. A moment later there was the hum of the elevator in the hall beyond, and she was gone.

He stared at the closed door, trying to remind himself that he’d wanted something fresher; that he’d gotten something fresher. Too fucking fresh, in fact.

He sniffed again. If anything, the smell was worse. It would be a bitch getting maintenance up here a third time. Building management was useless; they did something only if you yelled loud enough. But there were only two apartments on this floor—the other had been purchased but not yet occupied—and nobody on the other floors had seemed to smell anything. So Cutforth was the only one yelling.

He stood up, feeling a prickle of disquiet. Grove had complained of a bad smell in that bizarre call of his—that, and about a hundred other strange things. He shook his head, trying to clear the clouds of apprehension that were slowly gathering. He was letting that old pillow-biter and his crazy worries get to him.

Was it coming from the vents? He moved around, testing the air. It was stronger in the living room, even stronger in the library. He followed it to the door of the control room, sniffing like a dog. Stronger, ever stronger. He unlocked the door, entered the room, flicked on the light, and looked around. There was his beautiful 64-channel Studer, his RAID-striped hard disk recording system, and his racks of audio processing gear. On the far wall were several glass cases containing his treasured collections. The guitar Mick Jagger had smashed at Altamont: Keith Richards’s prized 1950 Telecaster, dating from the first year of mass production, still sporting its original pickups. The scribbled music sheets to “Imagine,” with the coffee stains and obscene doodles in the margins. His wife said the control room looked like Planet Hollywood. That really pissed him off. This space was one of the greatest collections of rock memorabilia anywhere. The place where he’d discovered the Suburban Lawnmowers from an over-the-transom four-track demo mailed from Cincinnati. This is where he’d first heard the sounds of Rappah Jowly and felt that special creeping sensation go up his spine. Cutforth had an ear. He had a knack of recognizing a big-money sound. He didn’t know where the ear came from, and he didn’t care. It worked, and that’s all that mattered.

Planet Hollywood, my ass. Where the hell is that smell coming from?

Cutforth followed his nose toward the plate-glass window looking into the studio. It was definitely in there. Some piece of equipment frying, perhaps.

He opened the heavy soundproofed door. As he did so, the smell washed over him like an oily fog. He hadn’t noticed through the glass, but there was a light haze in the air here. And it wasn’t just that sulfurous smell; there was something a lot worse now. It reminded him of a pig wallow on a hot summer day.

He glanced around the studio quickly, at the Bösendorfer piano and his beloved Neumann microphones, at the isolation chambers, the acoustically tiled walls.

Had some motherfucker been messing with his studio?

Cutforth searched the room with his eyes, anger vying with fear. It was impossible anyone had gotten into his apartment. It had state-of-the-art security. When you dealt with gangstas and others who settled business differences with lead instead of lawyers, you had to have good security.

He glanced around. Everything seemed to be in its place. The recording equipment was off. He laid his hand on the row of mic preamps: cool, the rows of LEDs all dark. But what was this? Over in the far corner there was something lying on the floor.

He stepped over, bent close to the blond wood, picked it up. It was a tooth. Or more like a tusk. Like a boar’s tusk. With blood on it, still wet. And a knot of bloody gristle at one end.

He dropped it in violent disgust.

Some fucker has been in here.

Cutforth swallowed, backed away. It was impossible. No one could get in. Hadn’t he just unlocked the door himself? Maybe it had happened yesterday, when he’d shown that promoter around, a guy he really didn’t know. You dealt with a lot of weird people in this business. He quickly got a cloth, picked up the tooth with it, practically ran to the kitchen, dropped it down the garbage disposal, and turned it on, listening to the raw grinding noise. The thing exhaled a bad smell and he averted his face.

A shrill buzzer sounded, and he just about jumped through the wall. Taking deep breaths, he went to the intercom, pressed the buzzer.

“Mr. Cutforth? There’s a police officer to see you.”

Cutforth peered into the tiny video screen beside the intercom and saw a forty-something cop standing in the lobby, shifting from foot to foot.

“On a Saturday? What does he want?”

“He won’t say, sir.”

Cutforth finally got his breathing under control. The thought of a cop in his apartment right now was almost inviting. “Send him up.”

On closer inspection, the officer looked just like any Italian-American cop, with the working-class Queens accent to boot. Cutforth settled the cop on the living room sofa and took a chair opposite. The guy had Southampton on his patch, which confirmed what Cutforth already suspected. This was about Grove. He had caller ID; he should never have answered that crazy son of a bitch’s phone call.

The cop took out a notebook and pen, displayed a microcassette recorder.

“No taping,” said Cutforth.

The cop shrugged, returned it to his pocket. “Funny smell in here.”

“Ventilation problems.”

The cop turned the pages of his notebook, got himself all positioned and ready to go. Cutforth settled back in the chair, crossing his arms. “Okay, Officer Dee-Agusta, what can I do for you?”

“Did you know Jeremy Grove?”

“No.”

“He called you very early on the morning of October 16.”

“Did he?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

Cutforth uncrossed his arms, crossed and recrossed his legs, already regretting having let the cop up. The only redeeming thing was, the cop didn’t look too bright.

“The answer’s yes, he did call me.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Do I have to answer these questions?”

“No—at least not at this moment. If you wish, we could arrange something more formal.”

Cutforth didn’t like the sound of that. He thought quickly. “There’s nothing to hide. I have a collection of musical instruments, rock memorabilia, that sort of thing. He was interested in buying something.”

“What?”

“Just a letter.”

“Show it to me.”

Cutforth managed to suppress any look of surprise. He stood up. “Follow me.”

They went back into the control room. Cutforth cast his eyes around. “That.”

The cop went over, looked, frowning.

“A letter Janis Joplin wrote to Jim Morrison, but never mailed. Just two lines. Called him the worst lay of her life.” Cutforth mustered a chuckle.

The cop took out his notebook and began copying the letter. Cutforth rolled his eyes.

“And the price?”

“I told him it wasn’t for sale.”

“Did he give a reason why he was interested?”

“He just said he collected Doors paraphernalia. That’s all.”

“And you didn’t mind getting a call in the wee hours of the morning?”

“In the music business, we keep late hours.” Cutforth walked toward the control room door, held it open, giving the cop a big hint about leaving. But the man didn’t budge. Instead, he seemed to be sniffing the air again.

“That smell, it’s really peculiar.”

“I’m about to call maintenance.”

“There was exactly this smell at the site of Jeremy Grove’s homicide.”

Cutforth swallowed. What was it Grove had said? The smell is the worst part of it. I can hardly think straight. In his call, Grove said he’d found something—a lump of fur-covered meat the size of a golf ball. It had seemed to be alive . . . at least until Grove stomped on it and flushed it down the toilet. Cutforth felt his heart pounding in his rib cage, and he took a couple of breaths, let them out slowly, the way he’d been taught in those anxiety management classes. This was ridiculous. This was the twenty-first fucking century. Cool it, Nigel.

“Do you know a Locke Bullard, Mr. Cutforth? Or one Ranier Beckmann?”

These questions, coming on the heels of each other, almost physically staggered Cutforth. He shook his head, hoping his expression wasn’t betraying him.

“You been in touch with Beckmann?” he pressed.

“No.” Hell, he never should have let the cop in here.

“What about Bullard? You been in touch with him? You know, just a friendly chat about old times?”

“No. I don’t know the man. I don’t know either one of them.”

The cop made a long notation in his notebook. Cutforth wondered what it was that took so long to write down. He felt the sweat trickling down his sides. He swallowed, but there was nothing to swallow. His mouth was dry.

“Sure you don’t want to tell me more about that telephone call? Because everybody else who spoke to him that night said Grove was upset. Terribly upset. Not exactly in the mood to buy rock memorabilia.”

“I already told you everything.”

Now at last they returned to the living room. Cutforth didn’t sit down or offer a seat to the cop. He just wanted him out.

“Do you always keep the apartment this hot, Mr. Cutforth?”

It was hot, Cutforth noticed; hot even for him. He didn’t answer.

“It was also excessively warm at the site of the Grove homicide, despite the fact that the heat was off in the house.” The cop looked at him inquiringly, but still Cutforth said nothing.

The cop grunted, slapped shut his notebook, returned the pen to its leather loop. “If I were you, Mr. Cutforth, next time I’d decline to answer a police officer’s questions without a lawyer present.”

“Why?”

“Because a lawyer would advise you that keeping your mouth shut is better than lying.”

Cutforth stared at the cop. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Grove hated rock music.”

Cutforth stifled his response. This cop wasn’t as dumb as he looked. In fact, he was about as dumb as a fox.

“I’ll be back, Mr. Cutforth. And next time it will be on tape and under oath. Keep in mind that perjury is a serious crime. One way or the other, we will find out what you discussed with Grove. Thank you for your time.”

As soon as the elevator had hummed its way down, Cutforth picked up the phone with a shaking hand and dialed. What he needed was a humping vacation on the beach. A beach on the other side of the earth. He knew a girl in Phuket who did amazing things. He couldn’t leave tomorrow—Jowly, his biggest client, was coming in for an overdub session—but after that he’d be clean gone, fuck the rest of the clients. He was going to get the hell out of town. Away from his wife. Away from this cop and his questions. And, most especially, away from this apartment and its stench . . .

“Doris? Nigel here. I want to book a flight to Bangkok. Tomorrow night if possible, otherwise first thing Monday. No, just me. With a limo and driver for Phuket. And find me a nice big house on the beach, something really secure, with a cook, maid, personal trainer, bodyguard, the works. Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone, okay, Doris darling? Yeah, Thailand . . . I know it’s hot this time of year, you let me worry about the heat.”

Do you always keep the apartment this hot, Mr. Cutforth?

He slammed the phone down and went into the bedroom, threw a suitcase on the bed, and began hauling things out of his closet: bathing suits, sharkskin jacket and slacks, shades, sandals, money, watch, passport, satellite phone.

They couldn’t nail him for perjury if they couldn’t frigging find him.

{ 11 }

By the time Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta entered the back door of the New York Athletic Club, he was a very pissed-off cop. The doorman had stopped him at the Central Park South entrance—even though he was wearing a tie as part of his full dress uniform—and upon hearing his inquiry sent him around to the back door because he wasn’t a member. That meant walking all the way to Sixth Avenue, down the block, and coming back around on 58th Street—almost a quarter of a mile.

D’Agosta cursed under his breath as he walked. Cutforth was lying, that much he was sure of. He’d taken a gamble, with that wild guess about Grove hating rock music, and Cutforth’s eyes had given him away. Still, for all his tough talk, D’Agosta knew there was an entire legal system between him and a rich bastard like Cutforth. Milbanke had been a total wash: all she’d wanted to do was babble about her new emerald necklace. The nutcase hadn’t given him a single decent lead, not one. And now here he was, taking an unexpected constitutional around one of Manhattan’s long crosstown blocks. Shit.

Finally arriving at the back door of the Athletic Club, D’Agosta punched the button for the service elevator—the only elevator there—and when it opened at last, creaking and groaning after a good three-minute wait, he punched 9. The elevator ascended slowly, pissing and moaning the whole way, at long last opening its doors again with a wheeze. D’Agosta stepped out into a dim corridor—for a fancy club, this one was pretty dark—and followed a little wooden sign with a gold hand pointing a finger toward Billiards. There was a faint smell of cigar smoke in the air that made him crave a good Cuban. His wife had nagged him into giving up the habit before they moved to Canada. But maybe he’d take it up again. Hell, no reason not to anymore.

As he walked down the corridor, the smell grew stronger.

He came through a door into a spacious room, its far wall studded with grand windows. As he entered, another guardian of the order sprang up from a little desk with a “Sir!” Ignoring the man, D’Agosta peered around the room. His eye finally discerned a lone, dark figure, wreathed in smoke, hunched over the farthest billiard table.

“If I may inquire your business, sir—?”

“You may not.” D’Agosta brushed by the attendant and strode past the billiard tables, low-hanging lamps casting pools of light over their emerald surfaces. It was six o’clock in the evening, and through the windows, the rectangle of Central Park was a graveyard of darkness. New York was at that magical twilight moment, neither light nor dark, where the glow of the city matched the glow of the sky behind it.

D’Agosta paused about ten feet from the man and pulled out his notebook. He flipped it open and wrote, Bullard. October 20. Then he waited.

He expected Bullard to look up and acknowledge him, but he didn’t. Instead, the man leaned farther over the green baize, his face in shadow, and tapped another ball. He chalked his cue with a swift twist of the wrist, came around the table, hit again. The table was like no pool table D’Agosta had ever seen: much larger, with smaller pockets and smaller balls in just two colors, red and white.

“Mr. Bullard?”

The man ignored him, moving to make yet another shot. His back was huge, his shoulders broad, and the silk fabric of his suit strained taut across them. All D’Agosta could clearly discern was the glowing stump of a huge cigar and two great knotted hands that were thrust into the circle of light, the veins on their backs as thick and rolled as blue earthworms. One of the hands sported two immense gold rings. The man tapped, moved around, tapped again.

Just as D’Agosta was about to say something, the man abruptly straightened, turned, pulled the cigar from his mouth, and said:

“What do you want?”

D’Agosta didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a minute to observe the man’s face. Quite possibly there wasn’t an uglier man on God’s earth. His head was huge and swarthy, and though the body it was perched on seemed as massive and thick as a grizzly’s, the head still appeared oversize. A lantern jaw, anchored by popping muscles, rose toward a pair of undulant earlobes. Centered between them were dry fleshy lips white against the dark skin: a particularly unpleasant combination. Above stuck out a thick, pitted nose. Massive, beetling brows jutted far over a pair of sunken eyes. From the bushy eyebrows above, a squat forehead led upward to a bald dome, its skin covered with freckles and liver spots. The impression the man gave was of enormous brute strength and self-assurance in both mind and body. When he moved, the blue silk that clad his frame rustled, and his movements were as heavy and deliberate as those of a well-muscled draft horse.

D’Agosta licked his lips. “I have a few questions for you.”

Bullard looked at him for a moment, then shifted the cigar back into his mouth, leaned over the table, and gave one of the balls a little tap.

“If it’s too distracting in here, we can always do this downtown.”

“Just a minute.”

D’Agosta checked his watch. He glanced back, saw the mincing attendant watching them from the far side of the room, his hands clasped in front of him as if he was an usher in church, smirking faintly.

Bullard now put his back to D’Agosta, leaning far over the table, the silk stretching and hiking up, exposing a crisp expanse of white cotton shirt and a pair of red suspenders. Another faint tap, more rustling silk.

“Bullard, your minute’s up.”

Bullard jerked his cue up, whisked some chalk on the tip, bent back down. The motherfucker was actually going to take a few more shots.

“You’re pissing me off, you know that?”

Bullard took the shot, rounded the table for another. “Then maybe what you need is a course in anger management.” He eased the cue back and forth and then, with the softest little push, sent the ball all of three inches so that it kissed another.

That did it. “Bullard, one more shot and I’m cuffing you and leading you out the front door, past the porter and anyone else who happens to come by. I’m going to march you down along Central Park South to Columbus Circle where I parked my squad car. And then I’m going to radio for backup and keep you standing at the curb at Columbus Circle, hands cuffed behind your back, through the ass end of a Saturday afternoon, until that backup arrives.”

Bullard’s hand paused on the cue stick. Then he straightened up, jaw muscles tight. He slipped his hand into his suit coat and began punching a call on his cell. “I think I’ll just tell the mayor how one of his finest has just threatened me with four-letter expletives.”

“You do that. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m Southampton P.D. and could give a flying fuck about your mayor.”

Bullard raised the phone to his ear and inserted the cigar in his mouth. “Then you’re out of your jurisdiction, and threatening me with arrest is misrepresentation.”

“I’m an assigned liaison with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Southern District of Manhattan Field Office.” D’Agosta opened his wallet, pulled out one of the cards Pendergast had given him, tossed it onto the pool table. “If you want to complain to the supervisor, he’s Special Agent Carlton and his number’s right there.”

That finally penetrated. Bullard slowly and deliberately snapped the phone shut. Then he dropped the cigar into a sand-filled spittoon in the corner, where it continued to smoke. “All right. You’ve managed to attract my attention.”

D’Agosta flipped out his notebook. He wasn’t going to waste any more time.

“On October 16, at 2:02 A.M., Jeremy Grove placed a call to your unlisted private number. On your yacht, I believe. The call lasted forty-two minutes. Is this correct?”

“I have no recollection of such a call.”

“Yeah?” D’Agosta slipped a photocopy of the phone record out of his notebook and held it out. “Telephone company records say different.”

“I don’t need to see that.”

“Who else was there at that time who might have taken the call? I’d like the names. Girlfriend, cook, babysitter, whatever.” He poised his pen.

A long silence. “I was alone on my yacht at the time.”

“So who picked up the phone? The cat?”

“I won’t answer any more questions without my lawyer present.”

The guy had a voice to match the face, deep and scarred, and when he spoke it was as if he was scratching a match along D’Agosta’s spinal cord. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Bullard: you just lied to me. You lied to a police officer. That’s obstruction of justice. You can call your lawyer if you like, but it’ll be from downtown and I’ll be escorting you out of here now. Is that how you want it? Or should we try it again?”

“This is a gentlemen’s club, and I’ll thank you not to raise your voice.”

“I’m a little hard of hearing, see, and anyway, I’m not a gentleman.”

He waited.

Bullard’s white lips curled in what might have been a smile. “Now that you mention it, I do remember that call from Grove. We hadn’t talked in a long time.”

“What did you talk about?”

“This and that.”

“This and that.” D’Agosta wrote it down. This and that. “For forty-two minutes?”

“Catching up, that sort of thing.”

“How well did you know Grove?”

“We’d run into each other a few times. We weren’t friends.”

“When did you first meet him?”

“Years ago. I don’t remember.”

“I ask again, what did you talk about?”

“He told me what he’d been up to lately—”

“Which was?”

“I can’t remember specifically. Writing articles, dinner parties, that sort of thing.”

It was just like Cutforth: the motherfucker was lying, lying, lying. “And you? What did you talk about with him?”

“Much of the same. My work, my company.”

“What was the reason for the phone call?”

“You’ll have to ask him. We were just catching up.”

“He called you after midnight just to catch up?”

“That’s right.”

“How did he happen to know your number? It’s unlisted.”

“I suppose I must’ve given it to him once.”

“I thought he wasn’t your friend.”

Bullard shrugged. “Maybe he got it from someone else.”

D’Agosta paused to look at Bullard. He was standing off to one side, half in shadow, half in light. He still couldn’t see the man’s eyes.

“Did Grove seem frightened or apprehensive to you?”

“Not that I could tell. I really can’t remember.”

“Do you know a Nigel Cutforth?”

There was a slight beat before Bullard’s response. “No.”

“What about a Ranier Beckmann?”

“No.” No pause this time.

“A Count Isidor Fosco?”

“The name’s familiar. I think I’ve seen it in the society pages once or twice.”

“Lady Milbanke? Jonathan Frederick?”

“No and no.”

This was hopeless. D’Agosta knew when he was beaten. He slapped the notebook shut. “We’re not done with you, Mr. Bullard.”

Bullard had already turned back to his pool table. “But I am most certainly done with you, Sergeant.”

D’Agosta turned on his heel, and then paused. He turned back. “I hope you’re not planning any trips out of the country, Mr. Bullard.”

Silence. Encouraged, D’Agosta pursued the line. “I could get you declared a material witness, restrict your movements.” D’Agosta knew he could do no such thing, but his sixth sense told him he had finally struck a vein. “How’d you like that?”

It seemed as if Bullard hadn’t heard, but D’Agosta knew he had. He turned and walked toward the exit, past the huge green tables with their tiny little pockets. At the door he paused, glaring at the attendant. The smirk vanished, and his face became suddenly and completely neutral.

“What’s this game here? Billiards?”

“Snooker, sir.”

“Snooker?” D’Agosta stared at the man. Was he making fun of him? It sounded like something a prostitute might charge extra for. But the man’s face betrayed nothing.

D’Agosta left the room, located the front elevator, and took it down. To hell with the porter and his rules.

The last of the evening light was slowly dying in the great billiard room of the New York Athletic Club. Locke Bullard stood over the table, cue in hand, no longer seeing the table or the balls. Sixty seconds passed. And then he placed the cue on the table, walked toward the bar, and picked up the phone. Something had to be done, and right now. He had important business to attend to in Italy, and nobody—especially this upstart sergeant—was going to cause him to miss it.

{ 12 }

D’Agosta paused on the steps of the New York Athletic Club and checked his watch. Only 6:30. Pendergast had asked him to come to what he called his “uptown residence” at nine so they could compare notes on the day’s interviews. He checked his pocket, found the key Pendergast had given him. Nine. He had time to kill. If memory served, there was a dim little Irish pub called Mullin’s on Broadway and 61st that served a decent burger. He could catch dinner and a cold one.

He glanced back into the lobby, caught the eye of the snooty doorman who’d made him walk around back earlier, and made a point of lingering a little longer on the steps. The man was at his kiosk, hanging up the house phone and looking back at him, a pinched expression on his mummified face. Damn, sometimes it seemed that being a fossilized old turd was the main job qualification of a Manhattan doorman.

Now, as he sauntered down the steps and turned left on Central Park South, his thoughts returned to Pendergast. Why the hell did he need a house uptown? From what he’d heard, Pendergast’s apartment in the Dakota was bigger than most houses, anyway. He pulled the card from his pocket: 891 Riverside Drive. What cross street was that? Probably one of those elegant old buildings along Riverside Park up around 96th. He’d been out of New York too long. In years past, he could take any avenue address and calculate the cross street in his head.

Mullin’s Pub was still where he remembered it, little more than a dim storefront with a long bar and old wooden tables along the opposite wall. D’Agosta entered, his heart warmed by the thought of a real New York cheeseburger, cooked rare, not one of those fussy avocado-arugula-Camembert-and-pancetta things they sold in Southampton for fifteen dollars.

An hour later, well fed, D’Agosta emerged, then headed north to the subway station at 66th. Even at 7:30, there were a million cars rushing, vying, and honking, a fuming chaos of steel and chrome, including one shitbox eighties-era gold Impala with smoked windows that nearly clipped off his toes. Laying a suitable string of curses in the car’s wake, D’Agosta ducked down into the subway. He fumbled with the magnetic card, swiped it through the machine, then headed down the stairs for the platform of the uptown IRT local. Even having killed an hour, he was going to be early. Maybe he should have stayed in Mullin’s for another brew.

In less than a minute a growing roar, along with a balloon of stale air that forced its way out of the dark tunnel, signaled the arrival of a train. He boarded, managed to find a seat, settled onto the hard plastic, and closed his eyes. Almost instinctually he counted the stops: 72nd, 79th, 86th. When the train slowed for 96th, he opened his eyes again, rose, and exited at the southern end of the station.

He crossed Broadway and walked west down 94th Street, past West End Avenue to Riverside Drive. On the far side of the leafy drive, past the thin green sliver of Riverside Park, he could make out the West Side Highway and the river beyond. It was a pleasant enough evening, but the sky was darkening and there was a smell of moisture in the air. The sluggish waters of the Hudson roiled along like black ink, and the lights of New Jersey speckled the far shore. There was a faint flicker of lightning.

He turned and scanned the address of the building on the nearest corner. Number 214.

Two fourteen? D’Agosta swore. He really had lost it in those few years in Canada. Eight ninety-one was a lot farther uptown than he realized, maybe close to Harlem. What the hell was Pendergast doing living up there?

He could go back to the subway, but that meant a long uphill walk back to Broadway, and perhaps a long wait in the station, then the local crawl farther uptown. He could grab a cab, but that still meant walking back to Broadway, and uptown cabs were almost impossible to find at that time of night.

Or he could hoof it.

D’Agosta turned north and began walking up the drive. It was probably only ten or fifteen short blocks. He slapped his gut. It would do him good, work off some of that greasy burger. Besides, he still had more than an hour to kill.

He set a brisk pace for himself, his cuffs and keys jangling. The wind was sighing through the trees along the edge of Riverside Park, and the facades of the elegant apartment buildings that faced the river were brightly lit, most sporting doormen or security guards. Even though it was almost eight, a lot of people were still coming home from work: men and women in suits, a musician carrying a cello, a couple of college professor types in tweedy jackets arguing loudly about somebody named Hegel. Once in a while someone glanced at him, smiled, nodded, glad that he was there. September 11 had changed a lot of things in New York City, and one of them was the way people looked at cops. Another reason to get himself rehired at the first opportunity.

D’Agosta hummed as he walked along, filling his lungs with the heady fragrance, that West Side perfume of salt air, car fumes, garbage, and asphalt. He caught a brief whiff of roasting coffee from some all-night delicatessen. New York City. Once it got into your blood, you could never get it out again. When the economy turned around and the city began hiring again, D’Agosta would be first in line. Christ, he’d start off as a tire-kicker in Far Rockaway if it meant working again for the NYPD.

He crossed 110th Street. The numbers were still only in the 400s, rising but not fast enough. What the hell was the cross-street rule for Riverside? Something divided by something minus 59 . . . He couldn’t even guess anymore—all he knew was it was going to be farther uptown than he thought.

At least he had plenty of time. Maybe Pendergast lived in one of those professorial brownstones up by Columbia. That must be it: Pendergast, slumming with the academics. He quickened his pace. Now the buildings were less elegant, plainer, but still neat and trim. He was getting into the Columbia University neighborhood, with its students and their baggy clothes, a kid shouting down from a window to some other kid on the sidewalk, tossing down a book. D’Agosta wondered what his life would have been like if he’d come from a family that had sent him to college. He might be a big-time writer by now. Maybe the critics would have liked his books more. You made a lot of contacts in the right college, and a hell of a lot of those New York Times critics seemed to come from Columbia. And they all reviewed each other’s books. The damn Times Book Review was like a private club.

He shook his head. As his old Italian grandfather used to say, it was acqua passata.

He paused at 122nd Street to catch his breath. He had reached the northern fringe of Columbia. Ahead was International House, standing like the last outpost on the edge of the frontier. Beyond was no-man’s-land.

And the numbers were only up to 550.

Shit. He checked his watch. Ten past eight. He’d hiked a mile. He’d done his duty for the day. He still had plenty of time, but he was no longer enjoying himself. And this far uptown, there was zero chance of getting a cab. There were still one or two students in view, but there were also crowds of kids loitering on stoops, watching him pass, sometimes giving a little hiss or muttering something. He now realized that 891 Riverside would be somewhere around 135th Street, if not a little farther. He could make it in another ten minutes—and he would still be early—but it meant walking into the heart of Harlem.

Once again he pulled the card from his pocket. There was the address, in Pendergast’s elegant script. It seemed impossible. But there could be no mistake.

He left the bright oasis of International House behind, neither hurrying nor loitering. There was no reason for him to be nervous: not in uniform and packing his Glock 9mm.

As he walked on, the neighborhood changed abruptly. Gone now were the students, the bustle of activity. The streetlights were broken, the apartment facades dim. It became quiet, almost deserted. At 130th Street, D’Agosta passed an empty mansion, one of the really old ones: the tin ripped off the empty window frames, the very frame of the building exhaling a smell of mold and urine into the street. A junkie palace. The next block contained a single-room-occupancy “hotel,” the inhabitants sitting on the stoop and drinking beer. They fell silent and watched him go by with bleary eyes. A dog barked incessantly.

Though plenty of antiquated cars lined the curb—battered, windowless, sometimes even wheelless—there were fewer cars on the road now. An ancient, microscopic Honda Accord CVCC passed by, so rusted its original color was impossible to discern. A minute or so later it was followed by a gold Impala with smoked windows. It seemed to D’Agosta that it slowed as it went past. He watched as it took the next right.

A gold Impala. There must be a million of them in the city. Hell, he was starting to get paranoid. All that soft living in Southampton . . .

He continued steadily on, passing rows of abandoned buildings, old mansions broken into apartments and SROs. Dogshit littered the sidewalk now, along with garbage and broken bottles. Most of the streetlights were out—shooting at them was a favorite gang pastime—and with the city’s general neglect of this area, it took forever to get them repaired.

He was now approaching the hard-core center of western Harlem. It seemed incredible that Pendergast had a place here: the guy was eccentric, but not that eccentric. The next block, 132nd, was completely dark, every streetlight out, the two remaining buildings on the block abandoned and boarded up. Even the lights on the park side had been blown away. It was a perfect muggers’ block—except no one in his right mind would ever walk there at night.

D’Agosta reminded himself he was packing, in full uniform, with a radio. He shook his head. What a wimp he’d become. He strode resolutely forward, down the dark block.

That was when he noticed a car behind him, moving slowly. Way too slowly. As it passed under the last streetlight, D’Agosta saw the gleam of gold—the same Chevy Impala that had nearly taken off his toes on West 61st Street.

D’Agosta may have forgotten the street address formula, but his NYPD cop radar remained in perfect working order, and now it went off loudly. The car was moving at precisely the speed that would bring it next to D’Agosta at the middle of the dark block.

It was an ambush.

D’Agosta made an instant decision. Breaking into a sudden run, he cut left and sprinted across the street in front of the approaching car. He heard the screeching acceleration of the tires, but he had moved too quickly and was already heading into Riverside Park by the time the car squealed to a stop along the curb.

As he sprinted into the darkness of the trees, he saw both doors open simultaneously.

{ 13 }

The door to the tenth-floor suite at the Sherry Netherland Hotel was opened by an English butler so impeccably outfitted he seemed to have stepped from the pages of a Wodehouse novel. He bowed to Pendergast, standing to one side. The man’s double-breasted Prince Albert frock coat was immaculately brushed, and when he moved, his starched white shirtfront rustled faintly. One white-gloved hand took Pendergast’s coat; the other held out a silver tray. Without hesitation, Pendergast reached into his pocket, removed a slim gold card case, and placed his card on the tray.

“If the gentleman would kindly wait.” The butler gave another slight bow and disappeared into a long hallway, carrying the tray before him. There was the soft opening of a door, the faint sound of clicking and hammering. Another, farther door was opened. Minutes later the butler returned.

“If the gentleman will follow me,” he said.

Pendergast followed the butler into a wood-paneled sitting room, where he was greeted by a birch fire, flickering merrily within a large fireplace.

“The gentleman is welcome to seat himself where he pleases,” the butler said.

Pendergast, always attracted to heat, chose the red leather chair nearest the fire.

“The count will be available momentarily. Would the gentleman care for amontillado?”

“Thank you.”

The butler retreated noiselessly and reappeared less than thirty seconds later, bearing a tray on which reposed a single crystal glass half filled with a pale amber liquid. He set it on the nearby table and, just as noiselessly, was gone.

Pendergast sipped the dry, delicate liquid and gazed about the room with growing interest. It had been furnished in exquisite and yet understated taste, managing to be both comfortable and beautiful at the same time. The floor was covered with a rare Safavid carpet of Shah Abbassid design. The fireplace was old, carved from gray Florentine pietra serena, and it bore the crest of an ancient and noble family. The table that held his glass also bore an interesting array of items: several pieces of old silver, an antique gasogene, some lovely Roman glass perfume bottles, and a small Etruscan bronze.

It was the painting above the mantelpiece, however, that startled Pendergast. It appeared to be a Vermeer, depicting a lady at a leaded-glass window examining a piece of lace; the cool Flemish light from the window shone through the lace, which cast a faint shadow across the woman’s dress. Pendergast was familiar with all thirty-five of Vermeer’s known paintings. This was not one of them. And yet it could not be a forg-ery: no forger had been able to duplicate Vermeer’s light.

His eye roamed farther. On the opposite wall was an unfinished painting in the Caravaggesque style, showing the conversion of Paul on the road to Damascus. It was a smaller and even more intense version of Caravaggio’s famous painting in Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome. The more Pendergast looked at it, the more he doubted it was a copy or a “school of” rendering. In fact, it looked like a study in the master’s own hand.

Pendergast now turned his attention to the right-hand wall, where a third painting hung: a little girl in a dark room, reading a book by candlelight. Pendergast recognized it as very similar to—yet not a copy of—a series of paintings on the same subject, The Education of the Virgin by the mysterious French painter Georges de la Tour. Could it possibly be real?

They were the only three paintings in the room: three breathtaking gems. But they weren’t displayed with pomp and pretense; instead, they seemed to be part of the environment of the room, placed for private enjoyment rather than public envy. None of the paintings even bore a label.

His curiosity about Fosco increased.

More faint sounds emanated from chambers beyond. Immediately, the agent’s preternatural hearing focused on them. A distant door had opened, and Pendergast could hear the whistling of a bird, the light patter of footsteps, and a deep, gentle voice.

Pendergast listened intently.

“Come out and hop upstairs! One, two, three, and up! Three, two, one—and down!”

A burst of chirping and twittering, combined with another sound—clacking and whirring—floated into the room from beyond, mingled with cheerful exhortations. Then, softly, a beautiful tenor voice sounded, singing the notes of a bel canto aria. The bird—if that’s what it was—fell silent, as if under a spell. The voice rose in pitch and volume, then faded slowly away, and as it did, the butler returned.

“The count will see you now.”

Pendergast rose and followed him down a long, broad corridor, lined with books, to a studio beyond.

The count stood in all his corpulent majesty in a capacious studio, one end with floor-to-ceiling glass, his back turned, looking out on a small balcony framed with rosebushes, sinking into twilight. He was wearing slacks and a crisp white shirt, open at the collar. Beside him was an immaculate worktable. At least a hundred tools were lined up on the table in geometric precision: tiny screwdrivers, pinpoint soldering irons, tiny jeweler’s saws, watchmaker’s vises and files. Laid out next to them was an array of exquisitely small gears, ratchets, springs, levers, and other finely machined metal parts, along with chips, small circuit boards, bundles of fiber-optic cabling, LEDs, bits of rubber and plastic, and other electronic objects of mysterious function.

In the center of the worktable stood a wooden T-bar stand, and on the stand stood a strange object that at first glance looked like a Triton cockatoo, brilliant white with a lemon-colored crest, but which on closer inspection proved to be a mechanical device: a robotic bird.

The butler indicated politely for Pendergast to seat himself on a nearby stool. As if by magic, his half-drunken glass of amontillado appeared; then the butler vanished like a ghost.

Pendergast watched the count. With his free hand, he plucked a casuarina nut from a tray, placed it between his fat lips, then protruded it. With a whistle of excitement, the robot cockatoo climbed to Fosco’s shoulder, then to his ear, and—leaning forward with a whirring of gears—plucked the seed from the projecting lips, cracked it with its mechanical bill, and made every appearance of eating it.

“Ah! My pretty, playtime is over!” cooed the count. “Back to your perch.” He gave his gloved hand a little wave. The cockatoo gave a screech of displeasure and flared his mechanical crest, but made no further movement.

“Ah, stubborn today, I see.” The count spoke louder, more firmly. “Back to your perch, my pretty, or you will be eating millet instead of nuts the rest of the day.”

With another screech, the cockatoo hopped off his shoulder onto the table, waddled over to the stand, climbed it with metal claws, and resumed its place, casting its beady LED eyes on Pendergast.

And now at last, the count turned with a smile and bow, offering Pendergast his hand. “I am so sorry to keep you waiting. My friend—as you see—requires his exercise.”

“Most interesting,” said Pendergast dryly.

“No doubt it is! It is true, I cut a ridiculous figure with my pets.”

“Pets?”

“Yes. And you see how they love me! My cockatoo and—” He inclined his suety head toward the other side of the room, where what looked like a pack of mice were disporting themselves within an elaborate wire pagoda with various clicks and whirs and digital squeaks. “And my dear little white mice! But, of course, of all my pretties, Bucephalus here is my pride and joy.” And Fosco turned toward the cockatoo. “Are you not, my pretty?”

The bird’s only response was to bury its massive black bill within a fluff of fake beak feathers, as if rendered timid by the compliment.

“You must forgive Bucephalus!” Fosco said, tut-tutting. “He is not partial to strangers. He is slow to make friends and screams when displeased—ah, my friend, such screams as you would not believe! I have been forced to take the two apartments adjoining this and keep them unoccupied, at great personal expense. Mere walls, you see, are no defense against the lungs of this magnificent creature!”

The robotic cockatoo gave no acknowledgment of this panegyric, continuing to eye Pendergast motionlessly.

“But they are all quite fond of opera. As Congreve said, music hath charms et cetera. Perhaps you heard my poor singing. Did you recognize the piece?”

Pendergast nodded. “Pollione’s aria from Norma, ‘Abbandonarmi così potresti.’”

“Ah! Then you liked it.”

“I said I recognized it. Tell me, Count, did you build these robots yourself?”

“Yes. I am a lover of animals and gadgets. Would you like to see my canaries? The real ones, I mean: I rarely distinguish between my own children and those of nature.”

“Thank you, no.”

“I should have been born an American, a Thomas Edison, where my inventiveness would have been encouraged. But instead I was born into the stifling, decaying Florentine aristocracy, where skills such as mine are useless. Where I come from, counts are supposed to keep both feet firmly in the eighteenth century, if not earlier.”

Pendergast stirred. “May I trouble you with some questions, Count Fosco?”

The count waved his hand. “Let us do away with this ‘Count’ business. We are in America, and here I am Isidor. May I call you Aloysius?”

There was a short silence before Pendergast spoke again, voice cool. “If it’s all the same to you, Count, I would prefer to keep this interview on a formal level.”

“As you like. I see the good Pinketts supplied you with refreshment. He’s a treasure, don’t you think? The English lorded it over the Italians for so many centuries that it gives me pleasure to have at least one Englishman under my thumb. You’re not English, are you?”

“No.”

“Well then, we can speak freely of the English. Bah! Imagine, the only composer of note they ever produced was a man named Byrd.” The count settled himself into a wing chair opposite, and as he did so, Pendergast noted again how lightly and easily the enormous man seemed to move, how delicately he seated himself.

“My first question, Count Fosco, involves the dinner party. When did you arrive?”

The count placed his white hands together reverently, as if about to pray, and sighed. “Grove wanted us at seven. And on a Monday night, too—very unlike him. We came straggling in, fashionably late, between seven-thirty and eight. I was the first to arrive.”

“What was Grove’s mental state?”

“Very poor, I should say. As I told you, he seemed nervous, high-strung. No so much that he couldn’t entertain. He had a cook, but he prepared the main dishes himself. He was quite a good chef. He prepared an exquisite sole, lightly grilled over the fire, with lemon. Nothing more, nothing less. Perfection. Then he followed with—”

“I already have the menu, thank you. Did he give any indication why he was nervous?”

“No. In fact, he seemed to be at great pains to hide it. His eyes darted everywhere. He locked the door after each guest was let in. He hardly drank, which was quite out of character. He was a man who normally liked a good claret, and even on this occasion, he served some excellent wines, starting with Tocai from Friuli and then a ’90 Petrus, truly magnificent.”

Château Petrus 1990, considered the best since the fabled ’61, was one of Pendergast’s own most prized wines; he had a dozen bottles of the $2,000 Pomerol laid down in his cellar in the Dakota. He chose not to mention this fact.

The count continued his description with great good humor and volubility. “Grove also opened, quite spontaneously, a wine from the Castello di Verrazzano, their so-called bottiglia particolare, the one with the silk label. Exceptional.”

“Did you know the other guests?”

The count smiled. “Lady Milbanke I know quite well. Vilnius I’d met a few times. Jonathan Frederick I knew only from his writings.”

“What did you talk about at dinner?”

The smile widened. “It was most peculiar.”

“Yes?”

“The first part of the dinner was taken up with a conversation about the Georges de la Tour painting you saw in my sitting room. What do you think of it, Agent Pendergast?”

“Shall we stay on the subject, Count Fosco?”

“This is the subject. Bear with me. Do you think it’s a de la Tour?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The brushwork on the lace is very characteristic, and the glow of the candle through the fingers is handled in pure de la Tour fashion.”

The count looked at Pendergast curiously, a faint gleam of something indefinable in his eyes. After a long silence, he said very quietly and seriously, “You surprise me very much, Pendergast. I am truly impressed.” The jocular, familiar note had vanished from his voice. He paused, then continued. “Twenty years ago I found myself in a little financial embarrassment. I put that very painting up for sale at Sotheby’s. The day before the auction, Grove wrote a little piece in the Times calling it one of the Delobre fakes, done around the turn of the century. It was pulled from the auction, and despite my having the provenance in hand, I lost fifteen million dollars.”

Pendergast considered this. “And that’s what you talked about? His branding your de la Tour a forgery?”

“Yes, in the beginning. Then the conversation moved to Vilnius and his paintings. Grove reminded us of Vilnius’s first big show, in SoHo in the early eighties. At the time, Grove wrote a legendarily scathing review. Suffice to say, Vilnius’s career never recovered.”

“An odd topic of conversation.”

“Indeed. And then Grove brought up the subject of Lady Milbanke and the affair he’d had with her some years back.”

“I imagine this was quite a lively dinner party.”

“I have rarely seen its equal.”

“And how did Lady Milbanke react?”

“How would you expect a lady to react? The affair broke up her marriage. And then Grove treated her abominably, left her for a boy.”

“It sounds as if each of you had reason to be mortal enemies of Grove.”

Fosco sighed. “We were. We all hated him, including Frederick. I don’t know the man at all, but I understand that some years ago, when he was editor of Art and Style, he had the temerity to write something nasty about Grove. Grove had friends in high places, and the next thing Frederick knew he’d been fired. The poor fellow couldn’t find a job for years.”

“When did the dinner party break up?”

“After midnight.”

“Who left first?”

“I was the first to stand and announce my departure. I have always required a great deal of sleep. The others rose at the same time. Grove was most reluctant to see us go. He kept pressing after-dinner drinks on us, coffee. He was most anxious that we stay.”

“Do you know why?”

“He seemed frightened of being alone.”

“Do you recall his precise words?”

“To a certain extent.” Fosco broke out into a high-pitched, upper-class drawl that was startling in its realism. “My friends! You’re not going already? Why, it’s just midnight! Come, let’s toast our reconciliation and bid good riddance to my years of misguided pride. I have an excellent port that you must try, Fosco—and he plucked my sleeve—a Graham’s Tawny, 1972 vintage.” Fosco gave a sniff. “I was almost tempted to stay when I heard that.”

“Did you all leave together?”

“More or less. We said our good-byes and straggled out across the lawn.”

“And that was when? I’d like to know as precisely as possible, if you please.”

“Twelve twenty-five.” He looked at Pendergast for a moment and then said, “Mr. Pendergast, forgive me if I observe that, among all these questions, you haven’t asked the most important one of all.”

“And what question would that be, Count Fosco?”

“Why did Jeremy Grove ask us, his four mortal enemies, to be with him on the final night of his life?”

For a long time, Pendergast did not answer. He was carefully considering both the question and the man who had just posed it. Finally he said simply, “A good question. Consider it posed.”

“It was the very question Grove himself asked when he gathered us around his table at the beginning of the dinner party. He repeated what his invitation said: that he invited us to his house that night because we were the four people he had most wronged. He wished to make amends.”

“Do you have a copy of the invitation?”

With a smile, Fosco removed it from his shirt pocket and handed it over—a short, handwritten note.

“And he’d already begun to make amends. As with his reappraisal of Vilnius’s work.”

“A splendid review, don’t you think? I understand Vilnius has just landed Gallery 10 to show his work, and they’ve doubled his prices.”

“And Lady Milbanke? Jonathan Frederick? How did he make amends to them?”

“While Grove couldn’t put Lady Milbanke’s marriage back together, he did give her something in compensation. He passed her an exquisite emerald necklace across the table, more than enough to replace that dried-up old husk of a baron she lost. Forty carats of flawless Sri Lankan emeralds, worth a million dollars if a penny. She practically swooned. And Frederick? He was a long shot for the position of president of the Edsel Foundation, but Grove arranged the job for him.”

“Extraordinary. And what did he do for you?”

“Surely you already know the answer to that.”

Pendergast nodded. “The article he was writing for Burlington Magazine. ‘A Reappraisal of Georges de la Tour’s The Education of the Virgin.’”

“Precisely. Proclaiming himself in error, making appropriately abject apologies, beating his breast and affirming the glorious authenticity of the painting. He read the article aloud to us over the dinner table.”

“It remained beside his computer. Unsigned and unmailed.”

“Only too true, Mr. Pendergast. Of the four of us, I was the only one cheated by his death.” He spread his hands. “If the murderer had waited a day, I would be forty million richer.”

“Forty million? I thought it had been put up for sale at fifteen.”

“That was Sotheby’s estimate twenty years ago. That painting would go for at least forty million today. But with Grove on record that it’s one of the Delobre fakes . . .” Fosco shrugged. “An unsigned article beside a dead man’s computer means nothing. There is one good thing: I’ll have the lovely painting to look at for the rest of my life. I know it’s real, and you know it’s real, even if no one else does.”

“Yes,” Pendergast said. “Ultimately that’s all that matters.”

“Well put.”

“And the Vermeer that hangs beside it?”

“Real.”

“Indeed?”

“It has been dated to 1671, between the period of Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid and The Allegory of Faith.”

“Where did it come from?”

“It’s been in my family for several hundred years. The counts of Fosco never felt the need to trumpet their possessions.”

“I’m truly astonished.”

The count smiled, bowed. “Do you have time to see the rest of my collection?”

Pendergast hesitated for only a second. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

The count rose and went to the door. Just before they exited, he turned to the mechanical cockatoo, still on his perch.

“Keep an eye on the place, Bucephalus, my pretty.”

The bird gave a digitized squawk in reply.

{ 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, the Liber 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.”

{ 17 }

Dr. Jack Dienphong cast his eye about his laboratory: examining the metal tables, the chemical hoods and glove boxes, microscopes, SEMs, microtomes, and titration setups. It wasn’t pretty, but it was organized and functional. Dienphong was chief of the FBI’s Forensic Science Division on Congress Street, and he was very curious to meet—at last—this Special Agent Pendergast he had heard so much about.

He glanced down at the scribbled index card in his hand, running through his notes one more time. Most of it was in his head: the index card was more for comfort than anything else. He felt a disquieting sense of apprehension. He didn’t like what he was going to have to report, and he just hoped the famous—some said infamous—agent would understand. In Dienphong’s opinion, the worst mistake one could make in forensic chemistry was to overinterpret results. Do that enough times, and eventually you’d send an innocent man to prison. It was Dienphong’s greatest fear. He wouldn’t stretch results for anyone, not even someone as formidable as Pendergast.

There was a stir at the door, and Dienphong glanced at his watch. On time almost to the second, already confirming one thing he’d heard Pendergast was famous for. A moment later the door opened, and a slender man in a black suit entered, followed by Special Agent in Charge Carlton, chief of the Southern District Field Office, and a hushed group of junior agents and assistants. There was an almost palpable excitement in the air, the kind of excitement high-profile cases always generated. And only a high-profile case like this would bring somebody like Carlton in on a Sunday. All the pertinent evidence had been forwarded to the FBI by local police for in-depth analysis. And now it was up to Dienphong to piece everything together for them. His feeling of apprehension did not diminish.

Dienphong observed the stranger carefully. Pendergast was just as people had described him, moving with the efficiency and grace of a cat. His hair was so blond it was almost white, his face cool and patrician, his pale eyes restlessly taking in everything. Dienphong had met many FBI agents in his time, but this one was in another category altogether.

Those ice cool eyes alighted on Dienphong, and the agent came striding over. “Dr. Dienphong,” the man said in the buttery tones of the Deep South.

“A pleasure.” Dienphong took the dry hand.

“I thought your piece in the Journal of Forensics on the maturation rate of blowfly larvae in the human cadaver to be fine reading.”

“Thank you.” He hadn’t quite thought of the article as “fine reading” himself, but then each to his own. Dienphong’s idea of fine reading was Johnson’s Rambler essays.

“The presentation is all ready,” he said, gesturing toward a double row of metal chairs set up before a projection screen. “We’re going to begin with a brief visual presentation.”

“Excellent.”

The agents seated themselves with murmurs, coughing, and scraping of chairs. Special Agent in Charge Carlton took up position in the front row center, his thick thighs spilling off the edges of the seat.

Dienphong nodded toward his assistant and the lights dimmed. He switched on the computer projector.

“Please feel free to interrupt with questions at any time.” He called up the first image. “We’ll go from simplest to most complex. This is a 50x sample of the sulfur recovered at the site. Our chemical analysis showed it to be natural, with trace elements that indicate a volcanic origin. It had been rapidly heated and burned by unknown means. When sulfur burns, it combines with oxygen to make sulfur dioxide gas, SO_2, which has a very strong odor—the smell of burned matches. If it then comes in contact with water, it creates H_2SO_4, also known as sulfuric acid.

“These fibers here” —the next image came up—“are from the victim’s clothing. Note the pitting and curling: clear effects of sulfuric acid on the victim’s clothes.”

Three more images in quick succession. “As you can see, there was even microscopic pitting on the victim’s plastic glasses, and in the varnish on the walls and floor, from the intense release of sulfur compounds.”

“Any idea of the specific volcanic source?” It was Pendergast who spoke.

“That’s almost impossible to answer. We’d have to analyze and compare this with thousands of known volcanic sources, an overwhelming job even if we could get the samples. What I can tell you is that the high proportion of silicon indicates a continental, as opposed to an oceanic, source. In other words, this sulfur didn’t come from Hawaii or, say, the seafloor.”

Pendergast settled back, his expression unreadable in the dark room.

“This next image shows some microsections of the burned wood of the floor from the so-called hoofprint.” Several more images flashed across the screen. Dienphong cleared his throat. Here is where the difficulties began.

“You will note the very deep penetration of the burn into the wood. You can see it better at 200x.”

Another slide. “This was not caused by a ‘branding iron’ effect.” He paused, swallowed. “That is to say, this mark was not burned into the floor by a red-hot object being impressed into the wood. It was caused by an intense burst of nonionizing radiation, probably in the very short infrared wavelength range, which deeply penetrated the wood.”

Carlton spoke up, as Dienphong knew he would. “You mean, the perp didn’t heat something up and press it on the wood?”

“Exactly. Nothing actually touched the wood. The burn was made by a short blast of pure radiation.”

Carlton shifted, the chair uttering a dangerous groan. “Wait a minute. How can that be?”

“My job is to describe, not interpret,” said Dienphong, flicking up the next slide.

But the chief hadn’t finished. “Are you saying the mark was made with some kind of ray gun?”

“I can’t say what the source of the radiation was.”

Carlton settled back with a dubious grunt.

“This brings us to the cross.” The next slide came up. “Our art expert has identified this as a rare example of a seventeenth-century Tuscan cross, commonly worn by the noble classes. It is made of gold and silver, layered, fused, and hand-chased to produce a rather interesting effect known as lamellés fines. It was then set in wood, which has largely burned away.”

“How much’s it worth?” Carlton said, asking an intelligent question for a change.

“Given the precious stones, eighty, perhaps one hundred thousand dollars. Undamaged, that is.”

Carlton whistled.

“The cross was found around the neck of the victim, touching his skin. Here is a photograph of it at the scene of the crime, still around the victim’s neck.”

The next slide came up, prompting noises of disgust and disbelief.

“As you can see, the cross heated to the point of melting, deeply burning the skin where it lay. But observe that the surrounding flesh is not scorched or even reddened. Something—and I really can’t say what—selectively heated the cross without heating the surrounding skin. The cross then partially melted and burned itself into the victim’s flesh in situ.

“And here”—he brought up the next image—“is an electron micrograph at 3,000x, showing this extraordinary pitting along the silver—but not the gold—surface of the cross. I can’t account for this, either. I suspect it might have been caused by an intense and prolonged dose of radiation that seems to have stripped off the top layers of electrons and vaporized part of the metal. It acts much more strongly on silver than on gold. Again, I have no idea why.”

Carlton was on his feet. “Can we have this in plain English?”

“Of course,” Dienphong said dryly. “Something heated up and melted the cross without heating up anything around it. I guess it must have been some kind of radiation that was taken up by metal more strongly than flesh.”

“Like maybe the same radiation that burned the hoofprint?”

Carlton, Dienphong had to admit, was not as stupid as he pretended to be.

“A good possibility.”

Pendergast raised a finger.

“Agent Pendergast?”

“Were there any signs of radiation burns or heating in any other surfaces in the room?”

An even better question. “Yes, in fact, there were. The bedposts, which were varnished pine, showed signs of heat stress, as did the wall behind the bed, which was painted pine. In some areas, the paint had softened and bubbled.”

He moused his way through the on-screen menu and pulled up another image. “Here’s a cross section of the wall, showing four layers of paint. Now here’s yet another small mystery: only the lowest layer of paint seems to have heated up and bubbled. The others were undisturbed and remained chemically unaltered.”

“Did you analyze all four layers of paint?” Pendergast asked.

Dienphong nodded.

“Was the bottom layer a lead-based paint?”

Dienphong felt a sudden surprise. He quickly saw where the line of questioning would lead, and it was something that he had not thought of. “Let me check the book.” He flipped through the lab reports, organized and categorized in a three-ring binder labeled Brimstone. All FBI investigations get a nickname, and this was the one he had given this case. Melodramatic, perhaps, but appropriate.

He looked up from the binder. “Yes, as a matter of fact it was lead-based.”

“And the rest were not?”

“That’s correct.”

“Further proof that we are dealing with some kind of radiation.”

“Very good, Agent Pendergast.” It was the first time in his career that an FBI agent had beaten him to a conclusion. This Pendergast was living up to his reputation. Dienphong cleared his throat. “Any other questions or comments?”

Carlton sat down again, raised a weary hand.

“Yes?”

“I’m missing something. How could something affect the bottom layer of paint and not the upper ones?”

Pendergast turned. “It was the lead in the paint that reacted, like the metal in the cross. It absorbed the radiation more strongly. Was there any radioactivity present at the site, Doctor, during follow-up investigation?”

“None whatsoever.”

Carlton nodded. “Check into that, Sam, will you?”

“Of course, sir,” one of the junior agents replied.

Dienphong went to the next image. “Here’s the final image: a close-up of a section of the cross. Note the very localized melting, completely inconsistent with a convective source of heat. Again an indication that radiation played a role.”

“What type of radiation would selectively heat metal more than flesh?” Pendergast asked.

“X-rays, gamma rays, microwave, far infrared, certain wavelengths in the radio spectrum, not to mention alpha radiation and a flux of fast neutrons. This is not very unusual. What is unusual is the intensity.”

Dienphong waited for the inevitable expostulation from Carlton, but this time the agent in charge said nothing.

“The pitting on the cross,” Pendergast said, “might suggest to you something?”

“Not so far.”

“Speculations?”

“I never speculate, Mr. Pendergast.”

“An intense electron beam could cause it, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but an electron beam would have to propagate through a vacuum. Air would disperse it in, say, a millimeter or two. As I said, it might have been in the infrared, microwave, or X-ray spectrum, except that it would take a transmitter of several tons to generate a beam that intense.”

“Quite so. What do you think, Doctor, of the theory being pushed by the New York Post?”

Dienphong paused briefly at this sudden change of tack. “I am not in the habit of taking my theories from the pages of the Post.”

“They’ve published speculation that the devil took his soul.”

There was a brief silence, and then there was a smattering of nervous chuckles. Pendergast was evidently making a joke. Or was he? He didn’t seem to be laughing.

“Mr. Pendergast, that’s a theory I don’t subscribe to.”

“No?”

Dienphong smiled. “I am a Buddhist. The only devil we believe in is the one inside the human heart.”

{ 18 }

Not much scanning of the crowd streaming into the Metropolitan Opera House was needed to locate Count Isidor Fosco: his huge presence, striking a dramatic pose beside the Lincoln Center fountain, was unmistakable. Pendergast drifted toward him with the crowd. All around, men in tuxedos and women in pearl necklaces were babbling excitedly. It was opening night at the Metropolitan Opera, and the program was Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia. The count was wearing white tie and tails, beautifully tailored to his enormously fat figure. The cut was old-fashioned, and in place of the usual white waistcoat, Fosco was sporting one in gorgeous Hong Kong silk brocaded in white and dove gray. A gardenia was stuck in his buttonhole, his handsome face was patted and shaved and powdered to pink perfection, and his thick mane of gray hair was brushed back into leonine curls. His small, plump hands were perfectly fitted in gray kid gloves.

“My dear Pendergast, I was hoping you’d come in white tie!” Fosco said, rejoicing. “I cannot understand why people dress down so barbarously on a night such as this.” He waved a dismissive hand at the tuxedoed patrons streaming past them into the hall. “There are only three occasions left to truly dress up in these dark days: at one’s nuptials, at one’s funeral, and at opening night at the opera. By far the happiest of these three is the last.”

“That depends on your point of view,” said Pendergast dryly.

“You are happily married, then?”

“I was referring to the other occasion.”

“Ah!” Fosco laughed silently. “You are right, Pendergast. I’ve never seen a more contented smile on some people than at their own wake.”

“I was referring to the deceased’s heirs.”

“You wicked fellow. Shall we go inside? I hope you don’t mind sitting in the pit—I avoid the boxes because the acoustics are muddy. We have tickets for row N, center right, which I have found from experimentation to be the acoustical sweet spot in this hall, particularly seats twenty-three through thirty-one. But look, there go the houselights: we had better sit down.” And with his giant head held erect, chin raised, Fosco moved swiftly through the milling crowd, which parted instinctively. For his part, Fosco looked neither to the right nor to the left as they moved through the central doors, brushing past several ushers offering programs and sweeping down the central aisle to row N. Fosco waited at the end of the row, gesturing a dozen people out of their seats and into the far aisle so he could make his way undisturbed. The count had purchased three seats for himself, and he seated himself in the center one, stretching his arms on the upturned seats on either side.

“Forgive me if we don’t sit jowl-to-jowl, my dear Pendergast. My corpulence demands its space and will not be reined in.” He slipped a small pair of bejeweled, pearl-inlaid opera glasses out of his waistcoat and placed them on the empty seat next to him. A more powerful brass spyglass also made an appearance and was arranged on the other seat.

The great house was filling up, and there was an air of excitement. From the orchestra pit came the murmur of instruments tuning, playing snatches of the opera to come.

Fosco leaned toward Pendergast, placing a neat gloved hand on his arm. “No one who loves music can fail to be moved by Lucrezia Borgia. But wait—what is this?” He peered more closely at Pendergast. “You are not wearing earplugs, are you, sir?”

“Not plugs, no. These merely attenuate the sound—my hearing is exceptionally acute, and any volume above a normal conversation is quite painful to me. Fear not, the music will get through all too well, I assure you.”

“All too well, you say!”

“Count Fosco, I thank you for this invitation. But as I warned you once, I have yet to meet an opera I liked. Pure music and vulgar spectacle are fundamentally incompatible. Beethoven’s string quartets are by far my preference—and even those, to be honest, I enjoy for their intellectual content more than their musical.”

Fosco winced. “What, may I ask, is wrong with spectacle?” He spread his hands. “Isn’t life itself a spectacle?”

“All the color, noise, flash, the embonpoint diva prowling the stage, shrieking and howling and throwing herself from the ramparts of some castle—it distracts the mind from the music.”

“But that is exactly what opera is! A feast of sight and sound. There is humor! There is tragedy! There are soaring heights of passion and depths of cruelty! There is love and betrayal!”

“You are making my points even better than I could, Count.”

“Your mistake, Pendergast, is to think of opera as solely music. It is more than music. It is life! You must abandon yourself to it, throw yourself at its mercy.”

Pendergast smiled. “I am afraid, Count, I never abandon myself to anything.”

Fosco patted his arm. “You may have a French name, but you have an English heart. The English can never step outside themselves. Wherever they go they feel self-conscious. That is why the English make excellent anthropologists but dreadful composers.” Fosco snorted. “Purcell. Britten.”

“You’re forgetting Handel.”

“A transplanted German.” Fosco chuckled. “I am glad to have you here, Pendergast, and I shall show you the error of your ways.”

“Speaking of that, how did you know where to deliver the invitation?”

The count turned a triumphant smile on Pendergast. “It was quite simple. I went to the Dakota and made inquiries there.”

“They are under strict orders not to divulge my other addresses.”

“But they were no match for Fosco! I’ve always been interested in this profession of yours. I read all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in my youth. Dickens, Poe. And the sublime Wilkie Collins! Have you read The Woman in White?”

“Naturally.”

“A tour de force! In my next life, perhaps, I’ll choose to be a detective. Being a count from an ancient family is rather boring.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“Well put! We have all kinds of detectives these days, everyone from English lords to Navajo policemen. Why not a count from the lineage of Dante and Beatrice? I must confess, this case with Grove fascinates me, and not only because I was a guest at the—dare I say?—last supper. One week ago tonight, alas. I feel for the poor man, naturally, but it is a rather delicious mystery. I am at your assistance in the matter.”

“I thank you, but I must confess it’s unlikely I’ll need your assistance.”

“Quite right! I am speaking now—if I may—as a friend. I only wish to offer you my services as someone with a particular knowledge of art and music, and perhaps society. And in that last regard, I’d like to think I’ve already been helpful with the question of the dinner party.”

“You were.”

“Thank you.” The count patted his gloved hands together, as excited as a small boy.

The lights darkened. A hush fell on the house. Fosco turned his attention to the stage, practically wriggling with excitement. The concertmaster appeared and sounded the A; the orchestra tuned to it; then all fell silent. The conductor came out to a thunderous burst of applause. Taking his position at the podium, he raised his baton, brought it sharply down, and the overture began.

Fosco listened with rapt attention, smiling and nodding his head from time to time, not a note of Donizetti’s luxurious music lost on him. When the curtain rose on the first act, a murmur and scattered applause filled the hall; a look of annoyance darkened Fosco’s face as he cast a disapproving glance at his neighbors.

There he sat, like a giant in the darkened hall, from time to time raising the opera glasses or spyglass to observe the scene. When the people near him applauded the close of an aria without any regard for the music to follow, Fosco raked them with a look of reproof and even held up his hands in forbearance, with a sad but compassionate shake of his head. After the more complex and difficult passages of music, which went unnoticed by his neighbors, he held up his gloved hands and patted them lightly together with relish, sometimes murmuring “Brava!” After a while, Fosco’s enormous presence, his deep enthusiasm, and his evident connoisseurship began to communicate itself to the people seated around them. Many an eruption of applause in appreciation for some particular turn of the music originated in row N, right center, with the soft patting of Fosco’s plump, kid-gloved hands.

The first act drew to a close with huge huzzahs, a storm of applause, and shouts of “Bravi!” led by Fosco, so vociferous that even the conductor’s attention was drawn to him. When the uproar had at last died down, Fosco turned to Pendergast, wiping the sweat from his brow with an oversize handkerchief. He was breathing hard, blowing, damp with perspiration.

“You see, you see!” he cried, pointing with a cry of self-vindication. “You are enjoying yourself.”

“And what gave rise to that deduction?”

“You cannot hide from Fosco! I saw you nodding in time just now to ‘Vieni! La mia vendetta.’”

But Pendergast said nothing, merely inclining his head slightly as the houselights came up and the intermission began.

{ 19 }

Nigel Cutforth threw back the covers and sat up in an empty bed. Eliza had taken exception to his little trip to Thailand and had gone off to stay with a girlfriend in the Village. Good fucking riddance.

He looked around. The bedside clock glowed 10:34 in red letters. Jesus, only 10:30? His plane left at six in the morning, and around eight he’d knocked back two fingers of gin and crawled into bed, desperate for a little sleep. But sleep had been slow to come. And now here he was, suddenly wide awake, sitting up in bed, heart beating hard. Christ, it was hot. He flapped the covers, trying to stir up the dead air of the room, but it seemed only to draw the heat closer around him. With another curse, he flicked on the light, swung his legs over the bed, and put his feet on the floor. At the rate he was going, the jet lag to Bangkok would be so bad he might just have to extend his vacation another week. But that would be hard to pull off: the fall was a big time in the cutthroat music business, and you had to stay vigilant.

He stood up, padded across the floor, and checked the thermostat. It was off, as he knew it would be, but the thermometer itself registered eighty-five degrees. He put his hand over the forced-air grating, but it felt cool to the touch. No heat there.

Heat. It was just what Grove had complained about.

He reminded himself again that this was the twenty-first century and that Grove had been insane in the closing days of his sorry life. He walked over to the balcony, ran back the heavy curtains, unlocked and slid open the glass door. A welcome stream of cool October air washed over him, and the faint sounds of traffic rose from below. Cutforth breathed deeply and stepped out onto the balcony, feeling sanity return. There was New York: solid, modern, rational New York. The buildings of Midtown stood like glowing ramparts against the night sky, and Fifth Avenue was like a brilliant stripe of moving light, changing from white to red as it passed below his window. He breathed again and, feeling the sweat chill on his skin, stepped back inside. The heat within seemed worse than ever, and now he felt a prickling sensation beginning to creep over his scalp and face and move down his limbs. It was very odd, like nothing he’d ever felt before, this sensation of heat and cold at the same time.

He was getting sick. That’s what was happening. An early case of the flu.

He put on his slippers and walked out the bedroom, across the living room, to the wet bar. He jerked open the cabinet doors, pulled out the bottle of Bombay Sapphire, some ice, and a jar of olives, and mixed himself another drink. A Xanax, three Tylenol capsules, five vitamin C tablets, two fish-liver-oil pills, a selenium tablet, and three tabs of coral calcium followed, each washed down with a generous gulp of gin. After finishing the glass, he mixed himself another and went to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room. These windows looked east, past Madison and Park to the 59th Street Bridge and Roosevelt Island. Beyond lay the dark wasteland of Queens.

Cutforth was finding it hard to think. His skin was crawling with unpleasant sensations, as if he was covered with spiders that were scuttling around and nipping at him. Or bees, maybe: he felt like he was wearing one of those human bee cloaks, and the bees were moving around, not exactly stinging him, but prickling him with their dry hairy legs.

Grove had been crazy, he had to remind himself. Grove lost it completely, he’d succumbed to his own fantasies. Not surprising, given the kind of life he’d led. And then there was that other thing: the thing Cutforth never, ever wanted to think about again . . .

He shook this thought away furiously and took another slug of gin, feeling the liquor and the sedative starting to kick in. Under any other circumstance, it would be delightful, relaxing, a sensation of slowly drifting down. But it didn’t seem to be doing anything about that itchy, hot, crawling sensation on his skin. He rubbed a hand on his arm. Dry and hot: his skin felt like sandpaper.

Grove had complained about a strange sensation of heat, too. That and the smell.

He tossed back the drink with a shaking hand. Don’t get paranoid, Nigel dear. He was getting sick, that was all. He hadn’t had his flu shot, and it was hitting him early this year. Great timing, on the eve of his departure for Thailand.

“Fuck,” he said out loud. The drink was gone. Should he mix himself yet another? Why the hell not? He reached for the bottle, grasped it, filled the glass, and set it back down on the bar.

I am coming.

Cutforth spun around. The apartment was empty.

Who the fuck had spoken? It was a low voice, lower than a whisper; more like a vibration, sensed rather than heard.

He swallowed, licked dry lips. “Who’s there?” His tongue felt thick and foreign, and he could barely get out the words.

No answer.

He turned, his full drink slopping over the sides of the glass and running down his hand. He raised the glass and sucked at it greedily. It couldn’t be. He’d never believed in anything and wasn’t about to start now. God didn’t exist, the devil didn’t exist, life was just some random shitstorm, and when you were dead, you were dead.

Maledicat dominus.

He jerked his head up, drink sloshing wildly. What was that, Latin? Was this some kind of joke? Where was it coming from? One of his crazy rap clients, being an asshole? Or, more likely, former client? There was one Haitian rapper in particular who had threatened revenge. This was probably him or his boys, trying to goad him into a premature heart attack with some voodoo nonsense.

“All right!” he called out. “That’s enough with the bullshit.”

Silence.

His skin crawled, unnaturally hot and dry. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like nonsense anymore. It felt real.

It was happening to him. It was happening, like Grove had said.

He raised the shaking glass to his lips, swallowing, tasting nothing.

But it couldn’t really be happening, could it? This was the twenty-first century. Grove must have been crazy, he must have. But, oh dear Jesus, those things the newspapers had hinted at . . . The cops weren’t really saying much about how Grove had died, but the tabloids had been full of gossip about the body, burned from the inside, the marks of Lucifer on the walls.

Was it really possible, after all this time?

He let the half-finished drink fall to the floor and began casting desperately about. His late mother had given him a crucifix, which he’d kept around more as a memento than anything else. He’d seen it just last month. Where? He rushed back into his bedroom, to the walk-in closet, drew out a drawer with savage tugs, felt in the back. Cuff links, buttons, tiepins, coins rained to the floor.

No crucifix. Where was it?

He jerked open another drawer, then another, pawing roughly through watches, jewelry, gold. A sob escaped him.

The crucifix! He grasped it tightly, sobbing with relief, held it to his breast, crossing himself.

The sensation of being covered with crawling bees began to grow worse. Now it felt as if the bees were really stinging him, billions of agonizing little pricks.

“Go away! Get away!” He sobbed. “Our Father, who art in heaven—” God, how did it go?

The crucifix felt hot in his hands. Now his ears were buzzing. His throat felt as if it was caked with ash, as if he was choking on the hot air.

I am coming now.

He held out the crucifix in his shaking arms, this way and that, as if warding off something invisible. “Get thee behind me, Satan!” he shrieked.

The crucifix felt very hot now. It was burning his fingers. Everything was hot: his nightclothes, even his eyebrows and the hairs on his arms, felt as if they were crisping.

“Get away!”

He dropped the crucifix with a cry. To his utter terror, smoke began curling from it, burning a mark into the rug. He gasped for breath, hands scrabbling at his throat, gagging in the sulfurous air.

He had to get out. He had to find sanctuary. If he could get to a chapel, a church, anything, maybe he’d be safe . . .

He rushed for the door, but just before he put his hand on the doorknob, there came a knocking.

Cutforth froze, suspended between relief and fear. Who was it?

Maybe there was a fire? Yes, of course, that was it: the building was on fire, and an evacuation was under way. Something must have gone wrong with the sprinkler system. “I’m in here!” He sobbed, half in pain and half in relief. “In here!”

He grasped the doorknob, felt the searing pain of red-hot metal, jerked his hand away. “Fuck!”

He looked at his hand in disbelief. His palm was burned, smoking, and it cracked as he opened it, blood and clear matter welling from the fissure and running down his wrist. Left on the doorknob was a large piece of his skin, curling and frying in the heat like pork cracklings.

The knock came again: slow, steady, like the tolling of a bell.

“Help me!” Cutforth cried at the door. “There’s a fire! Fire!”

He felt a sudden wave of pain along his skin, as if it was being peeled away, and then a grotesque feeling deep in his belly, as if someone had just stirred his guts for him. He lurched back. He was at the door. The feeling came again, a strange internal pressure, a terrible writhing of the intestines. He screamed, gripping his stomach, doubling over. He managed to stagger back into the bedroom. As he moved, little darts of pain raced across his skin and his eyes clouded with red mist. He could feel the terrible pressure mounting within him, and then all went black and the pressure became unbearable, and there was a sound like frying eggs and suddenly the pressure was gone and a hot wetness was running down his face.

He screamed, writhing on the floor, his legs beating a frenzied tattoo on the rug, his hands tearing at his nightclothes, his hair, trying to claw the skin from his own body because it was searingly hot, so unbearably hot . . .

Here I am here I am here.

{ 20 }

Letitia Dallbridge lay awake, motionless, rigid in her bed. At last, she arose in cool fury, slipped into a satin robe, flicked open her glasses, and put them on. Then she checked the time: 11:15. She compressed her lips. This was intolerable. Intolerable.

She picked up the building telephone and buzzed the desk; instantly a voice was on the line.

“May I help you, Mrs. Dallbridge?”

“You certainly may, Jason. The gentleman in the apartment directly above me, number 17B, has been thumping incessantly on the floor. Shouting as well. It’s been going on and on, and I don’t mind telling you, this is the second time this month I’ve had to complain. I am an old woman, and I simply cannot tolerate this kind of noise in the middle of the night.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dallbridge, we’ll take care of it immediately.”

“I shall speak to the condominium board about this at the next meeting.”

“I don’t blame you, Mrs. Dallbridge.”

“Thank you, Jason.”

She laid down the phone and listened. True, the thumping was fainter now; more irregular. In fact, it seemed to have stopped, along with the shouting. But it would pick up again soon—it always did. That dreadfully coarse music producer was having another party, no doubt. With drinking, dancing, drugs, all kinds of carrying-on. And on a weeknight, no less. She pulled her robe tighter around her narrow frame. There was no point trying to go back to sleep now—at her age, it would be an exercise in futility.

She crossed the living room into the kitchen, put a kettle of water on to boil. She removed a silver teapot, put three bags of chamomile inside, and waited for the whistle. When it came, she removed the kettle from the heat, poured the water into the teapot, and slipped a tea cozy over the pot to keep it hot. A silver teaspoon and two slices of buttered toast completed her petit déjeuner. She lifted the tray and returned to the bedroom. She glanced up darkly at the ceiling. Then she propped up her satin pillows and poured her tea.

The flowery aroma and the warmth of the liquid soon calmed her. Life was too short to allow oneself to be disturbed longer than necessary. It was now quiet as a tomb in the apartment above. No matter: she would take strong measures to ensure she wasn’t awakened like this again.

She heard a faint noise and listened. A faint pattering. Raining again, it seemed. She would have to remember the Burberry when she went out that morning to . . .

The pattering grew louder. And now there was a smell like frying bacon in the air, faint but distinct. Like the rain, it grew steadily stronger. It was not a pleasant smell, either: it was repellent, like burnt meat. She sniffed, looking around. Had she left the stove on? Impossible, she hadn’t even—

Plop! A huge greasy drop landed in the middle of her tea, splashing her. Then another fat drop, and another, splattering tea all over her face, her dressing gown, her beautiful satin puff.

She looked up in horror to see a stain on her bedroom ceiling. It was spreading fast. It glistened, oleaginous, in the dim light of her reading lamp.

Letitia Dallbridge snatched the phone out of its cradle, buzzed downstairs again.

“Yes, Mrs. Dallbridge?”

“Now there’s a leak from the apartment above! It’s coming right through the ceiling of my bedroom!”

“We’re sending someone up immediately. We’ll turn the water off in that apartment now.”

“This is an outrage! My beautiful English puff is ruined! Ruined!”

Now the liquid was pattering down from the ceiling in several places, accumulating in the corners of the crown molding, even streaming down the Venetian chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. It was raining on her Louis Quinze chairs, the Chippendale highboy. Against her better judgment, she leaned forward and touched one of the brown splatters on the china cup with her finger. It was warm and greasy, like tallow or candle wax. She shrank in horror.

“It’s not water,” she cried. “It’s some kind of grease!”

“Grease?”

“Yes! Grease! From the apartment above!”

There was some confused talk in the background, then the voice came back on, a little breathless. “We’re getting some alarms down here. It seems there may be a fire in the apartment above you, Mrs. Dallbridge. Listen carefully. Don’t leave your apartment. If smoke begins to come under your front door, place a damp towel against it. Wait for instructions—”

The voice was cut off by the unbearably shrill sound of the fire alarm in the hall, followed by the even louder blare of the siren within her apartment. She dropped the phone, covering her ears. A moment later there was a snapping noise as the sprinklers went off, and suddenly the room was full of water, streaming everywhere.

Mrs. Dallbridge was in such a state of shock that she remained frozen as a statue, uncomprehending, while the spray slowly darkened her gown and her lovely bedspread and refilled the teacup on her tray with gray, chill water.

{ 21 }

The stench hanging in the apartment entrance helped warn D’Agosta what was in store. It only grew worse as he walked through the dwelling on his way to the master bedroom. He’d been half asleep when he entered the building’s lobby—filling out the incident report on the gunfire he’d exchanged in Riverside Park had taken longer than expected—but he sure as hell wasn’t asleep now. It was amazing the way that stench just cut through everything: took away the 2 A.M. grogginess, took away the aches in his joints, the pain of the skinned knees, the itch of the poison ivy he’d managed to roll through while evading the thugs.

He had seen a lot of unpleasant homicides in his day, but nothing could have prepared him for what lay on the floor beside the bed. It was a corpse, that much at least was clear: it had ruptured in a way he’d never seen before, the corpse unzipping itself from pubis to sternum, vomiting a shrunken tangle of burned and blackened organs. In an almost unconscious gesture, he reached up and touched the cross underneath his shirt, feeling its reassuring presence. If there was a devil, this was how he’d do it. This was definitely how he’d do it.

He glanced over at Pendergast and felt faintly gratified to see that even the great detective was looking whiter than usual. Pendergast’s normal impulses to poke, pry, and sniff seemed to have deserted him. He stood there, dressed in white tie and tails, something almost like shock on his face.

The last of the SOC boys—the fingernail picker—came back around the corpse on his hands and knees, bristling with test tubes and tweezers and swabs. He looked pretty green, too, and those guys were a tough bunch. They were the ones who had to find the fibers and hairs, swab stains, pick up all the bits and pieces. Close-in work, real close.

The M.E. ducked in. “Finished?”

“I sure hope so.”

Pendergast held out his shield. “Mind if I ask a few questions, Doctor?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you have a cause of death?”

“Not yet. Heating, burning, is clear. But as for the cause . . . I have no idea.”

“Accelerants?”

“Negative, at least prelim,” the SOC man answered. “There are other anomalies. Note the lack of the pugilistic effect—there’s none of the contraction of the arm muscles one usually sees in such severe burn cases. Note also the heat fracturing in the bones of the extremities. Nearer the center of the body, the bones have actually been calcined. Do you have any idea how hot a fire would have to be to cause this kind of damage? Well over the combustion threshold. And yet there was no room flashover. In fact, from the look of things, the fire never even approached flashover. The heat was localized to the body, and the body only.”

“What kind of heat was applied?”

The doctor shook his head. “No idea yet.”

“Spontaneous combustion?”

The doctor looked up sharply. “You mean, like Mary Reeser?”

“You know of that case, Doctor?”

“It’s kind of a legend in medical school. A joke, really. I seem to recall the FBI handled it.”

“Yes. And if the case file can be believed, SHC—spontaneous human combustion, as it’s referred to—is far from being a joke.”

The doctor gave a low, cynical laugh. “You FBI fellows and your acronyms. I don’t believe you’ll find ‘SHC’ in the Merck Manual, Mr. Pendergast.”

“There is more in the world than is dreamt of in your philosophy, Doctor—or in the Merck Manual. I will send over the case file for your perusal.”

“As you wish.” The doctor departed with the SOC man, leaving them alone with the body.

D’Agosta removed his notebook and pen. Nothing was coming into his head, but he needed a way to take his eyes off the scene, and this was it. He roused himself and wrote, October 23, 2:20 a.m., 842 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 17B, Cutforth. The pen faltered as he tried to breathe only through his mouth. From now on, he was going to carry a jar of Vicks VapoRub with him always. On dates. On vacation. Out for bowling. Always.

He heard murmured voices in the living room: detectives from Homicide. They’d been interviewing a maintenance worker outside the hall—away from the stench—and D’Agosta had been thankful to duck past them on entering the apartment. He didn’t want any of his old pals seeing him with the Southampton P.D. patch and sergeant stripes on his shoulder.

His gaze focused back on the page of his notebook. His mind wasn’t working. He gave up and raised his eyes.

Pendergast seemed to have overcome his revulsion and was now on his hands and knees, examining the corpse. Like the SOC guy, he had a glass test tube and a pair of tweezers in his hands—where did he keep all that stuff in such a narrow-tailored suit?—and was putting something into it, moving around with great care. Then he moved toward a wall, where he stopped to examine a scorched area with a magnifying glass. He spent so much time staring at it that D’Agosta began to stare, too. The paint of the scorched patch was browned and bubbled. There was no hoofprint that he could see, but as he stared a creeping sensation began to tickle its way up his spine and dig into his scalp. It was blurry, indistinct, but—damn—was it just like those inkblot tests, all in his mind?

Pendergast suddenly turned and caught his eye. “You see it, too?”

“I think so.”

“What exactly do you see?”

“A face.”

“What kind?”

“Ugly as shit, thick lips, big eyes, with a mouth open as if to bite.”

“Or swallow?”

“Yeah, more like swallow.”

“It’s uncannily reminiscent of Vasari’s fresco of the devil swallowing sinners. The one inside of the cupola of the Duomo.”

“Yeah? I mean, yeah.”

Pendergast stepped back thoughtfully. “Are you familiar with the story of Dr. Faustus?”

“Faustus? You mean, Faust? The guy who sold his soul to the devil?”

Pendergast nodded. “There are any number of variants of the story. Most come down to us in manuscript accounts written in the Middle Ages. While each account has its unique characteristics, they all involve a death similar to that of Mrs. Mary Reeser.”

“The case you mentioned to the M.E. just now.”

“Exactly. Spontaneous human combustion. The medievals called it the fire within.”

D’Agosta nodded. His brain felt like lead.

“Here, with Nigel Cutforth, we seem to have a classic example. Even more so than with Grove.”

“Are you telling me you think the devil claimed this guy?”

“I offer the observation without attaching any hypothesis.”

D’Agosta shook his head. The whole thing was creepy. Seriously creepy. He felt his hand stealing toward his cross again. It couldn’t be the work of the devil . . . could it?

“Good evening, gentlemen.” The voice came from behind: female, a rich contralto, calm, efficient.

D’Agosta turned to see a woman framed in the doorway, dressed in a gray pinstripe suit with captain’s bars on the collar of her white shirt. Several detectives were visible behind her. He took in the features: petite, thin, large breasts, glossy black hair framing a pale, almost delicate face. Her eyes were a rich blue. She looked no more than thirty-five: amazingly young for a full captain in the Homicide Division. She looked familiar. He knew her. The sick feeling returned. Maybe he’d been a little premature in congratulating himself that he wouldn’t run into any of his old buddies.

“I’m Captain Hayward,” she said briskly, looking at D’Agosta a little too intently for comfort—recognizing him too, it seemed. “I know you already presented credentials at the door, but may I see them again?”

“Certainly, Captain.” Pendergast had his badge out in one elegant movement.

Hayward took it, examined it, looked up. “Mr. Pendergast.”

Pendergast bowed. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Captain Hayward. May I congratulate you on your return to the force, and most particularly on making captain?”

Hayward let that pass without comment and turned back to D’Agosta. He had removed his shield for her, but she wasn’t looking at it. She was looking at him.

The name brought it all back: Laura Hayward, who’d been a transit cop back in his former life, going to school at the time, writing some book on the underground homeless in Manhattan, working toward a graduate degree or something. They had worked together briefly on the Pamela Wisher case. That was when she was the sergeant and he a lieutenant. He felt his gut sink.

“And you must be Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta.”

“Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta these days.” He felt himself coloring. He really didn’t feel like making more explanations. It was a frigging disgrace and there was no way around it.

“Sergeant D’Agosta? No longer NYPD?”

“Southampton P.D. You know, as in Long Island. I’m the FBI liaison on the Grove case.”

He looked up to find her hand out. He took it, gave it a desultory shake. The hand was warm, a little damp. It gave D’Agosta a secret satisfaction to note she wasn’t quite as cool as she seemed.

“Glad to be working with you again.” The voice was crisp, devoid of morbid curiosity. D’Agosta felt relieved. There would be no chitchat, no prying questions. Totally professional.

“I, for one, am happy to see the case in such capable hands,” Pendergast said.

“Thank you.”

“You always struck me as an officer who could be relied on to conduct a vigorous investigation.”

“Thanks again. And if I can be frank, you always struck me as somebody who never worried much about the chain of command or who let the formalities of standard police procedure get in your way.”

If Pendergast was surprised by this, he gave no sign. “True.”

“Well then, let’s get this chain of command clear at the outset—shall we?”

“Excellent idea.”

“This is my case. Bench warrants, subpoenas, whatever must be cleared through my office first, unless we’re dealing with an emergency. Any communication with the press will be coordinated through my office. Perhaps that’s not how you operate, but that’s how I operate.”

Pendergast nodded. “Understood.”

“People talk about how the FBI sometimes has trouble getting along with local law enforcement. That’s not going to happen here. For one thing, we’re not ‘local law enforcement.’ We’re the New York Police Department, Homicide Division. We will work with the Federal Bureau of Investigation as full equals and in no other way.”

“Certainly, Captain.”

“We will, naturally, return the courtesy.”

“I should expect no less.”

“I do things by the book, even when the book is stupid. You know why? That’s how we get the conviction. Any funny business at all, and a New York jury will acquit.”

“True, very true,” Pendergast said.

“Tomorrow morning, 8 A.M. sharp, and every Tuesday thereafter for the duration of the case, we’ll be meeting at One Police Plaza, seventeenth-floor situation room, you, me, and Lieutenant—I mean Sergeant—D’Agosta. All cards on the table.”

“Eight A.M.,” Pendergast repeated.

“Coffee and Danish on us.”

A look of distaste settled on Pendergast’s features. “I shall have already breakfasted, thank you.”

Hayward looked at her watch. “How much more time do you gentlemen need?”

“I believe five more minutes should do it,” said Pendergast. “Any information you can share with us now?”

“An elderly woman in the apartment below was the witness, or as close as we have to a witness. The murder occurred shortly after eleven. She seems to have heard the deceased having convulsions and screaming. She assumed he was having a party.” A dry smile flickered across her face. “It grew quiet. And then, at 11:22, a substance began leaking through her ceiling: melted adipose tissue from the deceased.”

Melted adipose tissue. D’Agosta began to write this down, then stopped. It didn’t seem likely he’d forget it.

“About the same time, the smoke alarms and sprinklers went off—that would be at 11:24 and 11:25 respectively. Maintenance went up to check, found the door locked, no answer, and a foul smell emanating from the apartment. They opened the door with a master key at 11:29 and found the deceased as you see him now. The temperature in the apartment was almost one hundred degrees when we arrived, fifteen minutes later.”

D’Agosta exchanged a glance with Pendergast. “Tell me about the adjacent neighbors.”

“The man above heard nothing until the alarms went off but complained of a bad smell. There are only two apartments on this floor: the other one has been purchased but is still empty. The new owner is an Englishman, a Mr. Aspern.” She pulled a pad from her breast pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Pendergast. “Here are their names. Aspern is currently in England. Mr. Roland Beard is in the apartment above, and Letitia Dallbridge is in the apartment below. Do you wish to interview either of them now?”

“Not necessary.” Pendergast glanced at her, then looked at the burn mark on the wall.

Hayward’s lip curled, whether in amusement or something else D’Agosta wasn’t sure. “You noticed it, I see.”

“I did. Any thoughts?”

“Wasn’t it you, Mr. Pendergast, who once cautioned me against forming premature hypotheses?”

Pendergast returned the smile. “You learned well.”

“I learned from a master.” She looked at D’Agosta as she spoke.

There was a brief silence.

“I’ll leave you to it, gentlemen.” She nodded to her men, who followed her out the door.

Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “It seems our Laura Hayward has grown up, don’t you think?”

D’Agosta simply nodded.

{ 22 }

Bryce Harriman stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 67th Street, staring up at one of those anonymous white-brick high-rises that infested the Upper East Side. It was a gray Tuesday afternoon, and Harriman had the dull ache of an old hangover pulsing somewhere behind his eyeballs. His editor, Ritts, had chewed him out for not covering the story the night before. Well, he wasn’t on call, like a doctor, was he? He sure as hell wasn’t being paid enough to go out sniffing up copy at three o’clock in the morning. And besides, he’d been in no condition to cover a murder. It was all he could do to find his way home on the subway.

He thought there might be some stragglers, but what he’d found instead was a crowd, generated by morning television news and the Internet. Here it was, past two in the afternoon, but at least a hundred people had converged on the block—rubberneckers, Goths, white witches, East Village weirdos, even a few Hare Krishnas, which he hadn’t seen in New York in at least half a dozen years. Didn’t any of these people have jobs? To his right, a bunch of satanists wearing what looked like medieval robes were drawing pentagrams on the sidewalk and chanting. To his left, a group of nuns were praying on their rosaries. A bunch of teenyboppers were holding a vigil, candles burning despite the time of day, singing to the accompaniment of a strummed guitar. It was unbelievable, something out of a Fellini film.

As he looked around, Harriman felt a swelling of excitement. He’d scored a mild success the week before with his piece about the Grove murder. Yet there had been little evidence to go on, and his story had been long on lurid speculation. But now he was here on the heels of a second murder—a murder that, from the whispered rumors that surged through the crowd like electricity, was even worse. Maybe his editor was right. Maybe he should have been here in the wee hours of the morning, despite all the single-malt Scotch he had unwisely imbibed at the Algonquin with his buddies the night before.

Another thought occurred to Harriman. This was his chance to stick it to his old nemesis Bill Smithback, busy dipping his wick on his honeymoon. Angkor Wat, of all places. Smithback, that bastard, who now had his old spot at the Times—not through brilliant journalism, or even just plain old pavement-pounding, but through sheer dumb luck. He’d happened to be at the right place at the right time, not once, but several times: during the subway murders a couple years back, and then again just last fall, with the Surgeon murders. That last was particularly bitter: Harriman owned the story—he’d already beaten Smithback to the punch—but then that stupid police captain, Custer, had stuffed him with false leads . . .

It wasn’t fair. It was Harriman’s connections that had gotten him the job at the Times, that and his distinguished last name. Harriman was the one—with his carefully pressed Brooks Brothers suits and his repp ties—who belonged in the rarefied and elevated atmosphere of the Times. Not rumpled, slovenly Smithback, who had been quite at home among the bottom-feeders at the Post . . .

Water under the bridge. Now this was hot and Smithback was ten thousand miles away. If the killings went on—and Harriman fervently hoped they would—the story would only get bigger. There might be television opportunities, magazine articles, a big book contract. Maybe even a Pulitzer. With any luck, the Times would be only too happy to get him back.

He was jostled by an old man in a wizard costume, gave a hard shove back. There was an almost hysterical frenzy to the crowd Harriman had never seen before, a potentially dangerous mixture if you stopped to think about it: volatile, like a tinderbox.

There was a sudden noise off to one side, and Harriman looked over. Some Elvis impersonator in gold lamé—a halfway-decent-looking one, for a change—was blaring “Burning Love” with the aid of a portable karaoke machine:

“I feel my temperature rising.”

The crowd was growing noisier, more restless. Now and then Harriman could hear the distant shriek of a police siren.

“Lord Almighty, I’m burning a hole where I lay.”

He had his tape recorder ready; he could pick up some color to add to what he already had on the murder itself. He looked around. There was a guy at his elbow, in leather boots and a Stetson, carrying a crystal wand in one hand and a live hamster in the other. Nah: too weird. Someone more representative. Like that kid with the Mohawk not far away, in black. A pimply middle-class suburban kid trying to be different.

“Excuse me!” He elbowed his way toward the youth. “Excuse me! New York Post. Can I ask a few questions?”

The kid looked toward him, eyes lighting up. They were all so eager for their fifteen nanoseconds of fame.

“Why are you here?”

“Haven’t you heard? The devil has come!” The kid’s face positively shone. “Some guy up there. He’s just like the one out on Long Island. The devil took his soul, fried him to a crisp! Dragged him down to hell, kicking and screaming.”

“How’d you hear about this?”

“It’s all over the Web.”

“By why are you, personally, here?”

The kid looked at him as if the question was idiotic. “Why do you think? To pay my respects to the Man in Red.”

Now a group of aging hippies started to sing “Sympathy for the Devil” in cracked falsettos. The smell of pot wafted toward him. Harriman struggled to hear, to think, amidst the hubbub. “Where are you from?”

“Me and my buddies came over from Fort Lee.” Some of his “buddies” were now crowding around, all dressed exactly like he was. “Who’s this guy?” one asked.

“Reporter from the Post.”

“No kidding.”

“Take my picture!”

To pay my respects to the Man in Red. There was his quote. Time to wrap it up. “Name? Spell it.”

“Shawn O’Connor.”

“Age?”

“Fourteen.”

Unbelievable. “Okay, Shawn, one last question. Why the devil? What’s so important about the devil?”

“He’s the man!” he whooped, and his friends took up the cry, high-fiving each other. “The man!”

Harriman moved off. God, the world was full of morons; they were breeding like rabbits, especially in New Jersey. Now he needed a contrast, someone who took all this seriously. A priest—he needed a priest. Just his luck: there were two men with collars, quiet, standing not far away.

“Excuse me!” he called out, forcing his way toward them through the growing crowd. As the two turned to him, Harriman was taken aback by the expressions on their faces. Fear, real fear, mingled with the sorrow and pain.

“Harriman with the Post. May I ask what you’re doing here?”

The older of the two men stepped forward. He had a lot of dignity; he really seemed out of place in this hysteria. “We’re bearing witness.”

“Witness to what?”

“The last earthly days.” The way the man said it sent a flurry of goose bumps along Harriman’s spine.

“You really think the world’s coming to an end?”

The man quoted solemnly: “‘Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit.’”

The other, younger man nodded. “‘She shall be utterly burned with fire: for strong is the Lord God who judgeth her. And the kings of the earth, who have committed fornication and lived deliciously with her, shall bewail her, and lament for her, when they shall see the smoke of her burning.’”

“‘Alas, alas, that great city Babylon, that mighty city!’” the first priest went on. “‘For in one hour is thy judgment come.’”

Harriman had drawn out his pad and was scribbling to get this down, but the first priest laid a gentle hand over his. “Revelation, chapter 18.”

“Right, thanks. What church are you from?”

“Our Lady of Long Island City.”

“Thanks.” Harriman got their names and backed away hastily, tucking his notebook into his pocket. Their calmness, their certitude, spooked him more than all the hysteria around him.

There was a stirring along one edge of the crowd. A small convoy of police cars was approaching, lights flashing. There was a sudden eruption of flashes and television lights. He pushed forward, brutally shoving his way through a group of soundmen: he was Harriman of the Post, he wasn’t going to sit at the back of the class. But the crowd itself was now surging forward, desperate for news.

A woman had stepped out of an unmarked cruiser at the rear of the convoy, dressed in a suit but with a shield riding shotgun on what looked like an amazing set of knockers: a really good-looking young woman, with a bunch of men now falling into place behind her. Young, but clearly in charge. It looked to Harriman like she didn’t want to talk to the crowd at all, but needed to take charge before things grew any uglier.

She positioned herself behind a barricade of uniformed cops and held up her hand against the clamor of the press.

“Five minutes for questions. Then this crowd is going to have to disband.”

More incoherent yelling as a thicket of boom microphones was thrust forward.

She waited, surveying the crowd, while the shouting continued. Finally she checked her watch and spoke again. “Four minutes.”

That shut up the rows of press. The rest—the party people, the witches and satanists, the weirdos with crystals or perfumes—realized something interesting was about to happen and quieted down a little as well.

“I’m Captain Laura Hayward of NYPD Homicide.” She spoke in a clear but soft voice, which forced the crowd to quiet further, straining to listen. “The deceased is Nigel Cutforth, who died at approximately 11:15 last night. Cause of death is unknown at this point, but homicide is suspected.”

Tell me something new, Harriman said to himself.

“I’ll take a few questions now,” she said. There was an eruption of shouting, and she pointed at one frantically waving journalist.

The questions tumbled out. “Have the police noted connections between this and the death of Jeremy Grove? Are there similarities? Differences?”

A wry smile appeared on her lips. “We have. Yes and yes. Next?”

“Any suspects?”

“Not at this point.”

“Was there a burned hoofprint or any other sign of the devil?”

“No hoofprint.”

“We heard there was a face scorched into the wall?”

The smile left the woman’s face briefly. “It was an irregular blotch that suggested a face to some.”

“What kind of face?”

The wry smile. “Those who’ve claimed to see the face have labeled it ugly.”

This caused a renewed clamor.

“Is it the face of the devil? Horns? Did it have horns?” These questions were shouted simultaneously by a dozen people. The mikes boomed in closer, knocking against each other.

“Not having seen the devil,” Hayward answered, “I can’t say. There were no horns I’m aware of.”

Harriman scribbled frantically in his notebook. A bunch of reporters were now asking if she thought it was the devil, but she was ignoring this. Oh my God, was that Geraldo shouting over there? He definitely should’ve been here last night.

“Was it the devil? What’s your opinion?” was cried from several quarters at once.

She held up a hand. “I’d like to answer that question.”

That really shut them up.

“We have enough flesh-and-blood devils in this town, thank you, that we don’t need to conjure up any supernatural ones.”

“So how did he die?” a reporter shouted. “What were the injuries caused by? Was he cooked, like the other one?”

“An autopsy is currently under way. We’ll be able to tell you more when it’s completed.” She was talking calmly and rationally, but Harriman wasn’t fooled. The NYPD didn’t even begin to have a handle on the case—and he’d be saying as much in his story.

“Thank you,” she was saying, “and good afternoon. Now, let’s break it up, people.”

More clamor. More police were arriving and working to control the crowd at last, pushing them back, setting up barricades, directing traffic.

Harriman turned away, already writing the lead in his head. This was one hell of a story. At last—at long, long last—he was going to get a run for his money.

{ 23 }

As the vintage Rolls-Royce approached the gates of the East Cove Yacht Harbor, D’Agosta shifted in the backseat, staring out the window, trying to forget just how stiff and sore he felt. What with Cutforth’s murder and all the attendant crime-scene business, he couldn’t have gotten more than two hours’ sleep.

For this particular errand, Pendergast had left his chauffeur, Proctor, behind, preferring to drive the big car himself. It was a beautiful fall day, and the morning sun shimmered on the bay like silver coins tossed on the waves. The Staten Island ferry was lumbering out of its berth, churning the water behind, flags snapping, trailed by a screaming flock of seagulls. The blue hump of Staten Island rose on the horizon, grading imperceptibly into the low outline of New Jersey. The smell of salt air flowed in the open windows.

D’Agosta turned his gaze toward the marina. A wall kept the gaze of the vulgar from the ranks of gleaming yachts, but from the top of Coenties Slip you could still see them lined up in their berths, splendid and sparkling in the bright sun.

“You’re never going to get in without a warrant,” said D’Agosta. “I talked to Bullard. I know what the guy’s like.”

“We shall see,” said Pendergast. “I always prefer to start with a gentle approach.”

“And if the gentle approach doesn’t work?”

“Firmer measures might be in order.”

D’Agosta wondered what Pendergast’s idea of “firmer” was.

Pendergast slowed the Rolls and, turning to a custom-built cherrywood bay beside the driver’s seat, tapped on the keys of the laptop set within it. They were approaching the chain-link gate leading into the marina’s general parking area, but the man in the guardhouse had seen the Rolls approaching and was already opening the gate. Pendergast stopped the car just inside the lot, where they had a good view of the Upper Bay. On the screen of the laptop, the image of a magnificent yacht had appeared.

It didn’t take long to locate the real thing among the forest of masts and spars riding at anchor just beyond the lot.

D’Agosta whistled. “That’s some boat.”

“Indeed. A 2003 Feadship motor yacht with a de Voogt custom-designed hull. Fifty-two meters in length, with a displacement of seven hundred and forty metric tons. Twin Caterpillar 2,500-horsepower diesels, cruising speed thirty knots. It’s got enormous range and it’s extremely comfortable.”

“How much?”

“Bullard paid forty-eight million for it.”

“Jesus. What does he need a boat like that for?”

“Perhaps he doesn’t care for flying. Or perhaps he likes to operate away from prying ears and eyes. A boat like that makes keeping to international waters easy indeed.”

“Funny, in the last interview with Bullard, I had the impression that he was anxious not to be detained in the country. That maybe he was planning an international trip.”

Pendergast looked at him sharply. “Indeed?” He eased the car toward the second layer of security: the gate into VIP parking, manned by a pugnacious little redheaded security guard with a jutting chin. D’Agosta immediately knew the type. He was the kind who made it a point not to be impressed by anyone or anything: not even a ’59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith.

“Yeah?”

Pendergast hung his shield out the window. “We’re here to see Mr. Locke Bullard.”

The man looked at the badge, looked back at Pendergast. His face was creased with suspicion. “And him?”

D’Agosta passed his own badge to the man.

“What’s it about?”

“Police business.”

“I gotta call.”

The man took the shields back into his cubicle, got on the horn, spoke for a few minutes, came back with the badges and a cordless phone.

“He wants to talk to somebody named D’Agosta.”

“That’s me.”

The man handed him the phone.

“D’Agosta here.”

Bullard’s deep voice filled the wire. “I figured you’d be back.”

At the sound of the voice, D’Agosta immediately felt himself bristle. This was the man who had tried to humiliate him at the Athletic Club; who, just perhaps, had very nearly gotten him shot. Nevertheless, he tried hard to check his temper. “We can either do this nicely,” he said as evenly as possible, “or it can get unpleasant. Up to you, Bullard.”

A burst of laughter sounded at the other end. “You tried that same stale line on me back at the club. Let me tell you something. Since we had that pleasant little chat, I’ve had my people check into you. And now I know all about you. I got every sordid detail of your existence. For example, I know all about that wife of yours in Canada, the one who’s been playing hide the salami behind your back these past six months. The guy’s name is Chester Dominic, and he sells Winnebagos out of Edgewater—and hey, maybe she’s doing him right now. Think about that, huh?”

D’Agosta’s hand tightened around the phone.

“I also got the sales figures on your novels. Last one sold 6,215 copies. Hardcover and paperback. And that’s counting all the copies your mother bought. Watch your back, Stephen King!” More harsh laughter. “Then I got your personnel files from your stint with the NYPD, including your disciplinary records. Interesting reading. And I got your medical and psychiatric records, too, even the ones from Canada. Too bad about those hard-on problems. Maybe that’s why your wife’s spreading her charms for old Chet. And depression, gee, that’s tough. Did you take your Zoloft this morning? Amazing what you can find out when you own an HMO, isn’t it? Reading all this over, a couple of phrases come to mind. Phrases like broken-down. Washed-up. Loser.”

A thin curtain of red seemed to drop before D’Agosta’s eyes. “You’ve just made the mistake of your life, Bullard.”

More laughter and the line went dead.

D’Agosta handed the phone back to the attendant. His face was on fire. The son of a bitch. The son of a bitch. It was illegal—wasn’t it? Digging up that kind of personal information. Bullard had been speaking loudly, and D’Agosta wondered if his voice had carried as far as Pendergast. He swallowed, fought hard to master his rising rage.

“You’re blocking the gate,” said the man in the booth. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Sir.”

“We’ll drive around the block,” Pendergast told the attendant, “and give Mr. Bullard time to change his mind.”

“He’s not going to change his mind.”

Pendergast gave the attendant a long, sympathetic look. “You’ll know when to step aside, I hope? For your own sake, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

Without waiting for an answer, Pendergast put the Rolls in reverse and hit the gas, leaving a satisfying patch of rubber. He turned around in the parking lot, then nosed out onto State Street. He glanced over at D’Agosta. “Are you all right, Vincent?”

“I’m fine,” D’Agosta said through gritted teeth.

Pendergast turned right and began circling the block. “Mr. Bullard, it seems, needs a firmer hand.”

“Yeah.”

Pendergast reached down with one hand and punched in a number on the in-dash cell phone.

A ring sounded over the speaker, then the phone was answered by a familiar voice. “Captain Hayward.”

“Captain? It’s Pendergast. We’re going to need that subpoena and warrant I called you about this morning.”

“On what grounds?”

“Refusal to cooperate. Imminent flight risk.”

“Come on. Bullard’s not some Colombian drug dealer or Middle Eastern terrorist. He’s a leading American industrialist.”

“Yes, with overseas accounts and overseas factories, who happens to be on his yacht, fueled to its maximum capacity and fully stocked for a transatlantic voyage. He can reach Canada, Mexico, South America, or Europe on one tank—take your pick.”

There was a sigh. “He’s an American. He’s got a passport. He’s free to leave.”

“He’s an uncooperative witness. He won’t answer questions.”

“A lot of people won’t answer questions.”

“Both Grove and Cutforth called him just before they were murdered. There’s a connection, and we need to find it.”

Another irritated sigh. “This is just the kind of irregular operation that looks bad in court.”

“He threatened Sergeant D’Agosta.”

“He did?” Her voice sounded a little sharper.

“An implied blackmail threat over personal information he collected through Northern HealthAtlantic Management, the HMO he owns.”

So he did hear, D’Agosta thought.

“That right?” There was a pause. “All right, then, go ahead. The papers are all ready and just need to be signed.”

“Excellent.” Pendergast gave a fax number.

“Agent Pendergast?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t make a hash of this. I care about my career.”

“I care about it, too.”

The fax peeled out of the tiny impact printer just as they rounded Pearl Street and headed back toward the yacht harbor. Driving slowly through the outer lot, Pendergast tore it from the printer and handed it to the VIP attendant.

“You again?” the man said as he took the fax.

Pendergast smiled, put his fingers to his lips. “Not a word to Bullard.”

The man read the fax, handed it back. There was something in his face that, perhaps, didn’t look entirely displeased at the turn of events.

“Time to step aside,” said Pendergast quietly.

“Yes, sir.”

They parked in the VIP lot, and Pendergast opened the trunk. He gestured to D’Agosta. “For you.”

D’Agosta peered in. A federal-issue battering ram lay inside, black and ugly and about three feet long, the kind DEA agents used in drug busts.

“You got to be kidding.”

“Firmness, my dear Vincent,” said Pendergast, smiling faintly.

D’Agosta grabbed the ram by its two handles and hefted it out. They headed down the walkway to the central dock. Ahead and to one side, tethered in its own private slip, the yacht loomed bigger than life: white with three enclosed decks, dozens of smoked windows, and a conning tower bristling with electronics. The name Stormcloud was stenciled on the stern.

“What about crew?” D’Agosta asked.

“My information is that Bullard’s alone.”

The private slip had its own dock behind a locked gate. Pendergast knelt before it, raising his hands to the lock. It looked to D’Agosta as if the FBI agent was just testing the lock to see if it might be ajar. Perhaps it was, because the gate swung open obediently in his hands.

“We need to be brisk,” said Pendergast as he rose.

D’Agosta humped himself forward, lugging the ram. Despite renewed sessions in the gym since the gunfight in the park, he was still out of shape, the ram weighed at least forty pounds, and his bruised limbs protested with each thudding step. The gangplank of the Stormcloud was up, but in the rear, a locked boarding hatch lay just at dock level. Pendergast stopped, plucked his custom Les Baer .45 from his jacket, and stepped back, gesturing toward the hatch.

“After you, Vincent,” he said.

D’Agosta reached deep down in his memory. What had they taught him at the Academy? Don’t run at the door, swing it into the door. He took a deep breath, gripped the handles as tightly as he could, and heaved the ram forward. The door flew inward with a satisfying smack. Pendergast ducked inside, gun ready, and D’Agosta clambered in behind.

They were in a narrow corridor, with painted bulkheads along one side and smoked-glass windows along the other. Pendergast threw open a door set into the bulkheads, and suddenly they were in the grand salon of the boat, cocooned in plush cream carpeting with black lacquered tables piped in gold trim.

“FBI!” Pendergast barked. “Freeze!”

Bullard stood in the center of the room, wearing a pale blue warm-up suit, cigar in hand, with a look of complete astonishment and—it seemed to D’Agosta—momentary terror.

“Don’t move!”

Bullard recovered immediately, his face reddening, the veins pulsing in his neck. Surprise gave way to ill-concealed rage. He raised the cigar to his thick lips, sucked in a lungful, exhaled. “So. The sorry fuck brought backup.”

“Keep your hands in view,” Pendergast warned as he advanced, gun aimed.

Bullard spread his hands. “Here’s a scene for your next novel, D’Agosta. Bet you never saw anything like this boat in that slum you grew up in on Carmine Street, with a cheap, poolroom-hustling cop for a father and a mother who—”

D’Agosta rushed at the man but Pendergast was even quicker, interposing himself with lightning speed. “Sergeant, don’t give him what he wants.”

D’Agosta took a strangled breath. He could hardly breathe.

“Come on,” Bullard sneered. “Let’s see if there’s anything at all hanging under that belly of yours. I’m sixty, and I could take your fat ass with one hand.”

Pendergast held D’Agosta’s gaze, shaking his head slowly. D’Agosta swallowed, stepped back.

Pendergast turned and fastened his silvery eyes on Bullard.

“And look at this, an undertaker playing FBI. White trash from the Deep South. Very white, it seems.”

“At your service,” Pendergast said quietly.

Bullard laughed and swelled like a black mamba, stretching the fabric of the warm-up suit. He still had his cigar tucked between two huge spatulate fingers, and now he stoppered the laugh by inserting it between his lips again and blowing a cloud of smoke in their direction.

Pendergast dropped the fax on an ebony table. Then he pointed to a large lacquered panel in the far wall. “Sergeant, open that panel, please.”

“Just one goddamn minute, you need a warrant—”

Pendergast pointed a slender finger at the fax. “Read.”

“I want my lawyer.”

“First, we will secure the premises and obtain the evidence outlined in the warrant. One misstep will mean cuffs and an obstruction-of-justice charge. Is there anyone else on the boat with you?”

“Fuck you.”

D’Agosta went to the panel that Pendergast pointed to, pressed the lone button. The panel slid back to reveal a wall of electronics, a monitor, and a keyboard.

“Seize the CPU.”

D’Agosta pushed the monitor to one side, followed its cabling, and found the box tucked into a niche beneath.

“Don’t you touch my computer.”

Pendergast nodded toward the table. “It’s listed in the warrant, Mr. Bullard.”

D’Agosta yanked the cabling free with a satisfying jerk and hauled out the CPU. He dug into his pocket, pasted evidence labels over the drive bays and the plugs for the mouse and keyboard, set down the box, crossed his arms.

“Are you armed?” Pendergast asked Bullard.

“Of course not.”

Pendergast tucked his Les Baer back into his suit. “All right,” he said, voice low and suddenly pleasant, the southern accent rising like cream. “In addition to the warrant, there’s a subpoena, Mr. Bullard, which I suggest you read.”

“I want my lawyer.”

“Naturally. We’re going to take you to One Police Plaza and question you under oath. You may have a lawyer present at that time.”

“I’m calling my lawyer now.”

“You will remain in the center of the room with your hands in view at all times. You do not have a right to call a lawyer just because you feel like it. When appropriate, you will be permitted to call.”

“My ass. You have no jurisdiction. I’ll pull your badge and eat you for lunch, you albino prick. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“I am sure your lawyer would advise you to dispense with the small talk.”

“I’m not going to One Police Plaza.”

Pendergast unclipped his police radio. “Manhattan South? To whom am I speaking, please? Shirley? This is Special Agent Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m at the East Cove Yacht Harbor, on the yacht of Mr. Locke Bullard—”

“You shut that radio off right now.”

Pendergast’s smooth voice continued. “That’s right, Locke Bullard, on his yacht, the Stormcloud. We’re taking him in for questioning in the Grove and Cutforth murder investigations.”

D’Agosta watched Bullard go white. No doubt he knew that every news organization in New York monitored the police frequencies.

“No, he’s not a suspect. I repeat: not a suspect.”

The very emphasis Pendergast placed on the word had the curious effect of giving precisely the opposite impression.

Bullard glowered at them from beneath his beetled, Cro-Magnon brow, swallowed, made an effort to seem reasonable. “Look, Pendergast, there’s no reason to play tough cop.”

“Shirley, we’re going to need backup, crowd control, and a squad car with escort to take Mr. Bullard downtown. That’s right. Three should do it. On second thought, make it four. We’re dealing with a well-known personality. It’s likely to get busy.”

Pendergast slipped the radio back into his suit, removed his cell phone, and tossed it to Bullard. “Now you may call your lawyer. One Police Plaza, interrogation section, basement floor, in forty minutes. We’ll supply the coffee.”

“You prick.” Bullard dialed, spoke in low tones. When he was done, he handed the phone back to Pendergast.

“I imagine he just told you what I already advised: to keep your mouth firmly closed.” Pendergast smiled.

Bullard said nothing.

Now Pendergast began poking around the grand salon, in a desultory kind of way, peeking here and there, admiring the sporting prints on the walls. It was almost as if he was killing time.

“Are we going?” Bullard finally burst out.

“He’s talking again,” said D’Agosta.

Pendergast nodded absently. “It seems our Mr. Bullard is a man who doesn’t listen to his minders.”

Bullard fell silent, his body shaking with malevolence.

“I think we need more time in here, Sergeant. Just to check things over, you understand.”

“Right.” Though he was still steaming, D’Agosta found he had to conceal a smile. Now he realized what Pendergast was up to.

Pendergast continued strolling about the room, adjusting a newspaper here, looking at a framed lithograph there. Ten more minutes passed as Bullard grew increasingly restive. Now D’Agosta began to hear faint sirens, the distant squawk of a bullhorn. Pendergast picked up a copy of Fortune, flipped through it, laid it back down. He checked his watch. “Do you see anything of interest I might have missed, Sergeant D’Agosta?”

“Have you checked the photo album?”

“An excellent idea.” Pendergast opened the album, flipped through it. At a couple of pages, his hand paused and an intent look came into his face. He seemed to be memorizing faces; at least, it seemed so to D’Agosta.

He shut it with a sigh. “Shall we, Mr. Bullard?”

The man turned and shrugged into a windbreaker, his face dark. Pendergast led the way, followed by Bullard. D’Agosta brought up the rear, battering ram over his shoulder. As they stepped out of the hatch onto the dock, the crowd noise increased dramatically. There was shouting, the whoops of police sirens, the megaphoned voice of an official. Beyond the gates, photographers were jockeying for position. The police were struggling to clear a lane for their vehicles to pass.

Seeing this, Bullard stopped short. “You bastard.” He almost spat the words at Pendergast. “You delayed deliberately, letting this build.”

“Why hide your light under a bushel, Mr. Bullard?”

“Yeah,” said D’Agosta. “And you’re going to look great on the cover of the Daily News with your windbreaker draped over your head.”

{ 24 }

Bryce Harriman headed back uptown behind the wheel of a Post press vehicle. The scene at the lower Manhattan marina had been a disaster. Except for a few rubberneckers, it was New York City press at their finest—swearing, pushing, shoving. It reminded Harriman of the running of the bulls at Pamplona. What a waste of time. Nobody had answered questions, nobody knew anything, nothing but chaos and shouting. He should have gone straight back to his office to write up the scene of Cutforth’s murder rather than wasting time chasing this radio call.

Ahead, the traffic coming in from West Street began to bunch up. He cursed, leaned on his horn. He should’ve taken the subway. At this rate, he wouldn’t reach the office until after five, and he had to file by ten to make the morning edition.

He wrote and rewrote the lead, tearing it up again and again in his head. He thought back to the mob scene in front of Cutforth’s apartment building earlier that afternoon. Those were the people he was writing for: people desperate for the story, hungry for it. And he had an open field, with Smithback gone and the Times treating the story as a kind of local embarrassment.

Cutforth’s murder would be good for one headline, maybe two. But still, he was bound by the whim of the murderer, and there was no way of telling when—or if—the murderer would strike again. He had to have something new.

The traffic parted slightly and he switched lanes, flipping a bird at the blaring horn behind him, switched back, risking his life and those of half a dozen others to get one car length ahead. Flipped another bird. People were such assholes . . .

. . . And then it came to him. The fresh angle. What he needed was an expert to explain, to put it all in perspective. But who? Just as quickly the answer, the second stroke of genius, came as well.

He picked up his cell, dialed his office. “Iris, what’s up?”

“What’s up yourself?” his assistant retorted. “I’ve been as busy as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest answering the phones around here.”

Harriman winced at the jokey, familiar tone she had taken with him. He was supposed to be the boss, not the secretary in the next cubicle.

“You want your messages?” she asked.

“No. Listen, I want you to get ahold of somebody for me, that researcher into the paranormal, what’s his name, Monk, or Munch, something German. He had that Discovery Channel special on exorcism, remember? Yes, that’s the one. No, I don’t care how long it takes. Just get him for me.”

He punched the call off and tossed the phone on the passenger seat, sat back, and smiled, letting the cacophony of honks, toots, and beeps that surrounded his car wash over him like a symphony.

{ 25 }

D’Agosta had to admire the genius that went into maintaining the interrogation section of One Police Plaza. It was perhaps the last place you could smoke in New York City without being arrested, and as a result, the painted cinder-block walls sported a tarry, brownish sheen. They made a point of keeping them grimy. The air was so dead and stale it felt like there must be a corpse hidden somewhere. And the linoleum floor was so old it could have been peeled up and put in a glass case in the Smithsonian.

D’Agosta felt a certain satisfaction in the surroundings. Locke Bullard, still dressed in blue warm-ups and deck shoes, sat in a chair at the greasy metal table, his eyes bloodshot with anger. Pendergast sat across from him, and D’Agosta stood behind, near the door. The civilian interrogations administrator—a mandatory presence these days—stood by the video camera, sucking in his belly and trying to look officious. They were all waiting on Bullard’s lawyer, stuck somewhere in the traffic of their own making.

The door opened and Captain Hayward stepped in. As she did so, D’Agosta felt the temperature in the room go down by about twenty degrees. She fastened cold eyes on Pendergast, then on D’Agosta, and motioned them to follow her into the hall.

She led the way to a disused office, ushered them in, closed the door. “Whose idea was the media circus?” she demanded.

“Unfortunately it was the only way,” Pendergast answered.

“Don’t give me that. This was staged, and you were both producer and director. There must be fifty press outside, every last one following you over from the marina. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen, the kind of hullabaloo I warned you against creating.”

Pendergast spoke calmly. “Captain, I can assure you that Bullard left us no choice. For a moment, I thought I would have to handcuff him.”

“You should’ve scheduled a meeting on the boat with his lawyer, so he wouldn’t feel ambushed and defensive.”

“There’s a good chance that more advance warning would have caused him to flee the country.”

Hayward expelled an irritated stream of air. “I’m a captain of detectives in the New York City police force. This is my case. Bullard’s not a suspect and will not be treated as such.” She swiveled to face D’Agosta. “You’re going to manage the questioning, Sergeant. I want Special Agent Pendergast to remain well in the background with his mouth shut. He’s caused enough trouble as it is.”

“As you wish,” Pendergast said politely to Hayward’s turned back.

When they stepped back into the interrogation room, Bullard rose to his feet, pointing to Pendergast. “You’re going to pay for this, both you and your fat fuck gofer here.”

“Did you get that on videotape?” Hayward calmly asked the civilian administrator.

“Yes, ma’am. Tape’s been rolling since he arrived.”

She nodded. Bullard’s pupils were pinpoints of hatred.

Silence fell, broken at last by a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Hayward called.

The door opened, and a uniformed policeman admitted a man dressed in a charcoal suit. He had short-cropped gray hair, gray eyes, and a pleasant, friendly face. D’Agosta noticed the glint of a half-hidden cross beneath the officer’s blue shirt as he turned and closed the door. Hayward may not believe in the devil, he thought, but not all her minions have gotten the message.

“Finally!” Bullard roared out, staring at the lawyer. “Jesus Christ, George, I called you forty minutes ago. Get me the hell out of here.”

The lawyer, unruffled, greeted Bullard as if they were all at a cocktail party. Then he turned and shook Pendergast’s hand. “George Marchand of Marchand & Quisling. I represent Mr. Bullard.” His voice was almost musical in its pleasantness, but his eyes lingered first over Hayward’s badge, then D’Agosta’s.

“This is my colleague Sergeant D’Agosta.”

“How do you do?”

There was a silence as Marchand turned his cool eyes around the room. “The subpoena?”

Pendergast slipped a copy from his black suit and handed it to the lawyer. The man scrutinized it.

“That’s your copy,” said Hayward. Her voice was deadpan, neutral.

“Thank you. May I ask why this questioning could not be done at Mr. Bullard’s convenience in his offices or on his yacht?” He addressed the question in general, to all of them. Hayward nodded toward D’Agosta.

“On an earlier occasion at Mr. Bullard’s club, he refused to answer questions. On this particular occasion, he threatened me with what I think a reasonable person might consider implied blackmail. He gave every sign of imminent departure from the country. His information is crucial in our investigation.”

“Is he a suspect?”

“No. But he’s an important witness.”

“I see. And this implied threat of blackmail—what’s that all about?”

“It’s a goddamned—,” Bullard began.

The lawyer cut Bullard off with a wave of his hand.

“The threat was made in my presence,” Pendergast spoke up. “Mr. Bullard made a second threat, just before you arrived, for the benefit of the video recorder.”

“You’re a damned liar—”

“Not one more word, Mr. Bullard. I believe you’ve said more than enough as it is.”

“For Christ’s sake, George, these men are—”

“Quiet.” The lawyer spoke pleasantly, but there was a curious emphasis in his tone.

Bullard fell silent.

“My client,” the lawyer said, “is anxious to cooperate. Here’s how it will work. First, you will ask the question. Then, if necessary, I will confer privately with my client in the hall. And then he will give his response. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Hayward. “Swear him in.”

They went through the process, the civilian administrator presiding, Bullard grunting his responses. At the conclusion, he turned again to his lawyer. “Damn it, George, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

“My client and I need to confer privately.”

Marchand took Bullard out into the hallway. A minute later they were back.

“First question,” the lawyer said.

D’Agosta stepped forward, glanced down at his notes, and droned out, in his most stolid cop voice: “Mr. Bullard, on October 16, 2:02 A.M., Jeremy Grove called you. You spoke with him for forty-two minutes. What did you talk about? Start at the beginning and proceed through the call.”

“I already—” He stopped when Marchand laid a firm hand on his shoulder. They went out into the hall again.

“You’re not going to let him do this with every question, are you?” D’Agosta asked.

“Yes, I am,” said Hayward. “He has a right to a lawyer.”

The two men returned. “Grove called me to chat,” Bullard said. “A social call.”

“That late?”

Bullard looked at his lawyer and the lawyer nodded.

“Yes.”

“What did you chat about?”

“Just like I told you before. Pleasantries. How he was doing, how I was doing, how the family was doing, how the dog was doing, that sort of thing.”

“What else?”

“I don’t recall.”

Silence. “Mr. Bullard. You talked for forty-two minutes about your dogs, then within hours Grove is murdered.”

“That wasn’t a question,” said the lawyer crisply. “Next.”

D’Agosta found Hayward’s rather penetrating gaze on him. He turned the page.

“Where were you during this call?”

“On my yacht. Cruising the sound.”

“How many crew were on board with you?”

“I went out without a crew. The yacht’s computerized, I do it all the time.”

There was a brief but significant silence.

“How did you meet Grove?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Was he a close friend?”

“No.”

“Did you have any business dealings with him?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t recall.”

“So why would he call you then?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

This was bullshit. It was the same runaround as before. D’Agosta moved on to the next call.

“On October 22, at 7:54 P.M., Nigel Cutforth placed a call to your home number. Did you take the call?”

Bullard glanced at the lawyer, who nodded.

“Yes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“It was also a social call. We talked about mutual friends, family, news, that sort of thing.”

“Dogs?” D’Agosta asked sarcastically.

“I don’t remember if we talked about dogs.”

Pendergast suddenly broke in. “Do you, in fact, have a dog, Mr. Bullard?”

There was a short silence. Hayward cast Pendergast a warning glance.

“I was speaking metaphorically. We talked about trivial social things, is what I meant.”

D’Agosta resumed. “Cutforth was murdered just a few hours after you hung up the telephone. Did he seem nervous to you?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Did he express any sense to you that he was afraid?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did he ask for your help?”

“I don’t recall.”

“What was your relationship to Mr. Cutforth?”

“Superficial.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

A hesitation. “I don’t recall.”

“Did you ever have any business or other dealings with Mr. Cutforth?”

“No.”

“How did you first meet?”

“I don’t recall.”

“When did you first meet?” Pendergast smoothly interjected.

“I don’t remember.”

This was worse than bullshit. The lawyer, George Marchand, was looking more and more satisfied. D’Agosta wasn’t going to let it go at this.

“After Cutforth’s call, you spent the rest of the night on your yacht?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a power launch?”

“Yes.”

“Was it stowed?”

“No. It was docked next to the yacht.”

“What kind of launch?”

“A Picnic Boat.”

Pendergast broke in. “Are you referring to the Hinckley Picnic Boat, the kind with the jet drive?”

“That’s right.”

“With the 350-horsepower Yanmar or the 420?”

“The 420.”

“With a top speed of over thirty knots, I believe?”

“That’s about right.”

“And a draft of eighteen inches.”

“So they claim.”

Pendergast settled back, ignoring Hayward’s look. He’d clearly snuck in some research while Bullard was being processed.

D’Agosta picked up the line of questioning. “So after receiving the phone call, you could have gotten into your Picnic Boat and headed uptown. You could’ve landed the boat just about anywhere along the Manhattan shoreline with a draft like that. And the jet drive would give you maneuverability to go sideways, reverse, whatever. Am I right?”

“My client has already said he was on his yacht that night,” the lawyer said, equally pleasantly. “Next question?”

“Were you alone all night, Mr. Bullard?”

This prompted another trip to the hall.

“Yes, I was alone,” Bullard said when they returned. “They keep track at the marina; they can verify I didn’t leave the yacht all night or take the Picnic Boat out of its berth.”

“We’ll check that,” said D’Agosta. “So you chitchatted with Cutforth about the weather for thirty minutes, just hours before he was murdered?”

“I don’t believe we talked about the weather, Sergeant.” There was a look of triumph in Bullard’s eyes. He was winning again.

Pendergast asked, “Mr. Bullard, are you about to leave the country?”

Bullard looked at Marchand. “Do I have to answer that?”

Another trip to the hall. When Bullard came back, he said, “Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“That question falls outside the scope of the subpoena,” said the lawyer. “My client wants to cooperate, but he also asks you to respect his privacy. You have already stated he is not a suspect.”

Pendergast spoke to the lawyer. “Perhaps not a suspect. But your client may be a material witness, and it would not be beyond the bounds of probability he might be asked to surrender his passport—temporarily, of course.”

D’Agosta had his eyes on Bullard’s face and—even though he was expecting a change—he was startled by how dark it became. He seemed about to burst out again.

The lawyer smiled pleasantly. “An utterly absurd statement, Mr. Pendergast. Mr. Bullard will in no way be restrained in his movements. I am surprised and consider it most improper that you have even mentioned such a possibility, which might be construed as a threat.”

Hayward cast a dark glance at Pendergast. “Mr. Pendergast—”

Pendergast held up his hand. “Mr. Bullard, do you believe in the existence of the devil?”

Something flickered across Bullard’s face, some swift and powerful emotion, but it went by too fast for D’Agosta to get a sense of what it was. Bullard took his time leaning back in the chair, crossing his legs, smiling. “Of course not. Do you?”

The lawyer stood up. “It seems we’ve reached the end of our questions, gentlemen.”

There was no contradiction. The lawyer handed around his card with smiles and handshakes. “The next time you need to communicate with Mr. Bullard,” he said, “do so through me. Mr. Bullard is going abroad.” He gave Pendergast a pointed smile.

“That,” said Pendergast very quietly, “remains to be seen.”

{ 26 }

Bullard and his lawyer had left, shoving their way through a second throng of shouting reporters. Pendergast had disappeared, too, leaving D’Agosta alone with Hayward. They were now lingering in the mud-colored lobby of Police Plaza. He had something he wanted to say; and so, it seemed, did she.

“Did Bullard really threaten you, Sergeant?” she asked.

D’Agosta hesitated.

“Just for my own information, off the record. I’m not asking you to tell tales out of school.”

“In a way, yes.” They began walking side by side toward the building’s exit. Outside, the remaining news teams were grudgingly packing up. The sky in the west was smeared with red. As he walked, D’Agosta could almost feel waves of heat radiating from Hayward. She was clearly still pissed off.

“What kind of threat?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” I know all about that wife of yours in Canada. The image of Chester Dominic’s smooth-shaven face came unbidden to his mind. It couldn’t be true. Well, on second thought, it could be true—they had been apart for a long time. The marriage was over—who was he fooling? But not Chester Dominic, with that cheesy shit- eating grin and the phony car-salesman cheer. And the polyester suits. Jesus. Anybody but him.

D’Agosta glanced over to see Hayward looking back at him. Her face showed concern mingled with skepticism. This wasn’t easy for her, he thought. Pendergast was one hell of a good FBI agent, but he was no good at teamwork. It was his way or the highway—no compromise.

“You might have to talk about it if charges are brought.”

“Fine. But not now.” He took a deep breath. “Captain Hayward, Pendergast really did have to get tough with Bullard.”

“I don’t believe it. He could’ve gotten a subpoena, scheduled the interview on the boat, and probably gotten more information out of the guy in the process. As it is, we didn’t get jack out of that interrogation.”

“We went to the boat to ask questions. I was threatened. I don’t see why you think scheduling it would have been more successful.”

“Okay, you’ve got a point, but it turned into a pissing contest, and that’s never successful.”

They passed through the doors and paused on the broad marble steps. Hayward was still mad. More fence-mending was in order.

“You doing anything?” D’Agosta asked.

Hayward looked at him. “I was planning on going home.”

“How about a drink? Strictly professional. I know—or at least I used to know—a place over on Church Street.”

She gazed at him for a moment, her pale face framed by glossy black hair, her eyes still flashing with residual irritation. “All right.”

D’Agosta descended the steps, Hayward by his side.

“Pendergast’s got his own methods,” said D’Agosta.

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Look, Sergeant—”

“How about calling me Vinnie?”

“Call me Laura, then. Here’s what worries me: how many times has Pendergast had to testify against a perp in court?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you. Very few times. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because most of his perps wind up dead. That’s why.”

“That’s not his fault.”

“I didn’t say it was. It’s just an observation. Let’s say Bullard does become a suspect. This little shenanigan is going to look bad.”

They made a left at Park Row, then a right at Vesey. Ahead, D’Agosta saw the little place still there, apparently unchanged. A couple of dying ferns hung from macramé in the basement window, just the right touch to keep out other cops. He liked it for that—and for the Guinness on tap.

“I never knew this place existed,” said Hayward as they descended the steps and D’Agosta held open the door. He followed her into the cool, brew-fragrant interior. She took a table in the back and a man came up immediately.

“Guinness,” she said.

“Two.”

D’Agosta couldn’t shake the image of Dominic with his wife. It was going to drive him crazy, he realized, until he did something about it. He got up. “Back in a moment.”

He found the phone tucked into a nook in the back of the bar. It had been a long time since he used a pay phone, but this was one call he didn’t want to make with his cell. He called information, got the Canadian operator, got the number, made the call. It took two trips to the bar and twenty quarters. Jesus.

“Kootenay RV,” came a nasal voice.

“Chet Dominic there?”

“He’s gone.”

“Damn, I was supposed to meet him for an appointment, and I’m late. You got his cell?”

“Who’s this?”

“Jack Torrance. I’m the one interested in the Itasca Sunflyer, you know, the one with the slide-out bedroom and Corian countertops? Chet’s a friend from the club.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Torrance, of course,” came the suddenly fake-friendly voice. “Just a moment.” She gave him the number.

D’Agosta glanced at his watch, collected more quarters from the bar, dialed.

“Hello?”

It was Chester.

“This is Dr. Morgan at the hospital. There’s been a terrible accident.”

“What? Who?” The voice was instantly full of panic. D’Agosta wondered if Dominic had a wife and kids. Probably did, the scumbag.

“I must speak to a Mrs. Lydia D’Agosta immediately.”

“Well, ah, wait—yes, yes, of course.” There was a fumbling sound, a muffled voice, and then his wife’s voice came on. “Yes? What is it? What’s happened?”

D’Agosta carefully depressed the hang-up bar, took a couple of deep breaths, and made his way back toward the table. Even before he got there, his cell phone was ringing. He answered.

“Vinnie? It’s Lydia. Are you all right?”

“Sure. Why do you ask? You sound upset.”

“No, no, I’m fine. I just heard . . . I don’t know, something about the hospital. I was worried.” She was all flustered and confused.

“Wasn’t me.”

“You know how it is, being out here like this, hearing everything secondhand . . .”

“You still at work?”

“I’m in the parking lot. Just pulling out now.”

“Right. See you.” D’Agosta snapped the phone shut and reseated himself. You mean Chester Dominic was just pulling out, don’t you? He felt a horrible prickly heat crawling over his skin. The Guinness had arrived, in a real imperial pint, with two inches of cream on the top. He raised it and took a long pull, then another, feeling the cool liquid loosening the tightness in his throat. He put the pint down to find Laura Hayward looking at him intently.

“You were thirsty,” she said.

“Yeah.” To hide his face, he took another pull. Who was he kidding? They’d been separated half a year now. He couldn’t really blame her for that—not too much, anyway. And Vinnie Junior, his son, didn’t want to move, either. Lydia wasn’t a bad person at heart, but this was a low blow. A really low blow. He wondered if little Vinnie knew about it.

“Bad news?”

D’Agosta glanced at Hayward. “Sort of.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No, thanks.” He sat up. “I’m sorry. I’m lousy company tonight.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not a date.”

There was a silence, then Hayward said, “I read your two novels.”

D’Agosta felt himself reddening. This was the last conversation he wanted to have.

“They were great. I just wanted to tell you that.”

“Thanks.”

“I loved the deadpan style. Gritty. Those books really captured what it’s like to be on the job. Not like most of the phony police fiction around.”

D’Agosta nodded. “So where’d you find them? On a remainder table?”

“I bought them when they were first published. As it happens, I’ve been sort of following your career.”

“Really?” D’Agosta was surprised. When they’d worked together on the subway murders years ago, he hadn’t thought he’d made much of an impression on her. Not a good impression, anyway. Then again, she’d always played her cards close.

“Really. I—” She hesitated. “I was still finishing up my master’s at NYU when we worked together. That was my first big case. I was ambitious as hell, and to me, just starting, you looked like just the kind of cop I wanted to be. So I was really curious when you went off to Canada to write novels. I wondered why a cop as good as you would give it up.”

“I had a lot I wanted to say—about crime, criminals, the justice system. And about people in general.”

“You said it well.”

“Not well enough.”

Her pint was empty and so was his.

“Another round?” he asked.

“Sure. Vinnie, I’ve got to tell you, I couldn’t believe it when I saw you in sergeant’s stripes with a Southampton P.D. badge. I thought maybe I was dealing with a twin brother.”

D’Agosta tried to muster a laugh. “Life.”

“That was some case we worked on, those subway murders.”

“Sure was. You remember the riot?”

She shook her head. “What a sight. Like something in a movie. I still have nightmares about it sometimes.”

“I missed it. I was about half a mile underground, finishing what Captain Waxie started.”

“Old Waxie. You know, he was sucked down so deep into those tunnels they never did find his body. Probably got eaten by an alligator.”

“Or worse.”

She paused. “The force is different now, really different. Thank God—what a cast of characters we had to deal with back then, when I was just a new jack.”

“You remember McCarroll at the T.A.? They called him McCarrion because of his breath?” He chuckled.

“Do I. I had to work for that bastard for six months. It was tough to be a woman on the T.A. force back then. I had two strikes against me: not only was I female, but I was in graduate school. Make that three strikes: I wouldn’t sleep with McCarrion.”

“He made a pass at you?”

“His idea of a pass was to get real close, breathe all over me, tell me I had a nice body, and pucker his lips.”

D’Agosta made a face. “Oh, my God. You report him?”

“And kiss my career good-bye? He was just a harmless cretin, anyway, not worth reporting. Now the NYPD is like a different planet—totally professional. And anyway, nobody would dare pull a stunt like that on a captain.”

The second round came, and D’Agosta buried his mug in it and listened to her reminisce, telling funny stories about McCarroll and another long-gone captain, Al “Crisco” DuPrisco. It brought back a lot of memories.

He shook his head. “Jesus, there’s no better place to be a cop than in the Big Apple.”

“You said it.”

“I gotta get back on the job, Laura. I’m rotting out there in Southampton.”

She said nothing. D’Agosta looked up, his eyes meeting hers and seeing what—pity? “Sorry.” He looked away. Funny how life had reversed everything. Now here she was, probably the youngest captain on the force. And he . . . Well, if anyone deserved success, she did . . .

“Look,” he said, suddenly professional again. “I really asked you for a drink because I wanted to make sure you were okay with Pendergast. I’ve worked with him on not just one big case, but two. Believe me, his methods may be unorthodox, but they work. You couldn’t ask for a better fed on your side.”

“I appreciate your loyalty. But the fact is, he’s got a cooperation problem. I went out on a limb to have that subpoena and warrant ready to go, and he embarrassed me. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt this time, but please, Vinnie, keep the guy in line. He obviously respects you.”

“He respects you, too.”

There was a silence.

“So how come you gave up writing?” Hayward asked, shifting the subject back to him. “I thought you had a pretty good career going.”

“Yeah, a career in bankruptcy court. I just couldn’t make it. After two novels, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Lydia—that’s my wife—she couldn’t take it anymore.”

“You’re married?” Her eyes rapidly glanced at his hand, but his wedding ring hadn’t fit for years.

“Yeah.”

“Why am I surprised? All the good guys are taken. Here’s to Lydia.”

She raised her pint. D’Agosta didn’t raise his glass; instead, he said, “We’re separated. She’s still living in Canada.”

“I’m sorry.” She lowered her pint, but she did not look very sorry. Or was it just his imagination?

“You know that threat Bullard made against me?” D’Agosta swallowed. He wasn’t sure why he was telling her this, but he suddenly felt he couldn’t go another minute without getting it off his chest. “He somehow found out my wife was having an affair and told me about it. Along with a lot of other compromising personal information he dug up and threatened to make public.”

“Bastard. In that case, I’m glad Pendergast stuck it to him.” She hesitated. “You want to talk about it?”

“We are talking about it.”

“I’m sorry, Vincent. That’s tough. Is the marriage worth saving?”

“It was over half a year ago. We’ve just been in denial stage.”

“Kids?”

“One. Lives with his mom. Going to college next year on scholarship. Great kid.”

“How long were you married?”

“Twenty-five years. Married right out of high school.”

“God. You sure there isn’t something there worth holding on to?”

“Some good memories. But nothing now. It’s over.”

“Well then, Bullard just did you a favor.” She extended her hand and laid it on his, comfortingly.

D’Agosta looked at her. She was right: in a way, Bullard had done him a favor. Maybe a really big favor.

{ 27 }

Midnight. The boat was still in its slip, the crew aboard, everything ready for a departure at first light. Bullard stood on deck, breathing the night air, looking across the bay toward Staten Island. There was one last thing he had to take care of before weighing anchor. He had made two serious mistakes, and they had to be corrected. The first was impulsively hiring those goons to cap D’Agosta. Damn stupid thing: he knew better than that. If you were going to kill a cop, you had to do it right. The bastard had mouthed off with a few empty threats, and in his nervous state he’d allowed himself to be spooked. Christ, he was jumpy these days. He wasn’t thinking clearly. The fact was, that fat fuck was not his real enemy. He was just a gumshoe. The real enemy was the FBI agent, Pendergast. That man was dangerous as an adder: coiled up, cool, smooth, ready to strike. Pendergast played for keeps, and he was the brains in that team. Kill the brain and the body will die. Get Pendergast and the investigation would go away.

The same rule about cops was even truer for FBI agents. You didn’t kill them unless there was no other way. It almost never made things better. But there were exceptions to every rule, and this was one of them. Bullard could allow nothing—nothing—to interfere with what he had to do.

He went belowdecks. All was quiet. He slipped into a soundproofed room, locked the door behind him, checked his watch. Still a few minutes. He pressed a few buttons, and a videoconferencing screen came to life. Pendergast had made off with one CPU and some of his files, but all his computers were networked, their business-related data folders encrypted. He used public encryption with 2,048-bit keys, unbreakable even by the most powerful computers in the world. He wasn’t worried about what Pendergast might find. He was worried about the man himself.

He pressed a few more keys, and a dim face appeared on the screen. It was a face as smooth and tight as a drum, so thin it looked as if the wet skin had been stretched over the bones and allowed to dry. His head was shaved so smooth there wasn’t even a five o’clock shadow on the scalp. It gave Bullard the creeps. But the man was good. More than good: he was the best there was. He called himself Vasquez.

The man said nothing, offered no greeting, just stared, hands folded, his face expressionless. Bullard eased back in his chair, smiled, although the smile made no difference. The image Vasquez was seeing on-screen was the computer-generated face of a nonexistent person.

Bullard spoke. “The target is Pendergast, first name unknown. Special Agent with the FBI. Lives at 891 Riverside Drive. I want two in the brainpan. I’ll give you a million per bullet.”

“I require full payment in advance,” Vasquez said.

“What if you fail?”

“I don’t.”

“Bullshit. Everyone fails.”

“The day I fail is the day I die. Now, do you agree?”

Bullard hesitated. Still, if you were going to do something, do it right.

“Very well,” he said curtly. “But time is of the essence here.” If Vasquez screwed him, there were other Vasquezes out there, willing to finish the job and reduce the competition; two killings wouldn’t cost much more than one.

Vasquez held up a piece of paper with a number on it. He waited a moment, giving Bullard time to jot it down. “When the two million shows up in this account, I will undertake the assignment. We need never speak again.”

The screen went black. Bullard realized Vasquez must have cut the transmission. He wasn’t used to people hanging up on him. He felt a momentary irritation, then took a deep breath. He had worked with artists before, and they were all cut from the same cloth: egotistical, flamboyant, greedy.

And Vasquez was the best kind of artist: the kind that truly loved his work.

{ 28 }

D’Agosta pulled his Ford Taurus up to the iron gates, then stopped, wondering if he might have gotten the directions wrong. He was at least an hour late—the paperwork from the previous day’s blowup with Bullard had taken all morning. Cops these days couldn’t fire their gun, couldn’t question a suspect, couldn’t even break wind without having to fill out reports after the fact.

The rusty gates hung open, as if abandoned, mounted on two crumbling stone pillars. The graveled drive beyond was carpeted with sprouting ragweed well over a foot high, recently smashed down by the passage of a vehicle. But no, this had to be the place: a stone plaque mortared into one of the pillars bore the name, abraded by time and weather but still legible: Ravenscry.

D’Agosta got out of the car and shoved the groaning gate open a little farther, then got behind the wheel again and headed down the drive. He could see where the other car or cars had gone, flattening the weeds in two vague stripes. The drive wandered through an ancient beechwood forest, massive warped tree trunks rising on both sides, until at last it broke out into sunlight—a meadow dotted with wildflowers that had once evidently been a lawn. At the far end of the meadow rose a gaunt stone mansion: shaded by elms, shuttered tight, its roofs topped by at least twenty chimneys, a real haunted pile if ever there was one. D’Agosta shook his head slowly. Then, glancing at the directions Pendergast had given him, he followed the carriageway around the massive house and turned onto another road that led on through ancient gardens toward a stone millhouse on the banks of a stream. Pendergast’s Rolls was parked here and he pulled in beside it. Pendergast’s chauffeur, Proctor, was arranging something in the car’s trunk; as D’Agosta got out of the car and approached, he bowed politely, then nodded in the direction of the stream.

D’Agosta began following a stone path that led down from the road. Farther ahead now, he could see two figures strolling along the path, dappled in shade, intent in conversation. One had to be Pendergast—the black suit and slim bearing gave him away. The other, who was wearing a sunbonnet and holding a parasol, could only be the girl staying in Pendergast’s house. What was her name again? Constance.

As he approached the stream, he could hear the purling of water, hear the birds rustling in the beechwood. Pendergast turned and waved him over. “Vincent, you made it. Very good of you to come.”

Constance turned, too, smiling gravely and holding out her hand. D’Agosta took it, mumbling a greeting. For some reason she made him eager to be on his best behavior, just the way his grandmother had done when he was a child. Her unusual eyes were concealed by a pair of very dark sunglasses.

He glanced down the shade-dappled path. The mill was no longer turning, but the shunt of water had been directed into a curious series of stone sluice tanks. “What is this place?”

“The estate belongs to my great-aunt Cornelia, who, alas, is not well and is confined to a home. I’ve begun bringing Constance up here to take the air.”

“To complete my rehabilitation,” said Constance with a faint smile. “Mr. Pendergast thinks I’m in delicate health.”

“Quite a spread,” D’Agosta said.

“The mill here was converted into a trout farm in the late nineteenth century,” Pendergast replied. “Every year they stocked Dewing Brook with thousands of trout and kept the forest full of wild turkey, deer, pheasant, grouse, quail, and bear. Come Sunday there was quite a massacre around these parts, as my relations and their sporting friends took to the field.”

“A hunting preserve. I’ll bet the fishing was fantastic.” D’Agosta looked at the brook purling over its cobbled bed, with deep pools and holes no doubt still thick with trout. Even as he watched, several fish, rising to a hatch, dimpled the surface.

“I never cared for fishing,” Pendergast said. “I preferred blood sport.”

“What’s wrong with fishing?”

“I find it quotidian in the extreme.”

“Quotidian. Right.”

“After the sudden death of Aunt Cornelia’s husband and children, most of the staff quit. Shortly thereafter, my aunt was obliged to leave. And now Ravenscry lies empty, decaying. In any case,” Pendergast went on more briskly, “I asked you to come so we may take stock of the case in surroundings conducive to contemplation. Frankly, Vincent, the case is baffling. Normally by this stage I’d have found a piece of thread leading into the tangle. But this is different.”

“It’s a tough one,” D’Agosta said. He glanced at the girl, wondering how much to say.

“We may speak freely in front of Constance.”

The girl smiled with mock gravity. They strolled back through the dappled shade in the direction of the cars.

“Let us review what we know. We have two murders, each with inexplicable features, including the heating of the body and the various Mephistophelean appurtenances. We know that the two victims must have been connected with each other and to Bullard in some way. But I have not been able to find that connection.”

“Hayward’s been helping me with that end of things. We’ve pulled their telephone bills, credit card transactions, T&E records going back ten years. Nada. It doesn’t look like they ever met. As for Bullard, most of the folders on that computer we seized are encrypted too strongly to break. I did get one nugget of interesting information from Hayward, though: they found a reference to the name Ranier Beckmann in a temporary Internet directory on the computer. Seems Bullard was trying to locate him, too.”

“And yet you said Bullard denied knowing Beckmann when you questioned him at the Athletic Club. It’s evident Bullard is concealing a great deal. He’s angry, he’s defensive. I might even say he’s frightened. Of what?”

“Of arrest. As far as I’m concerned, Bullard is suspect number one. He doesn’t have a good alibi for the Grove murder, either. He said he was on his yacht, cruising the sound that night. Without a crew. He could’ve been cruising the Atlantic side instead, slipped up on the beach at Southampton, done the job.”

“Possible. But the fact that he has no alibi for either night, in my view, is actually a strike in his favor. Besides, what’s Bullard’s motivation? Why kill Grove and Cutforth? And why make it look like the devil?”

“He’s got a macabre sense of humor.”

“On the contrary, the man appears to have absolutely no sense of humor at all, apart from a kind of gangsterish schadenfreude. Somebody playing a mere joke would not take such a dangerous risk.”

“He wants to send a message, then.”

“Yes, but to whom? For what purpose?”

“I don’t know. If it isn’t Bullard, it might be some fundamentalist nutcase who wants to bring back the Inquisition. Somebody who thinks he’s doing God’s work.”

“A second possibility.”

There was a short silence. Then Pendergast added, “Vincent, you haven’t mentioned the other possibility.”

D’Agosta felt his gut tighten. Pendergast wasn’t serious—was he? He found himself unconsciously fingering his cross.

“Where’s Bullard now?” Pendergast asked.

“He left on his yacht this morning, heading to the open ocean.”

“Any idea where?”

“Looks like Europe. At least he’s heading east, at full speed. Better than full speed, in fact—the yacht must have a specially modified power plant. In any case, Hayward’s got someone on it. We’ll know where and when he lands—unless he evades customs and immigration, which seems improbable with a yacht like that.”

“The admirable Hayward. Is she still upset?”

“You could say that.”

Pendergast smiled thinly.

“So what’s your theory?” D’Agosta asked.

“I am doing my best not to have a theory.”

D’Agosta heard the crunching of tires on gravel, the slamming of doors, the distant chatter of voices. He glanced back across the meadows and spotted the new arrival: a long, old-fashioned limousine, its top down. A huge wicker basket was lashed across the rumble seat with leather straps.

“Who’s this?” D’Agosta asked.

“Another guest,” Pendergast said simply.

Now someone came around the side of the car: an enormous figure, grossly out of proportion to its surroundings but moving with a remarkable fluidity and ease. It was Fosco, who, it seemed, had somehow made the transition from witness to acquaintance.

D’Agosta looked over. “What’s he doing here?”

“It seems he is in possession of some information of great value that he’s most eager to pass on. And since he’s expressed an interest in viewing what passes for antiquity here in America, I thought I’d invite him to Ravenscry. I owed him a return for an interesting night at the opera.”

The figure came striding swiftly down the path, waving his arm in greeting long before he arrived.

“Marvelous place!” boomed the count, rubbing his white-gloved hands together. He bowed to Pendergast, then turned to D’Agosta. “The good sergeant. D’Agosta, is it not? Always pleased to make the acquaintance of a fellow Italian. How do you do?”

“Fine, thanks.” D’Agosta hadn’t liked the man and his flamboyant ways at the memorial service, and he liked him even less now.

“And this is my ward, Constance Greene,” said Pendergast.

“Your ward, you say? I am delighted.” Fosco bowed and brought her hand almost, but not quite, to his lips.

Constance inclined her head in acknowledgment. “I see you and Mr. Pendergast share an interest in exotic automobiles.”

“Indeed we do; that and much more. Mr. Pendergast and I have become friends.” He beamed. “We are very different in some ways. I am a lover of music and he is not. I am a lover of fine clothes, and he dresses like an undertaker. I am voluble and open, he is silent and closed. I am direct, he is diffident. But we do share a love of art, literature, fine food, wine, and culture—as well as a fascination with these dreadful and inexplicable crimes.” He peered at Constance, smiled again.

“Crimes are interesting only when they are inexplicable. Unfortunately, few remain so.”

“Unfortunately?”

“I was speaking from an aesthetic point of view.”

The count turned to Pendergast. “This young lady is exceptional.”

“And what is your interest in the case, Count, besides mere fascination?” Constance asked.

“I wish to help.”

“Count Fosco has already been helpful,” said Pendergast.

“And, as you shall see, I will be more helpful still! But first I must tell you how enchanted I am with this estate. Your great-aunt’s, did you say? So picturesque! Falling into ruin and neglect, mysterious, haunted. It reminds me of Piranesi’s engraving Veduta degli Avanzi delle Terme di Tito, the Ruins of the Baths of Titus. I much prefer a building in neglect and ruin—much of my own castello in Tuscany is in a delightful state of dilapidation.”

D’Agosta wondered what the castle of a count looked like.

“As promised, I brought lunch,” the count boomed. “Pinketts!” He clapped his hands and his driver, who was about as English as they come, unstrapped the huge wicker trunk and hefted it down the path, then proceeded to arrange a linen tablecloth, bottles of wine, cheeses, prosciutto, salami, silverware, and glasses on a stone table beneath the shade of an enormous copper beech.

“This is kind of you, Count,” said Pendergast.

“Yes, I am kind, especially when you see the Villa Calcinaia ’97 Chianti Classico Riserva I’ve brought, made by my neighbor, the good count Capponi. But I have something else for you. Something even better than wine, caviar, and fois gras. If such a thing is possible.” The black eyes in his smooth, handsome face sparkled with pleasure.

“And that is?”

“In good time, in good time.” The count began arranging, with fussy attention, the things on the table, uncorking and decanting a bottle of red wine, letting the anticipation build. At last, he turned with a conspiratorial grin. “By chance, I have made a discovery of the first importance.” He turned to D’Agosta. “Does the name Ranier Beckmann mean anything to you, Sergeant?”

“We found that name on Bullard’s computer. The guy he was trying to locate.”

The count nodded as if he’d known it all along. “And?”

“Bullard had done an Internet search for a Ranier Beckmann, without success. Grove also seems to have been looking for Beckmann. But we don’t know why.”

“I was at a luncheon party yesterday and was seated beside Lady Milbanke. She told me—between frequent displays of her new necklace—that a few days before Jeremy Grove was murdered, he had asked if she could recommend a private detective. Turned out she could—scandalous people often can. I then went to this gentleman myself and soon pried from him the fact that Grove hired him . . . to find a certain Ranier Beckmann.”

He paused dramatically. “Grove was in a panic to find this man. When the detective asked him for details, he could provide none at all. None. The detective stopped his investigation when he heard of Grove’s death.”

“Interesting,” D’Agosta said.

“It would be interesting to see if the name Beckmann turned up among Cutforth’s effects, as well,” Pendergast said.

D’Agosta removed his cell, dialed Hayward’s direct line.

“Hayward here,” came the cool voice.

“It’s Sergeant D’Agosta. Vinnie. Have your people finished inventorying Cutforth’s apartment?”

“Yes.”

“The name Ranier Beckmann turn up, by any chance?”

“As a matter of fact, it did.” D’Agosta heard a rustling of paper. “We found a notebook with his name written on the first page, in Cutforth’s hand.”

“The rest of the notebook?”

“Blank.”

“Thanks.” D’Agosta closed the phone and related what he’d heard.

Pendergast’s face tensed with excitement. “This is precisely the thread we’ve been looking for. Grove, Cutforth, Bullard. Why were all three looking for Beckmann? Perhaps we should find this Beckmann and see what he has to tell us.”

“You may find that a difficult proposition, my friend,” said the count.

Pendergast glanced at him. “And why is that?”

“Because the private investigator told me something else. That he was unable to find any information at all on this Ranier Beckmann. No present or past address, no employment history, no family information. Nothing. But I leave that to you.” The count, beaming with his success, extended his white hands. “And now, business concluded, let us be seated and enjoy our lunch.” He turned and bowed to Constance. “May I be permitted to seat you here, on my right? I feel we have much to talk about.”

{ 29 }

Even before entering, Harriman had formed a clear picture of Von Menck’s sitting room in his mind. He figured he’d find it carpeted in Persian rugs, decked out with astrological charts, ancient pentacles, and perhaps Tibetan durgas made of human long bones. The room alone, he hoped, would make great copy. Thus he was crestfallen when the door drew back at his knock to reveal a simple, almost spartan study. There was a small fireplace, comfortable leather chairs, lithographs of Egyptian ruins on the walls. There were, in fact, only two clues that this room was not just another middle-class parlor: the wall of glass-fronted bookcases, bulging with books and manuscripts and papers, and the Emmy for Best Documentary that sat neglected on the desk beside the telephone and old-fashioned Rolodex.

Harriman took the proffered seat, hoping his hunch would prove correct: that Von Menck would give shape and voice to the devil-killings story. A typical scientist would merely debunk the business, while some crank satanist would have no credibility. What made Friedrich Von Menck perfect was that he straddled the gray area in between. While Von Menck’s academic credentials were beyond reproach—doctor of philosophy from Heidelberg, doctor of medicine from Harvard, doctor of divinity from Canterbury—he had always made a specialty of mysticism, the paranormal, the unexplainable. His documentary on crop circles had aired on PBS to great acclaim, and it had been well done, salted with both skepticism and just the right frisson of the inexplicable. And, of course, his earlier documentary on the exorcisms in Cartagena, Spain, had won the Emmy. At the time, it had left even Harriman wondering—if only until the next commercial break—if there wasn’t something to the idea of demonic possession.

Von Menck would provide more than just an opinion: he would provide a foundation, a launching pad, an engine. If Von Menck couldn’t get this story into orbit, nobody could.

The doctor greeted him with courtesy, taking a seat in the leather chair opposite. Harriman liked him immediately. He was surprised to see that the compelling, almost magnetic personality projected on television was, in fact, real. It had a lot to do with the man’s low, mellifluous voice and cool, ascetic features, with the prominent cheekbones and finely molded chin. Only one thing seemed to be missing. On television, Von Menck had frequently smiled—a raffish smile of wit and good humor, of a man who didn’t take himself too seriously. It had the effect of keeping his rather technical investigations from getting too heavy. Now, however—though Von Menck was polite to a fault—the engaging smile was absent.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the doctor got right to the point. “Your message stated you wished to speak with me about the recent killings.”

“That’s right.” Harriman reached into his pocket for his digital voice recorder.

“What your paper has referred to as the devil killings.”

“Right.” Did he detect the slightest hint of disdain, or disapproval, in the doctor’s polite inflections? “Dr. Von Menck, I’ve come to see if you’ve framed an opinion on these murders.”

Dr. Von Menck leaned back in his chair, tented his fingers, and looked carefully at Harriman. When at last he spoke, it was in very slow and measured tones. It almost seemed to Harriman the man had been considering the question long before he asked it. “Yes. As it happens, I do have an opinion.”

Harriman placed the recorder on the arm of his chair. “Do you mind if I record this?”

Von Menck gave a small wave of permission. “I’ve been debating the wisdom of making my opinions public.”

Harriman felt himself go cold. Oh, no, he thought. The guy’s planning to do his own documentary on this. I’m about to get the royal shaft.

Then Von Menck sighed. “In the end, I decided people had a right to know. In that way, your phone call was fortuitous.”

The chill was replaced by relief. Harriman leaned forward, snapped the recorder on. “Then perhaps you can tell me your thoughts, sir. Why these two men, why in such a manner, and why at this time?”

Von Menck sighed again. “The two men, and the manner, are of lesser importance. It’s the timing that means everything.”

“Explain.”

Von Menck stood, walked toward one of the bookcases, opened it, and removed something. He placed it on the desk before Harriman. It was a cross section of a nautilus shell, its growth chambers spiraling outward from the center with beautiful regularity.

“Do you know, Mr. Harriman, what this shell has in common with the building of the Parthenon, the petals of a flower, and the paintings of Leonardo da Vinci?”

Harriman shook his head.

“It embodies that most perfect of nature’s proportions, the golden ratio.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s the ratio obtained if you divide a line in such a way that the shorter segment is to the longer segment as the longer segment is to the entire line.”

Harriman wrote this all down, hoping that he could figure it out later.

“The longer segment is 1.618054 times longer than the shorter segment. The shorter segment is 0.618054 percent of the longer. These two numbers, moreover, are exact reciprocals of each other, differing only in the first digit—the only two numbers to demonstrate that property.”

“Right. Of course.” Math had never been his strong suit.

“They have other remarkable properties. A rectangle constructed with sides of these two lengths is believed to be the most pleasing shape, called the golden rectangle. The Parthenon was built in this shape. Cathedrals and paintings were based on this shape. Such rectangles also have a remarkable property: if you cut a square off one side, you are left with a smaller golden rectangle of exactly the same proportions. You can keep cutting off squares and creating smaller golden rectangles ad infinitum.”

“I see.”

“Now, if you start with a large golden rectangle and reduce it, square by square, into an infinite series of smaller golden rectangles, and then connect the center of all these, you end up with a perfect natural logarithmic spiral. This is the spiral you see in the nautilus shell; in the packing of seeds into the head of the sunflower; in musical harmony; and indeed throughout all of nature. The golden ratio is a fundamental quality of the natural world.”

“Yeah.”

“This ratio is part of the basic structure of the universe. No one knows why.”

Harriman watched as the doctor carefully put the shell back in the case and closed the glass front. Whatever he’d been expecting, this was not it. He was lost, and if he was lost, he knew that the Post’s readers would certainly be lost. What a waste of time. He’d have to escape at the earliest opportunity.

Von Menck stepped behind his desk and turned back to face the journalist. “Are you a religious man, Mr. Harriman?”

The question was so unexpected that, for a moment, Harriman did not know what to say.

“I don’t necessarily mean in any organized sense: Catholic, Protestant, whatever. But do you believe there is a unifying force underlying our universe?”

“I’d never really thought about it,” Harriman said. “I guess so.” He had been raised Episcopalian, though he hadn’t set foot inside a church—except for weddings and funerals—for almost twenty years.

“Then might you believe, as I do, that there is a purpose to our lives?”

Harriman shut off the tape recorder. Time to end this and get the hell out. If he wanted a lecture on religion, he could always call the Jehovah’s Witnesses. “With all due respect, Doctor, I don’t see what this has to do with the two recent deaths.”

“Patience, Mr. Harriman. My proof is complex, but the conclusion will, to use a popular expression, blow your mind.”

Harriman waited.

“Let me explain. All my life, I have been a student of the mysterious, the unexplained. Many of these mysteries I have solved to my own satisfaction. Others—oftentimes the greatest—remain dark to me.” Von Menck took a piece of paper from his desk, wrote on it briefly, then placed it before Harriman:

3243

1239

“Those two numbers”—and he tapped the page—“have always represented the biggest mysteries of all to me. Do you recognize them?”

Harriman shook his head.

“They mark the single two greatest cataclysmic events ever to befall human civilization. In 3243 B.C., the island of Santorini explodes, generating tidal waves that wipe out the great Minoan civilization of Crete and devastate the entire Mediterranean world. This is the source of both the legend of Atlantis and the Great Flood. And 1239 B.C. is when the twin cities of Sodom and Gomorrah were reduced to ash by a rain of ruin from the sky.”

“Atlantis? Sodom and Gomorrah?” This was getting worse.

Von Menck tapped the sheet again. “Plato described Atlantis in two of his dialogues, Timaeus and Critias. Some details he got wrong: for example, the date, which he put at around 9000 B.C. Recent extensive archaeological digs on Crete and Sardinia provide a more exact date. The story of the lost city of Atlantis has been sensationalized to the point where most people wrongly assume it’s a myth. But legitimate archaeologists are convinced there is a foundation of truth: the volcanic explosion of the island of Santorini. Plato described Atlantis—that is, the Minoan civilization on Crete—as a powerful city-state, obsessed with commerce, money, self-improvement, and knowledge, but bereft of spiritual values. Archaeological excavations of the Minoan palaces at Knossos confirm this. The people of Atlantis, Plato said, had turned their backs on their god. They flaunted their vices, they openly questioned the existence of a divine, and they worshiped technology instead. Plato tells us they had canals and a so-called firestone that produced artificial power.”

He paused. “Sounds like another city we know, doesn’t it, Mr. Harriman?”

“New York.”

Von Menck nodded. “Exactly. At the very height of Atlantis’s power, there were harbingers of some dread event. The weather was unnaturally cold, and skies were dark for days. There were strange rumblings in the ground. People died suddenly, unexpectedly, outrageously. One was said to have been hit ‘by a bolt of lightning that came from the sky and from the bowels of the earth both together.’ Another was abruptly torn apart, as if by an explosive device, ‘his flesh and blood hanging in the air like a fine mist, while all around lay the most appalling stench.’ Within a week came the explosion and flood that destroyed the city forever.”

As Von Menck spoke, Harriman snapped on his recorder again. There might be something here, after all.

“Exactly two thousand and four years later, the area of the Dead Sea between what is now Israel and Jordan—the deepest naturally occurring spot on the surface of the earth—was breathtakingly lush and fertile. It was the home of the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. Precisely how big these cities were remains unknown, although recent archaeological digs in the valley have uncovered massive cemeteries containing thousands of human remains. Clearly, they were the two most powerful cities in the Western world at that time. As with Atlantis, these cities had fallen into the last degree of sin, turning away from the natural order of things. Pride, sloth, the worship of earthly goods, decadence and debauchery, rejection of God and destruction of nature. As it says in Genesis, there were not fifty, not twenty, not even ten righteous men to be found in Sodom. And so the cities were destroyed from above, by ‘brimstone and fire . . . the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.’ Again, archaeological excavations in the Dead Sea area confirm the biblical story to an amazing degree. In the days before this took place, there again were harbingers of the fate that was to come. One man burst into a pillar of yellow flame. Others were found calcified, not unlike Lot’s wife, who was turned to a pillar of salt.”

Von Menck came around the desk and sat on its edge, looking intently at the reporter. “Have you been to the Dead Sea, Mr. Harriman?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“I’ve been there. Several times. The first time I went was right after I discovered a certain natural link in the timing of the disasters that befell Atlantis and Gomorrah. The Dead Sea is now a parched wasteland. Fish cannot live in it: the water is many times saltier than the ocean. Almost nothing grows on its edges, and what does is glazed and caked with salt. But if you walk across the dead plains near Tell es-Saidiyeh, where many scholars now place Sodom, you’ll find a vast number of balls of pure, elemental sulfur riddling the salt surface. This sulfur is not rhombic, as found in naturally occurring geothermic areas. Rather, it is monoclinic: white, exceptionally pure, exposed to very high temperatures for long periods of time. Geologists have found no other pockets of such naturally occurring sulfur anywhere else on earth. Yet they are found in riotous abundance on the ruins of these two cities. What destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah was not some normal geological process. It remains a mystery to this day.”

Von Menck reached for the scrap of paper, wrote another number beneath the first two:

3243

1239

2004

“2004 A.D., Mr. Harriman. It forms the end of the golden ratio. Do the math. The date 3243 B.C. is exactly 5,247 years ago: golden ratio. The date 1239 B.C. is exactly 3,243 years ago: golden ratio again. The next date in the series is 2004 A.D., which also happens to be the exact number of years separating the earlier disasters. Coincidence?”

Harriman stared at the paper. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? It seemed unbelievable, crazy. And yet the quiet eyes that looked back at him with something like resignation did not look in the least bit crazy.

“I searched for years, Mr. Harriman, for proof that I was wrong. I thought perhaps the dates were incorrect, or that the evidence was flawed. But every discovery I made simply gave more credence to the theory.” He walked to another cabinet and pulled out a sheet of white cardboard. On it, a large spiral—like that of the shell of a chambered nautilus—had been drawn. At its outermost point, it was labeled in red pencil: 3243 B.C.—Santorini/Atlantis. One-third of the way along its curve was another red marking: 1239 B.C.—Sodom/Gomorrah. At other spots along the spiral, smaller tickmarks in black listed dozens of other dates and places:

79 A.D.—Eruption of Vesuvius destroys Pompeii/Herculaneum

426 A.D.—Fall of Rome, sacked and destroyed by barbarians

1348 A.D.—Plague strikes Venice, two-thirds of the population die

1666 A.D.—The Great Fire of London

And at its very center, where the spiral closed in on itself and ended in a large spot of black, was a third red label:

2004 A.D.—???

He balanced the chart on his desk. “As you can see, I’ve charted many other disasters. They all fall precisely along the natural logarithmic spiral, all perfectly aligned in golden ratios. No matter how I cut the data, the last date in the sequence is always 2004 A.D. Always. And what do these natural disasters have in common? They have always struck an important world city, a city notable for its wealth, power, technology—and neglect of the spiritual.”

He reached across his desk, picked a red pencil from a pewter cup. “I’d hoped I was wrong, hoped it was a mere coincidence. I waited for the arrival of the year 2004, expecting to be proved wrong. But I no longer think nature believes in coincidence. There is an order to all things, Mr. Harriman. We have a moral niche on this earth, just as we have an ecological niche. When species exhaust their ecological niche, there is a correction, a purification. Sometimes even an extinction. It’s the way of nature. But what happens when a species exhausts its moral niche?”

He turned the pencil around, moved it to the center of the diagram, and erased the question marks:

2004 A.D.—

“In every instance there were harbingers. Small events, of seemingly limited significance. Many of these events have involved the death of morally dubious persons by the same means as the upcoming disaster. This happened in Pompeii before the eruption of Vesuvius, in London before the Great Fire, in Venice before the plague. So now perhaps you see, Mr. Harriman, why I say that Jeremy Grove and Nigel Cutforth are in themselves meaningless. Oh, to be sure, both men are remarkable for their hatred of religion and morals, their repudiation of decency, their outrageous excess. As such, they are role models for the greed, concupiscence, materialism, cruelty of our times—and particularly of this place, New York. But they are still merely harbingers—the first, I fear, of many.”

Von Menck let the chart fall gently to the desk. “Are you a reader of poetry, Mr. Harriman?”

“No. Not since college, anyway.”

“Perhaps you remember W. B. Yeats’s poem ‘The Second Coming’?

“ Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world . . .

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.”

Von Menck leaned closer. “We live in a time of moral nihilism and a blind worship of technology, combined with a rejection of the spiritual dimension of life. Television, movies, computers, video games, the Internet, artificial intelligence. These are the gods of our times. Our leaders are morally bankrupt, shameless hypocrites, feigning piety but devoid of real spirituality. We live in a time in which university scholars belittle spirituality, scorn religion, and bow deeply to the altar of science. We live in a time when so many spurn the church and the synagogue, where radio commentators are shock jocks spewing hatred and vulgarity, where televised entertainment consists of Real Sex and Celebrity Fear Factor. We live in a time of suicide bombing, terrorism run amok, and nuclear blackmail.”

The room fell silent, save for the faint beep of the recorder. At last, Von Menck stirred, spoke again.

“The ancients believed nature to be comprised of four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. Some talked of floods; others of earthquakes or mighty winds; others of the devil. When Atlantis had betrayed its niche in the moral order of nature, it was consumed by water. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah came by fire. The plague that struck Venice came by air. Like the golden ratio, it follows a cyclical pattern. I’ve charted it here.”

He took out another diagram, very complex, covered with lines, charts, and numbers. All the lines seemed to converge on a central pentagram in which was written:

2004 A.D.—New York City—Fire

“So you think New York City will burn?”

“Not in any normal way. It will be consumed by a fire within, like Grove and Cutforth.”

“You think this can be avoided if people turn back to God?”

Von Menck shook his head. “It’s too late for that. And please note, Mr. Harriman, I have not used the word God. What I’m talking about here is not necessarily God but a force of nature: a moral law of the universe as fixed as any physical law. We’ve created an imbalance that needs to be corrected. The year 2004.” He tapped the pile of charts. “It’s the big one. It’s the one Nostradamus predicted, Edgar Cayce predicted, Revelation predicted.”

Harriman nodded. He felt a crawling sensation along his spine. This was powerful stuff. But was it all claptrap? “Dr. Von Menck, you’ve devoted a great deal of time and research on this.”

“It has been my overwhelming obsession. For over fifteen years, I’ve known the significance of the year 2004. I’ve been waiting.”

“Are you really convinced, or is this just a theory?”

“I will answer by telling you this: I am leaving New York tomorrow.”

“Leaving?”

“For the Galápagos Islands.”

“Why the Galápagos?”

“As Darwin could tell you, they are famous for their isolation.” Von Menck gestured at the recorder. “This time there will be no documentary. The story is all yours, Mr. Harriman.”

“No documentary?” Harriman repeated, stupefied.

“If I’m the least bit right in my suspicions, Mr. Harriman, when this is over, there won’t be much of an audience for a documentary—will there?” And, for the first time since Harriman had entered the room, Dr. Von Menck smiled—a small, sad smile utterly devoid of humor.

{ 30 }

D’Agosta gazed at the miserable-looking thing on his plate—long, thin, unidentifiable, swimming in a puddle of sauce. It smelled vaguely like fish. At least, he thought, it would help his diet. It had been ten days since Grove’s death, and he’d lost five pounds already, what with the new weight routine and jogging regimens he’d instituted, not to mention the hours he’d put in at the shooting range, which were adding bulk and steadiness to his forearms and shoulders. Another two months, and he’d be back to his old NYPD condition.

Proctor flitted about in the background, presenting and whisking away plates with the least amount of warning gentility would allow. Pendergast sat at the head of the table, Constance to his left. She looked a little less pale than before: some sun, perhaps, from yesterday’s outing. But the dining room of the ancient Riverside Drive mansion remained a dreary place, with its dark green wallpaper and equally dark oil paintings. The windows that once must have looked out over the Hudson had been boarded up a long time ago, and it appeared Pendergast was going to leave them that way. No wonder the guy was so white, living in the dark like some cave creature. D’Agosta decided he’d trade the whole dinner, and its procession of mysterious dishes, for barbecued ribs and a cooler full of frosties in his sunny Suffolk County backyard. Even Fosco’s exotic picnic basket of the day before had been preferable. He gave the dish an exploratory poke.

“Don’t you like the cod roe?” Pendergast asked him. “It’s an old Italian recipe.”

“My grandmother was from Naples, and she never cooked anything like this in her life.”

“I believe this dish comes from Liguria. But never mind: cod roe is not to everyone’s taste.” He signaled to Proctor, who whisked the plate away and, a few moments later, returned with a steak and a small silver beaker brimming with wonderful-smelling sauce. In his other hand was a can of Budweiser, still dripping chips of ice.

D’Agosta tucked in, then glanced up to see Pendergast smiling with amusement. “Constance cooks a sublime tournedos bordelaise. I had it waiting in the wings, just in case. Along with the, ah, iced beer.”

“That was decent of you.”

“Is the steak to your liking?” Constance asked from across the table. “I prepared it saignant, as the French prefer.”

“I don’t know about saignant, but it’s rare, just the way I like it.”

Constance smiled, pleased.

D’Agosta speared another forkful, washed it down with a swig. “So what’s next?” he asked Pendergast.

“After dinner, Constance will indulge us by playing a few of Bach’s partitas. She is a rather accomplished violinist, though I fear I’m a poor judge of such things. And I think you’ll find the violin she plays interesting. It was part of my great-uncle’s collections, an old Amati, in fairly decent shape, though its tone has gone off somewhat.”

“Sounds great.” D’Agosta coughed delicately. “But what I meant was, what’s next for the investigation?”

“Ah! I see. Our next move, actually, has two fronts. We track down this Ranier Beckmann, and we do more background research on the strange nature of our two deaths. I have somebody already at work on the former. And Constance is about to fill us in on the latter.”

Constance dabbed primly at her mouth with a napkin. “Aloysius has asked me to look into historical precedents for SHC.”

“Spontaneous human combustion,” said D’Agosta. “As in the Mary Reeser case you mentioned to the M.E. at the Cutforth homicide?”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t really believe in that, do you?”

“The case of Mary Reeser is only the most famous of many, and it is well documented. Isn’t that right, Constance?”

“Famous, impeccably documented, and very curious.” She consulted some notes that lay at her elbow. “On July 1, 1951, Mrs. Reeser, a widow, went to sleep in an easy chair in her apartment in St. Petersburg, Florida. She was found the next morning by a friend who smelled smoke. When they broke down the door, they found that the chair Mary Reeser had sat in was now just a heap of charred coil springs. As for Mary Reeser herself, her one hundred and seventy pounds had been reduced to less than ten pounds of ash and bone. Only her left foot remained intact, still wearing a slipper, burned off at the ankle but otherwise undamaged. Also found were her liver and her skull, cracked and splintered by the intense heat. And yet the rest of the apartment was intact. The only burning occurred in the small circular area encompassing the remains of Mrs. Reeser, her chair, and a plastic electric wall outlet which had melted, stopping her clock at 4:20 A.M. When the clock was plugged into another outlet, it worked perfectly.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“The Bureau was called in immediately, and their documentation was impeccable,” said Pendergast. “Photographs, tests, analysis—it ran to more than a thousand pages. Our experts determined that a temperature of at least three thousand degrees would be necessary to cremate a body that thoroughly. A cigarette igniting her clothing would never have produced that temperature, and besides, Mary Reeser didn’t smoke. There were no traces of gasoline or other accelerants. No short circuit. Even lightning was ruled out. The case was never officially closed.”

D’Agosta shook his head in disbelief.

“And it’s not just a recent phenomenon,” Constance said. “Dickens wrote an account of spontaneous combustion into his novel Bleak House. He was roundly criticized by reviewers for it, so he later defended himself by recounting a real case of SHC in the preface to the 1853 edition.”

D’Agosta, who had been about to take another bite of steak, put down his fork.

“On the evening of April 4, 1731, Dickens tells us, the countess Cornelia Zangari de’ Bandi of Cesena, in Italy, complained of feeling ‘dull and heavy.’ A maid helped her to bed, and they spent several hours praying and talking together. The next morning, when the countess did not arise at her usual time, the maid called at the door. There was no answer—just a foul smell.

“The maid opened the door to a scene of horror. The air was full of bits of floating soot. The countess, or what remained of her, was lying on the stone floor about four feet from the bed. Her entire torso had burned to ashes, even the bones reduced to crumbled piles. Only her legs remained, from the knees down; a few fragments from her hands; and a piece of forehead with a lock of blonde hair attached. The rest of the body was merely an outline in ash and crumbled bone. It, and other early cases such as Madame Nicole of Rheims, were invariably ascribed to death by the ‘visitation of God.’”

“Excellent research, Constance,” Pendergast said.

She smiled. “There are several volumes devoted to spontaneous human combustion in the library here. Your great-uncle was fascinated by bizarre forms of death—but of course, you know that already. Unfortunately there are no books here more recent than 1954, but there are still many dozens of earlier accounts. SHC cases all have several elements in common. The torso is completely incinerated, but the extremities are frequently left intact. The blood is, quite literally, vaporized from the body: normal fires do not dehydrate body tissue to such a great degree. The inferno is extremely localized: nearby furniture or other items, even inflammable ones, remain untouched. Officials often speak of a ‘circle of death’: everything inside is consumed, while everything outside is spared.”

Slowly, D’Agosta pushed away his half-eaten steak. This all sounded pretty similar to what happened to Grove and Cutforth, with one crucial difference: the branding of the cloven hoof and face, and the stench of brimstone.

Just then came a low, hollow knock at the distant front door.

“Neighborhood kids, I imagine,” said Pendergast after a moment of silence.

The hollow knock came again—deliberate, insistent, echoing through the galleries and halls of the ancient mansion.

“That’s not the knock of a delinquent,” Constance murmured.

Proctor cast an inquiring glace at Pendergast. “Shall I?”

“With the usual precautions.”

Within the space of a minute, the servant had ushered a man into the room: a tall man with thin lips and thinner brown hair. He wore a gray suit, and the knot of his tie had been pulled down from the collar of his white shirt. His features were regular, his face perhaps lined more than would be usual for a man his age, yet the lines spoke more of weariness than years. He was neither handsome nor ugly. In every way, the man was remarkable for his lack of expression and individuality. It seemed to D’Agosta an almost studied anonymity.

He paused in the doorway and his eyes roamed over the group, coming to rest on Pendergast.

“Yes?” Pendergast said.

“Come with me.”

“May I ask who you are, and on what errand you come?”

“No.”

A short silence greeted this.

“How did you know I lived here?”

The man continued gazing at Pendergast with that expressionless face. It wasn’t natural. It gave D’Agosta the creeps.

“Come, please. I’d rather not ask again.”

“Why should I go with you if you refuse to divulge your name or the nature of your business?”

“My name is not important. I have information for you. Information of a sensitive nature.”

Pendergast looked at the man a moment longer. Then he casually removed his Les Baer .45 from his suit coat, made sure a round was in the chamber, replaced it in his suit. “Any objections?”

The expression never changed. “Won’t make any difference either way.”

“Wait a minute.” D’Agosta rose. “I don’t like this. I’m coming, too.”

The man turned to him. “Not possible.”

“Screw that.”

The man’s only response was to stare at D’Agosta. His features, if anything, grew even deader.

Pendergast laid an arm on D’Agosta’s. “I think I’d better go alone.”

“The hell with that. You don’t know who this guy is, what he wants, anything. I don’t like it.”

The stranger turned and walked swiftly out of the room. A moment later, Pendergast followed. D’Agosta watched him go with a mounting feeling of dismay.

{ 31 }

The man drove north on the West Side Highway, saying nothing, and Pendergast was content to leave it that way. Rain began to fall, splattering the windshield. The car approached the on-ramp to the George Washington Bridge, its gleaming lights strung across the Hudson. Just before the ramp, the car veered off on a service road and bumped its way down the pitted, half-paved surface to a turnaround, hidden in a cluster of poison sumac at the foot of the bridge’s enormous eastern tower.

Only now did the man speak. “Wired?”

“No.”

“I ask only for your sake.”

“CIA?”

The man nodded at the windshield. “I know you could ID me in a minute. I want your word that you won’t.”

“You have it.”

The man tossed a blue folder into Pendergast’s lap. Its label tab bore a single word: BULLARD. It was stamped Classified: Top Secret.

“Where did this come from?” Pendergast asked.

“I’ve been investigating Bullard for the past eighteen months.”

“On what grounds?”

“It’s all there. But I’ll summarize it for you. Bullard’s the founder, CEO, and majority shareholder of Bullard Aerospace Industries. BAI is a medium-sized, privately owned aerospace engineering firm. Mostly they design and test components for military aircraft, drones, and missiles. They’re also one of the subcontractors for the space shuttle. Among other things, BAI was involved in developing the antiradar coating for the stealth bomber and fighter programs. It’s a highly profitable company, and they’re very good at what they do. Bullard has some of the best engineers money can buy. He is a very, very capable man, if hot-tempered and impulsive. But he’s one of the really bad ones. Know what I mean? He doesn’t hesitate to hurt, or eliminate, those who stand in his way. Civilian or official.”

“Understood.”

“Good. Now listen. BAI also does research work for foreign governments. Some aren’t so friendly. That work is subject to strict export controls and transfer of technology prohibitions. It’s watched very closely. So far, BAI has kept within the law—at least as far as its U.S. facilities go. The problem is with a small BAI plant in Italy, in an industrial suburb of Florence called Lastra a Signa. A few years ago, BAI bought a defunct factory there. It was once owned by Alfred Nobel.” An ironic smile flickered across the man’s face. “It’s a sprawling, decaying place. They’ve turned its core into a highly sophisticated R&D facility.”

Rain continued to drum on the roof. There was the flicker of lightning over the river, a faint roll of thunder.

“We don’t really know what BAI does in this Italian plant, but we have some indirect evidence that they may be working on a project for the Chinese. Last year we monitored a string of ballistic missile tests over the Lop Nur desert testing grounds. It seems the missile in question is a new type, specifically designed to penetrate America’s planned antimissile shield.”

Pendergast nodded.

“What makes the missile special is a new aerodynamic form, combined with some special surface or coating, which together make it invisible to radar. It doesn’t even leave a heat trace or turbulence wake on Doppler. But here’s the rub: whatever it is the Chinese have done, it isn’t working. Up to now, all their missiles have broken up on re-entry.

“That’s where BAI comes in. This is right up their alley. We think the Chinese hired BAI to solve the problem. And we think they’re solving it at the Florentine plant.”

“How?”

“We don’t know. The breakups seem to have had something to do with a resonance spike that occurs at re-entry. The shape of the missile is so constrained by having to remain invisible that it’s almost unflyable. A similar problem occurred with the stealth bomber, but it was solved with some heavy computing power and wind-tunnel research. But here the missile is moving a hell of a lot faster, it’s ballistic, and it’s up against a much more sophisticated radar. The answer lies somewhere in the field of eigenvalue mathematics, Fourier transforms, that sort of thing. You know what I’m talking about?”

“At a basic level.”

“The mathematics of vibrations, resonance, and dampening. It has to be perfectly aerodynamic while having a surface that’s black to radar. This missile can’t have any curves, hardness, or smoothness—those would cause reflection or turbulence you could see on the Doppler—and yet it has to be aerodynamic. If anyone can rise to the technical challenge, BAI can.”

“Is this file for me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The agent looked at Pendergast for the first time, and his mask of expressionlessness fell away. What Pendergast saw was the face of a very, very tired man. “It’s the same old story. The CIA is subject to partisan political pressure. Bullard has friends in Washington. I was told to deep-six the Bullard investigation. After all, he’s raised millions for the reelection campaigns of a half dozen key senators and congressmen, as well as the president. Why, we’re asked, is the CIA harassing a fine, upstanding citizen when there are so many foreign terrorists out there? You know the refrain.”

Pendergast simply nodded.

“But screw it, this bastard is selling America down the river. He’s a traitor, just like those good old American companies that sell dual-use technology to Iran and Syria. If Bullard gets away with this, the U.S. will have laid out a hundred billion dollars developing an antimissile system that will be obsolete on deployment. And if that happens, it’s the CIA that’s going to get hammered. The administration will experience sudden and complete amnesia as to how they deliberately shut down our investigation. The Congress is going to demand an official inquiry on the so-called intelligence failure. We’ll be everyone’s whipping boy.”

“Something we at the FBI know a little about.”

“I spent eighteen months investigating Bullard, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let it go. I’m a patriotic American. I want you to nail Bullard. I don’t want a nuclear missile to take out New York because some American businessman paid off a few congressmen.”

Pendergast put the folder to one side. “Why me?”

“I’ve heard you’re pretty good, even if you are FBI.” The man allowed himself a cynical smile. “And I liked the way you dragged Bullard down to headquarters like a common criminal. That took guts. You really pissed some people off. Big time.”

“Regrettable. But I fear it is not the first time.”

“You better watch your ass.”

“I shall.”

“You won’t find any smoking guns in the file; Bullard’s covered his tracks well. You’ve got your work cut out.”

He started the engine, flicked on the headlights, pulled through the turnaround, and headed back up to the traffic droning southward into lower Manhattan. He said nothing else until turning off the highway at 145th Street, the skyscrapers of Midtown like glowing crystals in the distance.

“You never heard of me, I never heard of you, and this conversation never took place. That file has been cleaned of intelligence markers, so even if it gets back to the CIA, no one will know where it came from.”

“Won’t they suspect you, anyway? It was your case.”

“You worry about your ass, I’ll worry about mine.”

He left Pendergast a few blocks north of his house. As Pendergast was exiting the car, the man leaned toward him and spoke once again. “Agent Pendergast?”

Pendergast turned back.

“If you can’t nail the bastard, kill him.”

{ 32 }

The man calling himself Vasquez looked carefully around the little space where he would be spending the next several days of his life. A few minutes earlier he had tensed, preparing for an unexpected opportunity, when the door of the porte-cochère opened across the way. A quick check through the scope confirmed the target was leaving. However, another man had been with him. Vasquez had laid aside the rifle and made a note in his log: 22:31.04. The two men walked to a car parked a few yards down the street, an unmarked law enforcement Chevy, obviously a government model.

As the car had pulled away, there’d been a brief flash of white in the doorway of the porte-cochère; Vasquez saw the retreating figure of a man in a tuxedo, shutting the door again. Butler, from the look of it. But who heard of a butler in this part of town?

Vasquez refused to allow himself any regret. Finishing a job so prematurely just never happened. Besides, it always paid to be overly cautious. Putting his notebook away, he went back to preparing his kill nest. The abandoned room of the old welfare hotel was a wreck. There were used needles and condoms piled in a corner; a torn mattress on the floor with a dark stain in its middle, as if somebody had died on it. As his hooded light moved around the room, cockroaches fled in panic, their greasy brown backs flashing dully, countless legs rustling like leaves. But Vasquez was used to such things, and he was well pleased with his accommodations. He had, in fact, rarely seen a setup quite so ideal. He replaced the small piece of plywood from the boarded-up room’s lone window and went back to his preparations.

Yes, this would do perfectly. The window faced north, looking out over the great dark bulk of the ruined mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. It was a crazy place for the target to live, but each to his own. Three stories down and across 137th Street was the porte-cochère, its semicircular driveway running under a brick and marble arch. He could just see the edge of the door the target used for ingress and egress: the one he had just come out of. So far he had used no other door—but then, Vasquez had been watching for only twelve hours.

Yes, this was a fine setup. In this part of Harlem, there were no inquisitive doormen hanging out in front of their buildings; no hidden video cameras; no old ladies who would call the police at the mere howl of an alley cat. Here, even gunshots didn’t necessarily trigger a call to the police. What’s more, Vasquez had found this abandoned building directly across from the target residence. It had a basement entrance hidden from the mansion, leading to an alley fronting 136th.

You couldn’t ask for better.

The target, an FBI agent, seemed to be a man of regular habits. In the coming days, Vasquez would ascertain just how regular those habits were. As with hunting any animal, success lay in learning the creature’s patterns of behavior. Vasquez intended to become an expert in this particular creature. He would learn by what doors he came and left, and when; he would ascertain who lived in the old mansion, who visited, what kind of security was in place. By understanding the movements, he would gain an insight into the man’s psychology. Even people who varied their habits out of fear of assassination always varied them in a pattern. From what little he’d observed, he already realized he was dealing with an exceptionally cautious, intelligent target. But then, Vasquez always assumed at the beginning that the target was smarter, craftier, cleverer than he was. Vasquez had stalked and killed them all: federal agents, diplomats, mobsters, minor heads of state, even physicists. He’d been in the business twenty-two years in as many countries, and he had learned a trick or two. But it was wise to stay humble.

Without moving any of the original contents of the room, Vasquez began to unroll thick canvas tarps over the floor and partway up the walls, fixing them in place with gaffing tape. The room filled with the strong, pleasant smell of waterproof duck. Next he laid out his tools, mentally running through the checklist in his mind. They were all there, as he knew they would be, but he double-checked just to make sure. He picked up his Remington M21 bolt-action rifle, removed the box cartridge, made sure its small magazine was filled with the subsonic 7.62 by 51 military cartridges he preferred. The weapon was of an old design, but Vasquez was not interested in the latest frills or gimmicks: what mattered to him was simplicity, accuracy, and reliability. He rammed the magazine home, cranked a round into the chamber, examined the permanently fixed tactical telescopic sight. Satisfied, he put the weapon aside and carefully laid out packets of beef jerky and jugs of water sufficient for five days. Next, he set up his laptop computer, arranging a dozen freshly charged battery packs beside it. A pair of night-vision goggles was inspected and found to be in excellent order. Then, moving to a far corner, the man set up his washstand and toilet by the dim light of his torch. He would not be disturbed: the door had already been locked, screwed shut in the jambs with a battery-operated screwdriver, and light-sealed with the gaffing tape. A small bathroom window in the back provided fresh air.

Returning to the front of the room, he switched off the light and removed the piece of plywood from the shooting hole: a hole just large enough for the barrel and scope. He snapped open a bipod assembly and mounted it to the fore end of the stock. He very carefully positioned the rifle onto the porte-cochère, at head height. Then he reached for a handheld laser range finder, pointed it at the mansion’s front door. It returned a distance of 30.66 meters. With a rifle that was accurate beyond five hundred yards, 30 meters was nothing. He would be shooting down through cool air with his target outside: the conditions he favored above all others. A few final adjustments and the weapon was ready.

His kill nest was complete.

Vasquez peered out again through the sight. The house was still and dark, the windows boarded up. This was not a normal home. Something illicit must be going on inside. But since it didn’t make his target in any way erratic, Vasquez didn’t really care. He had a job to do, limited in scope and restricted in time. He didn’t care who it was who had hired him, or why. He cared about only one thing: the two million dollars that had appeared in his numbered account. That was all he needed to know.

He returned to his patient observation. Sometimes he liked to think of himself as a kind of naturalist, studying the habits of shy woodland creatures. He had the perfect blend of intelligence, discipline, and disposition for sitting in a blind in the jungle for weeks at a time, observing, taking notes, looking for patterns.

Only thing was, there was no money in that. And besides: nothing could compare with the thrill of the kill.

{ 33 }

It was almost midnight, D’Agosta saw from his watch, and Hayward was still at her desk. The rest of the Homicide Division was quiet as a tomb: just the night crew, working in their cubicles on the floor below. Hayward was alone. The only light, the only sound, came from the open door of her office. Funny, considering most New York City murders happened at night. Like any other job, D’Agosta thought to himself. The average Joe doesn’t want to log any more hours than necessary.

He crept up to Hayward’s door and listened. He could hear the tapping of her computer keyboard. She had to be the most ambitious cop he’d ever met. It was a little scary.

D’Agosta knocked.

“Come in.”

The place was a disaster area: papers piled on every chair, the police-band radio squawking, a laser printer in a corner whining out some job. It was remarkably unlike the offices of most police captains, which were kept spotlessly clean and free of any real work.

She glanced up. “What brings you to brasstown so late?”

D’Agosta cleared his throat. This was going to be difficult. Pendergast—after dropping off the face of the earth for more than an hour—had just shown up in his hotel room thirty minutes before. Although he’d revealed precious few details of what happened, he had seemed almost animated, if such a thing was possible. And then he’d promptly sent D’Agosta off on an assignment—this assignment—because he’d known he had no chance at succeeding himself.

“It’s Bullard again,” he said.

Hayward sighed. “Move those papers and take a seat.”

D’Agosta shifted a pile off one of the chairs and sat down. Hayward had unbuttoned her collar, taken off her hat, and let her hair down. It was surprisingly long, falling in big glossy waves below her shoulders. Despite the cluttered office, she looked cool somehow; fresh. She eyed him with a mixture of amusement and—what else? Affection? But no: that was his late-night imagination at work.

D’Agosta took out the folder and laid it on the desk. “Pendergast got this, I don’t know how.”

Hayward picked it up, glanced at it, dropped it like it was a piece of hot iron. “Jesus, Vinnie. This is classified!”

“No shit it’s classified.”

“No way am I going to read that. I never even saw it. Put it away.”

“Let me just summarize what’s in there—”

“God, no.”

D’Agosta sat, wondering just how he was going to do this. Might as well get it over with.

“Pendergast wants you to put a tap on Bullard’s phones.”

Hayward stared at him for at least ten seconds. “Why doesn’t he get it through the FBI?”

“He can’t.”

“Can’t Pendergast ever do anything by the book?”

“Bullard’s too powerful. The FBI’s a political creature, and not even Pendergast can change that. But you could get the U.S. Attorney’s Office to issue a Title 3, no problem.”

“I can’t use a classified file to get Title 3 wiretap authority!” She was up from the desk, eyes flashing.

“No. But you could use the murder investigation as a hook.”

“Vincent, are you nuts? There’s no evidence against Bullard. No witness to put him at the scene of the crime. No motive, nothing to connect him with either the murders or the victims.”

“The phone calls.”

“Phone calls!” She paced behind the desk. “A lot of people make phone calls.”

“His computer was stuffed with encrypted files. Hard encryption, virtually unbreakable.”

“I encrypt e-mails to my mother. Vincent, that is not evidence. This is just the kind of thing that hits the Times front page, makes us look like we’re blowing off people’s constitutional rights. Besides, you know what a pain in the ass it is to get a wiretap authority. You’ve got to prove it’s your last resort.”

“You should read the file. It seems Bullard’s been transferring military technology to the Chinese.”

“I told you not to tell me what’s in the file.”

“He’s got a company in Italy that’s helping the Chinese develop a missile that can penetrate the U.S.’s planned missile shield.”

“That’s as far out of my jurisdiction as a pickpocket in Outer Mongolia.”

“Bullard has big-time friends in Washington. He gives money to everyone’s campaign. So neither the FBI nor the CIA wants to touch it.”

She was pacing the room, flushed, her jet hair swaying across her shoulders.

“Look, Laura, we’re both Americans. Bullard’s a bad guy. He’s selling our country down the river, and no one’s doing a damn thing about it. All you need to do is come up with a good story for the judge. Okay, so maybe it’s not strictly by the book.”

“There’s a reason for the book, Vincent.”

“Yeah, but there also comes a time when you have to do what’s right.”

“What’s right is to follow the rules.”

“Not with something like this. New York City is still terrorist target numero uno. God knows who Bullard might sell his services to. Once this technology gets on the black market, we have no idea where it’ll end up.”

Hayward sighed. “Look. I’m a detective captain in New York City Homicide. The United States has hundreds of thousands of talented people—spooks, scientists, diplomats—employed to handle people like Bullard.”

“Yeah. But right now, you’re on the spot. The file hints that something big is going down. Listen, Laura, nothing could be simpler than this wiretap. Bullard’s in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. We’ve got his satellite phone number, we’ve got a pen register of the numbers he’s calling. It’s all in the file.”

“You can’t tap a sat phone.”

“I know. We’d get the taps on the land-based numbers of his cronies, monitor the conversations from their end.”

“That won’t help us if he calls a nonrecorded number.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

Hayward took a few more turns around the room, then stopped in front of him. “This is not our problem. The answer’s no.”

D’Agosta tried to smile, found he couldn’t. That was it, then. You didn’t become the youngest female detective captain in New York City history by breaking the rules, being a maverick. He should have known the answer even before he asked the question.

He glanced up to find Hayward looking at him intently. “I don’t like the expression on your face, Vincent.”

He shrugged. “I gotta go.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Then I don’t need to tell you.”

Her face was coloring with anger. “You think I’m a careerist, don’t you?”

“You said it, not me.”

She stepped around the desk toward him. “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that? I had to take a lot of shit as a T.A. cop, a lot of harassment from guys who thought I was working too hard. I’m not going to take that shit anymore. When a man’s ambitious, it’s called drive. When a woman’s ambitious, it’s careerism and she’s a bitch.”

Now D’Agosta felt himself flaring as well. Women were always broadening an argument into some kind of male-female thing. “That’s just a smoke screen. Look, you can either do the right thing, or you can do the safe thing. And you’re obviously on the side of safe. Fine. I won’t stand in your way of becoming Commissioner Hayward.” D’Agosta rose, picked up the bundle of papers he had put on the floor, put them back on the chair. Then he retrieved the classified folder from the desktop. When he turned, he found she was blocking the door.

He stood calmly, waiting for her to step aside. She didn’t move.

He remained standing.

“I’m leaving now.” He took a step forward but she still didn’t move. She was so close to him he could feel her warmth, smell the fragrance of shampoo in her hair.

“That was a shitty thing to say.” Her face remained flushed.

He tried to go around her, but she shifted and he almost ran up against her.

“Listen,” she said. “I love this country as much as anyone. I also know I’ve done a lot of good work in this department, solved a lot of cases, put a lot of bad people behind bars. I’m effective because I play by the rules. So don’t lay that bullshit on me.”

D’Agosta said nothing. He stood where he was, mere inches from her, breathing hard, breathing in her anger, her perfume, the smell of her. He was conscious of her blue eyes, her ivory skin. He took a step toward her and their bodies touched. It was like a sudden electrical contact. They stood that way a moment, both breathing hard, their anger morphing into something else. He leaned forward and their lips met and he could feel her breasts pressing against him as they slowly kissed.

Her hand touched the back of his neck and she moved closer still, bringing their bodies into full contact, and then almost without knowing what he was doing he reached around with both arms, molded his hands to her form, and pulled her in hard against him. He could barely stand the rush of arousal that had engulfed him and he fought for breath as his lips slid lightly to her chin, kissing her, then down her neck, then over her shoulder. She shifted in his grasp, sighing; he could feel her hot breath move across his cheek as she took his earlobe between her teeth, first gently, then more sharply. She pulled him back toward her desk, leaned back, and he followed her down, keeping her hips locked against his. Now his hands fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, then the catch of her bra, and as he saw her breasts swing free he felt himself grow even harder. Her hands dropped from his shoulders, tracing lines down his torso, his stomach, then to the waistband of his pants, unbuckling his belt and loosening his zipper and slowly easing him free. Now the hand began to stroke him, slowly, and he gasped involuntarily as he reached for the hem of her skirt, slid his hand beneath it, and teased her panties free. She staggered a little as he entered her, thrusting her hips forward while arching her back, bringing him deep inside her. For a moment they remained like that, eyes locked. Hayward’s lips parted; then her head sank backward, exposing her neck, and she let out a groan of desire. He wrapped his arms around her thighs and began sliding into her, again and again and again, gently, deliberately, the papers spilling to the floor . . .

. . . And then, in a sudden flood of pleasure, it was over. She held him, her dark hair wild, breathing hard, her limbs around his, contracting and relaxing in slowing spasms. They embraced each other for what seemed a very long time. And yet it was all too soon when she kissed him and gently pulled away. Only then did D’Agosta realize he still didn’t understand what had just happened. He covered his confusion by turning from her, putting his clothes into some semblance of order. As he did so, he realized he couldn’t even remember what had led to their sudden embrace. They had just come together like magnets. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He wasn’t sure if he should feel elated, embarrassed, or nervous.

Behind him, he could hear her slow laugh. “Not bad,” she said, her voice a little husky. “For a broken-down, washed-up loser, I mean. Next time, though, we should probably shut the door.” She smiled at him from under a wild mop of black hair, a mottled flush fading below her neck, her breasts rising and falling heavily as she smoothed down her skirt. “You know what I like about you, Vincent?”

“No.”

“You really care—about your work, about the case, and most of all, about justice. You care.”

D’Agosta still felt out there, almost dizzy with what had happened. He ran his hand over his hair, adjusted his pants. He wasn’t sure what she meant.

“I guess you earned that Title 3. With a little thought, I should be able to make something up.”

He paused. “That wasn’t why—”

She sat up, laid a finger on his lips. “Your integrity just earned you the Title 3. Not the—the other thing.” Then she smiled again. “I’ll tell you what. We kind of got things backwards here. Do what you have to do. Then you can take me out for a nice, long, romantic, candlelight dinner.”

{ 34 }

The wire room of the lower Manhattan Federal Building was a nondescript space on the tower’s fourteenth floor. To D’Agosta, it looked just like a typical office: fluorescent ceiling, neutral carpeting, countless identical cubicles forming a human ant farm. Depressing as shit.

He looked around guardedly, half hoping, half afraid he’d find Laura Hayward waiting for him. But there was only one of her detectives, Mandrell: the same guy who had called at lunchtime with news they’d obtained a Title 3 order from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. The FBI, with its superior equipment, would execute the Title 3, in a joint operation with the NYPD. Coming through the NYPD had made it somehow politically acceptable.

“Sergeant,” Mandrell said, shaking his hand. “Everything’s set up. Is Agent, ah, Pendergast—”

“Here,” said Pendergast, striding into the room. His beautifully cut black suit, pressed to perfection, shimmered under the artificial light. D’Agosta wondered just how many identical black suits the guy owned. Probably had rooms at the Dakota and the Riverside Drive mansion devoted to them.

“Agent Pendergast,” D’Agosta said, “this is Detective Sergeant Mandrell of the Twenty-first Precinct.”

“Delighted.” Pendergast briefly shook the proffered hand. “Forgive me for not arriving earlier. I fear I took a wrong turn. This building is most confusing.”

The Federal Building? Most confusing? Pendergast was a fed himself, he had to have an office in here somewhere. Didn’t he? It occurred to D’Agosta that he’d never once seen, or been asked to visit, Pendergast’s office.

“It’s this way,” Mandrell said, leading the way through a maze of cubicles.

“Excellent,” Pendergast murmured to D’Agosta as they fell into step behind the detective. “I’ll have to thank Captain Hayward personally. She really came through for us.”

She came through, all right, D’Agosta thought with a private smile. The whole of the night before—Pendergast spirited away by the mysterious caller, his own totally unexpected encounter with Laura Hayward—seemed dreamlike, unreal. He had fought the temptation to call her all morning. He hoped she’d still want that long, candlelight dinner. He wondered if this would complicate their working relationship, decided it would, realized he didn’t much care.

“Here we are,” Mandrell said, stepping into one of the cubicles. It looked just like all the others: a desk with an overhanging credenza, a computer workstation with attached speakers, a few chairs. A young woman with short blonde hair sat at the workstation, typing.

“This is Agent Sanborne,” Mandrell said. “She’s monitoring the phone of Jimmy Chait, Bullard’s right-hand boy here in the States. We have agents in adjoining cubicles logging the phones of another half dozen of Bullard’s associates. Agent Sanborne, this is Sergeant D’Agosta of the Southampton P.D. and Special Agent Pendergast.”

Sanborne nodded at them in turn, her eyes widening at the name of Pendergast.

“Anything?” Mandrell asked her.

“Nothing important,” she replied. “There was some traffic a few minutes ago between Chait and another associate. Seems they’re expecting a call from Bullard any time now.”

Mandrell nodded, turned back to D’Agosta. “When was your last tap, Sergeant?”

“It’s been a while.”

“Then let me get you up to speed. Everything’s done by computer these days, one workstation per phone number being monitored. The phone line goes right through this interface, and the conversation’s recorded digitally. No more tapes. Agent Sanborne, who’ll be transcribing the line sheets, can work the transport controls either by keyboard or foot pedal.”

D’Agosta shook his head. It was a far cry from the low-tech setups he’d worked as a new jack cop in the mid-eighties.

“You mentioned Chinese?” Mandrell said. “Are we going to need a translator?”

“Unlikely,” Pendergast replied.

“Well, we’ve got a man standing by, just in case.”

The cubicle fell silent as Mandrell and Sanborne hovered over the screen.

“Vincent,” Pendergast murmured, taking him aside. “I’ve been wanting to tell you. We’ve made a very important discovery.”

“What’s that?”

“Beckmann.”

D’Agosta looked at him sharply. “Beckmann?”

“His present whereabouts.”

“No shit. When did you find out?”

“Late last night. After I called you to request this wiretap.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I tried calling you as soon as I heard. There was no answer at your hotel. And your cell phone appeared to have been turned off.”

“Oh. Yes, it was. Sorry about that.” D’Agosta turned away, feeling a flush begin to spread over his face.

He was spared further questioning by a sudden beeping from the workstation.

“Call’s coming in,” said Agent Sanborne.

A small window appeared on her screen, filled with lines of data. “Chait’s getting an incoming,” she said, pointing at the window. “See?”

“Who’s it from?” D’Agosta asked.

“The number’s coming up now. I’ll put it on vox.”

“Jimmy?” came a high-pitched voice over the computer speaker. “Jimmy, you there?”

Sanborne began typing quickly, transcribing the call verbatim. “It’s his home number,” she said. “Probably his wife.”

“Yeah,” answered a deep voice with a thick New Jersey accent. “What you want?”

“When you coming home?”

“Something’s come up.” There was a faint roar in the background, like the rush of wind.

“No, Jimmy—not again today. We’ve got the Fingermans coming by this afternoon, remember? About the winter rental in Kissimmee?”

“Fuck that. You don’t need me for that shit.”

“Go ahead, take that tone with me. You’re right, I don’t need you for that shit. What I need is for you to stop by DePasquale’s and pick up a few trays of sausage and peppers. I don’t have a thing to serve.”

“Then get your ass in the kitchen and cook something.”

“Look, you—”

“I’ll be home when I get home. Now get the fuck off, I’m expecting a call.” And the line went dead.

There was a brief silence broken only by the click of keys as Agent Sanborne completed the transcription.

“Delightful couple,” said D’Agosta. He motioned Pendergast aside. “How’d you find Beckmann, anyway?”

“With the help of an acquaintance of mine—an invalid, actually—who happens to be extremely good at tracking down troublesome nuggets of information.”

“‘Extremely good’ sounds like an understatement. Nobody’s been able to locate this guy. So where’s this Beckmann at?”

But they were again interrupted by another beep from the computer. “We’ve got another one,” said Sanborne.

“Incoming or outgoing?” asked Mandrell.

“Incoming. But the number must be blocked, I’m not getting any data on it.”

There was a brief squeal over the speaker. “Yeah?” said Chait.

“Chait,” a voice responded.

D’Agosta immediately recognized the gruff tone: it sent a thrill of hatred coursing through him.

Chait recognized it, too. “Yes, Mr. Bullard, sir,” he said, his tone abruptly growing servile.

“Bullard will be using a satellite phone,” D’Agosta said. “That’s why you can’t get a fix.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Mandrell pointed to a string of numbers on the screen. “See that? It’s the cell site of Chait’s phone. It’s the cellular node his phone signal’s coming from, lets us determine his present location.” He reached into the credenza, pulled out a thick manual, began leafing through it.

“Everything set?” Bullard asked.

“Yes, sir. The men have all been briefed.”

“Remember what I said. I don’t want any apologizing. Just do as I say. Walk it through, by the numbers.”

“You got it, Mr. Bullard.”

Mandrell looked up from the cell site manual. “Chait’s in Hoboken, New Jersey.”

“Everything’s go,” Bullard said. “The Chinese will be there on time.”

“Location?” Chait asked.

“The primary, as discussed. The park.”

Mandrell grasped D’Agosta by the arm. “Chait just changed cell sites,” he said.

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s moving.” Mandrell thumbed through the manual, looking up the new site. “Now he’s in the middle of Union City.”

“Mass transit wouldn’t move that quickly,” said Pendergast. “He must be in a car.”

Bullard was speaking again. “Remember. They’ll be expecting a progress report in exchange for the payment. You know what to give them, right?”

“Right.”

Pendergast pulled out his own phone, dialing quickly. “Chait’s on his way to a meeting. We’ve got to get a unit dispatched, triangulate on his location.”

“I’ll be expecting a report immediately after the meeting,” said Bullard.

“I’ll be back to you within ninety minutes.”

“And Chait? No fuckups, you hear?”

“No, sir.”

There was a click; a hiss of static; and the computer beeped once again to signal the connection had been broken.

“Cell site’s changed again,” Mandrell said, looking at the screen.

D’Agosta turned to Pendergast. “Within ninety minutes, he said? What the hell does that mean?”

Pendergast closed his phone, slipped it back into his pocket. “It means their meeting will take place before then. Come on, Vincent—we haven’t a moment to lose.”

{ 35 }

D’Agosta blew past the exit helixes of the George Washington Bridge and merged onto the express lanes, driving like hell. As the New Jersey Turnpike divided and the traffic began to thin a little, he seated the emergency bubble onto the dash, turned on its flasher, and began cranking the siren. Veering west onto I-80, he stomped hard on the pedal. The big engine of the pool sedan responded and they were soon rocketing along at a hundred miles an hour.

“Refreshing,” murmured Pendergast.

The secure car-to-car frequency crackled into life. “This is 602. We’ve got a visual on the target. It’s a TV van with a satellite dish, call letters WPMP, Hackensack, moving west on 80 near exit 65.”

D’Agosta pushed his speed to one twenty.

Pendergast unhooked the mike. “We’re just a few miles behind you. Hang back in another lane and keep out of sight. Over.”

Everything had come together with remarkable speed. Pendergast had initiated a federal tail on Chait’s cell signal, requisitioned a government vehicle, and put D’Agosta behind its wheel. The West Side Highway had been mercifully free of traffic, and it had taken them only ten minutes to clear Manhattan.

“Where do you think we’re headed?” D’Agosta asked.

“Bullard mentioned a park. For now, that’s all we know.”

Out of the corner of his eye, D’Agosta noticed that, despite the speed, Pendergast had unbuckled his seat belt and was crouching forward. Now the agent was scratching his nails on the floor mat, rubbing his palms rapidly against it. D’Agosta had seen the man do strange things before, but this beat all. He wondered if he should ask, decided against it.

“Target leaving freeway at exit 60,” the radio squawked. “Following.”

D’Agosta slowed. Another minute, and he peeled off at the same exit.

“Target proceeding north on McLean.”

“They’re heading into Paterson,” D’Agosta said. He’d never actually set foot in the city, though he’d passed it on the freeway countless times: a red-brick working town whose best days were probably about a hundred years gone. It seemed like a strange destination.

“Paterson,” Pendergast repeated speculatively, wiping his dirty hands on his face and neck. “Birthplace of the American Industrial Revolution.”

“Birthplace? Looks more like death’s door to me.”

“It’s a city with a vigorous history, Vincent. Some of the historical neighborhoods are still quite beautiful. However, I’m banking on the fact that those are not where we’re headed.”

“Target leaving McLean,” the voice on the radio said. “Heading left onto Broadway.”

D’Agosta tore up McLean Highway, using the siren to punch his way through two red lights. To their right lay the Passaic River, brown and sullen in the autumn light. As he turned onto Broadway, shabby-looking and decrepit, he killed the siren and snapped off the flasher. They were close now: very close.

“Sergeant,” Pendergast said abruptly, “head into this strip mall on our right, please. We need to make a quick stop.”

D’Agosta glanced at him in surprise. “We don’t have time.”

“Trust me, we do.”

D’Agosta shrugged. The operation was nominally FBI and Pendergast was in charge: Hayward had made sure of that. The lead car was FBI and he himself was Southampton P.D., which would offend nobody. Interstate police rivalries would be kept at a minimum. At the appropriate moment—when it was too late for a bunch of unbriefed town cops to screw things up—Pendergast would call in the locals.

The mall was a collection of dingy, glass-fronted stores set back from a parking lot heaved and cracked by time. It was half abandoned, and D’Agosta wondered just what the hell Pendergast was up to. Here he’d made good time, and now the agent was squandering it.

“There,” Pendergast said. “At the far end.”

D’Agosta sped up to the last storefront. A yellow Dumpster stood out front, pitted and scarred with age. Even before the car had stopped, Pendergast was out, running into the store. D’Agosta swore, punched the steering wheel. They were going to lose five minutes at least. He was used to Pendergast’s inexplicable behavior, but this was too much.

“Target heading into East Side Park,” came the cool voice from the lead car. “There’s some kind of event going on. Looks like model rockets or something.”

D’Agosta heard shouting and saw Pendergast trotting out of the shop, a bundle of clothes slung over one arm and a couple of pairs of shoes clutched in the other. Moments later a fat woman came bursting out.

“Help!” she bellowed. “Police! I hope you’re proud of yourself, robbing the Salvation Army. Shithead!”

“Obliged, ma’am,” Pendergast said, crumpling a hundred-dollar bill and tossing it over his shoulder as he jumped into the backseat. D’Agosta laid on the gas, leaving a streak of rubber and a cloud of smoke.

“I daresay that was no more than a two-minute detour,” Pendergast said from the rear of the car. Looking into the mirror, D’Agosta saw he was peeling off his jacket and tie.

“Two minutes is a long time in this business.”

“I’ll have to send the Salvation Army people a little something to make up for my lack of manners.”

“They’re heading into East Side Park.”

“Very good. Drive around the park, if you please, and enter from the south. I need a few more moments.”

D’Agosta drove past the park—a wall of greenery to his left, rising above a concrete retaining wall—and made a left onto Derrom Avenue. Despite their proximity to seedy, sorry-looking Broadway, the houses here were remarkably large and well tended, relics of the days when Paterson had been a model city of industry.

Pendergast intoned from the back:

“Eternally asleep,
his dreams walk about the city where he persists
incognito.”

D’Agosta glanced again in the rearview mirror, almost jamming on the brakes in surprise when he saw a stranger staring back at him. But, of course, it was no stranger: it was Pendergast, transformed by some almost miraculous process of disguise.

“Have you ever read Paterson by William Carlos Williams?” the vagrant in the backseat asked.

“Never heard of it.”

“Pity:

“ Immortal he neither moves nor rouses and is seldom
seen, though he breathes and the subtleties of his

machinations
drawing their substance from the noise of the pouring

river
animate a thousand automatons.”

D’Agosta shook his head and muttered to himself. He drove a few blocks, made another left, and entered the park beside a statue of Christopher Columbus.

East Side Park was an overgrown hillock of grass and the occasional shade tree, closely hemmed in on all four sides by houses. A lane wandered around its periphery, and D’Agosta eased the car onto it, passing a variety of pudding-stone outbuildings in various stages of disrepair. Concrete benches with green-painted wooden slats lined the roadway. Farther along, the lane veered in toward a height of land, which was crowned by a fountain surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. Several cars were parked along the curb here, including their own lead vehicle, making the already narrow road almost impassable. Ahead, D’Agosta could see the TV van. It had pulled onto the grass between a brace of tennis courts and a baseball field. On the field itself, a small knot of kids was shooting off model rockets, supervised by half a dozen parents. A man with a television camera was standing by the van, filming the event.

“This is an exceptionally well planned meeting, Vincent,” Pendergast said as they drove slowly past. “They’re meeting in the middle of a park. No chance of being ambushed. And they’re surrounded by noisy children and the roar of rockets, which will defeat any long-range electronic surveillance. That man with the camera is their lookout, with a perfect reason to be staring every which way through a telephoto lens. Bullard has clearly trained his men well. Ah, pull over a minute, please, Vincent: here come the Chinese.”

In the rearview mirror, D’Agosta could make out a long black Mercedes, absurdly out of place, cruising slowly up the park drive behind them. It pulled onto the grass across the tennis courts from the van. Two big men with shaved heads and dark glasses got out, looking around carefully. Then a third, smaller man exited and began walking across the grass toward the van.

“What dreadful lack of subtlety,” said Pendergast. “It appears these gentlemen have been watching too much television.”

D’Agosta eased the car forward, coming to a stop near the exit back onto Broadway. The hill fell away here and the trees were more numerous, blocking their car from view.

“Too bad I’m in uniform,” he said.

“On the contrary: being in uniform, you will be the last one they suspect. I’m going to get as close as I can, see if I can learn more particulars about the meeting. You buy a donut and coffee over there”—he nodded to a dingy coffee shop across Broadway—“then wander into the park. Take a seat on one of the benches by the baseball diamond, where you’ll have a clear line of fire should anything untoward occur. Let us hope, with these children around, that nothing of the sort occurs—but be ready for action regardless.”

D’Agosta nodded.

Pendergast gave his eyes a vigorous rubbing. When his grubby hands fell away again, his eyes had lost their clear, silvery hue. Now they belonged to a tippler: uncertain, watery, red-rimmed.

D’Agosta watched Pendergast get out of the car and amble back up the rise. The agent was wearing a brown sport coat of dubious material, a faded stain between the shoulders; double-knit slacks a size too large; a pair of shabby Hush Puppies. His hair was several shades darker than usual—just how the hell had he managed that?—and his face was in need of a wash. He looked exactly like a man who was down but not quite out, clinging to a few shreds of respectability. And it wasn’t just the clothes: his very gait had changed to a vague shuffle, his body language tentative, his eyes darting this way and that, as if prepared to ward off an unexpected blow.

D’Agosta stared another moment, marveling. Then he exited the car, bought a coffee and a glazed donut in the coffee shop across the street, and headed back into the park. As he crested the little rise and approached the diamond, he could see the shorter Chinese man getting into the back of the television van. His large companions were hanging back about forty paces, arms crossed.

There was a whooosh as a model rocket went off to scattered cheers and clapping. All eyes turned skyward; there was a pop and the rocket came drifting back, floating beneath a red-and-white-striped miniature parachute.

D’Agosta eased himself onto a bench across the diamond from the van. He slipped the lid off his coffee, pretending to watch the rockets go off. This was strange: the would-be cameraman was now calling the kids together, apparently to film them. D’Agosta wondered if the cameraman was Chait, Bullard’s main man in New York. He decided otherwise: Chait was no doubt inside the van with the Chinese honcho.

He turned his attention back to Pendergast. The agent was strolling along the walkway near the van. He paused, fished a racing form out of the trash, shook it clear of debris, then stopped to chat with the cameraman. It looked like he might be asking him for money. The man scowled and shook his head, motioning Pendergast to move on. Then the man turned back toward the children, gesturing for them to line up with their rockets.

D’Agosta felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Why the hell was the man organizing the kids like that, anyway? Something did not feel right at all.

Meanwhile, Pendergast had seated himself on the bench next to the van, so close he could almost touch it, and was going through the racing form with a pencil stub, circling various horses and making notes.

Then—inexplicably—Pendergast stood up, went to the back door of the van, and knocked.

The cameraman came striding over immediately, gesticulating furiously, shoving Pendergast aside. D’Agosta resisted the impulse to reach for his gun. The back doors of the van opened; there was some loud talk; the doors slammed shut. The cameraman gestured angrily for Pendergast to move off, but instead, the agent shrugged and seated himself back down on the bench, returning to his study of the racing form, perusing it with languid ease, just as if he had all the money in the world to blow on the horses.

D’Agosta looked around. The two plainclothes FBI agents were strolling along the far side of the baseball diamond, talking. The Chinese goons didn’t seem to have noticed them. Their attention was riveted on the van and what was going on inside. They seemed ready for something. Too ready. And there was the cameraman, still lining up the kids, as if he, too, was expecting something to happen at any moment.

D’Agosta felt an almost unbearable sense of apprehension. He asked himself why Bullard’s men had gone to such trouble to place themselves in the midst of these kids. They had no inkling they were under surveillance. The tension was between them and their customers, the Chinese. He’d gathered as much from the wiretap, and now it was playing out here.

He started to calculate what would happen if the Chinese thugs pulled out weapons and opened fire on the van. The kids would be caught in cross fire. That’s what it was all about: the kids were protection. Bullard’s men were expecting a firefight: the cameraman was lining up the kids as a human shield.

D’Agosta dropped his coffee and donut and rose from the bench, hand on his piece. At the same moment, the back doors of the van flew open, and the little Chinese man got out as quickly and lightly as a bird. He began striding across the baseball diamond. He flicked his hand toward the two thugs—just the barest gesture—and broke into a run.

D’Agosta saw the two reach for their weapons.

Immediately, he dropped to one knee, steadied his grip on his handgun, and aimed. As soon as a weapon appeared—an Uzi, by the look of it—he squeezed off a round, and just missed.

Abruptly, all hell broke loose. There was the pop! pop! pop! of semiautomatic-weapons fire. Kids scattering, grown-ups yelling, grabbing their kids and running in terror or throwing themselves to the ground. An Uzi appeared in the cameraman’s hand, too, but before he could fire, he was struck in the chest by a hail of gunfire and flew backward, slamming against the side of the van.

D’Agosta fired a second time at the goon he’d missed, stopping him with a well-placed round to the knee. The other turned toward the unexpected fire, swinging his Uzi and spraying automatic fire across the outfield; Pendergast, shielding two children with his own body, coolly dropped the man with a shot to the head. As the man went down, his Uzi swung wildly, still firing; small clouds of dirt erupted in the grass before Pendergast; then the agent fell sharply back, pushing the children out of harm’s way as a spray of blood suddenly darkened his arm.

“Pendergast!” D’Agosta screamed.

The goon D’Agosta hit refused to stay down. Now the man had rolled over and was firing on the van, the rounds whanging its side and sending chips of paint flying. A burst of fire came from its front seat; the Chinese goon went down again; and the van pulled away with a squeal of tires.

“Stop them!” D’Agosta yelled at the two agents. They were already up and running, firing futilely, their shots ringing off the van’s armored sides.

Now the head Chinese had reached the black Mercedes. As it roared to life, the two agents turned their fire toward it, blowing out the back tires as the car swerved into the lane. A round hit the gas tank, and the vehicle went up with a muffled thump, a ball of fire roiling skyward as the car left the lane and rolled gently into a grove of trees. The door flew open and a burning man got out, took a few halting steps, paused, and slowly toppled forward. In the distance, the television van was careening out of the park, vanishing into the warren of streets to the west.

The park was bedlam: kids and adults scattered across the ground, cowering and screaming. D’Agosta rushed to where Pendergast had fallen, relieved beyond measure when he saw the FBI agent was sitting up. The two Chinese were dead, and the cameraman, who’d practically been torn in half, was obviously on his way out, too. But no civilians had been so much as scratched. It seemed a miracle.

D’Agosta knelt in the grass. “Pendergast, you all right?”

Pendergast waved, face ashen, temporarily unable to speak.

One of the other FBI agents came running up. “Wounded? We got wounded?”

“Agent Pendergast. The cameraman’s beyond help.”

“Backup and medical are on the way.” And, in fact, D’Agosta could now hear sirens converging on the park.

Pendergast helped one of the children he’d protected—a boy of about eight—to a standing position. His father rushed over and clasped the child in his arms. “You saved his life,” he said. “You saved his life.”

D’Agosta helped Pendergast up. Blood was soaking through one side of his dirty shirt.

“That fellow winged me,” Pendergast said. “It’s nothing, a flesh wound. I lost my wind, that’s all.”

Slowly, hesitantly, people began converging on the park from the surrounding houses, crowding around the burning hulk of the Mercedes and the nearby corpse. Newly arrived cops were shouting, covering the corners, setting up a cordon, yelling at the gathering crowd to keep back.

“Damn,” said D’Agosta. “Those fuckers from BAI were expecting a firefight.”

“Indeed they were. And no wonder.”

“What do you mean?”

“I overheard just enough to learn Bullard’s men were calling the deal off.”

“Calling the deal off?”

“On the very eve of success, apparently. Now you can see the reason for the elaborate setup—the park, the children. They knew the Chinese would not be pleased. This was their attempt to avoid being shot to pieces.”

D’Agosta glanced around at the carnage. “Hayward’s gonna love this.”

“She should. If we hadn’t run that wiretap and been here to take down those shooters, I hate to think what might have happened.”

D’Agosta shook his head and looked at the burning Mercedes, now being hosed down by a fire truck. “You know what? This case just keeps getting weirder and weirder.”

{ 36 }

The Reverend Wayne P. Buck Jr. sat at the counter of the Last Gasp truck stop in Yuma, Arizona, stirring skim milk into his coffee. Before him lay the remains of his usual breakfast: white toast with a little marmalade, oatmeal without milk or sugar. Outside, beyond the flyspecked window, there was a grinding of gears: a large semi pulled off the apron, its steel tank flashing in the brilliant sun, heading west toward Barstow.

Reverend Buck—the title was honorary—took a sip of the coffee. Then, methodical in everything he did, he finished his breakfast, carefully cleaning the bowl with the edge of his spoon before setting it aside. He took another sip of coffee, replaced the cup gently in its saucer. And then at last he turned to his morning reading: the ten-inch stack of periodicals that lay tied in heavy twine on the far end of the counter.

As Buck cut the twine with a pocketknife, he was aware of a sense of anticipation. His morning reading was always a high point of the day: a trucker, whom he’d cured of fits at a camp revival several months before, always left a bundle of outdated newspapers for him outside the truck stop every morning. The papers varied from day to day, and Buck never knew what he’d find. Yesterday there’d been a copy of the New Orleans Times-Picayune in among the more common Phoenix Sun and Los Angeles Times. But his tingle of anticipation, he knew, extended beyond the selection of reading material.

Reverend Buck had been in the vicinity of Yuma almost a year now, ministering to the truckers, the waitresses and busboys, the migrant workers, the broken and wandering and uncertain souls that passed through on their way to some place and rarely lingering long. The work was its own reward, and he never complained. The reason there were so many sinners in the world, he knew, was that nobody had ever bothered to sit down and talk to them. Buck did just that: he talked. Read to people from the Good Book, let them know how to prepare for what was coming, and coming soon. He’d talk to the drivers, one at a time here at the counter; long-haul truckers just stopping in for a leak and a sandwich. He’d talk to groups of two or three regulars in the evenings, out back by the picnic tables. On Sunday mornings, fifteen, maybe twenty, at the old Elks lodge. When he could get a ride to the reservation, he’d preach there. Most people were receptive. Nobody had explained the nature of sin to them, the terrifying implacable promise of the End Days. When people were sick, he’d pray over them; when people were grieving, he’d listen to their problems, recite a parable or some words of Jesus. They paid him in pocket change; a few hot meals; a bed for the night. It was enough.

But he’d been here in Yuma a long spell now. There were other places, so many others, that needed to hear. Every day that went by meant there would be less time. For truly I tell you, you will not have gone through all the towns of Israel before the Son of Man comes.

Buck was a firm believer in signs. Nothing that happened on this earth happened by accident. It was a sign that carried him from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, to Borrego Springs, California, last year; another sign that had brought him from Borrego Springs here to Yuma a few months later. One of these days—maybe next week, maybe next month—there would be another sign. He might find it here in these stacks of newspapers. Or he might find it in the story of a passing trucker. But the sign would come, and he’d be gone, gone to some other remote spot with its full share of those in need of the balm of salvation.

Reverend Buck plucked the first newspaper from the pile: the previous Sunday’s Sacramento Bee. He leafed rather quickly through the national and local pages—big cities like Sacramento could always be counted on for stories of murder, rape, corruption, vice, corporate greed. Buck had read enough such stories for a thousand cautionary sermons. He was more interested in the squibs and sidebars, the news bites taken off the wire feeds and recounted in odd corners of the paper for reader amusement. The tiny town where two brothers hadn’t spoken to each other in forty years. The trailer park where every single child had left, a runaway. These were the stories that spoke to him; these were the signs that impelled him and his message.

The Bee completed, Buck turned to the next: USA Today. Laverne, the waitress, came over with coffeepot in hand. “Another cup, Reverend?”

“Just one more, thank you kindly.” Buck practiced moderation in all things. One cup of coffee was a blessing; two cups was an indulgence; three cups, a sin. He perused the paper, put it aside, and picked up a third: a day-old copy of the New York Post. Buck came across this tabloid only rarely, and he had nothing but scorn for it: the brazen mouthpiece of the world’s most dissipated, sin-ridden city held no interest for him. He was about to put it aside when the headline caught his attention:

DESTRUCTION

Renowned Scientist Claims Recent Deaths Signal End of Days
by Bryce Harriman

More slowly, Buck turned the page and began to read.

October 25, 2004—A respected scientist yesterday predicted imminent destruction for New York City and possibly much of the world.

Dr. Friedrich Von Menck, Harvard scientist and Emmy Award-winning documentary filmmaker, says the recent deaths of Jeremy Grove and Nigel Cutforth are merely the “harbingers” of the coming catastrophe.

For fifteen years Dr. Von Menck has been studying mathematical patterns in the famous disasters of the past. And no matter how he cuts the data, one number shows up: the year 2004.

Von Menck’s theory is based on a fundamental ratio known as the golden ratio—a ratio that is found throughout nature, as well as in such classical architecture as the Parthenon and the paintings of Leonardo da Vinci. Von Menck is the first to apply it to history—with sinister implications.

Von Menck’s research has revealed that many of the worst disasters that have befallen mankind fit the same ratio:

79 A.D.: Pompeii

426 A.D.: The sack of Rome

877 A.D.: Destruction of Beijing by the Mongols

1348 A.D.: The Black Death

1666 A.D.: The Great Fire of London

1906 A.D.: The San Francisco Earthquake

These and many more dates line up in ratios of uncanny precision.

And what do these natural disasters have in common? They have always struck an important world city, a city notable for its wealth, power, technology—and, Dr. Von Menck adds, neglect of the spiritual. Each of these disasters was preceded by small but specific signs. Von Menck sees the mysterious deaths of Grove and Cutforth as precisely the signs one would expect preceding the destruction of New York City by fire.

What kind of fire?

“Not any kind of normal fire,” says Von Menck. “It will be something sudden and destructive. A fire from within.”

As further evidence he cites passages from Revelation, the prophet Nostradamus, and more recent clairvoyants such as Edgar Cayce and Madame Blavatsky.

Dr. Von Menck left today for the Galápagos Islands, taking with him, he said, only his manuscripts and a few books.

Buck lowered the paper. The rest of the pile sat at his elbow, forgotten. He felt a strange sensation rise up his spine, spread down his arms and legs. If Von Menck was right, the man was a fool to believe he could take refuge on some faraway island. It put in mind some lines from Revelation, his favorite book of the Bible, which Buck frequently quoted to his flock: And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men . . . hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains . . . For the great day of His wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?

He raised his cup of coffee, but it no longer seemed to have any flavor, and he replaced it in its saucer. Buck had long believed he would see the End Days in his lifetime. And he had always believed in signs. Perhaps this sign was just larger than the others.

Perhaps it was very large, indeed.

Revelation, chapter 22: Behold, I come quickly . . .

Could this be what he’d been waiting for all these years? Did it not also say in Revelation that the wicked, the men with the mark of the beast on their foreheads, were taken first, in successive waves of slaughter? Just a few, here and there, would be taken. That’s how it would start.

He read the article a second time. New York City. This was where it would begin. Of course, this was where it would begin. Two were taken. Just two. It was God’s way of getting the word out to his chosen people, so they in turn could spread the message of repentance and atonement while there was still time. The wrath of God would never descend without warning. Let he with ears hear . . .

Behold, I come quickly . . . Surely I come quickly . . .

But New York City? Buck had never set foot beyond the Mississippi River, never been in a town much larger than Tucson. To him, the East Coast was Babylon, a foreign, dangerous, soulless region to be avoided at all costs, no place more so than New York. Was it meant to be? Was it, in fact, a sign? And more to the point: was he being called? Was this the great call from God he had been waiting for? And did he have the courage to follow it?

There was a chuff of air brakes outside the diner. Buck looked up in time to see the morning Greyhound cross-country express, traveling on I-10, stop outside. The sign above the driver’s window read New York City.

Buck walked up just as the bus driver was about to close the door. “Excuse me!” he said.

The driver looked at him. “What is it, mister?”

“How much for a one-way ticket to New York?”

“Three hundred and twenty dollars. Cash.”

Buck fished in his wallet and pulled out all the money he had in the world. He counted it while the bus driver tapped his finger on the wheel and frowned.

It amounted to precisely three hundred and twenty dollars.

As the bus pulled away from Yuma, Reverend Buck was sitting in the back, his only luggage the day-old copy of the New York Post.

{ 37 }

Vasquez eased away from the window, snugged the piece of wood back in place, turned on the hooded lantern, then stood and stretched. It was just past midnight. He rotated his head on his shoulders first one way, then another, working out the kinks. Then he took a long drink of water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Despite a few surprises, the operation was going well. The target kept exceedingly irregular hours, coming and going at unpredictable times—except that every night, at one o’clock in the morning, he exited the house, crossed Riverside Drive at 137th Street, and took a stroll through Riverside Park. He always returned within twenty minutes. It seemed to be an evening constitutional; a turn around the block, so to speak, before going to bed.

Over the past forty-eight hours, Vasquez had come to realize he was dealing with a man of intelligence and ability, and yet a man who was also ineffably strange. As usual, Vasquez wasn’t sure quite how he arrived at his conclusions, but he was rarely wrong about people and trusted his instincts. This man was something else. Even on the surface he was odd, with his black suit, marblelike complexion, and his quick, noiseless walk more like that of a cat than a man. Something about the way he moved spoke to Vasquez of utter self-confidence. Further, anyone who would go strolling in Riverside Park in the middle of the night had to be either crazy or packing heat, and he had no doubt the man possessed an excellent weapon and knew how to use it. Twice he had seen gang members who’d staked out the block quietly disappear when the target emerged. They knew a bad deal when they saw it.

Vasquez wrenched off a piece of teriyaki beef jerky and chewed it slowly, reviewing his notes. There seemed to be four inhabitants in the house: Pendergast, a butler, an elderly housekeeper he’d viewed only once, and a young woman who wore long, old-fashioned dresses. She wasn’t his daughter or his squeeze—they were too formal with each other. Perhaps she was an assistant of some kind. The house had only one regular visitor: a balding, slightly overweight policeman with a Southampton P.D. patch on his arm. Using his computer and wireless modem, Vasquez had easily discovered the man was one Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta. He looked like a straight-ahead, no-bullshit type, solid and dependable, offering few surprises.

Then there had been a very strange old man with a wild head of white hair who had come by only once, late at night, scurrying along almost like a crab, clutching a book. Probably some kind of functionary, an Igor, a man of no importance.

The one o’clock walk was, of course, the time to do it. Hit him as he emerged from the semicircular drive. Vasquez had gone over it again and again, figuring out the geometry of death. If the first round entered the man’s head obliquely, the round would be deflected slightly by the inside curve of the skull and exit at an angle. The torque generated by the off-center hit would spin the target. As a result, the angle and pattern of the exit spray would suggest a shooter from a window somewhere down the street. The second round would strike him on the way down, spinning him further. The position of the body would help throw off the initial response, deflecting it down the block. In any case, he himself would be out the back and onto 136th Street practically before the body hit the ground, five minutes to the Broadway IRT train and gone. Nobody would notice him—a seedily dressed Puerto Rican runner heading home after a day of dubious employment.

Vasquez bit off another hunk of the dry meat. He wasn’t sure just what it was that brought on a feeling of readiness, but he always knew when the time had come for the kill. It was now forty minutes to one, and it felt to him like that time had come. For two nights running, Pendergast had emerged at exactly 1 A.M. Vasquez felt certain he would do it again. This would be the night.

He took off his clothes and put on his getaway costume—warm-up suit open at the chest, heavy gold, puffy sneakers, thin mustache, cell phone—turning himself into just another cheap hustler from Spanish Harlem.

Vasquez extinguished the light, removed the small piece of wood from the corner of the boarded-up window, and got into position. Snugging his cheek against the composite stock—a stock that would never warp or swell in adverse weather—he carefully aligned the match grade barrel to the spot where the target’s head would appear, right beyond the marble and brick wall that supported the porte-cochère. There the target always paused to speak to the butler, waiting to make sure the man shut and locked the door. It was a ten- or twenty-second pause: an eternity of opportunity for a shooter like Vasquez.

As he readied his equipment, Vasquez felt a faint twinge of uneasiness. Not for the first time, he wondered if the whole setup was just a little too easy. The one o’clock stroll, the little pause—everything seemed a little too perfect. Was he being set up? Did the target know he was there? Vasquez shook his head, smiling ruefully. He always had an attack of paranoia just before the kill. There was no way the subject could have detected his presence. What’s more, the target had already exposed himself on a number of occasions. If he had known a shooter was tracking him, those deliberate exposures would take a level of sangfroid few human beings possessed. Vasquez had already had half a dozen chances to kill him cleanly. It was just that he’d never felt ready.

Now he did.

Slowly and carefully, he fitted his eye to the scope. The scope had a built-in compensator for bullet drop and had already been properly zeroed for windage. Everything was ready. He sighted through the crosshair grid. The central crosshairs were positioned just where the target would pause. It would be quick and clean, as always. The butler would witness it and call the police, but by then Vasquez would be gone. They would find his kill nest, of course, but it would do them no good. They already had his DNA, for all the good it did them. Vasquez would be back home by then, sipping lemonade on the beach.

He waited, gazing at the doorway through the scope. The minutes ticked off. Five minutes to one. Three to one. One o’clock.

The door opened and the target emerged, right on schedule. He took a few steps, turned, began speaking with the butler.

The rifle was already sighted in. Gently and evenly, Vasquez’s finger began to apply increasing pressure to the trigger.

There was a sudden faint pop and flash of light from down the block, followed by a tinkle of glass. Vasquez hesitated, taking his eye from the sight; but it was just a streetlight failing as they always did in that neighborhood—or perhaps some young hoodlum-in-training with a BB gun.

But the moment had passed, and the man was now walking across the street, toward the park.

Vasquez leaned back from the rifle, feeling the tension drain away. He had missed his opportunity.

Should he catch him coming back? No, the man walked so swiftly back into the porte-cochère that he could not be sure of that perfect, off-center shot. No matter: it just wasn’t in the cards. So much for his paranoia, for everything seeming a little too easy.

So he would be in his little nest for another twenty-four hours. But he wasn’t complaining: two million dollars was just as acceptable for three days’ work as it was for two.

{ 38 }

D’Agosta rode in the back of the Rolls in silence. Proctor was driving, and Pendergast sat beside him in the front passenger seat, chatting about the Boston Red Sox, which appeared to be the only topic of interest to Proctor, and which Pendergast in his mysterious way seemed to know all about. They were debating some statistical nuance of the 1916 pennant race that stupefied even D’Agosta, who considered himself a baseball fan.

“Where is it we’re meeting this Beckmann again?” D’Agosta interrupted.

Pendergast glanced into the backseat. “He’s in Yonkers.”

“You think he’ll talk to us? I mean, Cutforth and Bullard weren’t exactly forthcoming.”

“I imagine he’ll be most eloquent.”

Pendergast resumed his discussion, and D’Agosta turned his attention to the passing scenery, wondering if he’d completed all the necessary paperwork on yesterday’s dust-up with the Chinese. This case was generating more paperwork than any he’d been involved with before. Or was it just all the new bullshit regulations that were keeping him hogtied? Pendergast never seemed to do any paperwork; D’Agosta wondered if the agent somehow still managed to keep above such mundane details, or if he simply worked all night filling out forms.

The Rolls had left Manhattan via the Willis Avenue Bridge and was now heading north through late Saturday morning traffic along the Major Deegan Expressway. Soon it left the Deegan for the Mosholu Parkway and made its way into the hard-core inner ring of suburbs that comprised the lower fringe of Westchester County. Pendergast had been his usual reticent self about where they were going. Dun-colored housing projects, aging industrial complexes, and strings of gas stations passed by in a blur. After a mile or two, they exited onto Yonkers Avenue. D’Agosta sat back with a sigh. Yonkers, the city with the ugliest name in America. What was Beckmann doing here? Maybe he had some nice place overlooking the Hudson: D’Agosta had heard talk of the city’s waterfront revitalization.

But the waterfront was not their destination. Instead, the Rolls turned east, toward Nodine Hill. D’Agosta watched the passing road signs with little interest. Prescott Street. Elm Street. Except there didn’t seem to be any elms here, only dying ginkgo trees that barely softened the dingy residential lines. As they drove on, the neighborhood grew increasingly seedy. Drunks and addicts now lounged on front stoops, watching the Rolls pass with scant interest. Every square inch of space was covered by illegible graffiti—even the tree trunks. The sky was the color of lead, and the day was becoming chilly. Here and there they passed vacant lots, reclaimed by weeds or sumac, patches of jungle in the middle of the city.

“Left here, please.”

Proctor turned into a dead-end street and glided to a stop in front of the last building. D’Agosta stepped out, Proctor staying with the car.

Instead of entering the tenement, Pendergast headed for the end of the cul-de-sac: a twelve-foot cinder-block wall covered with still more graffiti. An iron door, studded with old rivets, streaked and scaly with rust, was set into the wall.

Pendergast tried the handle, then bent to examine the lock. He removed a pencil-thin flashlight from his pocket and peered into the keyhole, probing with a small metal tool.

“Going to pick it?” D’Agosta asked.

Pendergast straightened. “Naturally.” He removed his sidearm and shot into the lock once, twice, the deafening reports rolling like thunder up the alleyway.

“Jesus, I thought you said you were going to pick it!”

“I did. With my pick of last resort.” Pendergast holstered the .45. “It’s the only way to unlock a solid block of rust. This door hasn’t been opened in years.” He raised his foot and gave the door a shove. It swung open with a groan of rusted metal.

D’Agosta peered through the doorway, astonished. Instead of a small weedy lot, the door opened on a vast overgrown meadow rising up a hill, covering at least ten acres, surrounded by decaying tenements. At the top stood a cluster of dead trees circling the ruins of what looked like a Greek temple: four Doric columns still standing, roof caved in, the whole structure shrouded in ivy. Directly before them was what once had been a small road. Now it was thick with weeds and poison sumac, rows of dead trees lining either side, their clawlike branches reaching into the gray sky.

D’Agosta shivered. “What’s this, some kind of park?”

“After a fashion.”

Pendergast began ascending the broken surface of the road, carefully stepping over chunks of frost-heaved asphalt, skirting four-foot weeds and dodging the poisonous sumac pistils. If he felt any lingering pain from the bullet graze of the day before, it did not show. On either side, beyond the dead trees, the weeds rose into a riot of overgrowth: ivy run rampant, brambles, and bushes. Everything was intensely green, growing with unnatural vigor and health.

After a few hundred feet, Pendergast paused, removed a piece of paper from his pocket, consulted it.

“This way.”

He started down a path at right angles to the road. D’Agosta scrambled to follow, pushing through the chest-high growth, his uniform becoming covered with pollen dust. Pendergast moved slowly, peering left and right, once in a while consulting the diagram in his hand. He seemed to be counting. D’Agosta gradually became aware just what it was Pendergast was counting: almost invisible in the undergrowth were rows of low, gray slabs of granite set into the ground, each with a name and a pair of dates.

“Hell, we’re in a cemetery!” said D’Agosta.

“A potter’s field, to be exact, where the indigent, the friendless, and the insane were buried. Pine coffin, six-foot hole, granite tombstone, and a two-minute eulogy, all courtesy of the state of New York. It filled up close to ten years ago.”

D’Agosta gave a whistle. “And Ranier Beckmann?”

Pendergast said nothing. He was moving through the ragweed, still counting. Suddenly he halted before a low granite stone, no different from any of the others. With a sweep of his foot, he knocked aside the weeds.

RANIER BECKMAN

1952-1995

A chill wind swept down from the hill, rippling the weeds like a field of grain. There was a distant rumble of thunder.

“Dead!” D’Agosta exclaimed.

“Exactly.” Pendergast extracted his cell phone and dialed. “Sergeant Baskin? We have located the grave in question and are ready for the exhumation. I have all the forensics paperwork here. We shall await you.”

D’Agosta laughed. “You’ve got quite a sense of theater, you know that, Pendergast?”

Pendergast shut the cell phone with a snap. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure myself, and for that I needed to find the grave. There was a sad paucity of records on Mr. Beckmann. Those few that we managed to uncover were suspect. As you can see, they even misspelled his name on the tombstone.”

“But you said Beckmann would be ‘most eloquent.’”

“And so he will. While dead men tell no tales, their corpses often speak volumes. And I think Ranier Beckmann’s corpse has quite a bit to tell us.”

{ 39 }

Locke Bullard stood on the flying bridge of the Stormcloud. The air was crisp and sharp, the ocean flat-calm. It was a world reduced to its essentials. The ship throbbed beneath his feet; the cool breeze flowed past him as the ship plowed eastward at flank speed toward Europe.

Bullard lowered his cigar and stared forward at the point where the sky met the knife edge of ocean, his knuckles white on the rail. On this clear fall day, it really did look like the edge of the world, from which a ship could sail off into weightless oblivion. A part of him wished it would happen: that he could just drop off the world and be done with it.

He could do it now, in fact; he could wander to the back of the ship and slip off into the water. Only his steward would miss him and probably not for some time: he had spent most of the voyage locked in his cabin, having his meals delivered, seeing no one.

Bullard could feel himself trembling, every muscle tense, his whole body in the grip of powerful emotion, a terrible combination of rage, regret, horror, and astonishment. He could hardly believe what had happened, what had brought him to this point—here, in the middle of the Atlantic, heading eastward on such fateful business. Never in a million years of corporate scheming—with all his plotting, counterplotting, and preparation for every eventuality—could he have expected it would come to this. At least he’d been able to remove the wild card of that FBI agent, Pendergast: if Vasquez hadn’t finished the job yet, he would soon.

And yet this was slight consolation.

He caught the glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. It was the slim figure of his steward, bobbing deferentially at the hatch. “Sir? The videoconference is in three minutes.”

Bullard nodded, turned his eyes once more toward the horizon, hawked up a gobbet of phlegm, and rocketed it into the far blue. The cigar followed. Then he turned and descended.

The videoconference room was small, built just for him. The technician was there—why were they all weaselly men with goatees?—hunched over the keyboard. He rose when Bullard entered, bumping his head on a bulkhead in his haste. “Everything’s set, Mr. Bullard. Just press—”

“Get out.”

The man got out, leaving Bullard alone. He locked the door behind him, keyed in the passphrase, waited for the prompt, keyed in another. The screen flickered into life, split down the center into two images: the COO of Bullard Aerospace Industries in Italy, Martinetti; and Chait, his head man in the States.

“How’d it go yesterday?” Bullard asked.

The hesitation told Bullard there’d been a fuckup.

“The guests came with firecrackers. There was a party.”

Bullard nodded. He’d half expected it.

“When they learned there was no cake, the party began. Williams had to leave suddenly. The guests all left with him.”

So the Chinese had killed Williams and got their asses shot off in return.

“Another thing. The party got crashed.”

Bullard felt a sudden constriction in his gut. Now, who the hell had done that? Pendergast? Christ, Vasquez was taking his precious time. Bullard had never met a man quite so dangerous. But if it was Pendergast, how had he learned about it? The files in the seized computer were strongly encrypted, no way they could have been cracked.

“Everybody else got home safely.”

Bullard barely heard this. He was still thinking. Either their phones had been tapped or the feds had an informer in his top five. Probably the former. “There’s a bird in the tree, maybe,” Bullard said, speaking the prearranged code that indicated a phone tap.

This was greeted with silence. Hell, he almost didn’t care anymore. Bullard turned to the image of his Italian COO. “You have the item ready and packed for traveling?”

“Yes, sir.” The man spoke with difficulty. “May I ask why—?”

“No, goddamn you to hell, you may not!” Bullard felt rage abruptly take him; it was like a seizure, beyond his control. He glanced over at the image of Chait. The man was listening, face expressionless.

“Sir—”

“Don’t ask me any questions. I’ll get the item when I arrive, and that’ll be it. You’ll never speak of it again, to me or anyone.”

The man went pale and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Mr. Bullard, after all the work we’ve done and the risks we’ve taken, I have the right to know why you are killing the project. I speak to you respectfully as your chief operating officer. I have only the good of the company at heart—”

Bullard felt the rage grow inside him like a heat, so intense it seemed to powder the very marrow of his bones. “You son of a bitch, what did I just tell you?”

Martinetti fell silent. Chait’s eyes flickered this way and that, nervously. He was wondering if maybe his boss wasn’t going crazy. It seemed a fair enough question.

“I am the company,” Bullard went on. “I know what’s for the good of the company and what isn’t. You mention this again and ti faccio fuori, bastardo. I’ll kill you, you bastard.”

He knew no self-respecting Italian would stand for such an insult. He was right. “Sir, I hereby tender my resignation—”

“Resign, motherfucker, resign! And good riddance!” Bullard brought his fist down on the keyboard, again and again. On the fifth blow, the screen finally winked off.

Bullard sat for a long time in the darkened room. So the feds had been expecting them in Paterson. That meant they knew about the planned transfer of missile technology. Once, that would have been a di-saster, but now it seemed almost irrelevant. At the last minute, the crime had been abandoned. The feds had jack and it would stay that way. BAI was clean. Not that Bullard gave a shit; he had bigger fish to fry at the moment.

Fact was, the feds knew nothing about what was really going on. He had gotten away just in time. Grove and Cutforth—Grove and Cutforth, and maybe Beckmann, too. They had to die; it was inevitable. But he was still alive and that’s what counted.

Bullard realized he was hyperventilating. Christ, he needed air. He stumbled up from the console, unlocked the door, mounted the stairs. In a moment he was back on the flying bridge, staring eastward into blue nothingness.

If only he could just sail off the edge of the world.

{ 40 }

D’Agosta heard the faint squawking of a radio and looked up through the dense undergrowth. At first, nothing could be seen through the riot of vegetation. But within a few minutes, he began to catch distant flashes of silver, glimpses of blue. Finally a cop came into view—just a head and shoulders above the dense brush—forcing his way through the bracken. The cop spied him, turned. Behind him were two medics carrying a blue plastic remains locker. They were followed by two other men in jumpsuits, lugging a variety of heavy tools. A photographer came last.

The cop shouldered his way through the last of the brush—a local Yonkers sergeant, small and no-nonsense—and stopped before them.

“You Pendergast?”

“Yes. Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Baskin.”

“Right. This the grave?”

“It is.” Pendergast removed some papers from his jacket. The cop scrutinized them, initialed them, stripped off the copies, and handed the originals back. “Sorry, I need to see ID.”

Pendergast and D’Agosta showed their badges.

“Fine.” The policeman turned to the two workers in jumpsuits, who were busily unshouldering their equipment. “He’s all yours, guys.”

The diggers attacked the tombstone with vigor, crowbarring it up and rolling it aside. They cleared an area around the grave with brush hooks, then laid several big, dirty tarps across the clearing. Next they began cutting out the weedy turf with turf cutters, popping out squares and stacking them like bricks on one of the tarps.

D’Agosta turned to Pendergast. “So how did you find him?”

“I knew right away he had to be dead, and I assumed before his death he must have been either homeless or mentally ill: there could be no other reason why he’d prove so elusive in these days of the Internet. But learning more than that was a very difficult task, even for my associate, Mime, who as I mentioned has a rare talent for ferreting out obscure information. Ultimately, we learned Beckmann spent the last years of his life on the street, sometimes under assumed names, cycling through various flophouses and homeless shelters in and around Yonkers.”

The turf was now stacked and the two workers began digging, their shovels biting alternately into the soil. The medics stood to one side, talking and smoking. There was another faint roll of thunder and light rain began to fall, pattering onto the thick vegetation around them.

“It appears our Mr. Beckmann had a promising start in life,” Pendergast continued. “Father a dentist, mother a homemaker. He was apparently quite brilliant in college. But both parents died during his junior year. After graduation, Beckmann couldn’t seem to find out what it was he wanted out of life. He knocked around Europe for a while, then came back to the U.S. and sold artifacts on the flea market circuit. He was a drinker who slid into alcoholism, but his problems were more mental than physical—a lost soul who just couldn’t find his way. That tenement was his last place of residence.” Pendergast pointed toward one of the decaying tenements ringing the graveyard.

Chuff, chuff, went the shovels. The diggers knew exactly what they were doing. Every movement was economical, almost machinelike in its precision. The brown hole deepened.

“How’d he die?”

“The death certificate listed metastatic lung cancer. Gone untreated. We shall soon find out the truth.”

“You don’t think it was lung cancer?”

Pendergast smiled dryly. “I am skeptical.”

One of the shovels thunked on rotten wood. The men knelt and, picking up mason’s trowels, began clearing dirt from the lid of a plain wooden coffin, finding its edges and trimming the sides of the pit. It seemed to D’Agosta the coffin couldn’t have been buried more than three feet deep. So much for the free six-foot hole—typical government, screwing everyone, even the dead.

“Photo op,” said the Yonkers sergeant.

The gravediggers climbed out, waiting while the photographer crouched at the edge and snapped a few shots from various angles. Then they climbed back in, uncoiled a set of nylon straps, slipped them under the coffin, and gathered them together on top.

“Okay. Lift.”

The medics pitched in. Soon the four had hoisted the coffin out of the hole and set it on the free tarp. There was a powerful smell of earth.

“Open it,” said the cop, a man of few words.

“Here?” D’Agosta asked.

“Those are the rules. Just to check and make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

“Age, sex, general condition . . . And most importantly, if there’s a body in there at all.”

“Right.”

One of the workers turned to D’Agosta. “It happens. Last year we dug up a stiff over in Pelham, and you know what we found?”

“What?” D’Agosta was fairly sure he didn’t want to know.

“Two stiffs—and a dead monkey! We said it must’ve been an organ-grinder who got mixed up with the Mafia.” He barked with laughter and nudged his friend, who laughed in turn.

The workers now began to attack the lid of the coffin, tapping around it with chisels. The wood was so rotten it quickly broke loose. As the lid was set aside, a stench of rot, mold, and formaldehyde welled up. D’Agosta peered forward, morbid curiosity struggling with the queasiness he never seemed fully able to shake.

Gray light, softened by the misting rain, penetrated the coffin and illuminated the corpse.

It lay, hands folded on its chest, upon a bed of rotting fabric, stuffing coming up, with a huge stain of congealed liquid, dark as old coffee, covering the bottom. The body had collapsed from rot and had a deflated appearance, as if all the air had escaped along with life, leaving nothing but a skin lying over bones. Various bony protuberances stuck through the rotting black suit: knees, elbows, pelvis. The hands were brown and slimy, shedding their nails, the finger bones poking through the rotting ends. The eyes were sunken holes, the lips lopsided and drawn back in a kind of snarl. Beckmann had been a wet corpse, and the rain was making him wetter.

The cop bent down, scanning the body. “Male Caucasian, about fifty . . .” He opened a tape measure. “Six feet even, brown hair.” He straightened up again. “Gross match seems okay.”

Gross is right, D’Agosta thought as he looked at Pendergast. Despite the appalling decay, one thing was immediately clear: this corpse had not suffered the ghastly, violent fate that met Grove and Cutforth.

“Take him to the morgue,” Pendergast murmured.

The cop looked at him.

“I want a complete autopsy,” Pendergast said. “I want to know how this man really died.”

{ 41 }

Bryce Harriman entered the office of Rupert Ritts, managing editor of the Post, to find the mean, rodentlike editor standing behind his enormous desk, a rare smile splitting his bladelike face.

“Bryce, my man! Take a seat!”

Ritts never talked quietly: his voice was high, and it cut right through a person. You might think he was deaf, except that his ferretlike ears seemed to pick up the faintest whisper from the farthest corner, especially when it concerned him. More than one editor had been fired for whispering Ritts’s nickname from two hundred yards across a busy newsroom. It was an obvious nickname, just the substitution of one vowel for another, but it really got Ritts going. Harriman figured it was because he’d probably been called that as a child on the playground every day and never forgot it. Harriman disliked Ritts, as he disliked almost everything about the New York Post. It was embarrassing, physically embarrassing, to be working here.

He adjusted his tie as he tried to make himself comfortable in the hard wooden chair Ritts tortured his reporters with. The editor came around and seated himself on the edge of the desk, lighting up a Lucky Strike. He no doubt thought of himself as a tough guy of the old school: hard-drinking, tough-talking, cigarette-hanging-off-the-lip kind of guy. The fact that smoking on the job was now illegal seemed to make him enjoy it all the more. Harriman suspected he also kept a cheap bottle of whiskey and a shot glass in a desk drawer. Black polyester pants, scuffed brown shoes, blue socks, Flatbush accent. Ritts was everything that Harriman’s family had trained him all his life, sent him to private school, given him an Ivy League education, never to be.

And here he was. Harriman’s boss.

“This Menck story is fabulous, Harriman. Fucking fabulous.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It was a real stroke of genius, Harriman, finding this guy the day before he left for the Virgin Islands.”

“Galápagos.”

“Whatever. I have to tell you, when I first read your piece, I had my doubts. It struck me as a lot of New Age bullshit. But it really hit a chord with our readers. Newsstand circ’s up eight percent.”

“That’s great.” Here at the Post, it was all about circulation. In the newsroom of the Times, where he used to work, “circulation” had been a dirty word.

“Great? It’s fucking fabulous. That’s what reporting is all about. Readers. I wish some of these other jokers around here would realize that.”

The piercing voice was cutting a wide swath across the newsroom beyond. Harriman squirmed uncomfortably in the wooden seat.

“Just when the devil-killings story was flagging, you find this guy Menck. I have to hand it to you. Every other paper in town was sitting around with their thumbs up their asses, waiting for the next killing, but you—you went out and made the news.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Ritts sucked in a few quarts of smoke and dropped the cigarette on the floor of his office, grinding it in with his toe, where about twenty others lay, all nicely flattened. He exhaled with a noisy, emphysemic whistle. He lit another, looked up at Harriman, eyed him up and down.

Harriman shifted again in his chair. Was there something wrong with the way he was dressed? Of course not: it was one of those things he’d been schooled in from day one. He knew just when to break out the madras, when to put away the seersucker, knew the acceptable shade of cordovan for tasseled loafers. And anyway, Ritts was the last person who could criticize anyone else’s taste in clothes.

“The National Enquirer’s picked up the story, USA Today, Regis, Good Day New York. I like the feel of this, Harriman. You’ve done well. In fact, well enough to make you a special correspondent at the crime desk.”

Harriman was astonished. He hadn’t expected this. He tried to control his facial muscles: he didn’t want to be seen grinning like an idiot, especially to Ritts. He nodded his head. “Thank you very much, Mr. Ritts. I really appreciate it.”

“Any reporter that pushes the circ up eight percent in a week is gonna get noticed. It comes with a ten-thousand-dollar raise, effective immediately.”

“Thank you again.”

The managing editor seemed to be observing Harriman with ill-concealed amusement, looking him up and down again, eyes lingering on his tie, his striped shirt, his shoes. “Listen, Harriman, as I said, your story touched a chord. Thanks to you, a bunch of New Agers and doomsday freaks have started congregating in the park in front of Cutforth’s building.”

Harriman nodded.

“It’s nothing much. Yet. They’re gathering spontaneously, lighting candles, chanting. Flying Nun kind of shit. What we need is follow-up. First, a story about these guys, a serious story, a respectful story. A story that’ll let all the other freaks know there’s a daily gathering they’re missing out on. If we handle this right, we could build up quite a crowd up there. We could stimulate some TV coverage. Who knows, there might even be demonstrations. See what I’m getting at? Like I said: here at the Post, we don’t sit around waiting for news to happen, we go out and make it happen.”

“Yes, Mr. Ritts.”

Ritts lit up again. “Can I give you some friendly advice? Just between you and me.”

“Sure.”

“Lose the repp ties and the penny loafers. You look like a goddamn Times reporter. This is the Post. This is where the excitement is. You sure as hell don’t want to be back with those ass-puckered types over there, do you? Now, go on out and talk to every nut who’s shaking a Bible. You’ve touched a nerve, now you’ve got to keep the pressure on, keep the story building. And bring in a couple of colorful personalities. Find the leader of this rabble.”

“What if there isn’t a leader?”

“Then make one. Set him up on a pedestal, pin a damn medal on him. I smell something big here. And you know what? In thirty years, I’ve never called a bad one.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Ritts.” Harriman tried to keep the contempt out of his voice. He would do what Ritts wanted, but he would do it in his own way.

Ritts sucked deep on his cigarette, tobacco hissing and spitting. Then he tossed the butt onto the floor and ground it out again with his foot. He coughed and smiled, displaying a rack of uneven teeth as yellowed as the stem of a corncob pipe.

“Go get ’em, Harriman!” he cackled.

{ 42 }

Vasquez worked off a piece of green chile beef jerky, chewed it meditatively, swallowed, and took a swig of bottled water. He went back to the cryptic crossword from the Times of London, pondered, made another entry, erased an earlier one, then set the puzzle aside.

He sighed. He always felt a little nostalgic at the close of an operation: knowing he would have to leave, that all his preparations and deliberations and the cozy little world he had created would quickly become ancient history, pawed over by police officers and photographers. At the same time, he looked forward to seeing sunlight again, breathing fresh air, and listening to the thunder of surf. Funny, though, how he never felt quite so free and alive outside as he did within a cramped kill nest, on the brink of a kill.

He checked his equipment yet again. He looked through the scope, made an infinitesimal correction with the windage adjuster, then raised his eye to examine the flash hider. Just a few minutes now. The box magazine held four rounds, with another in the chamber. All he’d need was two. Once again he shed his clothes and put on his disguise.

Five minutes to one. He glanced regretfully around his nest, at everything he would have to leave behind. How many times had he actually had the opportunity to finish a Times cryptic? He rested his eye against the scope and watched. The minutes ticked past.

Once again the door to the porte-cochère opened. Vasquez slowed his breathing, slowed his heart rate. Once again Pendergast’s head and shoulders appeared in the reticle. This time Vasquez couldn’t make out the butler, who must have been standing too far inside the door to be seen, but he was clearly there, because Pendergast was faced back toward the doorway, obviously talking to somebody. So much the better: an off-center shot to the back of the head would be just as hard to analyze later.

His breath suspended, timing his shots between heartbeats, Vasquez pressed his cheek against the pebbled stock and squeezed the trigger slowly. The weapon bucked in his hands; in a flash, he’d drawn the bolt, resighted, and fired again.

The first shot had been perfectly placed. It spun the target in exactly the right way, the next shot coming a split second later, entering just above the ear, the head exploding in all directions. Pendergast fell back into the shadows of the door frame and disappeared.

Vasquez now moved with a swiftness born of years of practice. Leaving the lights out, he threw the gun and laptop into a duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and snugged on the night-vision goggles that would help him to get out the back of the darkened building. He plugged the shooting hole, strode to the door, and with the battery-powered screwdriver backed out the four screws that held the door shut. Then he stripped off the gaffing tape sealing the jambs and quietly opened the door, stepping noiselessly into the hall.

A flash of light overloaded his goggles, blinding him; he tore them off, reaching down to pull out a sidearm, but a figure in the hallway moved too fast; he was slammed into the wall, still blinded, and the gun went skittering down the passage.

Vasquez swung wildly at his attacker, barely connecting, and received a tremendous blow to the ribs in return. He swung again, this time connecting solidly, dropping his assailant. It was the Southampton cop. In a fury, Vasquez yanked out his knife and leaped on him, aiming for the heart. A foot lashed out from one side; he felt it connect with his forearm, heard the snap, fell to the floor, and was immediately pinned.

The cop was on him. And there, beyond the brilliant glow of the lamp, he stood. Pendergast. The man he had just killed.

Vasquez stared, his mind instantly rearranging the facts.

It had been a setup. They must’ve known almost from the start what was going on. Pendergast had played his part perfectly. Vasquez had shot some dummy, some special-effects dummy. Mother of God.

He had failed. Failed.

Vasquez couldn’t quite believe it.

Pendergast was staring at him closely, frowning. Suddenly his eyes widened, as if in understanding. “His mouth!” he said sharply.

D’Agosta shoved something wooden between his teeth, as he would for a dog or an epileptic. But it wouldn’t do any good, Vasquez thought as the pain began to build in his broken arm. That wasn’t where he carried his cyanide. The needle had been in the tip of his pinkie finger, shot off many years ago and now harnessed to another purpose. He pressed the prosthetic fingertip hard into his palm, felt the ampoule break, pressed the needle into his skin. The pain died away as numbness began stealing up his arm.

The day I fail is the day I die . . .

{ 43 }

The cab pulled up at the grand courtyard of the Helmsley Palace. D’Agosta hastened around the cab and opened the door for Hayward, who got out, looking around at the fanciful topiaries covered with lights, the Baroque facade of the Helmsley Palace rising around her.

“This is where we’re having dinner?”

D’Agosta nodded. “Le Cirque 2000.”

“Oh my God. When I said a nice dinner, I didn’t mean this.”

D’Agosta took her arm and led her to the door. “Why not? If we’re going to start something, let’s start it right.”

Hayward knew that Le Cirque 2000 was possibly the most expensive restaurant in New York City. She had always felt uncomfortable when men spent a pile on her, as if money was somehow the way to her heart. But this time it felt different. It said something about Vinnie D’Agosta, about how he looked at their relationship, that boded well for the future.

Future? She wondered why that word had even entered her mind. This was a first date—sort of. D’Agosta wasn’t even divorced, had a wife and kid in Canada. True, he was interesting, and he was a damn good cop. Take it easy and see where it goes—that’s all.

They entered the restaurant—jammed, even on a Sunday night—and were met by one of those maître d’s who managed to convey an outward expression of groveling subservience while simultaneously projecting inner contempt. He regretted to inform them that, despite their reservation, the table wasn’t ready; if they would care to make themselves comfortable in the bar, it shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes, forty at the outside.

“Excuse me. Did you say forty minutes?” D’Agosta spoke in a quiet yet menacing way.

“There’s a large party . . . I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’ll see what you can do?” D’Agosta smiled and took a step closer. “Or you’ll do it?”

“I’ll do what I can, sir.”

“I have no doubt that what you can do is get us a table in fifteen minutes, and that is what you will do.”

“Of course. Naturally, sir.” Now the maître d’ was in full retreat. “And in the meantime,” he went on, voice artificially high and bright, “I’ll have a bottle of champagne sent to your table, compliments of the house.”

D’Agosta took her arm and they went into the bar, which was decorated with a confusion of neon lights Hayward figured must somehow represent the “circus” theme of the restaurant. It was fun—if you didn’t have to spend too long in there.

They sat down at a table, and a waiter soon appeared unbidden with menus, two glasses, and a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

She laughed. “That was pretty effective, the way you handled that maître d’.”

“If I can’t intimidate a waiter, what kind of a cop am I?”

“I think he was expecting a tip.”

D’Agosta glanced at her quickly. “You do?”

“But you managed it all right and saved yourself some money.”

D’Agosta grunted. “Next time I’ll give him a fiver.”

“That would be worse than nothing at all. The going rate is at least twenty.”

“Jesus. Life is complicated at the top.” He raised his glass. “Toast?”

She raised hers.

“To . . .” He hesitated. “To New York’s finest.”

She felt relieved he hadn’t said what she expected. They clinked glasses. She sipped, looking at him while he studied the menu the waiter had left. It seemed he’d slimmed down a bit since she first ran into him at Cutforth’s apartment. He’d mentioned something about working out every day, and it was pretty evident he wasn’t kidding. Working out and shooting at the 27th Precinct range. She took in his hard, clean jawline, jet-black hair, soft brown eyes. He had a nice face, a really nice face. He seemed to be that rarest of finds in New York: a genuinely decent guy. With strong, old-fashioned values, solid, kind, steady—but no wimp, as proved by his surprise performance three nights before in her office . . .

She found herself blushing and tingling at the same time, and she covered it by raising her own menu. She glanced over the list of main courses and was horrified to see that the cheapest, the paupiette of black sea bass, was thirty-nine dollars. The cheapest appetizer was twenty-three dollars, for the braised pigs’ feet and cheeks (no, thank you). Her eye looked in vain for anything under twenty dollars, finally coming to rest on the dessert menu, where the first item that caught her eye—a donut!—was ten dollars. Well, there was no help for it. She swallowed and began picking out her dishes, trying to avoid adding up the sums in her head.

Vincent was looking over the wine list, and she had to admit he hadn’t lost any color, at least not yet. In fact, he seemed positively expansive.

“Red or white?” he asked.

“I think I’m going to have fish.”

“White, then. The Cakebread Chardonnay.” He shut the menu and smiled at her. “This is fun, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never been in a restaurant like this in my life.”

“Me neither, to tell you the truth.”

By the time their table was ready, fifteen minutes later, the bottle of champagne was half gone and Hayward was feeling no pain. The maître d’ seated them in the first dining room, a spacious chamber done in opulent Second Empire style with gilded moldings, high windows with silk brocade draperies, and crystal chandeliers, the effect curiously enhanced by suspended neon lighting and several floral arrangements as large as small elephants. The only drawback was the large party next to them, a table of loud people from one of the outer boroughs—Queens, by the accent. Well, you can’t bar people at the door because they have the wrong accent, she thought.

D’Agosta ordered for them, and Hayward was once again impressed with his self-assurance, which she hadn’t expected, especially in a place like this.

“Where’d you learn so much about haute cuisine?” she asked.

“Are you kidding?” D’Agosta grinned. “I recognized about half the words on the menu. I was just winging it.”

“Well, you could have fooled me.”

“Maybe it’s all the time I’m spending with Pendergast. He’s rubbing off on me.”

She nudged him. “Isn’t that Michael Douglas in the corner?”

He turned. “So it is.” Turned back, unimpressed.

She nodded. “And look who’s over there.” A woman sat in a quiet corner by herself, eating a plate of french fries, dipping each one in a large dish of ketchup and pushing them into her mouth with evident satisfaction.

D’Agosta stared. “She kinda looks familiar. Who is she?”

“You been living under a rock? Madonna.”

“Really? Must’ve dyed her hair or something.”

“This would make a great scene in a novel. Maybe your next.”

“There won’t be a next.”

“Why not? I loved those two books you wrote. You’ve got real talent.”

He shook his head. “Talent—maybe. My problem is, I don’t have the touch.”

“What touch?”

He rubbed his fingers together. “The money touch.”

“A lot of people never get one novel published. You got two. And they were good. You can’t give it up totally, Vinnie.”

He shook his head. “Did I ever tell you this isn’t my favorite subject?”

“I’ll drop it if you want. For now. I actually wanted to ask you a question. I know we shouldn’t be talking shop, but how in the world did Pendergast know that guy—what’s his name, Vasquez—was gunning for him? Interpol’s been chasing that killer for ten years, and he’s a pro if ever there was one.”

“I could hardly believe it myself. But when he explained, it made perfect sense. Bullard—who was no doubt behind it—felt threatened enough to set two goons on me after our first interview. Pendergast figured Bullard was desperate to leave the country and wouldn’t let anybody stand in his way. He also figured Bullard would try again, this time against him. So he asked himself how a professional killer would do it. The answer was obvious: set yourself up in the vacant building across the street from his house. So right after we took Bullard downtown, Pendergast began watching the boarded-up windows of that building with a telescope. Soon enough, he noticed a fresh hole cut in the plywood. Bingo! That’s when he let me in on it, told me what he was planning to do. Next, Pendergast established a routine so he could control when the man would strike.”

“But how did he have the guts to walk in and out of his house, leaving himself exposed?”

“Whenever he stepped out of the building, he had Proctor train the telescope on the peephole. At one point, he had me shoot out a bulb on the street at a critical moment. That’s when he tagged the man’s weapon, knew the killer had missed his opportunity for the day. Figured he’d therefore act the next. So last night we had the dummy all ready for him. Proctor handled it perfectly, wheeled it out so just the upper part was visible.”

“But why not just go in and take the guy out beforehand? Why run the risk?”

“No proof, for one thing. On top of that, the guy was barricaded in there—he might have slipped through our fingers. As you said, he was a real pro. And for sure he would have put up resistance. His vulnerable moment was while he was escaping. We just waited for him to run into our trap.”

Hayward nodded. “That explains a lot.”

“Too bad the guy took the suicide route.”

Their first courses arrived, whisked to their table by no less than three waiters, with the sommelier hard on their heels to fill their wineglasses and another functionary to top off their water glasses.

“Now I’ve got a question for you,” said D’Agosta. “How’d you make captain? So fast, I mean.”

“There’s no great mystery. I saw how things were going, so I went and got my M.S. from NYU in forensic psychology. A degree really helps these days—and, of course, it didn’t hurt that I’m a woman.”

“Affirmative action?”

“More like belated action. Once the lid of oppression was lifted off the force by Commissioner Rocker, naturally some of us rose to the surface. They looked around in a panic and realized there weren’t any high-level women on the force—because they’d been discriminating against us forever—and began promoting. I was in the right place at the right time, with the right test scores and credentials.”

“Ambition and talent had nothing to do with it?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She smiled.

“Neither would I.” Vincent sipped his wine. “Where’d you grow up?”

“Macon, Georgia. My dad was a welder, my mom a homemaker. I had an older brother, killed in Vietnam. Friendly fire. I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.”

Hayward shook her head. “My parents never recovered. Dad died a year later, Mom the year after that. Cancer, both of them, but I think it was more from grief. He was their pride and joy.”

“That’s really hard.”

“That was a long time ago, and I had a wonderful grandmother in Islip who raised me. It helped me realize I was pretty much alone in this world and that nobody would kick ass for me. I’d have to do the kicking myself.”

“You’ve done a good job of it.”

“It’s a game.”

He paused. “You really shooting for commissioner?”

She smiled, saying nothing, then raised her glass. “Nice to have you back in the Big Apple where you belong, Vinnie.”

“I’ll drink to that. You don’t know how I’ve missed this town.”

“Best place in the world to be a cop.”

“When I was a lieutenant, back during the museum murders, I never really appreciated it. I thought it would be great to get out of the city, live in the country, breathe fresh air for a change, listen to the birds chirping, watch the leaves turn color. I wanted to go fishing every Sunday. But you know what? Fishing is boring, the birds wake you up in the morning, and instead of Le Cirque, up in Radium Hot Springs you’ve got Betty Daye’s Family-Style Restaurant.”

“Where you can feed a family of four for what it costs here to buy a donut.”

“Yeah, but who wants chicken-fried steak at four ninety-nine when you can have duck magret dusted with Espelette pimento for only forty-one bucks?”

Hayward laughed. “That’s what I love about New York—nothing’s normal. Everything’s totally over the top. Here we are having dinner in the same room with Madonna and Michael Douglas.”

“New York’ll drive you crazy, but it’s never boring.”

She took a sip of wine and the waiter rushed over to refill her glass. “Is there really a town called Radium Hot Springs up there? It sounds like a joke.”

“I’ve been there. I’m pretty sure it’s real.”

“What was it like?”

“I kid about it, but it wasn’t a bad place. Small town, good values. Canadians are a friendly bunch. But it wasn’t home. I always felt like an exile, you know what I mean? And it was too damn quiet. I thought I’d go crazy, I couldn’t concentrate with all those chirping birds. Give me the roar of rock-solid Friday afternoon Midtown gridlock, stretching from river to river. Man, that’s the voice of life itself.”

Hayward laughed as their main courses arrived with a flurry of white-gloved waiters.

“I could definitely get used to this,” said D’Agosta, leaning back and tucking into his duck magret, following it with a swig of Chardonnay.

Hayward placed a sea scallop étuvée in her mouth and savored it. She didn’t believe she had ever tasted anything quite so good in her life. “You did well, Vinnie,” she said with a smile. “You really did well.”

{ 44 }

D’Agosta had never been in the place before, but everything about it was dismally familiar. At least the sharp tang of alcohol and formaldehyde and God only knew what other chemicals helped chase away a lingering hangover. He and Laura Hayward hadn’t left the restaurant until 11:30 the night before. At the sommelier’s suggestion, he’d splurged on a demi bottle of dessert wine—Château d’Yquem 1990, it had cost him a week’s pay at least—and it had proved to be the most wonderful wine he’d ever tasted. The whole evening had proved wonderful, in fact.

What a tragedy that it had to be followed up by this.

The mingled smell of formalin, bodily fluids, and decomposition; the overly clean stainless-steel surfaces; the bank of refrigerating units; the sinister-looking diener lurking in the background; the attending pathologist—and of course the cadaver, star of the show, lying in the middle of the room on an old marble autopsy table, illuminated by its very own spotlight. It had been autopsied—disassembled was more like it—and a bunch of withered, sliced-and-diced organs lay arrayed around the corpse, each in its own plastic container: brain, heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and a bunch of other dark lumps D’Agosta did not care to guess at.

Still, this wasn’t as bad as some. Maybe it was because the parade of insects had come and gone and the corpse had decayed to the point where it was as much skeleton as flesh. Or perhaps it was because the smell of suppuration had almost been replaced by a smell of earth. Or maybe—D’Agosta hoped—maybe he was finally getting used to it. Or was he? He felt that familiar tightening in his throat. At least he’d been smart enough to skip breakfast.

He watched the doctor standing at the head of the corpse, round black glasses pulled down on his nose, thumbing through a clipboard. He was a laconic type, with salt-and-pepper hair and a slow, economical way of talking. He looked irritated. “Well, well,” he said, flipping over papers. “Well, well.”

Pendergast was restlessly circling the corpse. “The death certificate listed lung cancer as the cause of death,” he said.

“I am aware of that,” the doctor replied. “I was the attending physician then, and at your request, I have been hauled back here to be the attending pathologist now.” The man’s voice was brittle with grievance.

“I thank you.”

The doctor nodded tersely, then went back to the clipboard. “I’ve performed a complete autopsy on the cadaver, and the lab results have come back. Now, what is it, exactly, that you would like to know?”

“First things first. I’m assuming you confirmed this is indeed the body of Ranier Beckmann?”

“Without question. I checked dental records.”

“Excellent. Please proceed.”

“I’ll summarize my original records and diagnosis.” The doctor flipped over some pages. “On March 4, 1995, the patient, Ranier Beckmann, was brought to the E.R. by ambulance. The symptoms indicated advanced stages of cancer. Tests confirmed an extensive-stage small-cell lung carcinoma with distant metastases. Essentially a hopeless case. The cancer had spread throughout the body, and general organ failure was imminent. Mr. Beckmann never left the hospital and died two weeks later.”

“You’re sure he died in the hospital?”

“Yes. I saw him every day on my rounds until he died.”

“And your recollection, going back over a decade, is still clear?”

“Absolutely.” The doctor stared at Pendergast over the tops of his glasses.

“Proceed.”

“I conducted this autopsy in two stages. The first was to test my original determination of cause of death. There had been no autopsy. Standard procedure. The cause of death was evident, there was no family request, and no suspicion of foul play. The state obviously doesn’t pay for an autopsy just for the hell of it.”

Pendergast nodded.

“The second stage of my autopsy, as per your request, was to identify any unusual pathologies, conditions, wounds, toxins, or other irregularities associated with the body.”

“And the results?”

“I confirmed Beckmann died of general organ failure associated with cancer.”

Pendergast quickly fixed his silvery eyes again on the doctor. He said nothing: the skeptical look said it all.

The doctor returned the look steadily. Then he continued, voice calm. “The primary was a tumor in his left lung the size of a grapefruit. There were gross secondary metastatic tumors in the kidneys, liver, and brain. The only surprising thing about this man’s death is that he hadn’t showed up in the emergency room earlier. He must have been in tremendous pain, barely able to function.”

“Go on,” Pendergast said in a low voice.

“Aside from the cancer, the patient showed advanced cirrhosis of the liver, heart disease, and a suite of other chronic, but not yet acute, symptoms associated with alcoholism and poor nutrition.”

“And?”

“That’s all. No toxins or drugs present in the blood or tissues. No unusual wounds or pathologies, at least none detectable after embalming and almost ten years in the ground.”

“No sign of heat?”

“Heat? What do you mean?”

“No indication that the body had experienced the perimortem application of heat?”

“Absolutely not. Heat would have caused a host of obvious cell changes. I’ve looked at forty, maybe fifty sections of tissue from this cadaver, and not one showed changes associated with heat. What an extraordinary question, Mr. Pendergast.”

Pendergast spoke again, his voice still low. “Small-cell lung cancer is caused almost exclusively by smoking. Am I correct, Doctor?”

“You are correct.”

“That he died of cancer is beyond a reasonable doubt, then, Doctor?” Pendergast allowed a skeptical tone to tinge his voice.

Exasperated, the pathologist reached down, grabbed two halves of a shriveled brown lump, and shoved them in Pendergast’s face. “There it is, Mr. Pendergast. If you don’t believe me, believe this. Take it. Feel the malignancy of this tumor. As sure as I’m standing here, that’s what killed Beckmann.”

It was a long, silent walk back to the car. Pendergast slipped behind the wheel—today he’d driven himself to Yonkers—and they exited the parking lot. As they left the gray huddle of downtown behind, Pendergast spoke at last.

“Beckmann spoke to us quite eloquently, wouldn’t you say, Vincent?”

“Yeah. And he stank, too.”

“What he said, however, was—I must confess—something of a surprise. I shall have to write the good doctor a letter of thanks.” He swung the wheel sharply, and the Rolls turned onto Executive Boulevard, passing the on-ramp for the Saw Mill River Parkway.

D’Agosta looked over in surprise. “Aren’t we heading back to New York City?”

Pendergast shook his head. “Jeremy Grove died exactly two weeks ago. Cutforth, one week ago. We came to Yonkers to get some answers. I’m not leaving until we have them.”

{ 45 }

The bus inched through a long, white-tiled tunnel in stop-and-go traffic and emerged from an underpass, a long ramp amidst steel girders in semidarkness.

New York City, thought the Reverend Wayne P. Buck.

Beyond the web of steel, he could see limpid sunlight, sooty tenements, a brief glimpse of skyscrapers. The bus lurched back into darkness, the brakes chuffing as the line of traffic stopped again.

Buck felt an indescribable mix of emotions: excitement, fear, destiny, a sense of confronting the unknown. It was the same thing he had felt a couple of years ago, the day he’d been released from prison after serving nine years for murder two. It had been a long, slow slide for Buck: delinquency, failed jobs, booze, stealing cars, bank robbery—and then the fateful day when everything went wrong and he’d ended up shooting a convenience store clerk. Killing a poor, innocent man. As the bus crept forward again, his mind went back over the arrest, trial, sentence of twenty-five to life, the manacled walk into the bowels of the prison. A period of darkness, best forgotten.

And then, conversion. Born again in prison. Just as Jesus raised up the whore, Mary Magdalen, He raised up the alcoholic, the murderer, the man who had been cast away by all others, even his own family.

After his salvation, Buck began reading the Bible: again and again, cover-to-cover, Old Testament and New. He started preaching a little, a few words here, a helping hand there. He formed a study group. Gradually, he’d built up the respect and trust of the prisoners who had ears for the Good Word. He was soon spending most of his time assisting in the salvation of others. That, and playing chess. There wasn’t much else to do: magazines were showcases of materialism, television was worse, and books other than the Bible seemed full of profanity, violence, and sex.

As parole grew near, Buck began to feel that his ministry in prison was preparation for something else; that God had a greater purpose for him which would be revealed in time. After he got out, he drifted from one small town to another, mostly along the border between California and Arizona, preaching the Word, letting God clothe and feed him. His reading began to expand: first Bunyan, then St. Augustine, then Dante in translation. And always, always, he waited for the call.

And now, when he least expected it, the call had come. God’s purpose for him stood revealed. Who would have thought that his call would take him to New York City, the greatest concentration of spiritual bankruptcy and evil in all America? Vegas, L.A., and other such places were merely sideshows to New York. But that was the beauty of doing God’s will. Just as God had sent St. Paul to Rome—into the black heart of paganism—so had He sent Wayne P. Buck to New York.

The bus stopped, lurched again, everyone’s heads swaying in unison with the movements. They were now on some kind of concrete ramp, climbing a rising spiral between crisscrossed girders. It put Buck in mind of Dante’s circles of hell. In a moment, the bus plunged back into darkness and the stench of diesel, the sound of air brakes hissing demonically. It seemed they were at the depot—but a depot such as Buck had never seen or imagined in all his born days.

The bus ground to a halt. The driver said something unintelligible over the public address system, and there was a great sigh of air as the door opened. Buck exited. The others all had to wait for their baggage, but he was a free man, without possessions or money, just as it had been six years ago when he walked out into the bright sunlight of Joliet.

Without knowing where he was going, he followed a crush of people down a series of escalators and through an immense terminal. Moments later he found himself outdoors, on the pavement of a great street. He stopped and looked around, feeling a rush of dread mingling with the spiritual vigor.

As I walked through the wilderness of this world . . . Jesus had spent forty days and nights in the desert tempted by the devil, and verily this was the desert of the twenty-first century: this wasteland of human souls.

He began walking, letting Jesus take him where He would. Despite the crowded sidewalks, nobody seemed to notice him: the streams of humanity parted around him, then flowed together again behind him, like a river embracing a rock. He crossed a broad thoroughfare, walked down a canyonlike street thrown into deep shadow by buildings that rose on both sides. Within a few minutes, he arrived at another intersection, even wider than before, with roads coming in from all sides. Huge billboards and garish forty-foot neon marquees announced he was standing in Times Square. He looked skyward. It was a heady experience, surrounded by the mighty works of man, the modern-day glass and steel Towers of Babel. It was all too easy to see how one could be seduced by such a place; how quickly one could lose first one’s conviction, then one’s soul. He lowered his eyes again to the traffic, the noise, the great rush and press of humanity. The words of John Bunyan came to him again: You dwell in the City of Destruction: I see it to be so; and, dying there, sooner or later, you will sink lower than the grave, into a place that burns with fire and brimstone: be content, good neighbors, and go along with me.

Lost, all lost.

But perhaps not all: here and there, Buck knew, walked those who could still be saved, the righteous people with the grace of God in their souls. He did not yet know who they were, and it was likely even they didn’t know. Be content, good neighbors, and go along with me. It was for them he had come to New York City: these were the ones he would pull back from the brink. The rest would be swept away in the blink of an eye.

For hours Buck walked. He could sense the siren-like call of the city tugging at him: its urbane window displays, its unbelievable opulence, its stretch limousines. Buck’s nostrils filled with the stench of rotting garbage one moment, and the next with the scent of expensive perfume from some lynx-eyed temptress in a tight dress. He was in the belly of the beast, for sure. God had entrusted him with a mission, God had given him his own forty days in the desert, and he would not fail.

He had spent his last nickel on the bus ticket and had not eaten at all during the ride. Somehow the hunger, the fasting, had sharpened his mind. But if he was to do God’s will, he had to seek nourishment for his body.

His wanderings took him to a Salvation Army soup kitchen. He went in, waited in line, sat silently with the derelicts, and ate a bowl of macaroni and cheese with a couple slices of unbuttered Wonder bread and a cup of coffee. As he ate, he slipped the shabby paper out of his pocket and perused the soiled article yet again. It was God’s message to him, and every time he read it he felt fortified, refreshed, determined. After his simple meal, he left and began walking again, a new spring in his step. He passed a newsstand and paused, his eye catching the headline of the New York Post.

THE END IS NIGH

Satanists, Pentacostals and Prophets of Doom Continue to Converge at Site of Devil Killing

He instinctively shoved his hand in his pocket before remembering he had no money. He paused. What to do? This headline was, without a doubt, another message from God. Nothing happened in this world without significance. Not even the slightest sparrow could fall from the tree . . .

He needed money. He needed a bed for the night. He needed a change of clothes. God clothed the lilies of the field; would He not clothe him? That had always been Buck’s philosophy.

But sometimes God liked to see a little initiative.

Buck looked up. He was in front of a huge building, guarded by two massive stone lions—the New York Public Library, the legend said. A temple to Mammon, no doubt filled with pornography and immoral books. He hastened around the corner. There, beside a small but nicely manicured park, were a number of people with chessboards set up and ready for play. They weren’t playing each other; they seemed to be waiting for passersby. He approached, curious.

“Play?” one of them asked.

Buck paused.

“Five dollars,” the man said.

“For what?”

“Game of ten-second chess. Five dollars.”

Buck almost walked on. It might be considered a form of gambling. But then he paused. Was this, too, a little help from God? Buck sensed these players were good; they had to be. But what did he have to lose?

He sat down. The man immediately moved his queen’s pawn, and Buck countered, ten seconds for each move.

Ten minutes later Buck was sitting on a bench in the park behind the library, reading the Post. The article told of small gatherings of people in front of the building where the devil had taken the man named Cutforth. It even gave the address: 842 Fifth Avenue.

Fifth Avenue. The legendary Fifth Avenue. The Mephistophelean heart of New York City. It all fit together. He tore out the article and folded it up with the other, carefully slipping them into his shirt pocket.

He would not go there now; that could wait. Like David, he needed to gird his loins, prepare himself spiritually. He had not come to preach: he had come to do battle for the world.

He checked his pocket. Four dollars and fifty cents. Not nearly enough to find a bed for the night. He wondered just how God might help him multiply that money, as Jesus had multiplied the loaves and the fishes.

There were still a few hours before sunset. Jesus would help him, Buck knew. Jesus would surely help him.

{ 46 }

Beckmann’s last known place of residence, as listed on the death certificate, was not far from the potter’s field in which he was buried. Pendergast drove slowly past the decrepit building and parked before a package store a few doors down. Three old alcoholics sat on the front stoop, watching as they got out of the car.

“Nice neighborhood,” said D’Agosta, looking around at the six-story brick tenements festooned with rusting fire escapes. Threadbare laundry hung from dozens of clotheslines strung between the buildings.

“Indeed.”

D’Agosta nodded in the direction of the three rummies, who had gone back to passing around a bottle of Night Train. “Wonder if those three know anything.”

Pendergast gestured for him to proceed.

“What? Me?”

“Of course. You are a man of the street, you speak their language.”

“If you say so.” D’Agosta glanced around again, then headed into the package store. He returned a few minutes later with a bottle in a brown paper bag.

“A gift for the natives, I see.”

“I’m just taking a page from your book.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows.

“Remember our little journey underground during the subway massacre case? You brought a bottle along as currency.”

“Ah, yes. Our tea party with Mephisto.”

Bottle in hand, D’Agosta ambled up to the stoop, pausing before the men. “How are you boys today?”

Silence.

“I’m Sergeant D’Agosta, and this is my associate, Special Agent Pendergast. FBI.”

Silence.

“We’re not here to bust anyone’s balls, gentlemen. I’m not even going to ask your names. We’re just looking for any information on one Ranier Beckmann, who lived here several years back.”

Three pairs of rheumy eyes continued staring at him. One of the men hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and deposited it gently between his badly scuffed shoes.

With a rustle, D’Agosta removed the bottle from the paper bag. He held it up. The light shone through it, illuminating pieces of fruit floating in an amber-colored liquid.

The oldest wino turned to the others. “Rock ’n’ Rye. The cop has class.”

“Beware of cops bearing gifts.”

D’Agosta glanced at Pendergast, who was looking on from a few paces back, hands in his pockets. He turned back. “Look, guys, don’t make a fool out of me in front of the feds, okay? Please.”

The oldest man shifted. “Now that you’ve said the magic word, have a seat.”

D’Agosta perched gingerly on the sticky steps. The man reached out a hand for the bottle, took a swig, spat out a piece of fruit, passed it on. “You too, friend,” he said to Pendergast.

“I would prefer to stand, thank you.”

There were some chuckles.

“My name’s Jedediah,” said the oldest drunk. “Call me Jed. You’re looking for who again?”

“Ranier Beckmann,” said Pendergast.

Two of the drunks shrugged, but after a moment, Jed nodded slowly. “Beckmann. Name rings a bell.”

“He lived in room 4C. Died of cancer almost ten years ago.”

Jed thought another moment, took a swig of the Rock ’n’ Rye to lubricate the brain cells. “I remember now. He’s the guy who used to play gin rummy with Willie. Willie’s gone, too. Man, did they argue. Cancer, you say?” He shook his head.

“Did you know anything about his life? Marriage, former addresses, that sort of thing?”

“He was a college-educated fellow. Smart. Nobody ever came to visit him, didn’t seem to have any kids or family. He might have been married, I suppose. For a while, I thought he had a girl named Kay.”

“Kay?”

“Yeah. He’d say her name now and then, usually when he was mad at himself. Like when he lost at rummy. ‘Kay Biskerow!’ he’d say. As if he wouldn’t have been in such a fix if she were there to look after him.”

Pendergast nodded. “Any friends of his still here we could talk to?”

“Can’t think of anybody. Beckmann mostly kept to himself. He was sort of depressed.”

“I see.”

D’Agosta shifted on the uncomfortable stoop. “When someone dies here, what usually happens to his stuff?”

“They clean out his room and throw it away. Except that John sometimes saves a few things.”

“John?”

“Yeah. He saves dead people’s shit. He’s a little strange.”

“Did John save any of Beckmann’s possessions?” Pendergast asked.

“Maybe. His room’s full of junk. Why don’t you go on up there and ask? It’s 6A. Top floor, head of the stairs.”

Pendergast thanked the man, then led the way into the dim lobby and up the wooden staircase. The treads creaked alarmingly under their feet. As they reached the sixth floor, Pendergast laid a hand on D’Agosta’s arm.

“I compliment you on your adroitness back there,” he said. “Thinking to ask about his belongings was a clever move. Care to handle John, too?”

“Sure thing.”

D’Agosta rapped on the door marked 6A, but it was already ajar and creaked inward at his knock. It opened a little, then stopped, blocked by a mountain of cardboard boxes. The room was almost completely filled with vermin-gnawed cartons, stacks of books, all manner of memorabilia. D’Agosta stepped in, threading a narrow path between walls of assorted junk: old pictures, photo albums, a tricycle, a signed baseball bat.

In the far corner, beneath a grimy window, a space just big enough for a bed had been cleared. A white-haired man lay on the filthy bed, fully clothed. He looked at them but did not rise or move.

“John?” D’Agosta asked.

He gave a faint nod.

D’Agosta went over to the bed, showed his badge. The man’s face was creased and sunken, and his eyes were yellow. “We just want a little bit of information, and then we’ll be gone.”

“Yes,” the man said. His voice was quiet, slow, and sad.

“Jed, downstairs, said you might have saved some personal effects belonging to Ranier Beckmann, who lived here several years back.”

There was a long pause. The yellowed eyes glanced over toward one of the piles. “In the corner. Second box from the bottom. Beck written on it.”

D’Agosta laboriously made his way to the tottering stack and found the box in question: stained, moldy, and half flattened from the weight of the boxes on top.

“May I take a look?”

The man nodded.

D’Agosta shifted the boxes and retrieved Beckmann’s. It was small; inside were a few books and an old cigar box wrapped in rubber bands. Pendergast came up and looked over his shoulder.

“James, Letters from Florence,” he murmured, glancing at the spines of the books. “Berenson, Italian Painters of the Renaissance. Vasari, Lives of the Painters. Cellini, Autobiography. I see our Mr. Beckmann was interested in Renaissance art history.”

D’Agosta picked up the cigar box and began to remove the rubber bands, which were so old and rotten they snapped at his touch. He opened the lid. The box exuded a perfume of dust, old cigars, and paper. Inside, he could see a moth-eaten rabbit’s foot, a gold cross, a picture of Padre Pio, an old postcard of Moosehead Lake in Maine, a greasy pack of cards, a toy Corgi car, some coins, a couple of matchbooks, and a few other mementos. “Looks like we found Beckmann’s little chest of treasures,” he said.

Pendergast nodded. He reached over and picked up the matchbook. “Trattoria del Carmine,” he read aloud. His slender white fingers drifted over the coins and other mementos. Next he reached for the books, plucking the Vasari from the box and leafing through it. “Required reading for anyone wishing to understand the Renaissance,” he said. “And look at this.”

He handed the book to D’Agosta. Scrawled on the flyleaf was a dedication:

To Ranier, my favorite student,
Charles F. Ponsonby Jr.

D’Agosta took out a book himself. There was no inscription in this one, but as he rifled through it, a photograph dropped from between the pages. He picked it off the floor. It was a faded color snapshot of four youths, all male, arms draped around each other’s necks, before what looked like a blurry marble fountain.

D’Agosta heard a sharp intake of breath from Pendergast. “May I?” the agent asked.

D’Agosta handed him the photograph. He stared at it intently, then handed it back.

“The one on the far right, I believe, is Beckmann. And do you recognize his friends?”

D’Agosta looked. Almost instantly he recognized the massive head and jutting brows of Locke Bullard. The others took a moment longer, but once recognized were unmistakable: Nigel Cutforth and Jeremy Grove.

He glanced over at Pendergast. The man’s silvery eyes were positively glittering. “There it is, Vincent: the connection we’ve been looking for.”

He turned to the man lying on the bed. D’Agosta had almost forgotten him, he had been so silent. “John, may we take these items?”

“It’s what I’ve been saving them for.”

“How so?” D’Agosta asked.

“That’s what I do. I keep the things they treasured, in trust for their families.”

“Who’s they?”

“The ones that die.”

“Do the families ever come?”

The question hung in the air. “Everybody has a family,” John finally said.

It looked to D’Agosta like some of the boxes were so rotten and discolored they’d been sitting around for twenty years. It was a long time to wait for a family member to come calling.

“Did you know Beckmann well?”

The man shook his head. “He kept to himself.”

“Did he ever have visitors?”

“No.” The man sighed. His hair was brittle and his eyes were watering. It seemed to D’Agosta that he was dying, that he knew it, and that he welcomed it.

Pendergast picked up the small box of memorabilia and tucked it under his arm. “Is there anything we can do for you, John?” he asked quietly.

The man shook his head and turned to the wall.

They left the room without speaking. At the stoop, they passed the three drunks again.

“Find what you were looking for?” Jed asked.

“Yes,” said D’Agosta. “Thanks.”

The man touched his brow with his finger. D’Agosta turned. “What will happen to all the stuff in John’s room when he dies?”

The drunk shrugged. “They’ll toss it.”

“That was a most valuable visit,” Pendergast said as they got into the car. “We now know that Ranier Beckmann lived in Italy, probably in 1974, that he spoke Italian decently, perhaps fluently.”

D’Agosta looked at him, astonished. “How did you figure that out?”

“It’s what he said when he lost at rummy. ‘Kay Biskerow.’ It’s not a name, it’s an expression. Che bischero! It’s Italian, a Florentine dialect expostulation meaning ‘What a jerk!’ Only someone who had lived in Florence would know it. The coins in that cigar box are all Italian lire, dated 1974 and before. The fountain behind the four friends, although I don’t recognize it, is clearly Italianate.”

D’Agosta shook his head. “You figured all that out just from that little box of things?”

“Sometimes the small things speak the loudest.” And as the Rolls shot from the curb and accelerated down the street, Pendergast glanced over. “Would you slide my laptop out of the dash there, Vincent? Let us find out what light Professor Charles F. Ponsonby Jr. can shed on things.”

{ 47 }

As Pendergast drove south, D’Agosta booted the laptop, accessed the Internet via a wireless cellular connection, and initiated a search on Charles F. Ponsonby Jr. Within a few minutes, he had more information than he knew what to do with, starting with the fact that Ponsonby was Lyman Professor of Art History at Princeton University.

“I thought the name was familiar,” Pendergast said. “A specialist in the Italian Renaissance, I believe. Lucky for us he’s still teaching—no doubt as professor emeritus by now. Bring up his curriculum vitae, if you will, Vincent.”

As Pendergast merged onto the New Jersey Turnpike and smoothly accelerated into the afternoon traffic, D’Agosta read off the professor’s appointments, awards, and publications. It was a lengthy process, made lengthier by the numerous abstracts Pendergast insisted on hearing recited verbatim.

At last, he was done. Pendergast thanked him, then slipped out his cell phone, dialed, spoke to directory information, redialed, spoke again briefly. “Ponsonby will see us,” he said as he replaced the phone. “Reluctantly. We’re very close, Vincent. The photograph proves that all four of them were together at least once. Now we need to know exactly where they met, and—even more important—just what happened during that fateful encounter to somehow bind them together for the rest of their lives.”

Pendergast pushed the car still faster. D’Agosta shot a surreptitious glance in his direction. The man looked positively eager, like a hound on a scent.

Ninety minutes later the Rolls was cruising down Nassau Street, quaint shops on the left and the Princeton campus on the right, Gothic buildings rising from manicured lawns. Pendergast slid the Rolls into a parking space and fed the meter, nodding to a crowd of students who stopped to gawk. They crossed the street, passed through the great iron gates, and approached the enormous facade of Firestone Library, the largest open-stack library in the world.

A small man with a thatch of untidy white hair stood before the glass doors. He was exactly what D’Agosta imagined a Professor Ponsonby would look like: fussy, tweedy, and pedantic. The only thing missing was a briar pipe.

“Professor Ponsonby?” Pendergast asked.

“You’re the FBI agent?” the man replied in a reedy voice, making a show of examining his watch.

Three minutes late, D’Agosta thought.

Pendergast shook his hand. “Indeed I am.”

“You didn’t say anything about bringing a policeman.”

D’Agosta felt himself bristling at the way he pronounced the word.

“May I present my associate, Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta?”

The professor shook his hand with obvious reluctance. “I have to tell you, Agent Pendergast, that I don’t much like being questioned by the FBI. I will not be bullied into giving out information on former students.”

“Of course. Now, Professor, where may we chat?”

“We can talk right there on that bench. I would rather not bring an FBI agent and a policeman back to my office, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

The professor marched stiffly over to a bench beneath ancient sycamores and sat down, fussily cocking one knee over the other. Pendergast strolled over and took a seat beside him. There wasn’t room for D’Agosta, so he stood to one side, arms folded.

Ponsonby removed a briar pipe from his pocket, knocked out the dottle, began packing it.

Now it’s perfect, thought D’Agosta.

“You aren’t the Charles Ponsonby who just won the Berenson Medal in Art History, are you?” asked Pendergast.

“I am.” He removed a box of wooden matches from his pocket, extracted one, and lit the pipe, sucking in the flame with a low gurgle.

“Ah! Then you are the author of that new catalogue raisonné of Pontormo.”

“Correct.”

“A splendid book.”

“Thank you.”

“I shall never forget seeing The Visitation in the little church in Carmignano. The most perfect orange in all of art history. In your book—”

“May we get to the point, Mr. Pendergast?”

There was a silence. Ponsonby apparently had no interest in discussing academic subjects with gumshoes, no matter how cultivated. For once, Pendergast’s usual charm offensive had failed.

“I believe you had a student named Ranier Beckmann,” Pendergast went on.

“You mentioned that on the phone. I was his thesis adviser.”

“I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Why don’t you ask him directly? I have no intention of becoming an FBI informant, thank you.”

D’Agosta had run into this type before. Deeply suspicious of law enforcement, treating every question as a personal challenge. They refused to be flattered into compliance and fought you every step of the way, citing all kinds of spurious legalisms about the right to privacy, the Fifth Amendment, the usual bullshit.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Pendergast said, his voice smooth as honey. “Mr. Beckmann died. Tragically.”

Silence. “No, I didn’t know.” More silence. “How?”

Now it was Pendergast’s turn to be unforthcoming. Instead, he dropped another tantalizing nugget. “I’ve just come from the exhumation of his body . . . But perhaps this isn’t an appropriate topic of conversation, seeing as how you two weren’t close.”

“Whoever told you that was misinformed. Ranier was one of my best students.”

“Then how is it you didn’t hear about his death?”

The professor shifted uneasily. “We lost touch after he graduated.”

“I see. Then perhaps you won’t be able to help us, after all.” And Pendergast made a show of preparing to stand.

“He was a brilliant student, one of the best I’ve ever had. I was—I was very disappointed he didn’t want to go on to graduate school. He wanted to go to Europe, do a grand tour on his own, a sort of wandering journey without any kind of academic structure. I did not approve.” Ponsonby paused. “May I ask how he died and why the body was exhumed?”

“I’m sorry, but that information can be disclosed only to Mr. Beckmann’s family and friends.”

“I tell you, we were very close. I gave him a book at parting. I’ve only done that with half a dozen students in my forty years of teaching.”

“And this was in 1976?”

“No, it was in 1974.” The professor was very glad to offer the correction. Then a new thought seemed to strike him. He looked at Pendergast afresh. “It wasn’t homicide . . . was it?”

“Really, Professor, unless you can get the permission of a family member to release this information—you do know someone in his family, I daresay?”

The professor’s face fell. “No. No one.”

Pendergast arched his eyebrows in surprise.

“He wasn’t close to his family. I can’t recall him ever mentioning them.”

“Pity. And so you say that Beckmann left for Europe in 1974, right after graduation, and that was the last you heard of him?”

“No. I got a note from Scotland at the end of August of that year. He was preparing to leave some farming commune he’d joined and head to Italy. I felt it was just some stage he had to go through. To tell you the truth, these past dozen years I’d been half expecting to see his name turn up in one of the journals, or perhaps to hear of an art opening of his. I’ve often thought of him over the years. Really, Mr. Pendergast, I would appreciate hearing anything you might be able to tell me about him.”

Pendergast paused. “It would be highly irregular . . .” He let his voice trail off.

D’Agosta had to smile. Flattery hadn’t worked, so Pendergast had taken another tack. And now he had the professor begging him for information.

“Surely you can at least tell me how he died.”

His pipe had gone out, and Pendergast waited while the professor drew out another match. As Ponsonby struck it, Pendergast spoke. “He died an alcoholic in a flophouse in Yonkers and was buried in the local potter’s field.”

The professor dropped the burning match, his face a mask of horror. “Good God. I had no idea.”

“Very tragic.”

The professor tried to cover up his shock by opening the matchbox again, but his shaking hands spilled them over the bench.

Pendergast helped pick them up. The professor poked them back one by one into the trembling box. He put his pipe away, unlit. D’Agosta was surprised to see the old man’s eyes film over. “Such a fine student,” he said, almost to himself.

Pendergast let the silence grow. Then he slipped Beckmann’s copy of Lives of the Painters out from his suit coat and held it out to Ponsonby.

For a moment, the old man didn’t appear to recognize it. Then he started violently. “Where did you get this?” he asked, grasping it quickly.

“It was with Mr. Beckmann’s effects.”

“This is the book I gave him.” As he opened the flyleaf to the dedication page, the photograph slipped out. “What’s this?” he asked as he picked it up.

Pendergast said nothing, asked no questions.

“There he is,” Ponsonby said, pointing at the photo. “That’s just how I remember him. This must have been taken in Florence in the fall.”

“Florence?” said Pendergast. “It could have been taken anywhere in Italy.”

“No, I recognize that fountain behind them. It’s the one in Piazza Santo Spirito. Always a big hangout for students. And there, behind, you can just see the portone of the Palazzo Guadagni, which is a shabby student pensione. I say the fall because they’re dressed that way, although I suppose it could have also been in spring.”

Pendergast retrieved the picture, then asked offhandedly, “The other students in the photograph were also from Princeton?”

“I’ve never seen any of them before. He must have met them in Florence. Like I said, the Piazza Santo Spirito was a gathering place for foreign students. Still is.” He closed the book. His face looked very tired and his voice cracked. “Ranier . . . Ranier had such promise.”

“We are all born with promise, Professor.” Pendergast stood up, then hesitated. “You may keep the book, if you wish.”

But Ponsonby didn’t seem to hear. His shoulders were bent, and he caressed the spine with a trembling hand.

As they drove back to New York in the gathering dusk, D’Agosta stirred restlessly in the front passenger seat. “Amazing how you extracted all that information from the professor without his even knowing it.” And it was amazing, though also a little sad: despite the professor’s arrogance and high-handedness, he’d seemed terribly moved by the death of a favorite student, even one not seen for three decades.

Pendergast nodded. “One rule, Vincent: the more unwilling the subject is to release information, the better the information is, once released. And Dr. Ponsonby’s information was as good as gold.” His eyes gleamed in the dark.

“It looks like they met up in Florence in the fall of ’74.”

“Exactly. Something happened to them there, something so extraordinary it resulted in at least two murders, thirty years later.” He turned to D’Agosta. “Do you know the saying, Vincent, ‘All roads lead to Rome’?”

“Shakespeare?”

“Very good. In this case, however, it appears all roads lead to Florence. And that is precisely where our road should lead.”

“To Florence?”

“Precisely. No doubt Bullard himself is on his way there, if he’s not there already.”

“I’m glad there’s not going to be any argument about my coming along,” D’Agosta said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Vincent. Your police instincts are first-rate. Your marksmanship is astonishing. I know I can trust you in a tight spot. And the chances of ourselves ending up in just such a spot are rather good, I’m afraid. So if you wouldn’t mind sliding out the laptop again, we’ll book our tickets now. First class, if you don’t mind, open return.”

“Leaving when?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

{ 48 }

D’Agosta let the cab drop him off at 136th Street and Riverside. After what happened on his first visit to Pendergast’s crumbling old mansion, there was no way in hell he was going to trust public transportation. Still, caution prompted him to get off a block early. Somehow he felt Pendergast would prefer it that way.

He dragged the lone suitcase out of the backseat, handed fifteen dollars to the driver. “Keep the change,” he said.

“Whatever.” And the cabbie sped away. Seeing D’Agosta and his luggage outside the hotel, he’d clearly been hoping for an airport fare—and he hadn’t been at all pleased to find out the actual destination was Harlem.

D’Agosta watched the cab take the next corner at speed and vanish from sight. Then he scanned Riverside Drive carefully, up and down, checking the windows, the stoops, the dark areas between the lampposts. Everything seemed quiet. Hefting the suitcase, he began trotting north.

It had taken about half an hour to prepare for the trip. He hadn’t bothered to call his wife—as it was, the next time he heard from her would probably be through a lawyer. Chief MacCready of the Southampton P.D. was delighted to hear he’d be taking an unscheduled trip as part of his modified duty with the FBI. The chief was in increasingly hot water over the slow progress of the case, and this gave him a bone to throw the local press: SPD officer sent to Italy to follow hot lead. Given a dawn departure, Pendergast had suggested they both spend the night in New York at his place on Riverside Drive. And now here he was, luggage in hand, just hours away from standing on his family’s ancestral soil. It was both an exhilarating and a sobering thought.

The one thing he’d miss, he thought as he neared the end of the block, was his blossoming relationship with Laura Hayward. Though the frantic pace of the last few days had mostly kept them apart, D’Agosta realized he’d begun to feel, for the first time in almost twenty years, that constant, low-frequency tingle of courtship. When he’d called her from the hotel to say he was accompanying Pendergast to Italy in the morning, the line had gone silent for several seconds. Then she’d said simply, “Watch your ass, Vinnie.” He hoped to hell this little jaunt wouldn’t throw a monkey wrench into things.

Ahead, the Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside rose up, the sharp ramparts of its widow’s walk pricking the night sky. He crossed the street, then slipped through the iron gate and made his way down the carriageway to the porte-cochère. His knock was answered by Proctor, who wordlessly escorted him through echoing galleries and tapestried chambers to the library. It appeared to be lit only by a large fire that blazed on the hearth. Peering into the grand, book-lined room, he made out Pendergast near the far wall. The agent had his back to the door and was standing before a long table, writing something on a sheet of cream-colored paper. D’Agosta could hear the crackling of the fire, the scratch of the pen. Constance was nowhere to be seen, but he thought he made out—just at the threshold of hearing—the distant, mournful sound of a violin.

D’Agosta cleared his throat, knocked on the door frame.

Pendergast turned quickly at the sound. “Ah, Vincent. Come in.” He slipped the sheet of paper into a small wooden box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that lay on the table. Then he closed the box carefully and pushed it to one side. It almost seemed to D’Agosta as if Pendergast was careful to shield its contents from view.

“Would you care for some refreshment?” he asked, stepping across the room. “Cognac, Calvados, Armagnac, Budweiser?” Though the voice was Pendergast’s usual slow, buttery drawl, there was a strange brightness to his eyes D’Agosta had not seen before.

“No, thanks.”

“Then I’ll help myself, with your indulgence. Please have a seat.” And moving to a sideboard, Pendergast poured two fingers of amber liquid into a large snifter.

D’Agosta watched him carefully. There was something unusual about his movements, a strange hesitancy, that—combined with Pendergast’s expression—troubled D’Agosta in a way he could not quite describe.

“What’s happened?” he asked instinctively.

Pendergast did not immediately respond. Instead, he replaced the decanter, picked up the snifter, and took a seat in a leather sofa across from D’Agosta. He sipped meditatively, sipped again.

“Perhaps I can tell you,” he said at last in a low voice, as if arriving at a decision. “In fact, if any other living person is to know, I suppose that person should be you.”

“Know what?” D’Agosta asked.

“It arrived half an hour ago,” Pendergast said. “It couldn’t possibly have come at a worse time. Nevertheless, it can’t be helped; we’ve come too far with this case to change direction now.”

“What arrived?”

“That.” And Pendergast nodded at a folded letter on the table lying between them. “Go ahead, pick it up; I’ve already taken the necessary precautions.”

D’Agosta didn’t know exactly what was meant by that, but he leaned over, picked up the letter, and unfolded it gingerly. The paper was a beautiful linen, apparently hand-pressed. At the top of the sheet was an embossed coat of arms: a lidless eye over two moons, with a crouching lion beneath. At first, D’Agosta thought the sheet was empty. But then he made out, in a beautiful, old-fashioned script, a small date in the middle of the page: January 28. It appeared to have been written with a goose quill.

D’Agosta put it down. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s from my brother, Diogenes.”

“Your brother?” D’Agosta said, surprised. “I thought he was dead.”

“He is dead to me. At least, he has been until recently.”

D’Agosta waited. He knew better than to say more. Pendergast’s sentences had grown hesitant, almost broken, as if he found the subject intolerably repellent.

Pendergast took another sip of Armagnac. “Vincent, a line of madness has run through my family for many generations now. Sometimes this madness has taken a benign or even beneficial form. More frequently, I fear, it has manifested itself through astonishing cruelty and evil. Unfortunately, this darkness has reached full flower with the current generation. You see, my brother, Diogenes, is at once the most insane—most evil—and yet the most brilliant member of our family ever to walk the earth. This was clear to me from a very early age. As such, it is a blessing we two are the last of our line.”

Still, D’Agosta waited.

“As a young child, Diogenes was content with certain . . . experiments. He devised highly complex machines for the lure, capture, and torture of small animals. Mice, rabbits, opossums. These machines were brilliant in a horrible way. Pain factories, he proudly called them when they were ultimately discovered.” Pendergast paused. “His interests soon grew more exotic. House pets began disappearing—first cats, then dogs—never to be found again. He spent days on end in the portrait gallery, staring at paintings of our ancestors . . . especially those who had met untimely ends. As he grew older—and as he realized he was being watched with increasing vigilance—he abandoned these pastimes and withdrew into himself. He poured forth his black dreams and his terrible creative energies into a series of locked journals. He kept these journals well hidden. Very well hidden, in fact: it took me two years of stealthy surveillance as an adolescent to discover them. I read only one page, but that was enough. I will never forget it, not as long as I live. The world was never quite the same for me after that. Needless to say, I immediately burned all the journals. He had hated me before, but this act earned his undying rage.”

Pendergast took another sip, then pushed the snifter away, unfinished.

“The last time I saw Diogenes was the day he turned twenty-one. He had just come into his fortune. He said he was planning a terrible crime.”

“A single crime?” D’Agosta repeated.

“He gave no hint of the details. All I can go on is his use of the word terrible. For something to be terrible to him . . .” Pendergast’s voice trailed off, and then he resumed briskly. “Suffice to say, it will be anathema to rational contemplation. Only he, in his limitless madness, could comprehend its evil. How, when, where, against whom—I have no idea. He disappeared that very day, taking his fortune with him, and I have not seen or heard from him since—until now. This is his second notice to me. The first had the same date on it. I wasn’t sure what it meant. It arrived exactly six months ago—and now this. The meaning is now obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“I am being put on notice. The crime will occur in ninety-one days. It is his challenge to me, his hated sibling. I suspect his plans are now complete. This note is equivalent to his flinging the gauntlet at my feet, daring me to try and stop him.”

D’Agosta stared at the folded letter in horror. “What are you going to do?”

“The only thing I can do. I will wrap up this current case of ours as quickly as possible. Only then can I deal with my brother.”

“And if you find him? What then?”

“I must find him,” Pendergast said with quiet ferocity. “And when I do—” He paused. “The situation will be addressed with appropriate finality.”

The look on the agent’s face was so terrible D’Agosta looked away.

For a long moment, the library was silent. Then, at last, Pendergast roused himself. One glance told D’Agosta the subject was closed.

Pendergast’s voice changed back into its usual efficient, cool tone. “As liaison with the Southampton P.D., it seemed logical to suggest you as FBI liaison with the NYPD. This case began in the United States, and it may well end here. I’ve arranged for you, working with Captain Hayward, to be that liaison. It will require you to be in touch with her on a regular basis, via phone and e-mail.”

D’Agosta gave a nod.

Pendergast was looking at him. “I trust you’ll find that a satisfactory arrangement?”

“Fine with me.” D’Agosta hoped he wasn’t blushing. Is there anything this guy doesn’t know?

“Very good.” Pendergast rose. “And now I must pack for the trip and speak briefly with Constance. She’ll be remaining behind, of course, to manage the collections and do any additional research we may require. Proctor will see that you’re comfortable. Feel free to ring if you need anything.”

He rose, offering his hand. “Buona notte. And pleasant dreams.”

The room D’Agosta was shown to was on the third floor, facing the rear. It was exactly what he’d dreaded most: dimly lit and tall-ceilinged, with dark crushed-velvet wallpaper and heavy mahogany furniture. It smelled of old fabric and wood. The walls were covered with paintings in heavy gilt frames: landscapes, still lifes, and some studies in oil that were strangely disturbing if you looked at them too closely. The wooden shutters were closed tight against the casements, and no external noise filtered through the heavy stonework. Yet the room, like the rest of the house, was spotlessly clean; the fixtures were modern; and the huge Victorian bed, when he at last turned in, was exceptionally comfortable with fresh, clean sheets. The pillows had been aired and fluffed by some invisible housekeeper; the comforter, when he drew it up, was a luxuriously thick eiderdown. Everything about the room seemed guaranteed to provide an ideal night’s sleep.

And yet sleep did not come quickly to D’Agosta. He lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling, thinking of Diogenes Pendergast, for a long, long time.

{ 49 }

Locke Bullard sat in the rear of the Mercedes as it cruised along the Viale Michelangelo above Florence, the great eighteenth-century villas of the wealthiest Florentines invisible behind enormous walls and massive iron gates. As the limousine passed the Piazzale, Bullard barely glanced out at the stupendous view: the Duomo, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Arno River. The car descended to the ancient gate of the Porta Romana.

“Cut through the old city,” said Bullard.

The driver flashed his permesso at the policemen on duty at the gate, and the limo eased into the crooked streets, heading first north, then west, passing back through another gate in the ancient walls surrounding the city. The Renaissance palazzi turned into modest nineteenth-century apartment houses; these in turn gave way to anonymous blocks of apartments, built midcentury; and finally to hideous projects and high-rises of gray concrete. There were no highways, just a maze of jammed streets and decaying factories, punctuated here and there by tiny kitchen gardens or a few hundred square feet of vineyard.

In half an hour, the limousine was crawling through the shabby streets of Signa, one of the ugliest of the industrial suburbs, a gray expanse of buildings spread out in the floodplains of the Arno. Laundry hung on concrete balconies in the listless, dead air. The only reminder that this was Bella Tuscany was the distant green hills of Carmignano, the tallest topped by the barest outline of a castle.

Bullard saw nothing beyond the smoked windows, said nothing to the chauffeur. His craggy face was utterly blank, his deep-set eyes cold beneath the great jutting brows. The only sign of the great turmoil within were the slowly bulging muscles of his jaw, tensing and relaxing, again and again.

At last, the limo turned down an anonymous dead-end lane, arrived at a shabby chain-link fence with a gate and guardhouse. Beyond, the endless suburb stopped and a surprising new world began: a strange world of dark trees, vines, and a riot of ivy-covered mounds and shapes.

The limo was checked, then waved forward into the darkly fantastical landscape. From this closer vantage point, the green shapes could be descried as ruined buildings, so sunken in creepers as to look like natural cliffs. And yet these were not ancient ruins, like those so often seen in Italy. These heaps of fallen masonry were never visited by tourists. The ruins dated only back to the early decades of the twentieth century. As the limousine moved like a shark through the ruins, it passed old dormitories, treelined boulevards passing through rows of once-fine houses, past overgrown railroad sidings and wrecked laboratories—and, dominating it all, a brick smokestack that rose thirty stories into the blue Tuscan sky. The only clue as to what all this had once been was the faded remains of a sign painted on the stack, where NOBEL S.G.E.M. could still barely be discerned.

Security seemed deceptively slack. The chain-link fence along the outer perimeter was old and decrepit. A determined group of teenagers could have easily entered. And yet the ruined compound showed no sign of casual human trespass. There was no litter, no graffiti, no sign of campfires or broken wine bottles.

The limousine wound its way slowly along a maze of weed-choked roads, curving past a row of giant warehouses, now empty, windows like dead eyes, fields of wild strawberries growing around the cracked walls. The car continued through an archway in an old brick wall, past more ruins and heaps of brick and broken concrete, until it hit a second gate. This gate was far more modern than the first: attached to a sophisticated double perimeter of blastproof chain-link, topped with glittering coils of concertina, and surrounded by a wide motion-sensor field.

Again the limousine was inspected, this time much more thoroughly, before the gate opened electronically on well-oiled hinges.

And now a shocking contrast met the eye. Beyond one last ruined facade—drowning in vegetation—lay a manicured lawn, sweeping up to a gleaming building dressed in titanium and glass, an architectural masterpiece hidden among the ruins. It was framed by shrubbery that had been trimmed and shaped to perfection. An automatic sprinkler system cast an arc of water that glittered rainbows in the strong Florentine sunlight.

In front of the building stood three men. As the black car pulled up, one of them, clearly agitated but making a strong effort to suppress it, came over and opened the door.

“Bentornato, Signor Bullard,” he said.

Bullard got out, his enormous frame swelling as he stood up. Ignoring the proffered hands, he arched his back, stretched his arms. He seemed to be looking over the heads of the men as if they didn’t exist. His massive, ugly, knotted face was an impenetrable mask.

“We should be pleased if you could lunch with us, sir, before—”

“Where is it?” Bullard cut him off.

There was a dismayed silence. “This way.”

The small group turned, and Bullard followed them down the limestone walkway into the cool interior of the building. They passed down a corridor through two sets of automatic doors, each requiring a retinal scan from the leader of the group.

At one point, Bullard stopped and looked into a room leading off the corridor. The others paused expectantly. The room was a laboratory, full of equipment and whiteboards covered with formulas.

He stepped into the room, glanced at a nearby table covered with what appeared to be aircraft nose cones. Each was painted a different color, and a pin was stuck into each, bearing a label of notes and chemical formulas. In a sudden blind rage, Bullard raised his arm and swept the nose cones from the table. Then he turned back and, without a word, continued down the corridor.

They came to a third door, thicker and smaller than the others, made of stainless steel and brass.

There was a shout from behind. Everyone turned.

An elegantly dressed man was striding toward them, his face white with anger. “Stop,” he said. “Io domando una spiegazione, Signor Bullard, anche da Lei. I demand an explanation, even from you.” The man blocked their way, half the size of Bullard, almost noble in his outraged dignity.

There was a flash of movement, a grunt, and the man sank to the ground, punched in the gut. He clutched his midriff, groaning, and Bullard gave him a vicious kick with the toe of his shoe, so hard the snapping of the ribs was audible to all. The man gasped and rolled in agony.

Bullard turned to one of the men. “I fired this man. Martinetti was trespassing. I deeply regret that he resisted apprehension, assaulted a security officer, and had to be subdued by that officer.”

He turned to one of the security officers escorting them. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said in an American accent.

“Make it so.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call a detail to remove this man and prefer charges against him for trespassing.” Bullard stepped over the prostrate form and looked into the retinal scan himself. There was a click of disengaging metal, then the vault door swung open, exposing machined stainless steel and brass. Beyond lay a small vault. On one side were several hard drives, locked in transparent plastic cases and carefully stacked atop plastic filing cabinets. On the other was a small, rectangular box of polished walnut, surrounded by a cluster of sophisticated electronics: climate-control sensors, humidity readouts, a seismograph, gas analyzer, barometers, and temperature gauges. Bullard strode over to the box, picked it up gently by the handle. It was so light that in Bullard’s massive grip it seemed weightless. He turned.

“Let’s go.”

“Mr. Bullard, perhaps you might care to check the contents?”

Bullard turned to the man who’d spoken. “I’ll check soon enough. If it isn’t there, losing your jobs will be the least of your worries.”

“Yes, sir.”

The tension in the room was palpable. The men shifted uneasily, apparently reluctant to leave. Bullard brushed past them, started to duck through the vault door, turned back. “You coming?”

The men followed him out of the vault. The door hissed shut behind. Bullard stepped over Martinetti again and walked through the three sets of doors, the men in his wake, the only sound the clicking of heels on the polished corridors. In another few minutes, he was back at the curb, where the limousine sat idling. The men stood on the sidewalk uncertainly, looking at Bullard. There was no more mention of lunch.

Without a backward glance, Bullard got in the car, slammed the door. “To the villa,” he said, placing the wooden box very carefully on his lap.

{ 50 }

D’Agosta stood at the windows of his suite in the Lungarno Hotel, looking out over the deep green of the Arno, the pale yellow palaces of Florence lining both banks, the Ponte Vecchio with its crooked little buildings perched out over the water. He felt strangely expectant, even a little light-headed. He wasn’t sure if it was jet lag, the opulence of his surroundings, or the fact that he was in his country of origin for the first time in his life.

D’Agosta’s father had left Naples as a boy with his parents, right after the war, to escape the terrible famine of ’44. They settled on Carmine Street in New York City. His father, Vito, outraged by the rising power of the Mafia, had fought back by becoming a New York City cop, and a damn good one. His shield and awards still stood in a glass case on the mantel like holy relics: police combat cross, medal of honor. D’Agosta had grown up on Carmine Street, surrounded by Italian immigrants from Naples and Sicily, immersed in the language, the religion, the cycles of saints’ days and celebrations. From childhood, Italy had for him taken on the air of a mythical place.

And now here he was.

He felt a lump rising in his throat. He had not expected it to be such an emotional experience. This was the land of his ancestors going back millennia. Italy was the birthplace of so much: art, architecture, sculpture, music, science, and astronomy. The great names of the past rolled through his mind: Augustus Caesar, Cicero, Ovid, Dante, Christopher Columbus, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Galileo . . . The list stretched back more than two thousand years. D’Agosta felt certain no other nation on earth had produced such genius.

He opened the window and breathed in the air. It was something his wife never understood, his immense pride in his heritage. It was something that she had always thought a little silly. Well, no wonder. She was English. What had the English done but scribble a few plays and poems? Italy was the birthplace of Western civilization. The land of his ancestors. Someday he would take his son, Vinnie, here . . .

These delicious reveries were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the valet with his luggage.

“Where would you like it, sir?” the valet said in English.

D’Agosta made a flourish with his hand and launched nonchalantly into Italian. “Buon giorno guagliòne. Pe’ piacère’ lassàte ì valigè abbecìno o liett’, grazie.”

The valet looked at him strangely, with what seemed to D’Agosta a fleeting look of disdain. “Excuse me?” he asked in English.

D’Agosta felt a brief swell of irritation. “Ì valigè, aggia ritt’, mettitelè’ allà.” He pointed to the bed.

The valet placed the two bags by the bed. D’Agosta fished in his pockets but could not find anything less than a five-euro note. He gave it to the valet.

“Grazie, signore, Lei è molto gentile. Se Lei ha bisogno di qualsiasi cosa, mi dica.” And the valet left.

D’Agosta hadn’t understood a word the man had said after “Grazie, signore.” It didn’t sound at all like the language his grandmother spoke. He shook his head. It must be the Florentine accent throwing him off: he knew he hadn’t forgotten that much. Italian was his first language, after all.

He looked around. This was like no hotel room he had ever stayed in before, the height of clean, understated taste and elegance. It was also huge: almost an apartment, really, with a bedroom, sitting room, marble bath, kitchen, and well-stocked bar, along with a wall of windows looking out over the Arno, the Ponte Vecchio, the Uffizi Gallery, the great cupola of the Duomo. The room must’ve cost a fortune, but D’Agosta had long ago given up worrying about how Pendergast spent his money, if indeed it was his money. The guy remained as mysterious as ever.

There came another soft knock on the door, and D’Agosta opened it. It was Pendergast. The detective, still dressed in his usual black—which somehow looked less out of place in Florence than it did in New York—glided in. He carried a sheaf of papers in one hand.

“Accommodations to your satisfaction, Vincent?”

“A bit cramped, lousy view of some old bridge, but I’ll get used to it.”

Pendergast settled on the sofa and handed D’Agosta the sheaf of papers. “You will find here a permesso di soggiorno, a firearm permit, an investigative authorization from the Questura, your codice fiscale, and a few other odds and ends to be signed—all through the count’s good offices.”

D’Agosta took the papers. “Fosco?”

Pendergast nodded. “Italian bureaucracy moves slowly, and the good count gave it a swift kick forward on our behalf.”

“Is he here?” D’Agosta asked with little enthusiasm.

“No. He may come later.” Pendergast rose and strolled to the window. “There is his family’s palazzo, across the river, next to the Corsini Palace.”

D’Agosta glanced out at a medieval building with a crenellated parapet. “Nice pile.”

“Indeed. It’s been in the family since the late thirteenth century.”

Another knock came at the door.

“Trasite’,” D’Agosta called, proud to be able to use his Italian in front of Pendergast.

The valet came in again, carrying a basket of fruit. “Signori?”

“Faciteme stù piacère’ lassatele ‘ngoppa’ o’ tavule.”

The valet made no move toward the table, saying instead, “Where shall I put it?” in English. D’Agosta glanced at Pendergast and saw a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

“O’ tavule,” he answered more brusquely.

The man stood there with the fruit in his hand, looking from the table to the desk, finally placing it on the desk. D’Agosta felt a surge of irritation at his willful incomprehension—hadn’t he given the man a big enough tip? Words he had so often heard from his father flowed unbidden off his lips. “Allòra qual’è ò problema’, sì surdo? Nun mi capisc’i? Ma che è parl’ ò francèse’? Mannaggi’ ‘a miseria’.”

The man backed out of the room in confusion. D’Agosta turned to Pendergast, to find the agent making a rare and unsuccessful attempt to suppress an effervescence of mirth.

“What’s so funny?” D’Agosta said.

Pendergast managed to compose his features. “Vincent, I didn’t know you had such a flair for languages.”

“Italian was my first language.”

“Italian? Do you speak Italian, too?”

“What do you mean, too? What the hell do you think I was speaking?”

“It sounded remarkably to me like Neapolitan, which is often called a dialect of Italian but is actually a separate language. A fascinating language, too, but, of course, incomprehensible to a Florentine.”

D’Agosta froze. Neapolitan dialect? The thought had never occurred to him. Sure, there were families that spoke the Sicilian dialect where he grew up in New York, but he’d just assumed his own language was real Italian. Neapolitan? No way. He spoke Italian.

Pendergast, noticing the look on D’Agosta’s face, continued. “When Italy was united in 1871, there were six hundred dialects. A debate began to rage as to what language the new country should speak. The Romans thought their dialect was the best, because, after all, they were Rome. The Perugians thought theirs was the purest, because that’s where the oldest university in Europe was. The Florentines felt theirs was correct, because theirs was the language of Dante.” He smiled again. “Dante won.”

“I never knew that.”

“But people continued to speak their dialects. Even when your parents emigrated, only a small portion of the citizenry spoke official Italian. It wasn’t until the arrival of television that Italians began abandoning their dialects and speaking the same language. What you consider ‘Italian’ is actually the dialect of Naples, a rich but sadly dying language, with hints of Spanish and French.”

D’Agosta was stunned.

“Who knows? Perhaps our researches will take us south, where you can shine. But for now, seeing as how it is getting on toward dinnertime, shall we head out for a bite to eat? I know a wonderful little osteria in Piazza Santo Spirito, where there is also a curious fountain I believe might be of interest to our investigation.”

Five minutes later they were walking through the crooked medieval streets of Florence, which led them to a broad, spacious piazza, shaded by horse chestnut trees and shut in on three sides by lovely Renaissance buildings stuccoed in hues of ivory, yellow, and ocher. Dominating the end closest to the river was the plain facade of the Chiesa di Santo Spirito, severe in its simplicity. An old marble fountain splashed merrily in the center of the piazza. Students with backpacks clustered around it, smoking cigarettes and chatting.

Pendergast casually removed Beckmann’s photograph from his pocket, held it up toward the fountain, and then slowly circled the piazza until the background matched. He stared for a long moment. Then he put the photo away.

“That’s where the four of them stood, Vincent,” he said, pointing. “And there, behind, is the Palazzo Guadagni, now managed as a student pensione. We shall inquire there tomorrow to see if they remember any of our friends, although I do not hold out much hope. But let us dine. I find myself in the mood for linguini with white truffles.”

“I could really do with a cheeseburger and fries.”

Pendergast turned to him, a stricken look on his face. D’Agosta smiled back crookedly. “Just kidding.”

They strolled across the piazza toward a small restaurant, the Osteria Santo Spirito. Tables had been set up outside, and people were eating and drinking wine, their lively conversation floating into the piazza.

Pendergast waited until they were shown to a table, then gestured for D’Agosta to sit. “I must say, Vincent, you are looking fitter these days.”

“Been working out. And after that jaunt in Riverside Park, I’ve also been brushing up at the shooting range.”

“Your firearm skills are the stuff of legend. That just might come in handy for the little adventure we’ll be having tomorrow night.”

“Adventure?” D’Agosta was tired, but jet lag only seemed to energize Pendergast.

“We are going to Signa to visit Bullard’s secret laboratory. While you were unwinding in your hotel room this afternoon, I was speaking with various Florentine officials, trying to procure the files on Bullard and BAI’s doings here. But even Fosco’s influence got me nowhere. It seems Bullard is well connected with the right people—or at least knows where to spend his money. All I was able to procure was a long-outdated map of his plant site. In any case, it’s clear we’re not going to get anywhere through regular channels.”

“I take it he doesn’t know we’re coming.”

“Our visit will be in the manner of an insertion. We can get the gear we need tomorrow morning.”

D’Agosta nodded slowly. “Could be exciting.”

“Let us hope not too exciting. As I get older, Vincent, I have come to prefer a quiet evening at home to a bracing exchange of gunfire in the dark.”

{ 51 }

Bryce Harriman walked north along Fifth Avenue, threading his way through the crowds with practiced ease, his mind on the devil killings. Ritts was right: the Von Menck piece had really touched a nerve in the city. He’d been flooded with calls. Mostly from cranks, of course—this was the Post, after all—but still he couldn’t recall a bigger reaction to a story. The whole business of the golden ratio and the way everything fitted so neatly with the historic dates, the aura of mathematics—for an ignorant person, it had all the ring of hard scientific fact. And, Harriman had to admit, it was a bit uncanny how the dates just happened to fall in line like that.

He passed the Metropolitan Club, glimpsing the marvels of old New York money within. That was his world in there, or rather, the world of his grandparents. Although he was approaching the age where he could start expecting the first of several prestigious club invitations (arranged by his father), he worried that his current position at the Post would be an impediment. He needed to get back to the Times, and fast.

This was the story that could do it.

Ritts loved him—at least as much as that reptile could love anyone. But a good story was like a fire. It needed to be fed. And this one was already guttering. He sensed Ritts’s good favor could fade as quickly as it came, leaving him and his big new raise uncomfortably exposed. He needed a development, even if it was manufactured. That was what he hoped this return visit to Cutforth’s building might provide. His earlier pieces had already swelled the ranks of the Bible-thumpers, devil worshipers, Goths, freaks, satanists, and New Agers who now gathered daily along the fringes of Central Park opposite the building. There had already been a couple of fistfights, some name-calling, a few visits by New York’s finest to break things up. But it was all disorganized. All reactions needed a catalyst and this was no exception.

He was nearing 68th Street. He could already see the gatherings of freaks on the park side of Fifth Avenue, each in its own little clump. He sidled up to the milling groups, elbowing his way through the ring of rubberneckers. Nothing much had changed from the last time he was there, except the crowd had swelled. A satanist in black leather, clutching a Bud, was hurling curses at a New Ager in hemp robes. There was the smell of beer and pot, not unlike a rock concert. At the far end, a man in faded jeans and a Black Watch plaid short-sleeved shirt was speaking to a rather large crowd. Harriman couldn’t hear what he was saying, but of all the acts going on in this circus, his seemed to be the biggest.

Harriman peeled out of the group of onlookers and inserted himself back in, much closer to the man. He was preaching, that much was clear; but he looked normal, and his voice, instead of cracking at the edge of hysteria, sounded calm, educated, and reasonable. Even as he spoke, the crowd around him was swelling. A lot of onlookers were attracted by what he was saying, and even some satanists and Goths were listening.

“This is an amazing city,” the man was saying. “I’ve been here just twenty-four hours, but I can already safely say there’s nothing else on earth like it. The tall buildings, the limousines, the beautiful people. It dazzles the eye, it surely does. This is my first time in New York City. And you know what strikes me most, more than the glitter and the glamour? It’s the hurry. Look around you, friends. Look at the pedestrians. Look how fast they walk, talking into their phones or staring straight ahead. I’ve never seen a thing like it. Look at the people in the taxis and buses as they pass—even when they’re not moving, they seem to be in a rush. And I know what they’re all so busy with. I’ve been doing a lot of listening since I arrived. I’ve probably listened to a thousand conversations already, most of them one-sided, because people on this Manhattan Island seem to prefer talking into cell phones than talking to real people, face-to-face. What are they busy with? They’re busy with themselves. With tomorrow’s big meeting. With dinner reservations. With cheating on their spouses. With backstabbing a business associate. All sorts of plans and schemes and stratagems, and none of them any more foresighted than, say, next month’s trip to Club Med. How many of all these busy folk are busy thinking thirty, forty years ahead—to their own mortality? How many of these folks are busy making their peace with God? Or thinking of the words of Jesus in Luke: Verily I say unto you, This generation shall not pass away, till all be fulfilled? Precious few, I’d guess. If any.”

Harriman looked more closely at the preacher. He had sandy hair, neatly cut, a good-looking all-American face, well-developed arms, trim, neat, clean-shaven. No tattoos or piercings, no metal-studded leather codpiece. If he had a Bible, it wasn’t in evidence. It was as if he was talking to a group of friends—people he respected.

“I’ve done something else since reaching New York,” the man went on. “I’ve visited churches. Lots of churches. I never knew one city, no matter how big, could boast so many churches. But see, friends, here’s the sad thing. No matter how many people were thronging the streets outside, I found every one of these churches empty. They’re starving. They’re perishing from neglect. Even St. Patrick’s Cathedral—as beautiful a Christian place as I’ve ever seen in my born days—had only a sprinkling of worshipers. Tourists? Yes, indeed, by the hundreds. But of the devout? Less than the fingers on my two hands.

“And this, my friends, is the saddest thing of all. To think that—in a place of so much culture, so much learning and sophistication—there can be such a terrible spiritual emptiness. I feel it all around me like a desert, drying the very marrow of my bones. I didn’t want to believe what I read in the papers, the awful stories that brought me here to this place almost against my will. But it’s true, my brothers and sisters. Every last word of it. New York is a city devoted to Mammon, not God. Look at him,” and he pointed to a well-dressed twenty-something passing by in a pinstripe suit, yakking into a phone. “When do you suppose was the last time he thought about his mortality? Or her?” He pointed to a woman with bags from Henri Bendel and Tiffany’s, climbing out of a cab. “Or them?” His accusing finger aimed at a pair of college students, walking hand in hand down the street. “Or you?” His finger now swiveled across the crowd. “How long since you thought about your own mortality? It may be a week away, ten years, or fifty—but it’s coming. As sure as my name is Wayne P. Buck, it’s coming. Are you ready?”

Harriman shivered involuntarily. This guy was good.

“I don’t care if you’re an investment banker on Wall Street or a migrant worker in Amarillo, death has no prejudice. Big or small, rich or poor, death will come for us all. People in the Middle Ages knew that. Even our own forebears knew that. Look at old gravestones and what do you see? The image of winged death. And like as not the words memento mori: ‘remember, you will die.’ Do you think that young fellow ever stops to think about that? Amazing: all these centuries of progress, and yet we’ve lost sight of that one fundamental truth that was always, always the first thought of our ancestors. An old poet, Robert Herrick, put it like this:

“ Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne’er be found again.”

Harriman swallowed. His luck was holding. This guy Buck was a personal gift to him. The crowd was swelling rapidly, and people were shushing their neighbors so they could hear the man’s quiet, persuasive voice. He didn’t need a Bible—Christ, he probably had the whole thing in his head. And not only the Bible—he was quoting metaphysical poets as well.

He carefully reached over to his shirt pocket and pressed the record button on his microcassette recorder. He didn’t want to miss a word. Pat Robertson with his Pan-Cake makeup couldn’t hold a candle to this guy.

“That young man isn’t stopping to think that every day he spends out of touch with God is a day that can never, ever be reclaimed. Those two young lovers aren’t stopping to think of how their deeds will be held accountable in the afterlife. That woman loaded with shopping bags most likely never gave a thought to the real value of life. Most likely none of them even believe in an afterlife. They’re like the Romans who stood blindly aside while our Lord was crucified. If they ever do stop to think about the afterlife, they probably just tell themselves that they’ll die and be put in a coffin and buried, and that’s it.

“Except, my brothers and sisters, that is not it. I’ve held a lot of jobs in my life, and one of them was a mortuary assistant. So I speak to you with confidence. When you die, that is not the end. It is just the beginning. I’ve seen what happens to the dead with my own eyes.”

Harriman noticed that the crowd, though growing all the time, had fallen utterly silent. Nobody seemed to move. Harriman realized he, too, was almost holding his breath, waiting to hear what the man would say next.

“Perhaps our important young man with the cell phone will be lucky enough to be buried in the middle of winter. That tends to slow things down a piece. But sooner or later—usually sooner—the dinner guests arrive. First come the blowflies, Phormia regina, to lay their eggs. In a fresh corpse, there’s a population explosion of sorts. That kind of population growth—we’re talking half a dozen generations here—adds up to tens of thousands of maggots, always moving, always hungry. The larvae themselves generate so much heat that those at the center must crawl out to the edges to cool before burrowing back in again to the task at hand. In time-lapse photography, it all becomes a boiling, churning storm. And, of course, the maggots are only the first arrivals. In time, the fragrance of decomposition brings a host of others. But I see no reason to trouble you with all the details.

“So much, my friends, for resting in peace.

“Perhaps, then, our young fellow with the cell phone might decide cremation is the way to go. This leaves no corpse behind to be violated, over slow years, by the beetles and the worms. Surely cremation is a quick, a dignified end to our human form. Aren’t we told as much?

“Then let me be the one to tell you, my brothers and sisters, no death is dignified that befalls us outside the sight of God. I’ve witnessed more cremations that I can count. Do you have any idea how hard it is to burn a human body? How much heat is required? Or what happens when the body comes in contact with a six-hundred-degree flame? I will tell you, my friends, and forgive me if I do not spare you. You will learn there is a reason I do not spare you.

“First the hair, from head to toe, crisps in a blaze of blue smoke. Then the body snaps to attention, just like a cadet in a parade review. And then the body tries to sit up. Doesn’t matter that there’s a casket lid in the way, it tries to sit up all the same. The temperature rises, maybe to eight hundred degrees. And it is now that the marrow boils and the bones themselves begin to burst, the backbone exploding just like a string of Black Cats.

“And still the temperature goes up. A thousand degrees, fifteen hundred, two thousand. The eruptions keep on, rattling the retort oven like gunshots—but again I will refrain from naming just what is exploding at this point. Leave me only say that this goes on for as long as three hours before the mortal remains are reduced to ash and fragments of bone.

“Why have I not spared you more of these details, my brothers and sisters? I will tell you why. Because Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, who never sleeps in his tireless pursuit of corruption, will not spare you, either. And the fires of that crematorium burn far cooler, and far briefer, than the fires to which that important young man’s soul is surely destined. Two thousand degrees or ten thousand, three hours or three centuries—these are nothing to Lucifer. These are but a warm spring wind passing for the briefest of moments. And when you try to sit up in that burning lake of brimstone—when you bump your head on the roof of hell and fall back into that unquenchable flame, burning so hot it surpasses all powers of my poor tongue to describe it—who will hear your prayers? Nobody. You already had a lifetime to pray, tragically squandered.

“And that is why I am here, my friends. Up in that beautiful building, towering so high over our puny heads, Lucifer showed his face to this great city and seized the soul of a man. A man named Cutforth. Revelation tells us that in the End Days, Lucifer will openly walk the earth. He has arrived. The death out on Long Island, the death right here: these are but the beginning. We have been given a sign, and we must act. And act now. It is not too late. The crypt or the crematorium urn, the maggot or the flame—you must all of you understand that it makes no difference. When your soul is laid bare before the judge of all, what will be your account? I ask you to look into yourself now, in silence; and in silence to judge yourself. And then, in a little while, we will pray together. Pray for forgiveness, and for the time still upon this earth, and in this doomed city, in which to find redemption.”

Almost mechanically, without taking his eyes from Buck, Harriman slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and called the photo department, speaking very softly. It was Klein’s shift, and he understood exactly what Harriman wanted. No caricature of a Bible-thumping preacher here. Just the opposite. Harriman would make the Reverend Buck look like a man the readers of the Post would respect: a man who seemed the most reasonable, thoughtful person alive.

And if you heard him speak, you might believe it yourself.

Harriman slipped the phone back into his pocket. This Reverend Buck might not know it yet, but soon—very soon—he was going to be page one news.

{ 52 }

The night was humid and fragrant. Crickets trilled in the close darkness. D’Agosta followed Pendergast along an abandoned railroad track between squalid-looking concrete apartments. It was midnight and the moon had just set, lowering a velvety cloak over the city.

The tracks ended, leaving only the railroad grade, which was crossed by a sagging chain-link fence running off into darkness on both sides. On the far side of the fence lay blackness, with just the faintest outline of large trees silhouetted against the night.

Following Pendergast, D’Agosta turned and walked along the fence for a few hundred yards until they reached a cluster of trees. In the center was a tiny clearing, carpeted with dead leaves and old chestnut burrs.

“We’ll prep here,” said Pendergast, setting down the bag he’d been carrying.

D’Agosta put down his own bag and took a few deep breaths. He was glad he’d begun working out after the chase through Riverside Park but wished he’d thought of it sooner. Pendergast didn’t even seem winded.

Pendergast stripped off his suit, folding it up into neat packets which he stowed in his bag. Underneath he was wearing black pants and shirt. D’Agosta stripped down to a similar costume.

“Here.” Pendergast tossed D’Agosta a jar of face paint, taking another for himself, and began blackening his face with the tips of his fingers.

D’Agosta began to apply the paint as he examined the perimeter fence. It looked about as low-security as you could get: rusty and leaning, with numerous rends and tears. He took off his shoes and pulled on another pair Pendergast had supplied him with: black and tight-fitting, with smooth soles.

Pendergast slipped out his Les Baer and began applying blacking to the gun. D’Agosta winced; it was a hell of a thing to do to such a beautiful firearm.

“You need to do the same, Vincent. A single glint, no matter how small, would be all their spotters need.”

D’Agosta reluctantly removed his weapon and began blacking it.

“Undoubtedly you are wondering if all this is really necessary.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Pendergast tugged on a pair of black gloves. “The fence, as you’ve surely guessed, is deceptive. There are several rings of security. The first is purely psychological, which no doubt is one reason Bullard chose this site to begin with.”

“Psychological?”

“The site was once Il Dinamitificio Nobel, one of Alfred Nobel’s dynamite factories.” Pendergast checked his watch. “One of the great ironies of history is that Nobel, who established the Nobel Peace Prize, made his fortune with what at the time was the cruelest invention in human history.”

“Dynamite?”

“Exactly. Seventeen times more powerful than gunpowder. It revolutionized warfare. We’re so used to mass killing, Vincent, that we’ve forgotten what war was like with only black powder, cannon, and bullets. A terrible thing, to be sure, but nothing like what it would become. Now a single bomb, instead of killing two or three, could kill hundreds. Shells and bombs could blow up entire buildings, bridges, and factories. With the invention of the airplane, bombs could level entire city blocks, burn cities to the ground, murder thousands. We tend to focus on the terror of nuclear weapons, but the fact is, dynamite and its derivatives have killed and maimed millions more than the atomic bomb ever did, or probably ever will.” He slipped a clip into his weapon and quietly racked the slide.

“Right.”

“Alfred Nobel had a patent on modern warfare. At the height of his success, he had hundreds of factories all over Europe making dynamite. These factories had to be built on large campuses like this one, because no matter how carefully they handled their materials, once in a while it went off, killing hundreds. He sited his factories in impoverished areas which would provide an endless source of desperate, expendable workers. This factory was one of his largest.” He swept his hand toward the darkness beyond the fence.

“Nobel might have gone down in history as a thoroughly evil man had not a curious thing happened. In 1888 his brother died, and the newspapers of Europe mistakenly reported his brother’s death as his own. ‘The Merchant of Death Is Dead,’ ran the headlines. Reading his own obituary shocked Nobel deeply, and made him realize how history would see him. His reaction was to establish the Nobel prizes—including the famed Peace Prize—as a way to redirect what would certainly have been the dreadful judgment of history on his life.”

“Seems to have worked,” muttered D’Agosta.

“Which brings me to the point. By the time this factory closed, hundreds of people had been killed in explosions. On top of that, many thousands had been devastated by some of the chemicals used in the manufacture of dynamite, chemicals that affected the brain. As a result, this is a cursed place. It is shunned by the locals. Except for the visits of a caretaker, the area saw no human beings until Bullard bought the property seven years ago.”

“So Bullard’s letting the rep of the place handle security for him,” D’Agosta said. “Clever.”

“It’s a clever deterrent, at least for the locals. Nevertheless, there will be security, and probably quite sophisticated security at that. I can only speculate as to its nature—my inquiries, as you know, have not been fruitful. But I have a few tools that should aid us.”

Pendergast removed a haversack from his bag and slung it over one shoulder. Reaching back into the bag, he removed several pieces of aluminum tubing and fitted them together, affixing a small disc to one end. He approached the fence, slowly moving the device back and forth. Reaching the fence, he bent down, sweeping the ground before him carefully. A small red light glowed faintly on the small disc.

Pendergast rose, stepped back. “As I suspected. There is a sixty-hertz alternating electromagnetic field, indicating electric current.”

“You’re saying that fence is electrified?” D’Agosta asked. “That old thing?”

“Not the fence itself. A pair of sensor wires are buried just inside to alert security if anyone passes over them.”

“So how do we deactivate it?”

“We don’t. Follow me.”

Stowing their bags in the thicket, they crept along the fence until they reached a weak spot, where several large holes had been crudely patched with baling wire. Pendergast knelt and, with a few deft twists, unwired the largest. Then, carefully extending the detector through the hole, he scanned the ground inside the fence. Numbers glowed from a tiny LED screen on the disc.

He withdrew the device and, reaching for a stick, carefully scraped away the leaves and dirt, exposing a pair of wires. Then he repeated the process at another spot a few feet away, exposing more wires. Reaching into his haversack, he retrieved a pair of alligator clips mated to tiny electronic devices. He attached one of these clips to each end of the wire.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m using these clip-and-capacitor components to reduce our electromagnetic signature to that of a seventy-kilogram wild boar and its mate. They are common in this area, and no doubt Bullard’s night security detail is plagued by boars roaming the fence line. Now, quickly.”

They crawled through the hole, Pendergast swiftly wiring up the opening and removing the clips. Then, with another stick, he filled the holes and covered them with dead leaves. Finally, he pulled a small spritzer bottle and misted the disturbed ground. An acrid smell reached D’Agosta.

“Diluted boar urine. Follow me.”

The two ran parallel to the fence for a few hundred yards, crouching low, until they reached a heavy thicket. As quietly as possible, they crawled deep inside.

“Now we wait for security to investigate. It will be a while. Regulate your breathing and stay calm. They’ll be coming in with night vision and infrared, no doubt, so stay low and don’t move. Since they’re already assuming it’s a boar, their search will not be long.”

Silence fell. It was utterly black in the dense thicket. D’Agosta waited. To his left, Pendergast remained so motionless, so silent, that he seemed to disappear completely. The only noise was the faint rustle of wind, the occasional call of a night bird. Three minutes passed, then five.

D’Agosta felt an ant moving on his ankle. He reached down to flick it away.

“No,” whispered Pendergast.

D’Agosta left the ant alone.

Soon he could feel it crawling over his shin, exploring with short, herky-jerky movements. It worked its way down to his shoe, where it began trying to dig into his sock. When he tried to think about something else, he realized his nose had begun to tickle. How long had they been still? Ten minutes? Jesus, remaining motionless like this was harder than running a marathon. D’Agosta could see absolutely nothing. A cramp had come up in his leg. He should have taken more care to seat himself comfortably. He longed to move. His nose was itching fiercely now, all the worse for his not being able to scratch it. More ants, emboldened by the investigations of their scout, began to crawl over his skin. The cramp in his leg grew worse, and he could feel his calf muscle twitching involuntarily.

Then came the faint sound of voices. D’Agosta held his breath. He could see the distant gleam of a light, almost obscured by leaves. More voices; a burst of static from a walkie-talkie; some desultory conversation in English. Then silence returned.

D’Agosta expected Pendergast to give the all-clear, but the FBI agent said nothing. Now all of his muscles were screaming with pain. One of his legs had gone to sleep, and the ants were all over him.

“All right.” Pendergast rose and D’Agosta followed, hugely grateful, shaking out his legs, rubbing his nose, slapping away the ants.

Pendergast glanced at him. “Someday, Vincent, I will teach you a useful meditation technique, perfect for situations such as that.”

“I could use it. Talk about agony.”

“Now that we’ve bypassed the first layer of security, on to the second. Keep directly behind me and stay in my tracks as much as possible.”

They moved through the woods, Pendergast still scanning with his device. The trees thinned and they emerged into an overgrown field. Beyond stood a row of ruined buildings, enormous brick warehouses with peaked roofs and vacant doors. Vines crawled up the sides, sprouting off in dark heads that nodded and swayed in the heavy air.

Pendergast consulted a small map, and they moved toward the first warehouse. Inside it smelled of mold and dry rot; their footsteps, even with the silent shoes, seemed to echo. They passed through a far door into a gigantic square surrounded by buildings. The cement of the square was riddled with cracks, through which thrust dark vegetation.

“What if they have dogs?” D’Agosta whispered.

“Loose dogs are a thing of the past. They’re unpredictable, noisy, and often end up attacking the wrong person. Dogs are now only used for tracking. What we have to watch out for will be far more subtle.”

They crossed the expanse of concrete. Nocturnal animals rustled in the foliage as they passed. At the far end of the courtyard was a grassy alley between two rows of ruined buildings, the heaps of masonry covered with ivy that, in the darkness, looked like spreading stains. Pendergast proceeded more cautiously now, using a small, hooded flashlight to illuminate their way. Halfway along the alley he paused, knelt, and examined the ground. Then he picked up a branch and gave a little poke to the grass ahead. He prodded harder, and the stick suddenly broke through into space.

“A pit,” he said. “Notice that, with these ruins flanking either side, this alley is the only way to proceed.”

“A booby trap?”

“Undoubtedly. But disguised to look like some part of the old factory, so that when the intruder falls in and is killed, nobody would be blamed.”

“How did you spot it?”

“Lack of boar tracks.” Pendergast carefully withdrew the stick and turned. “We shall have to make our way through one of these ruined laboratories. Take care: there may still be the odd bottle of nitroglycerin around, strategically placed to snag the unwary. We should consider this the next ring of security, Vincent; we must be both quiet and vigilant.”

They entered a dark doorway and Pendergast flashed his hooded light around. The floor was covered with broken glass, rusty pieces of metal, broken tile, and bricks. Pendergast paused, then signaled to D’Agosta to back out.

Two minutes later they were in the concrete courtyard.

“What was wrong?” D’Agosta asked.

“Too much broken glass, too evenly spread, and the glass was too modern to be from the original factory. A noise trap, with sensors ready to pick up the telltale crunch of human feet. Motion sensors, too, I expect.”

In the greenish glow of his lantern, Pendergast’s face seemed troubled.

“What now?”

“Back to the pit.”

They circled back around to the alleyway and Pendergast crept forward alone, prodding with a stick until he’d located the pit. Then he lay on his stomach, carefully parted the thick grass and vegetation, and shone his light into the dark hole. A moment later he withdrew, snapping off his light.

“Wait here.”

And then he was gone, melting into the night.

D’Agosta waited. Pendergast hadn’t told him to remain still and silent; he hadn’t needed to. He crouched in the inky darkness, barely daring to breathe. Five minutes passed. Left alone, the tension began to take its toll. D’Agosta could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

Relax.

And then—as suddenly and silently as he had disappeared—Pendergast was back, a long plank in his hands. He laid it across the brushy opening, then turned to D’Agosta. “Beyond this, no talking unless absolutely necessary. Follow my lead.”

D’Agosta nodded.

They crossed the wobbly plank, one after the other. On the far side, the brush was thicker, presenting a dark wall. Pendergast moved forward, probed with his sensor, sniffed. He briefly turned on the light, then turned it off again. They moved parallel to the brushy area, then veered into it on what appeared to be an animal trail.

The boars are saving our ass, D’Agosta thought.

They crept slowly through the thick brush. A brick wall loomed to their right: a blast wall, judging by its massiveness. In one place it had been knocked down by what D’Agosta guessed was an old explosion. They moved through this gap, still following the boar trail. D’Agosta could barely see Pendergast, and could hear even less: the man moved as silently as a leopard.

The trail petered out in a large meadow less overgrown than the others they had passed. Pendergast paused to reconnoiter, motioning for D’Agosta to stay back. At the far end lay the dark silhouette of more wrecked buildings and, beyond that, the faint glow of light.

Pendergast slipped a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Turning back toward D’Agosta, and very carefully shielding a cigarette with his hands, he lit up. D’Agosta watched, astonished. Pendergast inhaled lazily, turned, and blew out a stream of smoke.

Not three feet in front of them, the drifting smoke revealed a brilliant beam of blue light: a laser. It was set just high enough to clear the back of a boar.

Pendergast got down on his stomach and began to slither forward through the tall grass, motioning D’Agosta to do likewise.

Slowly, painstakingly, they advanced across the field. Now and then Pendergast would take a drag on the concealed cigarette and blow a stream of smoke overhead, illuminating the laser beams that crisscrossed the field. Dark woods and ruins surrounded the verge of the meadow, and it was impossible to see where the beams were coming from. When the cigarette went out, he lit another.

In five minutes they were across. Pendergast ground out the stub of cigarette, rose, and moved at a crouch to an empty door frame, withdrawing his light and directing it inside. The beam briefly illuminated a long passageway, rooms fronted with metal bars facing each other across the corridor. To D’Agosta it looked almost like a prison. The ceilings had caved in, along with some of the walls, leaving a maze of broken masonry, beams, and tile.

Pendergast paused in the doorway to wave a handheld meter of some kind, then advanced cautiously. What was left of the edifice seemed about to collapse, and from time to time D’Agosta could hear the creaking and groaning of a beam or the rattle of falling plaster. As they moved through the vast crumbling space, the faint light ahead grew stronger, coming in through a row of shattered windows at the far end. Reaching the windows, they cautiously peered out.

An astonishing sight greeted D’Agosta’s eyes. Beyond the ruined building was a double-chain-link fence, topped with concertina wire, enclosing a sweeping lawn swathed in light. A new building stood there behind trimmed shrubbery and flowers, a postmodern structure in glass, titanium, and white paneling, glowing like a crystal in the night. To the far right, D’Agosta could see a guardhouse and a gate in the fence.

They moved away from the window, and Pendergast sat against the wall. He seemed to be thinking. Several minutes passed before he roused himself and motioned D’Agosta to follow. Keeping low, they moved the length of the far wall and exited a side door. Thick brush and gooseberry bushes grew up to within about ten yards of the double fence, where the closely clipped lawn began.

They wormed their way into the brush and began crawling forward. Then D’Agosta felt Pendergast freeze. The sound of voices was rapidly approaching, along with the probing of a bright spotlight. D’Agosta flattened himself in the bushes, hoping to God his black outfit and face paint would keep him invisible. But the voices were getting close, too close; and they were loud; and the light was drawing ever nearer.

{ 53 }

D’Agosta lay motionless, hardly daring to breathe, while the beam of the spotlight lanced through the leaves and vines. The voices were even closer now, and he could make out what the men were saying. They were American. There were two of them, it seemed, and they were walking slowly along the inner perimeter of the fence. He felt a sudden, almost irresistible desire to look up. But then the brilliant beam landed square on his back, and he went still as death. The beam lingered, unmoving. The men had stopped. There was a scratching sound, the flaring of a match, followed by the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

“. . . real bastard,” came one of the voices. “If it weren’t for the money, I’d go back to Brooklyn.”

“The way things are going, we might all be heading back,” replied the other.

“The fucker’s gone crazy.”

A grunt of assent.

“They say he lives in a villa once owned by Machiavelli.”

“Who?”

“Machiavelli.”

“He’s that new tight end for the Rams, right?”

“Forget it.” The light abruptly swiveled away, leaving sudden darkness in its wake. It was a handheld torch, D’Agosta realized, carried by one of the men.

The cigarette arced through the darkness, landing near D’Agosta’s left thigh, and the men continued on.

Several minutes passed. Then, abruptly, Pendergast was at his side.

“Vincent,” he whispered, “the security here is considerably more sophisticated than I had hoped. This is a system designed not just to thwart corporate espionage, but to keep out the CIA itself. We can’t hope to get inside with the tools at hand. We must retreat and plan another avenue of attack.”

“Such as?”

“I have developed a sudden interest in Machiavelli.”

“I hear you.”

They crept back the way they had come, through the groaning, ruined building. The trip seemed longer than before. When they were halfway through, Pendergast paused. “Nasty odor,” he murmured.

D’Agosta smelled it, too. The wind had shifted, and the scent of decay reached them from a far room. Pendergast opened a shutter on the flashlight, allowing a faint illumination. The greenish light disclosed what had once been a small laboratory, its roof caved in. Below, several heavy beams lay crisscrossed on the ground, and—protruding from them—a rotting, partly skeletonized head of a boar, its tusks broken off into stubs.

“Booby trap?” whispered D’Agosta.

Pendergast nodded. “Designed as an unstable, rotting building.” He let the shaft of green light fall here and there, finally pausing on a doorsill. “There’s the trigger. Step on that and you bring down the works.”

D’Agosta shivered, thinking how he’d blithely crossed this very threshold not ten minutes before.

They passed carefully through the rest of the building, warning creaks of wood sounding occasionally over their heads. Beyond lay the broad field. It looked to D’Agosta like a lake of blackness. Pendergast lit another cigarette, then knelt and moved forward cautiously, blowing smoke before him once again, until the first laser beam became visible, pencil-thin and glowing dully. Pendergast nodded over his shoulder, and they returned to the laborious work of crawling through the field, keeping under the beams.

This time the process seemed interminable. When D’Agosta finally allowed himself a glance ahead, he was shocked to find they had only reached the middle of the field.

Just then there was a sudden commotion in the grass ahead of them. A family of hares burst into view, startled, leaping in several directions at once and bounding off into the blackness.

Pendergast paused, took in another lungful of smoke, and blew it at the spot where the rabbits had been. A crisscrossing of laser beams became visible.

“Nasty bit of luck,” he said.

“Triggered the beam?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What do we do now?”

“We run.”

Pendergast leaped up and flew like a bat across the field. D’Agosta rose and began to follow, doing his best to keep up with the agent.

Instead of heading back the way they had come, Pendergast was making for the woods to their left. As they approached the trees, D’Agosta heard distant shouts and the starting of car engines. A moment later, several pairs of headlights came sawing across the meadow, trailed by the much more brilliant beam of a mounted spotlight, as a pair of military-style jeeps came tearing around the ruined buildings.

Pendergast and D’Agosta crashed into the dense undergrowth of the woods, clawing through brambles and heavy brush. After a hundred yards, Pendergast took a sharp turn and continued at a right angle to their previous course, the haversack bouncing wildly on his shoulder. D’Agosta followed, heart hammering in his ears.

Pendergast took another sharp turn and they plunged on. Suddenly they emerged onto an old road filled with waist-high grass. They pushed through it, D’Agosta struggling to keep Pendergast in sight. Already he was growing winded, but fear and adrenaline spurred him on.

A powerful beam lanced down the length of the road and they dived to the ground. Once it swept past, Pendergast was up and running again, this time into another copse at the far end of the abandoned road. More beams flickered through the trees, farther away, and voices floated toward them over the sullen air.

Inside the copse, Pendergast stopped to pull out his map and scan it with the green flashlight while D’Agosta caught up. Then they continued on, this time along a gentle rise. The woods grew thicker, and it seemed they had managed to put space between themselves and their pursuers. For the first time, D’Agosta allowed himself to hope they might escape, after all.

The trees thinned and D’Agosta saw a scattering of starlight. And then suddenly rising before them was an immensity of black—a wall, twenty feet high, all rotten bricks, dangling vegetation, and vines.

“This isn’t on the map,” said Pendergast. “Another blast wall—a late addition, it seems.”

He glanced in either direction. Through the trees below, D’Agosta could see the flicker of flashlights. Pendergast turned and ran along the base of the wall. It curved along the top of a gentle ridge, its overgrown rim outlined against the night sky.

Ahead, where the wall descended, D’Agosta could see dancing lights through the vegetation.

“We climb,” said Pendergast.

He turned, seized a root, pulled himself up. D’Agosta did likewise. He grabbed a stem, another, found a foothold. In his haste, one of the plants tore out of the wall, sending down a shower of rotting brick. D’Agosta dangled, recovered. He could see Pendergast already far above him, climbing like a cat. The lights below were coming up the hill, while another group to their right was also closing in.

“Faster!” Pendergast hissed.

D’Agosta seized a vine, another, slipping, scrambling, one leg scrabbling in space.

He now heard a cacophony of voices behind him. Pendergast was just reaching the top of the wall. There was a shot and the thud of the bullet on the wall to his right. One more hoist up, one more foothold.

Two more shots. Pendergast was reaching down, grabbing him by the arms, hauling him to the top. The lights had now reached the open area just before the wall, bobbing frantically, flashing up on the wall and hitting them.

“Down!”

D’Agosta was already throwing himself down on the crumbling, overgrown top of the massive wall. It was at least ten feet from side to side.

“Crawl.”

Digging in his elbows and knees, he began to crawl across the top of the wall, keeping cover in the vegetation. There was a burst of automatic-weapons fire, the rounds snicking through the bush above, showering him with twigs and leaves.

They reached the other side—only to see more men there, arriving with dogs: silent dogs held on leashes. D’Agosta ducked back and rolled from the edge as more shots raked the bushes to one side of him.

“Jesus!” He lay on his back for a moment, staring at the unmoving stars.

The sudden baying of dogs reached his ears. The dogs had been released.

Now there were voices on either side, a babel of Italian and English. Powerful lights passed overhead, shone from below. D’Agosta could hear the rustle and scramble of climbing.

Pendergast was suddenly at his ear. “We stand up and run. Stay in the middle of the wall and run at a crouch.”

“They’ll shoot us.”

“They’re going to kill us, anyway.”

D’Agosta stood, began to run—not exactly run, but push and crash through the heavy vegetation growing out of what must have once been a walkway at the top.

Lights raked the top of the wall, and a burst of gunfire sounded. And a voice: “Non sparate!”

“Keep running!” Pendergast cried.

But it was too late. There, in front of them on the wall, dark figures were mounting, blocking the way. Lights shone in their direction. D’Agosta and Pendergast dove to the rubble, flattening themselves.

“Non sparate!” someone shouted again. “Do not shoot!”

From behind, D’Agosta saw that a second group had surmounted the wall. They were surrounded. D’Agosta lay huddled in a pool of brilliant light, feeling exposed, naked.

“Eccoli! There they are!”

“Hold your fire!”

And then a voice—quiet and reasonable—said:

“You may both stand up now and surrender. Or we will kill you. Your choice.”

{ 54 }

Locke Bullard stared across the table at the two men shackled to the wall. Two sons of bitches dressed in black special-ops outfits. They were Americans, that much was clear; probably CIA.

He turned to his security chief. “Wipe the paint off their faces. Let’s see who they are.”

The man pulled out a handkerchief and brusquely wiped off the paint.

Bullard could hardly believe his eyes. They were the two people he least expected: the police sergeant from Long Island and Pendergast, the FBI special agent. Immediately, he realized Vasquez had failed. Or more likely, run off with the money. Unbelievable. Yet even without Vasquez, it stunned Bullard to think these two had somehow followed him to Italy and managed to break through several layers of security at the lab. He kept underestimating them, again and again. He had to get out of that habit. These two were formidable. And that’s exactly what he didn’t need. He had something a lot more important to do than mess around with these two.

He turned to the security director. “What happened?”

“They penetrated outer security at the old railroad grade, made it as far as the second ring. They tripped the laser grid at the inner field.”

“You found out what they’re after? What they heard?”

“They heard nothing, sir. They got nothing.”

“You sure they never made it past the second ring?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Any comm devices on them?”

“No, sir. And none dropped. They came in deaf and dumb.”

Bullard nodded, his shock slowly giving way to rage. These two had insulted him. They’d damaged him.

He cast his eye toward the fat one, who—as it happened—didn’t look quite so fat anymore. “Hey, D’Agosta, you shed a few pounds? How’s the hard-on problem?”

No answer. The fuck was looking at him with hatred. Good. Let him hate.

“And the not-so-special agent. If that’s what you really are. Want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

No response.

“Didn’t get jack shit, did you?”

This was a waste of time. They hadn’t penetrated the second, let alone the third, ring of security, which meant they couldn’t have learned anything of value. Best thing now was to get rid of them. Sure, the feds would be all over the place tomorrow, but this was Italy, and he had friends in the Questura. He had five hundred acres in which to hide the bodies. They wouldn’t find shit.

One hand was in his trouser pocket, rolling around some euros. The hand fell on his pocketknife. He removed it, opened the nail file, began idly cleaning his nails. Without looking up, he asked: “Wife still doing the RV salesman, D’Agosta?”

“You’re a Johnny-one-note, you know that, Bullard? Makes me think you’ve had some problems along those lines yourself.”

Bullard felt a surge of rage, which he quickly mastered. He was going to kill them, but first D’Agosta was going to pay a little. He continued with his nails.

“Your hit man fucked up,” D’Agosta went on. “Too bad, him going the cyanide highway before he could implicate you. We’ll still see you get stuck with a conspiracy rap, though. You’ll do hard time. Hear me, Bullard? And once you’re safely in the Big House, I’ll personally make sure somebody makes you his number one bitch. Oh, you’ll make some skinhead a nice punk, Bullard.”

It was only through long practice that Bullard managed to keep his composure. So Vasquez hadn’t run off with the money. He’d taken the job and failed. Somehow, he’d failed.

He reminded himself it hardly mattered now.

He examined his work, closed the nail file, opened the long blade. He kept it razor-sharp for occasions just like this one. Who knew: he might even get some information.

He turned to one of his assistants. “Put his right hand on the table.”

While one guard grabbed D’Agosta’s face in a meaty paw and slammed it back against the wall, the other unmanacled one hand, jerked it forward, and pinned it to the table. The cop struggled briefly.

Bullard eyed the class ring on the hand. Some shitty P.S. in Queens, probably. “Play the piano, D’Agosta?”

No answer.

He swiped the knife down across D’Agosta’s right middle fingernail, splitting the tip of the finger.

D’Agosta jerked, gasped, pulling his finger free. Blood welled out from the wound: slowly at first, then faster. The man struggled wildly, but the guards regained a lock on him. Slowly, they forced the hand back into position against the table.

Bullard felt a flush of excitement.

“Son of a bitch!” D’Agosta groaned.

“You know what?” Bullard said. “I like this. I could do this all night.”

D’Agosta struggled against the guards.

“You’re CIA, aren’t you?”

D’Agosta groaned again.

“Answer me.”

“No, for chrissakes.”

“You.” He turned to Pendergast. “CIA? Answer me. Yes or no?”

“No. And you’re making an even larger mistake than you made earlier.”

“Sure I am.” Why was he bothering? And what difference did it make? These were the bastards who had humiliated him in front of the whole city. He felt rage seize him again, and—more carefully now—he took the knife and sliced it hard across the table, taking the tip off D’Agosta’s already damaged finger.

“Fuck!” D’Agosta screamed. “You bastard!”

Bullard stepped back, breathing hard. His palms were sweating; he wiped them on the sleeve of his jacket, took a fresh grip on the knife. Then he caught sight of the wall clock. It was already close to two. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in a minor distraction. He had something more important to do before dawn. Something much, much more important.

He turned back to his security chief. “Kill them. Then get rid of the bodies. Dump their weapons with them. Do it over at the old shafts. I don’t want any forensics left on the premises, especially not around the lab. You know what I mean: hair, blood, anything with DNA. Don’t even let them spit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You—,” began Pendergast, but Bullard spun around and landed a massive uppercut in his stomach. Pendergast doubled over.

“Gag them. Gag them both.”

The security men rammed balls of cloth into their mouths, then bound them tightly with duct tape.

“Blindfold them, too.”

“Yes, Mr. Bullard.”

Bullard looked at D’Agosta. “Remember how I promised to pay you back? Now your finger’s as short as your dick.”

D’Agosta struggled, making inarticulate sounds as the blindfold went on.

Bullard turned to his assistant, nodded at the table. “Clean up that mess. And then get the hell out of here.”

{ 55 }

Gagged and blindfolded, hands cuffed behind his back, D’Agosta was herded along by one of the two security men. He could hear the chink of Pendergast’s shackles beside him. They were moving through what seemed a long, damp underground passageway: the air stank of fungus, and he could feel the chill humidity soaking into his clothes. Or maybe it was his own sweat. His middle finger felt like it had been dipped in molten lead. It was pulsing in time to his heartbeat, the blood running freely down the small of his back.

There was something unreal about the whole situation. At any other time, the thought he’d just lost the end of a finger would be all-consuming. Yet right now only the pain itself registered. Everything had happened so quickly. Just hours before, he’d been relaxing in a luxurious suite. Just a few hours before, he’d been almost tearful at seeing his own native land at long last. And now here he was—a dirty cloth stuffed in his mouth, his eyes blindfolded, arms bound, being led to an execution-style death.

He couldn’t really believe he was about to die. And yet that was exactly what was going to happen unless either he or Pendergast could think of something. But they had been thoroughly searched. And Pendergast’s most powerful weapon—his tongue—had been silenced. It seemed impossible, unthinkable. And yet the fact was he had only minutes left to live.

He tried to force the sense of unreality away; tried to forget the searing pain; struggled to think of some last-minute escape, some way to turn the tables on the two men that were so matter-of-factly leading them off to their deaths. But there was nothing in his training, nothing even in the detective books he’d read or written, to give him a clue.

They paused, and D’Agosta heard the groan of rusty metal being forced open. Then he was shoved forward, and the trilling of crickets and the humid night air hit his nostrils. They were outside.

He was prodded forward by what was undoubtedly the barrel of a gun. Now they were walking on what felt through the soft shoes like a grassy trail. He could hear the rustling of leaves above his head. Such small, insignificant sensations—and yet they had suddenly grown unbearably precious to him.

“Christ,” said one of the men. “This dew is going to ruin my shoes. I just paid two hundred euros for them, handmade over in Panzano.”

The other chuckled. “Good luck getting another pair. That old geezer makes like one pair a month.”

“We always get the shit jobs.” As if to underscore this, the man gave D’Agosta another shove. “They’re soaked through already, goddamn it.”

D’Agosta found his thoughts stealing toward Laura Hayward. Would she shed a tear for him? It was strange, but the one thing he most wanted right now was to be able to tell her how he went out. He thought that would make it easier to bear, easier than just vanishing, than never knowing . . .

“A little shoe polish and they’ll be like new.”

“Once leather gets wet it’s never the same.”

“You and your fucking shoes.”

“If you paid two hundred euros, you’d be pissed, too.”

D’Agosta’s sense of unreality grew. He tried to embrace the throbbing pain in his finger, because as long as he could feel that, he knew he was still alive. What he feared was when the pain ended . . .

Just a few more minutes now. He took a step forward, another, then stumbled against something in the grass.

A slap to the side of the head. “Watch your step, asshole.”

The air had grown cooler, and there was a smell of earth and decaying leaves. He felt a terrible helplessness. The gag and blindfold robbed him of all ability to make eye contact with Pendergast, to signal, to do anything.

“The trail to the old quarry goes that way.”

There was a rustling, then a grunt. “Jesus, it’s overgrown in here.”

“Yeah, and watch where you put your feet.”

D’Agosta felt himself shoved forward once again. Now they were pushing through wet foliage.

“It’s right up ahead. There’s a lot of stones near the edge, don’t trip.” A guffaw. “It’s a long way down.”

More pushing through bushes and wet grass. Then D’Agosta felt himself brusquely halted.

“Another twenty feet,” his man said.

Silence. D’Agosta caught a whiff of something wet and cold—the exhalation of stale air from a deep mine shaft.

“One at a time. We don’t want to fuck this up. You go first. I’ll wait here with this one. And hurry up, I’m getting bitten already.”

D’Agosta heard Pendergast being pushed forward, heard the swish of wet footsteps through the undergrowth ahead. The first man had a tight hold on his cuffs, a gun barrel pushed hard into his ear. He should do something, he had to do something. But what? The slightest move and he was dead. He couldn’t believe what was happening. His mind refused to accept it. He realized that, deep down, he’d been certain Pendergast would manage to do something miraculous, pull another rabbit out of his hat. But the time for that was past. What could Pendergast do: gagged, blindfolded, a gun to his head, standing at the edge of a precipice? The last small bit of hope drained away.

“That’s far enough,” came the voice from about thirty feet away, slightly muffled by the foliage. It was the second man, speaking to Pendergast. D’Agosta caught another whiff of cold air from the mine shaft. Insects whined in his ear. His finger throbbed.

It really was over.

He heard the sound of a round being racked into a pistol chamber.

“Make your peace with God, scumbag.”

A pause. And then the sound of a gunshot, incredibly loud. Another pause—and then from far below, echoing up the shaft in a distorted way, the sound of a heavy object hitting water.

There was a longer silence, and then the man’s voice came back, a little breathless. “Okay. Bring up the other one.”

{ 56 }

Three A.M.

Locke Bullard stood in the enormous, vaulted salone 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 salone. 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 salone. 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 salone. 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.”

{ 58 }

Harriman strolled past the Plaza Hotel and into Central Park, breathing in the crisp air with relish. It was a glorious fall evening, the golden light tinting the leaves above his head. Squirrels ran around gathering nuts; mothers pushed babies in strollers; groups of bicyclists and Rollerbladers glided past on South Park Drive.

His piece on Buck had run in the morning edition, and Ritts had loved it. The phones had been ringing all day, fax machines humming, reader e-mails flowing in. Once again, he’d touched a chord.

On this glorious evening, Bryce Harriman strolled northward, back to the site of his earlier triumph, in search of fresh glory. What was needed now was an interview with the good Reverend Buck himself—a Post exclusive. And if anyone could get that exclusive, he could.

As he came around the back of the Central Park Zoo and passed the old arsenal, he stopped in surprise. There was a tent here, an old canvas tent, pitched in the overgrown area just north of 65th Street along the Fifth Avenue side. As he walked up a small rise, more tents came into view. He crested the rise to find a veritable tent city spread before him, the smoke from dozens of fires rising into the autumn air.

Harriman paused, surprise changing to a glow of satisfaction. He had done this. He had kept the story alive, identified a leader, kept the people coming. And now this.

He moved into the outskirts of the camp. Some people, especially the numerous high school and college-aged kids, were wrapped only in newspapers; others had sleeping bags of various makes and colors; still others had makeshift tents made of sheets held up by sticks. A few had fancy tents from North Face and Antarctica Ltd.—trust fund brats from Scarsdale and Short Hills, probably.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of cops along the Fifth Avenue wall, eyeing the situation. And to his left were more cops, just standing around, keeping a low profile. No wonder: there must be five hundred people camped in here.

He wandered into the encampment and down a makeshift alley between rows of tents. It was almost like a Depression-era shantytown, little narrow lanes built among the woodsy hollows and exposed rock faces: cooking fires, people sitting around on quilts and blankets drinking coffee. Here and there people were arriving with backpacks and setting up more tents. It had to extend at least to 70th Street: four square blocks of parkland. It was incredible. Had anything like this happened in New York before? Quickly, he got out his cell phone and ordered up a pool photographer.

Harriman then stopped to ask directions and within minutes had located Buck’s tent: a large army-surplus job near the camp’s center. Just inside, he could make out Buck himself, seated at a card table and writing. He was a curiously dignified figure, and Harriman was reminded of old pictures he’d seen of Civil War generals. He hoped that damn photographer would hurry up.

As Harriman approached the entrance to the tent, a young man cut him off. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Buck.”

“A lot of people are here to see the reverend. He’s busy, can’t be disturbed.”

“I’m Harriman from the Post.”

“And I’m Todd from Levittown.” The aide-de-camp stood firm, blocking the way, a kind of dreamy, supercilious smile on his face.

No asshole like a born-again asshole, Harriman thought. He glanced beyond the self-appointed guardian to Buck, working at his card table, ignoring them. What was that he saw, taped to the inside wall of the tent? A row of articles clipped from the Post. His articles. He felt emboldened.

“The reverend will want to see me.” He pushed past the fellow, ducked into the tent, and strode over to Buck, hand extended. “Reverend Buck?”

The man rose. “And you are—?”

“Harriman from the Post.”

“He just barged in, Reverend—,” the aide-de-camp began.

But a slow smile was spreading across Buck’s face. “Harriman. It’s all right, Todd, I’ve been expecting this gentleman.”

Deflated, Todd retreated to a corner of the tent, while Buck shook the extended hand. Seen up close, he looked shorter than he did while preaching. He wore a simple checked short-sleeved shirt and a pair of chinos: no blow-dried helmet of hair or polyester suits for this preacher. His forearms were meaty and one sported a tattoo. His handshake was a crusher. Ex-prison, guessed Harriman.

“You’ve been waiting for me?” he asked.

Buck nodded. “I knew you’d come.”

“You did?”

“It’s all part of the plan. Won’t you sit down?”

Harriman took a plastic seat at the card table and removed his microcassette recorder. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

Harriman turned it on, tested it, set it carefully on the table. “Perhaps we should begin with this plan of yours. Tell me about it.”

Buck smiled indulgently. “I was referring to God’s plan.”

“Right. Okay. Which is?”

Buck spread his hands. “What you see all around you. I am nothing, just one flawed human trying my best to fulfill God’s plan. You, Mr. Harriman, whether you know it or not, are a part of that plan, too. An important part, as it turns out. Your articles have swelled this crowd, brought people together—those with ears to hear and eyes to witness.”

“Witness what?”

“The rapture.”

“Excuse me?”

“God’s promise to his followers in the End Days. When the faithful will be lifted into heaven while the wicked sink into filth and fire.” Buck hesitated briefly. And in that hesitation, Harriman detected a flash—just a flash—of nervousness. Perhaps the man was a little scared at what he’d unleashed.

“What makes you think the End Days are here?”

“God sent me a sign. It was your article in the newspaper, the article on the deaths of Grove and Cutforth, that first brought me here all the way from Yuma, Arizona.”

“And just who are all these people camped around you?”

“The saved, Mr. Harriman. Out there are the damned. Which are you?”

Harriman was taken aback by the suddenness of the question. Buck was eyeing him with an almost Rasputin-like intensity.

“Does it matter?” Harriman laughed weakly.

“Does it matter whether you spend eternity boiling in a lake of fire or lying sweetly in the lap of Jesus? Because the time has come to make a choice. These awful deaths have made that clear. No more sitting on the fence, wondering where the truth is. This question enters everyone’s life at some point, and now that life-changing decision has suddenly, without warning, come to you. Remember Paul’s Epistle to the Romans: There is none righteous, no, not one . . . For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God. You must repent and be born again in the love of Jesus. You can wait no longer. So, Mr. Harriman: are you saved, or are you damned?”

Buck waited for a reply.

Harriman felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. The guy was really waiting for an answer, and it was clear he wouldn’t go on until he got one. What was he going to reply? Sure, he’d always considered himself a Christian, sort of—but not a Bible-thumping, proselytizing Christian.

“I’m still working it out,” he finally said. How had he allowed Buck to set the agenda like this? Who was in charge of this interview, anyway?

“What’s there to work out? The decision is simple. Remember what Jesus said to the wealthy man who desired eternal life: Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor . . . For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle’s eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. Are you ready to give away your earthly goods, Mr. Harriman, and join me? Or will you walk away, like that rich man in the Gospel of Luke?”

Harriman thought about this. Had Jesus really said that? Something must have been lost in the translation.

Maybe another tack would break this impasse. “So when, Reverend, is all this going to happen?”

“If everybody knew when the Day of Judgment would dawn, we’d have a whole lot of converts the night before. It will come when the world least expects it.”

“But you expect it. And very soon.”

“Yes. Because God has sent his faithful a sign, and that sign was the death that took place right across the street.”

Harriman noted that the group of policemen in the distance had grown a little bigger. They were talking and taking notes. He realized abruptly this little Shangri-La wasn’t going to last. If Christ didn’t come soon, the police would. You couldn’t have hundreds of people shitting in the bushes of Central Park forever. And come to think of it, there was an odd smell wafting on the air . . .

“What will you do if the police move in to evict you?” he asked.

Buck paused, his face betraying another fleeting glimpse of uncertainty, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. The serene expression returned.

“God will be my guide, Mr. Harriman. God will be my guide.”

{ 59 }

D’Agosta heard the sirens first, shattering the peace of the Tuscan countryside with their dissonant two-note ditty. Next came the headlights of two vehicles speeding around a nearby hill and sweeping up the drive. They ground to a halt before the villa with an audible spray of gravel. Police lights cartwheeled across the ceiling of the salone.

Pendergast rose from his crouch. The tweezers that had magically appeared from his clothing just as magically disappeared.

He glanced at D’Agosta. “Shall we retire to the chapel? We wouldn’t want these good gentlemen to think we’ve been tampering with their crime site.”

D’Agosta, still gripped with fear and dread, nodded dumbly. The chapel. That seemed like a good idea. A really good idea.

The chapel was in the traditional location at the far end of the salone, a tiny but exquisite Baroque room which could fit little more than a priest and half a dozen family members. There didn’t seem to be any electric lights, so Pendergast lit a votive candle in a red glass holder, and they settled on the hard wooden benches to wait.

Almost immediately there was the sound of a door booming open; boots echoing in the downstairs hall; police radios blaring. D’Agosta was still holding his cross, his eyes on the small marble altar. The candle gave out a flickering reddish glow, and the air was redolent with frankincense and myrrh. He resisted the impulse to go down on his knees. He reminded himself he was a policeman, this was a crime scene, and the idea that the devil had come and claimed Bullard’s soul was ridiculous.

And yet, in the perfumed darkness, it didn’t feel the least bit ridiculous. His hand shook as it clutched the cross.

Now the carabinieri burst into the salone. D’Agosta heard a gasp; some muffled expostulations of shock; what sounded like a prayer being quickly intoned. Then came the familiar sounds of a crime scene being secured and floodlights being set up. A moment later the room beyond was bathed in almost unbearably bright light. A beam lanced into the chapel, striking the marble Christ behind the altar and setting it aglow.

A man appeared in the doorway, casting a long shadow. He was dressed, not in uniform, but in a tailored gray suit, a couple of gold leaves on his lapel signifying rank. He paused, staring. To D’Agosta, he seemed no more than an outline, framed in brilliant light, a short-barreled 9mm Beretta Parabellum in his hand.

“Rimanete seduti, mani in alto, per cortesìa,” he said calmly.

“Remain seated, hands in view,” translated Pendergast. “We’re policemen—”

“Tacete!”

D’Agosta suddenly remembered they were dressed in black, their faces still half painted. God only knew what this police officer was thinking.

The man advanced, gun in hand, not exactly aimed at them but not quite aimed away, either. “Who are you?” he asked in lightly-accented English.

“Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States of America.” Pendergast’s wallet was in his hand, and it fell open to reveal his shield on one side, his ID on the other.

“And you?”

“Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta, Southampton Police Department, FBI liaison. We’re—”

“Basta.” The man stepped forward. He reached for Pendergast’s wallet, looked at the badge, the ID card. “Are you the one who called in the homicide?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“We are investigating a series of murders in the United States, which that man”—Pendergast nodded out into the great room—“was connected to.”

“Mafiosi?”

“No.”

The man looked visibly relieved. “You know the identity of the deceased?”

“Locke Bullard.”

The man handed back the wallet, gestured at their outfits. “Are these the newest uniforms among the FBI?”

“It’s a long story, Colonnello.”

“How did you get here?”

“You will find our car—if you haven’t already—in the olive grove across the street. A black Fiat Stylo. I will, of course, prepare a formal report for you on all the particulars: who we are, why we’re here. Some of it is already on file at the Questura.”

“God, no. No reports. It is so inconvenient when facts get written down. At the proper time, we will talk about it over an espresso, like civilized human beings.” The man moved out of the glaring backlight. For the first time, D’Agosta could see his features: prominent cheekbones, cleft chin, and deep-set eyes. He was about sixty, and he moved with a stiff military bearing, his graying hair brushed back, restless eyes taking in everything.

“I am Colonnello Orazio Esposito. Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier.” He shook their hands. “Who is your liaison at the Questura?”

“Commissario Simoncini.”

“I see. And what do you make of this . . .” He nodded again toward the great room. “This . . . casino?”

“It is the third in a series of murders, the first two of which took place in New York.”

A cynical smile grew on Esposito’s face. “I can see we’re going to have quite a lot to talk about, Special Agent Pendergast. Listen. There is a nice little caffè in Borgo Ognissanti, just two doors down from the church and very near our headquarters. Shall we meet there at eight this morning? Unofficially, of course.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“And now it would be better if you leave. We’ll make no note of your presence in the official report. To have the American FBI reporting a crime on Italian soil . . .” His smile broadened. “It just wouldn’t do.”

He briskly shook their hands and turned on his heel, crossing himself so rapidly as he passed the altar D’Agosta wasn’t sure if he had done it at all.

{ 60 }

D’Agosta had seen a lot of police headquarters in his time, but the so-called barracks of the carabinieri in Florence beat them all. It wasn’t a barracks at all, but rather a decaying Renaissance building—D’Agosta thought it was Renaissance, anyway—facing a narrow medieval street. It was huddled up beside the famous Ognissanti Church, its gray limestone facade streaked with dirt, every ledge and projection covered with needle-like spikes to ward off pigeons. Florence itself was nothing like what he’d imagined: even in the warm, mid-October light, the city seemed austere, its crooked streets always in shadow, the rough-cut stone facades of its buildings almost grim. The air smelled of diesel fumes, and the impossibly narrow sidewalks were clogged with slow-moving tourists dressed in floppy hats and khaki shorts, with packs on their backs and water bottles strapped to their waists, as if they were on an expedition into the Sahara rather than walking around perhaps the most civilized city in the world.

They had met the colonnello in the nearby café, as planned, and Pendergast had quickly brought him up to speed on their investigation—omitting, D’Agosta noticed, certain small but critical details. Now they were following him back to his office, single file, fighting a steady stream of Japanese tourists coming in the opposite direction.

The colonnello turned into the grand arched entryway of the barracks, over which hung a limp Italian flag—the first D’Agosta had seen since arriving in Italy. They passed through a colonnaded corridor and into a vast interior courtyard. Once elegant, the courtyard itself had been turned into a parking lot and was wall-to-wall with police vans and cars, packed together with such mathematical precision it seemed impossible to move one without moving them all. The windows looking down on the courtyard were all open, and from them issued a continuous clamor of ringing telephones, voices, and slamming doors, magnified and distorted by the confined space.

They turned into another vaulted corridor lined with stone pillars—the crumbling remains of religious frescoes still visible—past a battered statue of a saint; then up a massive flight of stone stairs and into a warren of modern cubicles constructed haphazardly out of what had once been a single pillared room.

“The caserma,” said Esposito as they walked, “was once the monastery connected to the Ognissanti Church. That large room is the secretarial pool, and beyond”—he waved his hand at a series of small but massive oaken doors giving onto tiny offices—“are the work spaces of the officers, built in the former cells of the monks.”

They turned a corner and proceeded down yet another vaulted corridor. “The refectory, where the monks used to eat, has an important fresco by Ghirlandaio that nobody ever sees.”

“Indeed.”

“Here in Italy, we make do with what we have.”

Reaching the far end of the corridor, they went up another flight of stairs. From the landing, they passed through what D’Agosta realized must have once been a secret door in the wall; mounted a tiny circular staircase; passed through crowded rooms smelling of mold and overheated fax machines—and then suddenly arrived at a small, grimy door bearing nothing but a number. Here Esposito stopped with a smile. Then he pushed the door open and ushered them in.

D’Agosta stepped into a light-flooded room that ended in a wall of glassed-in columns and arches. Beyond lay a sweeping view southward, over the Arno River. Almost despite himself, he was drawn toward the view.

From above, finally, Florence looked like he had imagined it: a city of church domes and towers, red-tile roofs, gardens, and piazze, surrounded by steep green hills covered with fairy-tale castles. There was the Ponte Vecchio and the Pitti Palace; the Boboli Gardens; the dome of San Frediano in Cestello; and, beyond, the hill of Bellosguardo. It was a moment before he could shift his attention back to the room itself.

It was large and open, filled with rows of old mahogany desks. The floor, polished by five hundred years of feet, was inlaid in a striking array of colored marbles, and on the stuccoed walls hung giant paintings of old men in armor. There was a tense air in the room, and a number of men in suits at the desks were glancing nervously in their direction. The killing—and its bizarre particulars especially—were clearly on everyone’s mind.

“Welcome to the Nucleo Investigativo, the elite unit of the carabinieri of which I am in charge. We investigate the major crimes.” Esposito looked at D’Agosta sideways. “Is this your first visit to Italy, Sergeant D’Agosta?”

“It is.”

“And how do you find it?”

“It’s . . . not quite what I expected.”

He could see a faint look of amusement in the man’s eyes. Esposito’s hand swept over the skyline. “Beautiful, no?”

“From up here.”

“The Florentines . . .” He rolled his eyes. “They live in the past. They believe they created everything beautiful in the world—art, science, music, literature—and that is enough. Why do anything more? They’ve been resting on their laurels for four hundred years. Where I grew up we have a saying: Nun cagnà ‘a via vecchia p’a nova, ca saie chello che lasse, nun saie chello ca trouve.”

“Don’t live in the past—you will know what you’ve lost but not what you’ve found?” D’Agosta asked.

Esposito went still. Then he smiled. “Your family is originally from Naples?”

D’Agosta nodded.

“This is remarkable. And you actually speak Neapolitan?”

“I thought I grew up speaking Italian.”

Esposito laughed. “This is not the first time I have heard of this happening. You are fortunate, Sergeant, to speak a beautiful and ancient language no longer taught in any school. Anyone can learn Italian, but only a real man can speak napolitano. I myself am from Naples. Impossible to work there, of course, but a marvelous place to live.”

“Si suonne Napele viato a tte,” D’Agosta said.

Esposito looked even more astonished. “‘Blessed be you if you dream of Naples.’ What a lovely saying. I’ve never heard it before.”

“When I was a little boy, my grandmother used to whisper that in my ear every time she kissed me good night.”

“And did you ever dream of Naples?”

“I sometimes dreamed of a city that I thought was Naples, but I’m sure it was all my imagination. I’ve never been there.”

“Then don’t go. Live in your dreams: they are always so much better.” He turned to Pendergast. “And now—as you Americans say—to business.”

He led them to a small sitting area in a far corner of the room, couches and chairs positioned around an old stone table. Esposito waved his hand. “Caffè per noi, per favore.”

In moments, a woman appeared with a tray of tiny cups of espresso. Esposito took one, tossed it back, then drank a second just as quickly. He slipped out a pack of cigarettes, offered them around.

“Ah, you Americans never smoke.” He took one himself, lit it, exhaled. “This morning, between seven and eight, I received sixteen telephone calls—one from the American Embassy in Rome, five from the American Consulate on the Lungarno, one from the U.S. State Department, two from the New York Times, one from the Washington Post, one from the Chinese Embassy in Rome, and five from various unpleasant people in Mr. Bullard’s company.” He looked up, eyes twinkling. “Given that, and what you told me just now in the café, it’s clear this Bullard was an important man.”

“You didn’t know him?” Pendergast asked.

“By reputation only.” Inhale, exhale. “My colleagues at the polizia have a file on him already, which naturally they will not share with us.”

“I could supply you with far more on Bullard, but it would do you no good. The information will only distract you, as it did me.”

Esposito turned to the two carabinieri who were whispering together behind him. “Basta’ cù stì fessarie! Mettiteve à faticà! Marònna meja, chist’ so propri’ sciem’!”

D’Agosta suppressed a laugh. “I understood that.”

“I didn’t,” said Pendergast.

“He was just telling those men in, ah, Neapolitan, ‘Cut the bullshit and get back to work.’”

“My men are foolish and superstitious. Half of them believe this to be the work of the devil. The other half think it the work of some secret society. As you know, Florentine nobility is rife with them.” Inhale, exhale. “It appears to me, Mr. Pendergast, that we have a joker on our hands.”

“On the contrary, our killer could not be more serious.”

“But all this—chest è ‘nà scena rò diavulo? Come, now. All this may scare my men half to death, but you?”

“I assure you there is a most purposeful design here.”

“I see you already have a theory as to what happened to Mr. Bullard. Perhaps you will be kind enough to share it with me?” The colonnello leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “After all, I’ve already done you an enormous favor by not reporting your presence at the scene of the crime. Otherwise, you would be filling out paperwork from now until Christmas.”

“I am grateful,” said Pendergast. “But for now, there’s little more I can tell you than what I mentioned last night. We’re investigating two mysterious deaths that took place recently in New York State. Locke Bullard was a possible suspect. At the very least, he was involved in some extremely shady dealings. But as it happens, his own death patterns the first two.”

“I see. And do you have any ideas? Conjectures?”

“It would be unwise for me to answer that question. And you wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“Va be’. Well then, what now?” He leaned back, picked up yet another cup of espresso, and tossed it back like a Russian tosses back a shot of vodka.

“I would like you to do a search of all deaths in Italy over the past year in which the body was found burned or partially burned.”

Esposito smiled. “Another favor . . .” He let his voice trail off into a cloud of smoke. “Here in Italy, we believe in the principle of reciprocation. I would like you to tell me, Mr. Pendergast, what you will be doing for me.”

Pendergast leaned forward. “Colonnello, all I can say is, one way or another I will return the favor.”

Esposito gazed at him for a moment, stubbed out his cigarette. “Well then. You’re looking for a burned corpse in Italy.” He laughed. “That would involve half the homicides in the South. The Mafia, Camorra, Cosa Nostra, the Sardinians—burning their victims after killing them is a time-honored tradition.”

“We can safely eliminate homicides related to organized crime, family or business feuds, or any for which you’ve already caught the killer. We’re looking for one that is isolated, perhaps an older person, probably rural.”

D’Agosta stared at Pendergast. What was he driving at? There was an eager glint in his eyes. He was clearly hot on some trail and, as usual, wasn’t sharing it with anyone.

“That will narrow things down tremendously,” said Esposito. “I’ll get someone on it right away. It might take a day or two—we are not nearly as computerized as your FBI.”

“I am most grateful.” Pendergast rose and shook Esposito’s hand.

The policeman leaned forward and said, “Quann’ ‘o diavulo t’accarezza, vo’ll’ànema.”

As they exited into the sun, Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “I find that I need to call on you again for a translation.”

D’Agosta grinned. “It’s an old Neapolitan proverb. You need a strong heart to resist the devil’s caresses.”

“Appropriate.” Pendergast inhaled. “What a fine day. Shall we go sightseeing?”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“I hear Cremona is lovely this time of year.”

{ 61 }

D’Agosta stepped out of the Cremona train station into the warm sunlight of late morning. A wind had sprung up and was shaking the leaves of the plane trees in the broad piazza that lay before them. Beyond was the old part of the city, a cheerful medieval jumble of red-brick buildings rising from a maze of narrow streets. Pendergast chose one of these—the Corso Garibaldi—and began striding down it quickly, his black suit coat flapping behind him in the stiff wind.

With a sigh of resignation, D’Agosta hastened to keep up. He noticed the agent hadn’t bothered to consult a map. Pendergast had spent most of the train ride talking about the history of the nearby marble quarries at Carrara, and the extraordinary coincidence that the source of the purest white marble in the world was located only a few dozen miles downriver from the birthplace of the Renaissance, giving the Florentine sculptors options other than black or green marble. He had deftly deflected D’Agosta’s inquiries as to the reason why sightseeing had taken them here.

“Now what?” D’Agosta asked, sounding a little more irritated than he intended.

“Coffee.” Pendergast swerved into a café and approached the zinc bar. D’Agosta felt his irritation swell.

“Due caffè, per favore,” Pendergast said.

“Since when did coffee become your favorite drink? I thought you were a green-tea man.”

“Usually, yes. But when in Rome—or Cremona, as the case may be . . .”

The coffees arrived, in the usual tiny espresso cups. Pendergast stirred his, tossed it down in the Italian manner. D’Agosta drank his more slowly, catching Pendergast’s eye. There it was again: that look of eagerness.

“My dear Vincent, please don’t think I’m being intentionally mysterious. In certain kinds of police work, there can be great danger in propounding theories. They take on a life of their own. They are like wearing colored spectacles, becoming the truth we see even when it is wrong. So I hesitate to bandy theories—especially with someone whose judgment I respect as much as yours—until I have proof in hand. That is why I have not asked for your theories, either.”

“I don’t have any theories.”

“You will, before the day is up.” He tossed a two-euro coin on the counter, and they went out. “Our first stop is the Palazzo Comunale, a fine example of medieval civic architecture, containing a notable marble chimneypiece by Pedoni.”

“Heck, I’ve always wanted to see that chimneypiece.”

Pendergast smiled.

A ten-minute walk brought them to the heart of the city and a crooked piazza. On one side stood an enormous cathedral with a soaring tower. Pendergast gestured at it as they passed. “That is said to be the tallest medieval tower in Italy. Built in the thirteenth century, the height of a thirty-three-story skyscraper.”

“Amazing.”

“And here is the Palazzo Comunale.” They entered a massive, unadorned medieval palace built of brick. A guard nodded at them as they passed the entrance, and D’Agosta wondered if it was Pendergast’s air of utter self-confidence, or something else, that allowed them such easy entry. He followed Pendergast up a flight of stairs and down several stone corridors to a small, barren room. A glass case stood in its center, and an enormous Venetian glass chandelier hung from above, bristling with lightbulbs and giving the room the brilliance of a movie set. An armed guard stood nearby.

In the glass case were six violins.

“Ah!” said Pendergast. “Here we are: the Saletta dei Violini.”

“Violins?”

“Not just any violins. What we are looking at is the history of the violin, in one case. Which is, in microcosm, a history of music.”

“I see,” said D’Agosta, letting a note of sarcasm creep into his voice. Pendergast would, eventually, get to the point.

“The first one, there, was made by Andrea Amati in 1566. You’ll recall the violin Constance plays is also an Amati, though very much inferior to these. Those two beside it are by his sons; that one by his grandson. That next was built by Giuseppe Guarneri in 1689.” Pendergast paused. “And that last one was made by Antonio Stradivari in 1715.”

“As in Stradivarius?”

“The world’s most celebrated violinmaker. He invented the modern violin and during his lifetime made eleven hundred, of which about six hundred survive. Although all his instruments remain among the greatest ever made, there was a period when he made a string of violins that had a most gloriously perfect tone—perhaps twenty or thirty. We call that his golden period.”

“Okay.”

“Stradivari was a man of many secrets. To this day, no one has ever solved the mystery of how he made such perfect violins. He kept his methods and formulas in his head, never wrote them down. He passed these priceless trade secrets on to his two sons, who took over his workshop, but when they died, all Stradivari’s secrets died with them. Ever since, people have been trying to duplicate his violins. A number of scientists have tried to re-create his secret formulas. But to this day, Stradivari’s secret has never been cracked.”

“They must be worth a lot of dough.”

“Not so long ago you could buy a good Strad for fifty or a hundred thousand dollars. But the market for violins has been ruined by the super-rich. Now a top Strad can fetch ten million or more.”

“No shit.”

“The best are priceless, especially those made during his golden period. In those instruments, he got the formula just right. Nobody really knows why. It’s quite humbling, Vincent, to realize we can land a spaceship on Mars, we can build a machine to perform a trillion calculations a second, we can split the nucleus of the atom—but we still cannot make a better violin than could a man puttering around in a simple workshop three centuries ago.”

“Well, he was Italian.”

Pendergast laughed quietly. “One of the beautiful things about a Strad is that it has to be played in order to maintain its tone. It’s alive. If you leave it in a case, it loses its tone and dies.”

“What about these?”

“They are taken out and played at least once a week. Cremona is still the center of violinmaking, and there are many eager volunteers.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, turned. “And now, for the real reason we came to Cremona. Stick close behind me, please, and don’t get lost.”

Pendergast led the way through a maze of back passages and narrow staircases to a side alley behind the palazzo. There they paused at least a minute while Pendergast made a careful inspection of the alley and surrounding buildings. Then, moving very quickly, he led D’Agosta through a winding series of ever more tortuous medieval streets, the ancient brick and stone buildings crowding in above. Some of the streets were so narrow they were dark despite the midday sun. Now and then, Pendergast would duck into a doorway or side alley and make another visual scan.

“What’s up?” D’Agosta asked at one point.

“Just caution, Vincent; habitual caution.”

They finally arrived at a street so narrow it could hardly admit a bicycle. It twisted into a dead end at what appeared to be a deserted shopfront, a plate-glass window rudely affixed to a medieval stone arch. The plate glass was cracked and taped and opaque with dirt. A metal grate had been fitted and locked over the front, where it seemed to have rusted in place.

Pendergast slid his hand through the grate and pulled a string. There was a small tinkle in the shop beyond.

“Would it compromise your investigation completely if you told me who we’re visiting now?”

“This is the laboratory and workshop of il dottor Luigi Spezi, one of the world’s foremost experts on Stradivari violins. He is a bit of a Renaissance man himself, being a scientist and engineer as well as a fine musician. His re-creations of the Stradivari violins are among the best in the world. But I warn you: he is known to be a little cranky.”

Pendergast pulled again, and a voice rumbled from the back. “Non lo voglio. Va’ via!”

Pendergast rang again, insistently.

A gray shape materialized behind the glass: an enormous, stooped man in a leather apron with long gray hair and a gray mustache. He waved both hands at Pendergast in a shooing motion. “Che cazz’! Via, ho detto!”

Pendergast took out a business card, wrote a single word on the back, and slipped it through the mail slot in the door. It fluttered to the floor. The man picked it up, read the back, and went very still for a moment. He looked up at Pendergast, looked down at the card—and then began the laborious process of unlocking the door and raising the grate. Within a minute, they had stooped beneath the arch and were standing in his shop.

D’Agosta looked around curiously. The walls of the shop were almost completely covered with the hanging bellies, backplates, and purflings of violins in various stages of carving. It had a pleasant smell of wood, sawdust, varnish, oil, and glue.

The man stared at Pendergast as if he were staring at a ghost. He was wearing a dirty leather apron, and he removed a pair of sawdust-covered glasses in order to peer at the agent more closely.

“So, Aloysius Pendergast, Ph.D.,” he said in almost flawless English. “You have gotten my attention. What is it you want?”

“Is there a place where we can talk?”

They followed him through the confines of the narrow shop—perhaps eight feet wide—to a much larger space in the back. Spezi indicated for them to sit on a long bench. He himself perched against the corner of a worktable, folded his hands, and stared.

In the rear wall, D’Agosta could see a stainless-steel door, grossly out of place, with a single small window. On the far side of the window was a gleaming white laboratory, racks of computer equipment and CRTs bathed in unpleasant fluorescent light.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dottor Spezi,” Pendergast said. “I know you are a very busy man, and I can assure you we will not waste your time.”

The man bowed his head, mollified slightly.

“This is my associate, Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta of the Southampton Police Department, New York.”

“Very pleased.” The man leaned forward and shook his hand. He had a surprisingly strong grip. Then he sat back again and waited.

“I propose an exchange of information,” Pendergast said.

“As you wish.”

“You tell me what you know of Stradivari’s secret formulas. I will tell you what I know of the existence of the violin mentioned on my card. Naturally, I will keep your information secret. I will write nothing down and speak to no one about it, except to my associate, who is a man of complete discretion.”

D’Agosta watched the man’s deep pale eyes stare back at them. He appeared to be thinking about, perhaps even struggling with, the proposal. Finally he nodded curtly.

“Very well, then,” said Pendergast. “I wonder if you could answer some questions about your work.”

“Yes, but first: the violin. How in the world—?”

“First things first. Tell me, Dottore—since I am a man who knows nothing about violins—tell me what makes the sound of a Stradivarius so perfect?”

The man seemed to relax, evidently realizing he was not dealing with a spy or competitor. “This is no secret. I would characterize it as very lively. It is an interesting sound. On top of that, it has a combination of darkness and brilliance, a balance between high and low frequencies—a tone that is rich but as pure and sweet as honey. Of course, each Strad sounds different—some have a fatter tone, others are lean, even harsh; some are thin and quite disappointing. Some have been repaired and rebuilt so many times they can hardly be called original. Only six Strads, for example, retain their original necks. When you drop a violin, it’s always the neck that breaks. But there are about ten or twenty that sound almost perfect.”

“Why?”

At this, the man smiled. “That, of course, is the question.” He rose, went to the steel door, unlocked it, and swung it open, revealing two hard-disk recording workstations and racks of digital samplers, compressors, and limiters. The walls and ceiling were covered with acoustic foam paneling.

They followed him in, and he shut and locked the door behind them. Then he switched on an amplifier, pulled up the faders on a nearby mixing console. A low hum began to sound from the reference speakers set high in the walls.

“The first really scientific test done on a Stradivarius was performed about fifty years ago. They hooked a sound generator to the bridge of a violin and had it vibrate the instrument. Then they measured how the violin vibrated in return. An absurd test, really, because it has nothing to do with the way a violin is played. But even such a crude test showed the Strad gave back an extraordinary response in the two-thousand-to-four-thousand-hertz range—which, not at all coincidentally, happens to be the range of sound that the human ear is most sensitive to. Later, high-speed computers allowed real-time processing of a Strad being played. Let me give you an example.”

He turned to one of the digital samplers, used an attached keyboard to select an audio sample, sent the output to the mixer. The sweet sound of a violin filled the room.

“This is Jascha Heifetz playing the cadenza of Beethoven’s violin concerto on the Messiah Stradivarius.”

A complex series of dancing lines appeared on a monitor sitting behind the mixer. Spezi pointed at them.

“That is a frequency analysis from thirty to thirty thousand hertz. Look at the richness of the low-frequency sounds! They give the violin its darkness, its sonority. And in the two thousand to four thousand range I mentioned, see how lively and robust it is. This is what fills the concert hall with sound.”

D’Agosta wondered what any of this had to do with Bullard or the murders. He also wondered what Pendergast had written on the business card the man was still clutching in one fist. Whatever it was, it had clearly made this man remarkably cooperative.

“And these are the high frequencies. Look how they leap and flicker, like the flame of a candle. It’s these transients that give the Strad that breathing, trembling tone, so delicate and fleeting.”

Pendergast inclined his head. “So, Dottore—what’s the secret?”

Spezi reached for the sampler and the music stopped. “There is no one secret. It was a whole catalog of secrets, some of which we’ve cracked, others we haven’t. For example, we know exactly what kind of architecture Stradivari used. With computerized tomography, we can map a Strad perfectly in three dimensions. We know all there is to know about Stradivari’s designs for the belly, backplate, purfling, f-holes—everything. We also know just what types of wood he used. We can make a perfect copy.”

He turned to one of the computers, typed again, and the image of a beautiful violin appeared on its screen. “There it is. An absolutely perfect copy of the Harrison Strad, down to the very nicks and scratches. It took me almost half a year, back in the early eighties, to complete.” He glanced over at them with a mirthless smile. “It sounds dreadful. The real secret, you see, was in the chemistry. Specifically, the recipe for the solution Stradivari soaked his wood in, and the recipe for his varnish. This has been the thrust of my research ever since.”

“And?”

The man hesitated. “I don’t know why I am inclined to trust you, but I do. The wood Stradivari used was cut in the foothills of the Apennines and dumped green into the Po or Adige Rivers, floated downstream, and stored in brackish lagoons near Venice. This was purely for convenience, but it did something critical to the wood—it opened up its pores. Stradivari purchased the wood wet. He did not season it. Instead, he soaked it further in a solution of his own making—as far as I can deduce, a combination of borax, sea salt, fruit gum, quartz and other minerals, and ground, colored Venetian glass. He soaked it for months, perhaps years, while it absorbed these chemicals. What did they do to the wood? Amazing, complex, miraculous things! First, they preserved it. The borax made the wood tighter, harder, stiffer. The ground quartz and glass prevented the violin from being eaten by woodworms—but it also filled in the air spaces and gave it a brilliance and clarity of tone. The fruit gum caused subtle changes and acted as a fungicide. Of course, the real secret lies in the proportions—and those, Signor Pendergast, I will not tell you.”

Pendergast nodded.

“Over the years, I’ve made hundreds of violins from wood treated this way, experimenting with the ratios and the length of time in solution. The resulting instruments had a big, brilliant sound. But it was a harsh sound. Something was needed to dampen the vibrations, the overtones.”

He paused. “Here is where the true genius of Stradivari comes in. He found that in his secret varnish.”

He moused up the computer screen, clicked through a few menus. A new image appeared in black and white, a landscape of incredible ruggedness, looking to D’Agosta like some vast mountain range.

“Here is the varnish of a Stradivarius under a scanning electron microscope, 30,000x. As you can see, it is not the smooth, hard layer it seems to the naked eye. Instead, there are billions of microscopic cracks. When the violin is played, these cracks absorb and dampen the harsh vibrations and resonances, allowing only the purest, clearest tone to escape. That’s the true secret to Stradivari’s violins. The problem is, the varnish he used was an incredibly complex chemical solution, involving boiled insects and other organic and inorganic sources. It has defied all analysis—and we have so little of it to test. You can’t strip the varnish off a Strad—removing even a little will ruin a violin. You’d need to destroy an entire instrument to get enough varnish to analyze it properly. Even then, you couldn’t use one of his inferior violins. Those were experimental, and the varnish recipe changed many times. No—you’d have to destroy one from the golden period. Not only that, but you’d need to cut into the wood and analyze the chemistry of the solution he soaked them in as well as the interface between the varnish and the wood. For all these reasons, we have not been able to figure out exactly how he did it.”

He leaned back. “Another problem. Even if you had all his secret recipes, you still might fail. Stradivari, knowing all that we don’t, managed to make some mediocre violins. There were other factors to making a great violin, some apparently even beyond his control—such as the particular qualities of the piece of wood he used.”

Pendergast nodded.

“And that, Mr. Pendergast, is all I can tell you.” The man’s face glittered with feverish intensity. “And now let us speak of this.” He opened his hand and smoothed the crumpled business card. And for the first time, D’Agosta glimpsed what Pendergast had written on it.

It was the word Stormcloud.

{ 62 }

The man held out the card in a trembling hand.

Pendergast nodded in return. “Perhaps the best way to start would be for you to tell Sergeant D’Agosta what you know of its history.”

Spezi turned to D’Agosta, his face filling with regret. “The Stormcloud was Stradivari’s greatest violin. It was played by a string of virtuosi in an almost unbroken line from Monteverdi to Paganini and beyond. It was present at some of the greatest moments in the history of music. It was played by Franz Clement at the premiere of Beethoven’s violin concerto. It was played by Brahms himself at the premiere of his Second Violin Concerto, and by Paganini for the first Italian performance of all twenty-four of his caprices. And then, just before World War I—on the death of the virtuoso Luciano Toscanelli, may God curse him—it disappeared. Toscanelli went insane at the end of his days and, some say, destroyed it. Others say it was lost in the Great War.”

“It wasn’t.”

Spezi straightened abruptly. “You mean it still exists?”

“A few more questions if I may, Dottore. What do you know of the ownership of the Stormcloud?”

“That was one of its mysteries. It was always owned by the same family, apparently, who it was said purchased the instrument directly from Stradivari himself. It was passed down from father to son only in name, being on continuous loan to a string of virtuosi. That’s normal, of course: most of the Strads today are owned by wealthy collectors who turn them over to virtuosi to play on long-term loan. Just so with the Stormcloud. When the virtuoso who was playing it died—or if he had the misfortune to give a bad concert—it was taken away by the family that owned it and given to another. There would have been intense competition for it. No doubt that is the reason the family remained anonymous—they didn’t want to be harried and importuned by aspiring violinists. They made secrecy of their identity a strict condition of playing the violin.”

“No virtuoso ever broke the silence?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“And Toscanelli was the last virtuoso to play it.”

“Yes, Toscanelli. The great and terrible Toscanelli. He died a syphilitic wreck in 1910, under strange and mysterious circumstances. The violin was not beside his body and was never found.”

“Who should the violin have gone to after Toscanelli?”

“A good question. Perhaps the Russian child prodigy, young Count Ravetsky. Murdered in the revolution, though—a great loss. What a terrible century that was. And now, Mr. Pendergast—I am almost expiring from curiosity.”

Pendergast reached into his pocket and slipped out a glassine envelope, held it up to the light. “A fragment of horsehair from the bow of the Stormcloud.”

The man reached out with trembling fingers. “May I?”

“I promised an exchange. It’s yours.”

The man opened it, removed the horsehair with a pair of tweezers, placed it on a microscope stage. A moment later the image appeared on a computer screen.

“It’s definitely horsehair from a violin bow—you can see the grains of rosin, here, and the damage that playing has done to the microscopic scales on the shaft, there.” He straightened. “Of course, any bow with the Stormcloud almost certainly isn’t the original, and even if it was, the horsehair must have been replaced a thousand times. This is hardly proof.”

“I’m well aware of that. It was only the first clue that led me on a string of deductions, the conclusion of which was that the Stormcloud still exists. It is here, Dottore, in Italy.”

“If only it were so! Where did you get this hair?”

“From a crime scene in Tuscany.”

“For God’s sake, man: who has it?”

“I don’t yet know for certain.”

“How will you find out?”

“First, I need to learn the name of the family that originally owned it.”

Spezi thought for a moment. “I’d start with Toscanelli’s heirs—he was said to have had a dozen children from almost as many mistresses. God knows, one might still be alive somewhere—and now that I think of it, it seems to me there’s a granddaughter or some such here in Italy. He was a notorious womanizer, drinker of absinthe, indiscreet in his later years. Perhaps he told one of his mistresses, who then might have passed it on to her issue.”

“An excellent suggestion.” Pendergast rose. “You have been most generous, Dottore. When I do learn more about the Stormcloud’s whereabouts, I promise I shall share the facts with you. For now, I thank you for your time.”

Pendergast led the way back out through the narrow streets with the same caution he’d shown in approaching Spezi’s workshop. By the time they’d reached the café, however, he seemed to have satisfied himself on some point, and suggested they stop for another espresso. Standing at the bar, he turned to D’Agosta with a smile.

“And now, my dear Vincent—do you have a theory?”

D’Agosta nodded. “Most of one, anyway.”

“Excellent! Don’t tell me yet. Let us continue our investigations in silence just a little longer. The time will soon come when we need to share our conclusions.”

“Fine by me.”

D’Agosta sipped the bitter drink. He wondered if it was possible to get a cup of decent American coffee somewhere in Italy instead of this poisonous black stuff that stripped the inside of your throat and boiled in your stomach for hours afterward.

Pendergast tossed his off, then leaned against the bar. “Can you imagine, Vincent, what the Renaissance would have been like had Michelangelo’s David been carved in green marble?”

{ 63 }

Captain of Detectives Laura Hayward sat in the orange plastic chair, coffee going cold in its Styrofoam cup. She was acutely aware of being both the youngest person, and the only female, in this room full of high-ranking police officers. The walls of the conference room were painted the usual pale puce. A picture of Rudolph Giuliani decorated one wall, framed together with a picture of the Twin Towers and, below, a list of police officers killed in the attacks. No picture of the current mayor, president of the U.S., or anyone else.

Hayward liked that.

Commissioner of Police Henry Rocker sat at the head of the table, his large hand permanently closed around a huge mug of black coffee, his permanently tired face gazing down the middle of the table. To his right sat Milton Grable, captain of patrol for the precinct in which Cutforth had been murdered and the tent city erected.

Hayward checked her watch. It was 9 A.M. sharp.

“Grable?” Rocker said, opening the meeting.

Grable cleared his throat, shuffled some papers. “As you know, Commissioner, this tent city is becoming a problem. A big problem.”

The only acknowledgment of this, it seemed to Hayward, was that the dark circles under Rocker’s eyes grew darker.

“We got a couple hundred people living across the street from the most exclusive neighborhood in my precinct—the whole city, in fact—and they’re trashing the park, pissing in the bushes, shitting everywhere—” His eyes darted to Hayward. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“It’s all right, Captain,” Hayward said crisply. “I’m acquainted with both the term and the bodily function.”

“Right.”

“Proceed,” the commissioner said dryly. Hayward thought she noticed a subtle flicker of amusement in Rocker’s tired eyes.

“We’re getting calls up the wazoo”—another glance at Hayward—“from important people. You know who I’m referring to, sir. They’re demanding, they’re screaming, for something to be done. And they’re right. These people in the park have no permit.”

Hayward shifted in her chair. Her job was on the Cutforth murder, not listening to some precinct captain talk about permits.

“It isn’t a political protest, a question of freedom of speech,” Grable went on. “It’s a bunch of religious nuts, egged on by this so-called Reverend Buck. Who, by the way, did nine years in Joliet for murder two, shot some clerk over a pack of gum.”

“Is that right?” Rocker murmured. “And why not murder one?”

“Plea-bargained it down. The point I’m making, Commissioner, is that we’re not dealing with a simple fanatic here. Buck’s a dangerous man. And the damn Post is beating the drum, doing all they can to keep things stirred up. It’s getting worse by the day.”

Hayward knew the facts already, and she half tuned Grable out, her mind turning to D’Agosta and Italy. She realized, with a twinge she didn’t fully understand, that he was overdue for a phone update. Now, there was a real cop. And where did it get him? It was guys like Grable who got the promotions—desk jockeys.

“This isn’t just a precinct situation. It’s a problem for the whole city.” Grable laid his hands on the table, palms-up. “I want a SWAT team to go in there and bring this man out before we have a riot on our hands.”

When Rocker replied, his voice was gravelly and calm. “And that’s just what we’re here for, Captain: to figure out a way not to have a riot on our hands.”

“Exactly, sir.”

Rocker turned to a man sitting at his left. “Wentworth?”

Hayward had no idea who this was. She’d never seen him before, and there were no insignia on his suit to indicate rank. He didn’t even look like a cop.

Wentworth turned, eyes half lidded, fingers tented, and took a long, slow breath before answering.

Psychologist, thought Hayward.

“As far as this, ah, Buck fellow is concerned,” Wentworth drawled, “he’s a common-enough personality type. Without an interview, of course, it’s impossible to develop a firm diagnosis. But from what I’ve observed, he exhibits a marked psychopathology: possibly paranoid schizophrenic, potential for a Messianic complex. There’s a good chance he suffers from a delusion of persecution. This is complicated by the fact that the man is prone to violence. I would definitely not recommend sending in a SWAT team.” He paused thoughtfully. “The others are simply followers and will respond as Buck responds: with violence or with cooperation. They will follow his lead. The key here is getting Buck out of the picture. I would suggest that the movement will collapse of its own accord once Buck is removed.”

“Right,” said Grable. “But how do you get him out, if not with a SWAT team?”

“If you threaten a man like Buck, he’ll lash out. Violence is the language of last resort for such a man. I would suggest sending an officer or two in there—unarmed, nonthreatening, preferably female and attractive—to take him out. A gentle and nonprovocative arrest. Do it quickly, surgically. Within a day, the tent city will be gone, his followers off to the next guru, or Grateful Dead concert, or whatever they were doing before they read those articles in the Post.” Another long exhalation. “That is my considered advice.”

Hayward couldn’t help rolling her eyes. Buck, a schizophrenic? His speeches, as lovingly quoted in the Post, showed none of the disorganized thought processes you’d expect from schizophrenia.

Rocker, who was about to pass over her, caught her expression. “Hayward? Do you have something to contribute?”

“Thank you, sir. While I agree with some of Mr. Wentworth’s analysis of the situation, I disagree with his recommendation, with all due respect.”

She found Wentworth’s watery eyes on her, clearly pitying her ignorance. Too late, she realized she had called him “Mr.” instead of “Dr.” A cardinal sin among academics, and his antagonism was palpable. Well, screw him.

“There’s no such thing as a nonprovocative arrest,” she went on. “Any attempt to go in there and take Buck away by force—even gently—won’t work. If he’s crazy, then he’s crazy like a fox. He’ll refuse to come. As soon as the cuffs appear, your two ‘preferably female and attractive’ cops will find themselves in a nasty situation.”

“Commissioner,” Grable interrupted, “this man is openly flouting the law. I’m getting a thousand calls a day from businesses and residents on Fifth Avenue—the Sherry Netherland, the Metropolitan Club, the Plaza. The phone lines are jammed. And you can bet that if they’re calling me, they’re calling the mayor.” He paused, letting this sink in.

“I am acutely aware they have been calling the mayor,” Rocker said, his voice low and unamused.

“Then you know, sir, that we don’t have the luxury of time. We’ve got to do something. What other options are there besides arresting this man? Does Captain Hayward have a better idea? I’d like to hear it.” He leaned back, breathing hard.

Hayward spoke coolly. “Captain Grable, these businesses and residents you mention should not be allowed to push the police into a hasty and ill-considered operation.” In other words, she thought, they can go fuck themselves.

“Easy for you to say from your perch in the detective bureau. These people are in my face every day. If you had solved the Cutforth homicide, we wouldn’t have this problem, Captain.”

Hayward nodded, keeping her face neutral. Score one to Grable.

Rocker turned to her. “Speaking of that, how is the investigation proceeding, Captain?”

“There’s some new forensic evidence the boys in lab coats are going over. We’re still checking the people on Cutforth’s call list during his last seventy-two hours. And we’re reviewing the security video cams from his apartment lobby, cross-checking them against residents and known visitors. And, of course, the FBI is following up some promising leads in Italy.” This was thin, and Hayward knew it sounded that way. The fact was, they didn’t have squat.

“So what’s your plan for dealing with this guy Buck?” Grable, sensing he had the upper hand, faced her belligerently.

“I would advise an even less aggressive approach. Don’t push it. Don’t do anything to provoke things. Instead, send someone in there to talk to Buck. Lay it out for him. He’s got hundreds of people there, ruining the park and disturbing the neighborhood. He is a responsible person at heart and will naturally want to do something about that; he’ll surely want to send his followers home to shave, shit, and shower. That’s how I’d put it. On top of that, I’d offer Buck a deal: if he sends his followers home, we give him a parade permit. Treat him like a rational human being. All carrot, no stick. Then, as soon as they’ve broken camp, fence the area under the guise of reseeding. And then give them a parade permit for eight o’clock Monday morning for the far corner of Flushing Meadows Park. That will be the last you see of them.”

She saw another cynical glimmer in Rocker’s eye. She wondered if it indicated agreement with, or amusement at, her suggestion. Rocker had a good rep among the rank and file, but he was notoriously hard to read.

“Treat him like a rational human being?” Grable repeated. “The man’s a convicted murderer.”

The psychologist chuckled. Hayward glanced at him, and he returned the look. His expression had become even more condescending. She wondered if he knew something she didn’t. This was all beginning to look like a foregone conclusion.

“And if your plan doesn’t work?” Commissioner Rocker asked her.

“Then I would defer to, ah, Mr. Wentworth.”

“That’s Doc—,” began Wentworth, but he was interrupted by Grable.

“Commissioner, we don’t have the time to try first one plan and then another. We need to get Buck out now. Either he comes nicely or in cuffs—his choice. We do it quick, at dawn. He’ll be sweating in the back of a squad car even before his followers know he’s missing.”

Silence. Rocker was looking around the room. There were a couple of men who hadn’t spoken. “Gentlemen?”

Nods, murmurs. Everyone, it seemed, agreed with the psychologist and Grable.

“Well,” said Rocker, rising. “I have to go along with the consensus. After all, we don’t have a psychologist on staff only to ignore his advice.” He glanced at Hayward. She couldn’t quite read his expression, but she sensed something not unsympathetic in the look.

“We’ll go in with a small group, as Wentworth suggests,” Rocker continued. “Just two officers. Captain Grable, you’ll be the first.”

Grable looked at him in surprise.

“It’s your precinct, as you took pains to point out. And you’re the one advocating quick action.”

Grable quickly mastered his surprise. “Of course, sir. Quite right.”

“And also as Wentworth suggests, we’ll send in a woman.” Rocker nodded to Hayward. “That would be you.”

The room fell silent. Hayward saw Grable and Wentworth exchanging glances.

But Rocker was still looking directly at her. Keep things rational for me, Hayward, the look seemed to say.

“Buck will appreciate two ranking officers. That should appeal to his sense of importance.” Rocker turned. “Grable, you’ve got seniority and it’s your operation. I leave it to you to organize the details and timing. This meeting is adjourned.”

{ 64 }

The morning after the trip to Cremona was bright and crisp, and D’Agosta squinted against the noonday sun as he accompanied Pendergast back to Piazza Santo Spirito, across the river from their hotel.

“You checked in with Captain Hayward?” Pendergast asked as they walked.

“Just before going to bed.”

“Anything of interest?”

“Not really. What few leads they’d been following up on Cutforth all turned into dead ends. The security video cams at his building told them nothing. It’s the same with Grove, apparently. And now, all the top New York brass are preoccupied with this preacher who’s taken up residence in Central Park.”

This time, D’Agosta found the piazza not nearly as quiet as before: its tranquillity was spoiled by a large group of backpackers sitting on the steps of the fountain, smoking pot and passing around a bottle of Brunello wine, talking loudly in half a dozen languages. They were accompanied by at least ten loose dogs.

“Careful where you step, Vincent,” murmured Pendergast with a wry smile. “Florence: such a marvelous mixture of high and low.” He raised his hand above the piles of dogshit and gestured at the magnificent building which occupied the southeast corner. “For example, the Palazzo Guadagni. One of the finest examples of a Renaissance palace in the entire city. It was constructed in the 1400s, but the Guadagni family goes back several more centuries.”

D’Agosta examined the building. The first story was built in rough blocks of dun-colored limestone, while the upper floors were covered in yellow stucco. Most of the top floor was a loggia: a roofed portico supported by stone columns. The structure was restrained but elegant.

“There are various offices and apartments on the second floor, a language school on the third. And the top floor is a pensione, run by a Signora Donatelli. That, without doubt, is where Beckmann and the rest met back in 1974.”

“Does this woman own the palazzo?”

“She does. The last descendant of the Guadagni.”

“You really think she’ll remember a couple of college students who visited three decades ago?”

“One can only try, Vincent.”

They picked their way gingerly across the piazza and through an enormous pair of iron-studded wooden doors. A once-grand but now grimy vaulted passageway led to a stairway and a second-floor landing. Here, a shabby piece of cardboard had been hung on the cornice of a faded Baroque fresco. A hand-drawn arrow and the word Reception had been scrawled on the cardboard with a firm hand.

The reception room was incongruously small for such a giant palace: cluttered yet neat as a pin, bisected by a wooden transom, a battered set of wooden mail slots on one side and a rack of keys on the other. The room had only one occupant: a tiny old lady sitting behind an ancient desk. She was dressed with extraordinary elegance, her hair perfectly dyed and coiffed, red lipstick impeccably applied, with what looked like real diamonds draped around her neck and dangling from withered ears.

She rose and Pendergast bowed.

“Molto lieto di conoscerLa, signora.”

The woman responded crisply, “Il piacere è mio.” Then she continued in accented English. “Obviously, you are not here to take a room.”

“No,” said Pendergast. He removed his ID, offered it to her.

“You are policemen.”

“Yes.”

“What is it that you want? My time is limited.” The voice was sharp and intimidating.

“In the fall of 1974, I believe, several American students stayed here. Here is a picture of them.” Pendergast took out Beckmann’s photo.

She did not look at it. “Do you have the names?”

“Yes.”

“Then come with me.” And she turned and walked around the transom, through a back door, and into a much larger room. D’Agosta saw it was an old library of sorts, with bound books, manuscripts, and vellum documents filling shelves from floor to ceiling. It smelled of parchment and dry rot, old leather and wax. The ceiling was coffered and had once been elaborately gilded. Now it was crumbling with age, the wood riddled with holes.

“The archives of the family,” she said. “They go back eight centuries.”

“You keep good records.”

“I keep excellent records, thank you.” She made a beeline to a low shelf at the far end of the room, selected a massive register, carried it to a center table. She opened the register, revealing page after page of accounts, payments, names, and dates, written in a fanatical, tiny hand.

“Names?”

“Bullard, Cutforth, Beckmann, and Grove.”

She began flipping pages, scanning each with tremendous rapidity, each flip sending up a faint cloud of dust. Suddenly, she stopped.

“There. Grove.” A bony finger, burdened with a huge diamond ring, pointed to the name. Then it slid down the rest of the page.

“Beckmann . . . Cutforth . . . Bullard. Yes, they were all here in October.”

Pendergast peered at the register, but even he was clearly having trouble deciphering the minuscule hand.

“Did their visits overlap?”

“Yes.” A pause. “According to this, one night only, that of October 31.”

She closed the book with a snap. “Anything else, signore?”

“Yes, signora. Will you do me the courtesy of looking at this photograph?”

“Surely you don’t expect me to remember some slovenly American students from thirty years ago? I am ninety-two, sir. I have earned the privilege of forgetting.”

“I beg your indulgence.”

Sighing with impatience, she took the photograph, looked at it—and visibly started. She stared a long time, what little color there was in her face slowly disappearing. Then she handed the photograph back to Pendergast.

“As it happens,” she said in a low tone, “I do remember. That one.” She pointed to Beckmann. “Let me see. Something terrible happened. He and some other boys, probably those others in the photograph, went off somewhere together. They were gone all night. He came back and was terribly upset. I had to get a priest for him . . .”

She paused, her voice trailing off. Gone was the crisp confidence, the unshakable sense of self.

“It was the night before All Saints’ Day. He came back from a night of carousing, and he was in a bad state. I took him to church.”

“What church?”

“The one right here, Santo Spirito. I remember him panicked and begging to go to confession. It was long ago, yet it was such a strange occurrence it stuck in my mind. That, and the expression on the poor boy’s face. He was begging for a priest as if his life depended on it.”

“And?”

“He went to confession and right afterwards he packed up his belongings and left.”

“And the other American students?”

“I don’t recall. Every year they celebrate All Saints’ Day, or rather the day before, which I believe you call Halloween. It’s an excuse to drink.”

“Do you know where they went that evening, or who they might have encountered?”

“I know nothing more than what I have told you.”

The ring of a bell came from the front office. “I have guests to attend to,” she said.

“One last question, signora, if you please,” Pendergast said. “The priest who heard the confession—is he still alive?”

“That would have been Father Zenobi. Yes, Father Zenobi. He is now living with the monks of La Verna.”

She turned, then paused and slowly glanced back. “But if you think you can persuade him to break the sacred seal of the confessional, sir, you are sadly mistaken.”

{ 65 }

D’Agosta assumed that, upon leaving the palazzo, they would return directly to their hotel. But instead, Pendergast lingered in the piazza: strolling, hands in his pockets, eyes glancing first left, then right. After a few minutes, he turned to D’Agosta.

“Gelato? Some of the best in Florence, if I am not mistaken, can be found right here at Café Ricchi.”

“I’ve given up on ice cream.”

“I haven’t. Indulge me.”

They entered the café and approached the bar. Pendergast ordered his cone—tiramisu and crème anglaise—while D’Agosta asked for an espresso.

“I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth,” D’Agosta said as they leaned against the bar.

“I have something of a weakness for gelato. But our main reason for stopping here is to learn his intentions.”

“His intentions? Whose intentions?”

“The man who’s following us.”

D’Agosta straightened up. “What?”

“No—don’t look. He’s nondescript, mid-thirties, wearing a blue shirt and dark pants. Quite professional.”

Pendergast’s cone arrived and he took a dainty bite. Then, suddenly, a change came over his face.

“He’s just entered the pensione,” he said. Abandoning his gelato, Pendergast dropped a few euros on the counter and strode out of the café, D’Agosta following.

“Are you afraid for the signora?”

“The signora is perfectly safe. It’s the priest for whom I fear.”

“The priest—?” Suddenly, D’Agosta understood. “Then we can stop this guy when he leaves the pensione.”

“That would serve no purpose but to embroil us in endless legalities. Our best chance is the monastery itself. Come, Vincent: we haven’t a moment to lose.”

In twenty minutes, they were driving through the hills northeast of Florence, Pendergast at the wheel of their rented Fiat. Although D’Agosta had done more than his share of high-speed driving—and though Pendergast was clearly an expert—D’Agosta’s heart was beating at an uncomfortable rate. The car was squealing around a series of hairpin curves, none of which had guardrails, at a terrifying clip. With each climbing turn, a rising sea of mountains swam into view before them: the great spine of the Apennines.

“I’ve been aware of surveillance for some time now,” Pendergast said. “Since we found Bullard’s body, and perhaps even before. At important moments—such as our trip to Cremona—I’ve managed to keep him at arm’s length. I haven’t yet confronted our shadower, hoping instead to learn who’s behind him. I did not think he would take such a direct approach as he did just now in the piazza. It means we are getting close to the truth. It also means increased danger, for us and for those with crucial information—such as Father Zenobi.”

The car squealed around another curve. D’Agosta braced himself against the lateral g-forces, sweat breaking out on his brow.

“I’ve seen you weasel information out of all kinds of people,” he said when it was safe to draw breath again. “But if you can convince a priest to reveal a thirty-year-old confession, I’ll swim all the way back to Southampton.”

Another long, screeching turn, the car hanging practically over the edge of a chasm.

This time, D’Agosta almost had to pry his fingers from the dashboard. “Do you think we might slow down?”

“I don’t think so.” And Pendergast nodded over his shoulder.

The car made another semicontrolled skid around a corner, and as D’Agosta fell against the passenger window he got a terrifying glimpse back down the mountainside. About three switchbacks below he could see a motorcycle, black and chrome, its angular chassis exposed and gleaming. It was approaching fast.

“There’s a motorcycle on our tail!” he said.

Pendergast nodded. “A Ducati Monster, S4R model, if I’m not mistaken. A four-valve twin, well over a hundred horsepower, light but very powerful.”

D’Agosta glanced back again. The rider was dressed in red leather, wearing a helmet with a smoked visor.

“The man from the plaza?” he asked.

“Either him or somebody allied with him.”

“He’s after us?”

“No. He’s after the priest.”

“We sure as hell can’t outrun him.”

“We can slow him down. Get out your weapon.”

“And do what?”

“I’ll leave that to your discretion.”

Now D’Agosta could hear the high-pitched whine of an engine in high gear, approaching from behind. They tore around another corner, scattering clouds of dust as the Fiat slewed, first right, then left. But already the motorcycle was biting into the same corner, leaning at an incredible angle, almost pegging the road. The rider straightened quickly and began closing the gap, preparing to pass.

“Hang on, Vincent.”

The car swerved into the left lane just as the motorcycle came alongside, then swerved back with a shriek of rubber, cutting him off. D’Agosta looked back and saw the motorcyclist dropping back, preparing to make another run past them.

“He’s coming on the right!” he shouted.

At the last minute, Pendergast jerked the car to the left again, correctly anticipating a feint; there was a screech of tires behind them as the motorcyclist dumped his rear brake and the bike rose in a reverse wheelie. The rider straightened, recovered. D’Agosta saw him reach into his jacket.

“He’s got a gun!”

D’Agosta planted himself against the passenger door and waited, his own weapon at the ready. He doubted that a man on a motorcycle, going eighty miles an hour on a winding mountain road, could fire with any accuracy—but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

With a burst of speed, the motorcycle closed again, the gun leveling, steadying. D’Agosta aimed his weapon.

“Wait until he fires,” Pendergast murmured.

There was a bang and a blue puff, instantly whisked away; a simultaneous thump; and the back window went abruptly opaque, a web of cracks running away from a perfect 9mm hole. An instant later Pendergast braked with terrifying suddenness, throwing D’Agosta forward against the seat belt, then swerved and accelerated again.

D’Agosta unbuckled the seat belt, jumped into the backseat, kicked away the sagging rear window, steadied his gun, and fired. The cyclist swerved and dropped back behind a curve, kicking his way down through the gears.

“The bastard—!”

The car slid into the next corner, fishtailing on loose gravel and sliding perilously close to the cliff edge. D’Agosta knelt in the rear seat, hardly daring to breathe, aiming through the ruined window, ready to fire as soon as the motorcycle reappeared. As they ripped around another hillside, he saw the Ducati flash into view about a hundred yards back.

Pendergast downshifted, the engine screaming with the effort, the rpm needle redlining. The car went into another long, sickening turn.

As they accelerated out of the curve, the road emerged onto a shoulder of a mountain, heading straight through a long, dark forest of pine trees, tunneling into shade. A sign flashed past: Chiusi della Verna 13km. Keeping watch on their rear, D’Agosta could see a whirlwind of dancing pine needles thrown up by their passage.

. . . And there came the Ducati, swinging around the curve. D’Agosta aimed but it was an impossible shot, two hundred yards back from a moving car. He sat, awaiting his chance.

With a piercing whine, the motorcycle came surging forward, screaming into fifth, then sixth gear, approaching at ever-increasing speed. The man had put away his gun, and both his gloved hands were on the handlebars, his head lowered.

“He’s going to try another run past us.”

“No doubt.” Pendergast stayed in the center of the road, accelerator floored.

But the car was no match for the Ducati. It came straight up behind them, accelerating all the way. The thing must top out at a hundred and eighty, D’Agosta thought. He knew it would try to turn and dart past them at the last moment, and there would be no way for Pendergast to guess if the rider would veer to the right or the left. He steadied his gun. He had vastly improved his shooting from many sessions at the 27th Precinct range, but with the vibration, the motion of the car, the motion of the bike—it was going to be tough. The bike was going at least twice their speed now, coming up on them fast . . .

D’Agosta squeezed off a shot, aiming low at the machine, and missed.

The car made a violent motion to the right as the bike came blasting past on the left—dual silencers flashing, rider leaning so far forward he seemed draped over the front fork—and was gone around the next curve.

“I lost that coin toss,” Pendergast said dryly.

They were now approaching the curve themselves, their speed beyond any possibility of controlling the turn. Pendergast braked hard while simultaneously jamming on the gas pedal and twisting the wheel left. The car spun violently around, twice, perhaps three times—D’Agosta was too shaken to be sure—before coming to rest on the very edge of the cliff.

They paused just a moment, the acrid smell of burned brake pads wafting over the car.

“Fiat, for all its troubles, still knows how to make a decent vehicle,” said Pendergast.

“Eurocar isn’t going to like this,” D’Agosta replied.

Pendergast jammed on the gas, and the car screeched back onto the road, accelerating into the next turn.

They tore through the fir forest once again before mounting another series of steep switchbacks, worse than the last. D’Agosta felt his stomach begin to rise uncomfortably. He allowed himself a single glance out over the edge. Far below—very, very far below—he could see the Casentino Valley, dotted with fields and villages. He looked quickly away.

Turn after turn they mounted, Pendergast driving in grim silence. D’Agosta reloaded and checked his gun: it beat looking out the window. Suddenly houses flashed past, and they whipped through the town of Chiusi della Verna, Pendergast leaning on the horn, pedestrians jumping into the doorway of a shop in terror as the car blasted by, clipping the side-view mirror from a parked van and sending it bouncing and rolling down the street. Just past town was another faded sign: Santuario della Verna 6km.

The road climbed steadily through a steep forest, one brutally sharp turn after another. And then suddenly they emerged from the trees into a meadow, and there—directly ahead but still a thousand feet above them—stood the monastery of La Verna: a great tangle of ancient stone, perched on a crag that seemed to hang over open space. It was windowless, so old and vast and scarred by time it looked a part of the cliff face itself. Despite everything, D’Agosta felt a chill go down his spine; he knew from Sunday school that this was perhaps the holiest Christian monastery in the world, built in 1224 by St. Francis himself.

The car blasted back into the forest and the monastery disappeared from view. “Have we got a chance?” D’Agosta asked.

“It depends on how quickly our man finds Father Zenobi. The monastery is a big place. If only they had a phone!”

The car careened around another turn. D’Agosta could hear a bell ringing, the faint sound of chanting floating toward him over the noise of the engine.

“I think the monks are at prayer,” he said. He glanced at his watch. It would be the service of Sext: sixth hour of the Opus Dei.

“Yes. Most unfortunate.” Pendergast pushed the car around the final bend, wheels slipping on ancient, mossy cobbles instead of asphalt.

The cobbled road—clearly never built to be driven upon—led up behind the monastery. There, at the stone archway leading through the outer wall of the monastery into a massive cloister, D’Agosta saw the Ducati lying on its tubular frame, fat rear wheel still spinning lazily.

Pendergast slewed to a stop and was out, gun drawn, even before the car was completely at rest. D’Agosta followed hard on his heels. They ran past the bike, across a stone bridge, and into the cloisters. A large chapel stood to the right, its doors wide, the vigorous sounds of plainchant rising and falling on the cool breeze. As they ran, the chanting seemed to hesitate, then die away in a ragged confusion.

They rushed into the church just in time to see the figure in red leather—his arm extended, rigid—fire point-blank into an old monk, who was kneeling, his hands raised in surprise or prayer. The report of the gun was shockingly loud in the confined space, reverberating even as the notes of the plainsong died away. D’Agosta shouted out in dismay, rage, and horror as the priest fell and the shooter raised his gun, execution style, taking careful aim for a second shot.

{ 66 }

In the predawn light, Hayward stood with Captain Grable on a rocky point just north of the Central Park Arsenal. From here, they commanded a good view of the tent city, still slumbering in the quiet morning air. They’d been briefed on the location of Wayne Buck’s tent, and she could make it out clearly: a large green canvas job in the heart of the encampment.

Hayward’s misgivings increased. This was no clean shot, in and out. The makeshift city had grown much larger than she realized: there had to be three hundred tents, maybe more, scattered through the foliage. And the landscape wouldn’t help: deep green swales and leafy hollows, surrounded by grassy hummocks, their sides frequently exposing long swaths of dark gray rock. Through the thicket of tree branches, she could just make out—parked along Fifth—the cop car that would take Buck away. It was idling on the park side of the avenue, right opposite the entrance to Cutforth’s building.

Fact was, this was just about the last place she wanted to be at the moment. By rights she should be pursuing the Cutforth murder. She shouldn’t be out here—not anymore, not when there was an open homicide to be worked. It felt too much like the bad old days when she was a rouster for the transit police.

She glanced at Grable. She had talked to D’Agosta the night before, briefly, and now she wished he was here. There was a guy you could count on. As for Grable—

Grable adjusted his tie, squared his shoulders. “Let’s circle around and come in from the west.” He was sweating, his shirt plastered to his chest despite the cool morning.

Hayward nodded. “As I see it, the key here is speed. We don’t want to be caught in there.”

Grable swallowed, hiked up his belt. “Captain, unlike some in the force, I didn’t waste my time in the classroom piling up degrees. I came up through the rank and file. I know what I’m doing.”

There was a long moment while Grable looked down on the slumbering tent city. Hayward glanced at her watch. The light was coming up moment by moment, and the sun would rise within minutes. Why the hell was Grable waiting?

“We’re running a little late, if you don’t mind me saying so,” she said.

“I don’t operate on a timetable, Captain.”

Hayward tried to suppress her misgivings. This was Grable’s operation—Rocker had made that clear—and she was to follow his lead. Going in with a bad attitude wasn’t going to do any good. And the plan might work. Hell, it would work if they could just get in and out fast enough, drag Buck to the waiting squad car before he’d even managed to wake up. It could work, she told herself, as long as Grable moves fast. If you’re going to arrest someone, you do it. You don’t give them time to think about it first. She glanced at Grable again, wondering why he was taking so long.

“Right,” said Grable, noticing the glance. “Let’s go.”

They cut west through the low trees and brushy undergrowth, circling the flank of the tent city, sticking close to one side of a shallow defile. Soon they reached what looked like a herd path leading directly into the makeshift community. They were downwind now, and the odor of raw sewage and unwashed humanity hit Hayward hard.

Grable quickened his pace as they approached the fringes. A few people were already up, some cooking on little backpacking stoves, others wandering around.

Grable hesitated just inside the ragged outer ring of tents. Then he nodded brusquely to Hayward and they started forward again. Hayward nodded in a friendly way to those who were up and watching them pass. The ground flattened and the tents huddled closer together, forming narrow lanes and alleys. In a few minutes they had arrived at the center clearing around Buck’s tent.

So far, so good, thought Hayward.

The front flap was tied on two side posts. Grable stopped before the entrance and called in a loud voice: “Buck? This is Captain Grable of the NYPD.”

“Hey!” A tall, clean-cut fellow appeared out of nowhere. “What are you doing?”

“None of your business,” said Grable brusquely.

Shit, thought Hayward. Not like that.

“There’s no problem,” she said. “We’re just here to talk to the reverend.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“Back off, pal,” said Grable.

“What is it?” came a muffled voice from inside the tent. “Who’s there?”

“Captain Grable, NYPD.” Grable began untying the knotted drawstring that held the flap shut against one of the side poles. He had it almost undone when a hand reached from inside, closed over his, and removed it. The flap lifted and then Buck stood there, straight and stern. “This is my home,” he said coldly and with dignity. “Do not violate it.”

Cuff him, Hayward thought. Cuff the son of a bitch and get the hell out.

“We’re New York City police officers, and this is public land. This isn’t some private dwelling.”

“Sir, I ask you once again to stand back from my home.”

Hayward was astonished by the man’s presence. She turned to see how Grable was going to handle it. She was shocked to see his face paling beneath the sheen of sweat.

“Wayne Buck, you are under arrest.” Grable tried to unclip his handcuffs, but his hands were shaking slightly and it took longer than it should have.

Hayward couldn’t believe it. Grable was out of his depth. That was the only answer. He’d ridden a desk so long he’d lost his street smarts—if he ever had them—and he’d forgotten how to deal with a fluid situation like this. That explained his hesitation back at the arsenal, his sweating, everything. He’d wanted the commissioner to send in a large party to deal with Buck, but when Rocker had given the job directly to him, he couldn’t refuse. Now, with no SWAT team to back him up, confronted by the implacable Buck, he was losing his nerve.

Buck stared, making no move to cooperate, but not doing anything to resist, either.

The clean-cut man, who seemed to be Buck’s bodyguard or aide-de-camp, turned, cupped his hands, and cried out in a tremendous voice, “Arise! Arise! The cops are here to arrest the reverend!”

There was a stirring, a sudden murmur of voices.

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back, sir,” said Grable, but his voice was trembling.

Still Buck made no move.

“Arise!”

“Captain,” said Hayward, her voice low, “he’s resisting arrest. Cuff him.”

But Grable made no move.

In an instant, Hayward sized up the situation and realized their window of opportunity had already closed. Looking around, she recalled the time when—as a kid on a dare—she’d poked a stick into a hornet’s nest. There was a moment, just a moment, of suspension . . . then a muffled hum just before the hornets came boiling out, madder than hell. That’s what the tent city felt like. People were up but not yet out of their tents, a dull hum of activity that was about to explode.

“Defend the reverend! The police are here to arrest him! Arise!”

Now came the boiling. Suddenly, hundreds of people were up and out of their tents, pulling on shirts, moving toward them.

Hayward leaned in toward Grable. “Captain? We got trouble. Just be cool.”

Grable’s mouth sagged but no sound came out.

The crowd was pressing in, a wall of people quickly forming at the front, others streaming in from every direction, ringing the tent, a babble of angry voices.

Shit. She turned to face the crowd. “Look, friends, we’re not here to cause trouble.”

“Liar!”

The cry went up. “Blasphemers!”

They pressed in. Buck said nothing, did nothing; he just stood there, the picture of dignity.

“Look,” said Hayward, holding out her hands, keeping her voice calm, “there’s just the two of us. Nothing to get excited about.”

“Godless soldiers of Rome!”

“Keep your filthy hands off the reverend!”

This was even uglier than she thought. Grable was backing up instinctively, eyes roaming for an escape route that did not exist.

The crowd surged forward, growing angrier.

“Touch either one of us and it’s assault,” Hayward said, loudly but calmly.

This paused the front of the crowd; but with others behind pressing forward, it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

Grable dropped the handcuffs and went for his gun.

“Grable, no!” Hayward yelled.

Immediately, a roar went up. “He’s going to shoot! Murderer! Judas!” The front wall surged forward.

Whang! went the gun into the air, the reaction to the sudden sound rippling through the crowd. And in that instant, Buck, standing only a few feet behind Grable, knocked the gun from his hand with one swift, sure motion.

Thank God, thought Hayward, keeping her hands in sight and well away from her own piece. Something had to be done right away, or they were toast. She turned and spoke to Buck. “You better do something, Reverend. It’s all in your hands.”

Buck stepped forward, raising his hands. There was silence from the crowd, an instant stillness.

He let a moment pass, and then slowly lowered his arm and aimed a steady finger at Grable. “This man came here under the cloak of the Prince of Darkness to arrest me. But God has exposed his deceit.”

Grable appeared speechless.

“These centurions, these soldiers of Rome, entered our encampment like skulking snakes, on the devil’s own errand. And they have been defeated by their own shame and cowardice.”

“Shame, cowards!”

Hayward took advantage of a lull to speak quietly to Buck. “We’d like to go now.”

Another roar erupted from the crowd. “Shame!”

A stick flew out of the crowd, landing in the dust by their feet. She could see others being brandished above the crowd. People on the fringes had begun to hunt among the shrubbery for rocks.

Hayward leaned forward, speaking again in a low voice she hoped only Buck could hear. “Reverend Buck? What’s going to happen to you and your followers if we get injured? Or taken hostage? How do you think the NYPD will react to that?” She smiled coldly. “It’ll make Waco look like a Sunday barbecue.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, not even acknowledging he’d heard, Buck raised his hands again and bowed his head. Once more a silence immediately fell.

“My people,” he said. “My people. We are Christians. They may come with malice, but we must show them compassion and forgiveness.” He turned to his aide-de-camp. “Open a way for the unclean ones, Todd. Let them go in peace.”

Slowly, the sticks were lowered. A lane appeared amidst the shuffling throng. Hayward bent forward, face burning; picked up Grable’s gun, tucked it into her belt. She turned away only to realize Grable wasn’t following. He was still rooted in place.

“You coming, Captain?”

He started, looked around, then walked past without looking at her. After a moment, he broke into a trot. A great cheer rose up from the crowd. Hayward followed at a dignified walk, eyes straight ahead, struggling not to betray in any way—through expression, posture, voice—that she was enduring the worst humiliation of her entire career.

{ 67 }

A gunshot, terribly loud, sounded in D’Agosta’s ear. It was Pendergast, firing over the heads of the crowd.

The assassin turned and saw them approaching. He glanced back down at the crumpled figure at his feet, looked quickly around him, then turned and fled. Monks in brown robes were clustered around their fallen brother, some praying, others crying out and gesticulating.

A number of monks were pointing to the back of the church. “Da questa parte! È scappato di là!”

Pendergast shot them a glance. “Vincent, after him!” He had his cell phone out and was already calling for a medevac helicopter.

A monk leaped up and grasped D’Agosta’s arm. “I help you,” he said in broken English. “Follow me.”

They ran together through a door to the right of the altar; down a dark passageway and into an inner cloister; then across its courtyard and through a second stone passageway that abruptly terminated in the cliff face itself. Here they stopped. A lateral passage crossed their path, arches and pillars carved out of the living stone.

“He went this way.” The monk turned and raced down the ancient, frescoed corridor. There was an iron door at its end, hanging ajar, and the monk threw it wide. Sunlight flooded the dark passage. D’Agosta followed the monk through the doorway and into open air. A dizzying stone staircase fell away below them, carved directly into the cliff face, no protection from a breathtaking drop save for a rotten iron railing.

D’Agosta leaned away from the cliff face, glanced over the railing. For a moment, vertigo overwhelmed him. Then he glimpsed the red-suited figure below, scrambling down the stone pathway.

“Eccolo!” The monk resumed the chase, robes flapping behind him. D’Agosta followed as quickly as he dared: the stairs were so polished by time, so damp with humidity, they felt as slippery as ice. The staircase was old and disused, so eroded in places they had to step over yawning blue space.

“You know where he’s headed?” D’Agosta asked between gasps.

“To the forest below.”

The stairway leveled off briefly, and they moved slowly over another gap. The iron railing had rotted away at this spot, and rough handholds were their only protection. A stiff, cold wind buffeted them.

A shot rang out from below. The monk slipped, clutched at a handhold, scrambled to regain his balance. D’Agosta pressed himself against the rock face. He was completely exposed, unable to help, unable even to move forward. With both hands clutching the rock he could not even unholster his gun.

Another shot rang out. D’Agosta felt a spray of rock slash his face. Glancing down, he could make out the killer a hundred yards farther down the stairway, pointing his handgun directly at them.

There was no help for it: he couldn’t just stand here, waiting to get shot. D’Agosta let go with one hand, desperately bracing himself against the cliff edge with his feet and his knees, and drew out his gun. Aiming as best he could, he fired once, twice.

Two close shots, missing by inches. The man gave a cry and ducked out of sight below. Meanwhile, the monk had recovered and moved on to a safer spot. D’Agosta felt himself slipping; he was going to have to drop his gun.

“A me!” said the monk.

D’Agosta tossed him the Glock, which the monk deftly caught. Then he pulled himself back into position and leaped over the gap. Just as he got to the far side, another shot rang out.

“Down!”

They crouched on the stone walkway, in the feeble cover of a small projecting rock. Another shot, another spray of rock.

Christ, thought D’Agosta, we’re pinned. Unable to move forward, unable to go back. He would have to return fire again.

The monk handed him his gun.

D’Agosta slid out the magazine, checked it. Eight rounds left. He slapped it back in place.

“When I shoot, you go. Capisci?”

The monk nodded.

In one motion, D’Agosta rose, aimed, squeezed off a string of suppressing fire, just clipping the top of the rock behind which the shooter was crouching, keeping him down, unable to fire. The monk scrambled across the open section of trail, finding good cover at the far end where the pathway once again began to descend a crude staircase.

Magazine spent, D’Agosta ducked back behind the rocky projection. He slapped in his spare magazine, then ran across the open area until he reached the monk and the safety of the staircase, pausing to peer over a rocky wall. The shooter was nowhere to be seen.

Quickly, he rose and resumed the pursuit, the monk at his heels. Down and down they descended until, quite suddenly, they reached the bottom. There was a small vineyard here at the base of the cliff. Beyond rose a dense wall of forest.

“Which way?” D’Agosta asked.

The monk shrugged. “He is gone.”

“No. We’ll follow him into the forest.”

D’Agosta took off again, half crouching, down the row of vines toward the trees. Within moments, they were inside the forest, the cathedral-like trunks surrounding them, silent and smelling of resin and cold, stretching ahead into darkness. D’Agosta scanned the ground, but there was no indication of footsteps in the thick bed of pine needles.

“Do you have any idea which way he went?” he asked.

“Not possible to know. Need dogs.”

“Does the monastery have dogs?”

“No.”

“We can call the police.”

The monk shrugged again. “Takes time. For dogs, two, three days maybe.”

D’Agosta looked back into the endless forest. “Shit.”

Back at the chapel, the scene remained one of confusion. Pendergast was bending over the prostrate form of the monk, applying heart massage and artificial respiration. Several of the monks were kneeling in a half-circle, apparently led by the head of the order; others were standing well back, murmuring in low, shocked tones. As D’Agosta walked across the chapel, utterly winded, he could hear the distant beat of a chopper.

He knelt and took the old priest’s frail hand. The man’s eyes were closed, his face gray. In the background, the steady murmur of prayers continued, soothing in its measured cadence.

“I think he’s suffered a heart attack,” Pendergast said, pressing down on the man’s chest. “The trauma of the gunshot wound. Still, with the medevac arriving, he might be saved.”

Suddenly the monk coughed. A hand fluttered and his eyes opened, staring directly at Pendergast.

“Padre,” said Pendergast, his voice low and calm, “mi dica la confessione più terribile che lei ha mai sentito.”

The eyes, so wise and so close to death, seemed to understand all. “Un ragazzo Americano che ha fatto un patto con il diavolo, ma l’ho salvato, l’ho sicuramente salvato.” He sighed, smiled, then closed his eyes and took one long, final, shuddering breath.

A moment later the paramedics burst in with a transport stretcher. There was an eruption of furious activity as they worked to stabilize the victim: one attached a cardiac monitor while another relayed the lack of vitals to the hospital and received orders in return. The stretcher was rushed back out the door, and within seconds the sound of the helicopter was receding again. And then it was over. The church seemed suddenly empty, the smell of incense drifting on the air, the steady sound of prayer adding a curious note of peace to a most shocking act of violence.

“He got away,” D’Agosta gasped.

Pendergast laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Vincent.”

“What did you say to the priest just now?”

Pendergast hesitated a moment. “I asked him to recall the most terrible confession he’d ever heard. He said it was from a boy—an American boy—who had made a pact with the devil.”

D’Agosta felt revulsion constrict his stomach. So it was true, after all. It was really true.

“He added that he had certainly saved the boy’s soul. In fact, he knew he’d saved his soul.”

D’Agosta had to sit down. He hung his head a moment, still breathing hard, and then looked up at Pendergast. “Yeah. But what about the other three?”

{ 68 }

The Reverend Buck sat at the desk inside his tent, the beams of bright morning sun slanting through the door net and setting the canvas walls ablaze. Everybody in camp was still keyed up from the showdown with the police, still abuzz with energy. Buck could feel that same energy coursing through his being. The passion and belief of his followers had astonished, had heartened him. Clearly, the spirit of God was among them. With God, anything was possible.

The problem was, the police would not rest. They would act decisively, and act soon. His moment was about to arrive: the moment he had come so far, worked so hard, to fulfill.

But what moment? And how, exactly, would he fulfill it?

The question had been growing within him, gnawing at him, for days now. At first, it had been just a faint voice, a sense of disquiet. But now it never left him, despite his praying and fasting and penitence. God’s path was unclear, His wishes mysterious.

Yet again he bowed his head in prayer, asking God to show him the way.

Outside, in the background, he could hear the excited hum of a hundred conversations. He paused to listen. Everybody was talking about the aborted attempt to arrest him. Strange that the police had sent in only two. They probably didn’t want to make a show of aggression, have a Waco on their hands.

Waco. That little aside from the woman cop had sobered him up. It had been almost like a surgical thrust. She was something, that one. Couldn’t be more than thirty-five, a real looker, self-assured as anything. The other was just another weak, vainglorious bully, like any number of the screws he’d dealt with in the Big House. But she—she had the confidence, the power, of the devil behind her.

Should he resist, put up a fight? He had tremendous power in his hands, hundreds of followers who believed in him heart and soul. He had the power of conviction and the Spirit, but they had the power of physical arms. They had the might of the state behind them. They had weapons, tear gas, water cannon. If he resisted, it would be a butchery.

What did God want him to do? He bowed, prayed again.

There was a knock on one of the wooden posts of the tent.

“Yes?”

“It’s almost time for your morning sermon and the laying-on of hands.”

“Thank you, Todd. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

He needed an answer, if only for himself, before he could face his people once again. They relied on him for spiritual guidance in this greatest crisis of all. He was so proud of them, of their bravery and conviction. “Soldiers of Rome,” they’d shouted so aptly at the cops . . .

Soldiers of Rome—that was it.

Suddenly, like the cogs of some vast spiritual machine, a series of connections fell together like dominoes in his mind. Pilate. Herod. Golgotha. It had been there all the time, the answer he’d been searching for. He’d just needed the strength of faith to find it.

He knelt a moment longer. “Thank you, Father,” he murmured. Then he rose, feeling suffused with light.

Now he knew exactly how he would face the armies of Rome.

He armed aside the tent flap and strode toward the preaching rock. He glanced around at the beauty of the morning, the beauty of God’s earth. Life was so precious, such a fleeting gift. As he climbed the path that circled behind the rock, he reminded himself that the next world would be far better, far more beautiful. When the infidels came, a thousand strong, he knew exactly how he was going to deliver them unto defeat.

He raised his hands to a thunderous cheer.

{ 69 }

The cellar of the carabinieri barracks looked more like the dun-geon 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.”

{ 72 }

D’Agosta looked out at the vague outlines of the island looming off the ferry’s port bow, rising steep and blue from the sea, shimmering slightly in the midmorning light. Capraia: outermost of the Tuscan islands, a mountaintop lost in the wide ocean. It looked unreal, almost fairylike. The Toremar car ferry chiseled its way forward, squat steel bows stubbornly parting the turquoise water as it plowed toward its destination.

Pendergast stood beside D’Agosta, sea breeze ruffling his blond hair, his finely cut features like alabaster in the glare of the sun. “A most interesting island, Vincent,” he was saying. “Once a prison for the most dangerous and intelligent criminals in Italy—Mafia capos and serial escapees. The prison closed in the mid-sixties, and now most of the island is a national park.”

“Strange place to live.”

“It is actually the most charming of all the Tuscan islands. There is a small port and a tiny village on a bluff, connected by the island’s only road, which is all of half a mile in length. There’s been no ugly development, thanks to the fact that the island doesn’t have any beaches.”

“What’s the woman’s name again?”

“Her name is Viola Maskelene. Lady Viola Maskelene. I couldn’t find out much about her on short notice—she’s a private person. It seems she spends her summers on the island, leaving at the end of October. Travels the rest of the year, or so I’ve been informed.”

“You sure she’s home?”

“No. But I prefer to take the chance of surprising our quarry.”

“Quarry?”

“In an investigative sense. We’re dealing with a sophisticated and well-traveled Englishwoman. As the only great-grandchild of Toscanelli’s greatest love, she is in the best position to know the family secrets.”

“She might be a tough nut to crack.”

“Quite possibly. Hence the surprise approach.”

“How old is she?”

“I assume middle-aged, if my calculations are correct.”

D’Agosta glanced at him. “So what’s the family story?”

“It was one of those torrid nineteenth-century affairs one reads about. The stuff of opera. Viola Maskelene’s great-grandmother, a famous Victorian beauty, married the Duke of Cumberland, thirty years her senior and as cold and correct a man as you could find. Toscanelli seduced her only a few months after her marriage, and they carried on a legendary affair. An illegitimate daughter came of the union, and the poor duchess died in childbirth. That child was Lady Maskelene’s grandmother.”

“What did the duke have to say about all that?”

“He may have been cold, but he also seems to have been a rather decent sort. After his wife’s death, he took steps to legally adopt the child. The greater titles and estates were entailed away, but the daughter inherited a lesser title and some land in Cornwall.”

The ferry throbbed beneath their feet, and the island seemed to gain weight and substance as they approached. As they stood silently, Pendergast drew the test tube out of his pocket. He held it up, the melted droplets taken from Vanni’s corpse the night before glittering in the sun. “We haven’t spoken yet about these.”

“Yeah. But I’ve been thinking about them.”

“So have I. Perhaps, Vincent, the time has come at last for each of us to turn over a card.”

“You first.”

Pendergast smiled faintly and held up a finger. “Never. As the officer in charge, I reserve the right to call your hand.”

“Pulling rank on me?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, I’d say those drops came from some device which malfunctioned, spraying molten metal into Vanni and burning him terribly.”

Pendergast nodded. “What kind of device?”

“Some device meant to torch Vanni. Same device that killed the others. But in Vanni’s case, it didn’t seem to work, so he had to be shot afterwards.”

“Bravo.”

“Your theory?”

“I reached the same conclusions. Vanni was an early victim—perhaps a test subject—of a highly specialized killing device. It appears we are dealing with a flesh-and-blood assassin, after all.”

Now the ferry was slipping past surf-scoured volcanic cliffs and into a small harbor. A row of crumbling houses, stuccoed yellow and red, crowded the quay, hillsides rising steeply behind them. The ferry maneuvered into port, and a single car and a scattering of passengers got off. Almost before D’Agosta’s feet were on firm ground, it was backing out again and heading to its next stop, the island of Elba.

“We have four hours before the ferry returns on its homeward swing.” Pendergast pulled out a little piece of paper, scrutinized it. “Lady Viola Maskelene, Via Saracino, 19. Let’s hope we find la signorina at home.”

He set off down the quay toward a bus stop, D’Agosta at his side. Within moments, an old orange bus wheezed into view, struggled to turn around in the lone narrow street, then opened its doors. They boarded; the doors creaked shut; and the bus began groaning and wheezing its way back up the frighteningly steep slope that seemed to rise straight out of the foaming sea.

In five minutes, they were in the village at the far end of the road. The doors creaked open again and they descended. An ancient peach-colored church sat on one side, a tobacconist on the other. Cobbled lanes ran off at odd angles, too narrow to admit a car. A giant, ruined castle, completely overgrown with prickly pears, dominated the headland before them. Behind the village mounted a series of empty, scrub-covered mountains.

“Charming,” said Pendergast. He pointed at a street sign, carved on an old marble plaque and cemented into the wall of a building, reading Via Saracino. “This way, Sergeant.”

They walked down a lane between small whitewashed houses, the numbers mounting slowly. Soon the town ended and the lane turned to dirt, bounded by stone walls enclosing garden plots of small lemon trees and microscopic vineyards. The air carried the scent of citrus. The lane made a sharp curve, and there—at the edge of the cliff, all by itself—stood a neat stone house shaded by bougainvillea, overlooking the blue immensity of the Mediterranean.

Pendergast slipped down the path, entered the patio, and knocked on the door.

Silence.

“C’è nessuno?” he called.

The wind sighed through the rosemary bushes, carrying the fragrance of the sea with it.

D’Agosta looked around. “There’s someone over there,” he said. “A man, digging.” He nodded toward a small, terraced vineyard a hundred yards away, where a figure was turning earth with a spade. The man was wearing a battered straw hat, old canvas pants, and a rough shirt unbuttoned partway down the front. Seeing them, the person straightened up.

“Correction: a woman digging.” Pendergast set off down the path with a vigorous step. Reaching the vineyard, they stepped gingerly through clods of freshly turned earth. The woman watched them approach, leaning on her shovel.

Pendergast paused to offer the woman his hand, giving his usual little half-bow. In response, she removed her straw hat, shook out a mass of dark glossy hair, and took the hand.

D’Agosta froze. This is no middle-aged woman.

She was stunningly beautiful, tall, athletic, and slender, with spirited hazel eyes, high cheekbones, skin tanned and freckled from the sun, nose still flaring from the effort of digging.

After a moment, he realized Pendergast, after having bowed, had straightened again but seemed rooted to the spot, still holding her hand, saying nothing but looking into her eyes. The woman appeared to be doing the same. There was a moment of utter stillness. D’Agosta wondered if they had known each other before—it almost seemed as if they recognized each other.

“I am Aloysius Pendergast,” Pendergast said after a long moment.

“I’m Viola Maskelene,” she replied in a rich, warm English accent.

As they released each other’s hand, D’Agosta realized Pendergast had uncharacteristically forgotten to introduce him. “And I’m Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta, Southampton Police.”

The woman turned to him, as if noticing him for the first time. But the smile she gave him was full of warmth. “Welcome to Capraia, Sergeant.”

Another awkward silence. D’Agosta glanced at Pendergast. He had a most uncharacteristic look of surprise on his face, as if somebody had just dropped a scoop of ice cream down his back. What was going on?

“Well,” said Lady Maskelene with another smile, “I assume you’re here to see me, Mr. Pendergast?”

“Yes,” he said hastily. “Yes, we are. It concerns—”

She held up her finger. “A hot vineyard is no place to have a civilized conversation. Let’s go back to my house and enjoy something cool on the terrazza, shall we?”

“Yes, of course.”

She smiled again: a dazzling, dimpled smile. “Follow me.” She set off across the field, her big boots clomping through the clods of earth. The terrazza was shaded by a pergola draped with wisteria, and bordered by blooming rosemary and miniature lemon trees. It was like being perched on the edge of the known world, the cliffs dropping away to an infinity of blue, stretching to the horizon and merging imperceptibly with the sky. The expanse was broken by a single, tiny black reef, about a mile offshore, which only served to increase the sense of distance, of infinity.

Lady Maskelene seated them around an old tiled table, in battered wooden chairs, and then disappeared into the house. A minute later she returned with a wine bottle without a label, filled with a pale amber liquid; some glasses; a bottle of olive oil; and a battered clay platter heaped with thick pieces of rough-cut bread. She set down the glasses and, moving around the table, filled them with white wine. As she passed D’Agosta his glass, he caught her faint scent, a perfume of grapevines, earth, and the sea.

Pendergast took a sip. “Is it yours, Lady Maskelene?”

“Yes. The olive oil is mine also. There’s something marvelously satisfying about working your own piece of ground.”

“Complimenti.” Pendergast took another sip, dipped a piece of the rough bread in a dish of olive oil. “Excellent.”

“Thank you.”

“Allow me to tell you why we’ve come, Lady Maskelene.”

“No,” she said in a low voice, looking not at him, but far out to sea, her hazel eyes almost blue in the intense light, a strange smile on her lips. “Don’t spoil this . . . particular moment just yet.”

D’Agosta wondered just what particular moment she might be talking about. The faint sound of surf and the cries of seagulls drifted from the edge of the cliff.

“What an enchanting villa you have here, Lady Maskelene.”

She laughed. “A villa it is not—just a simple seaside bungalow. That’s why I love it. Here I have my books, my music, my vines, my olive trees—and the sea. What more could you ask for?”

“You mentioned music. Do you play an instrument?”

A hesitation. “The violin.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, thought D’Agosta. As usual, Pendergast was sliding into the subject sideways.

“You are here year-round?”

“Oh, no. I’d get bored. I’m not that much of a recluse.”

“Where do you spend the rest of your time?”

“I lead a rather decadent life. Fall in Rome, December in Luxor, at the Winter Palace.”

“Egypt? That’s a curious place to spend the winter.”

“I’m directing a small dig in the Valley of the Nobles.”

“You’re an archaeologist, then?”

“An Egyptologist and philologist. There’s a difference, you know—we study a great deal more than dirt, pots, and bones. We’ve been excavating the tomb of a Nineteenth Dynasty scribe, full of fascinating hieratic inscriptions. Of course, the tomb was looted in antiquity, but fortunately all the looters wanted were the gold and gems. They left the scrolls and inscriptions intact. We found the scribe himself in his sarcophagus, holding a bundle of mysterious scrolls full of magical formulas which we have yet to unroll and translate. They’re exceedingly delicate.”

“Fascinating.”

“And then, come spring, I go to Cornwall, the family place.”

“Spring, in England?”

She laughed. “I love mud. And freezing rain. And sprawling on a fur rug in front of a roaring fire reading a good book. How about you, Mr. Pendergast? What do you love?”

The question seemed to take Pendergast by surprise, and he covered his confusion with a sip of wine. “I love this wine of yours. Fresh, simple, unpretentious.”

“It’s made from malvasia vines brought to the island almost four thousand years ago by Minoan traders. For me, the flavor somehow evokes history itself, the Minoans crossing the wine-dark sea in trireme ships, bound for distant islands . . .” She laughed, sweeping her black hair from her face. “I’m an incurable romantic. When I was a child, I wanted to grow up to be Odysseus.” She looked at Pendergast. “And you? When you were a child, what did you want to be?”

“A great white hunter.”

She laughed. “What a curious ambition! And did you become one?”

“In a way. But on a hunt in Tanzania . . . I discovered quite suddenly that I had lost the taste for it.”

More silence. D’Agosta gave up trying to make sense of what tack Pendergast was taking. He sipped the wine with renewed interest. It was very pleasant, if a bit dry. And the bread was fabulous, thick and chewy, the olive oil so fresh it was spicy. He dipped a piece of bread, stuffed it in his mouth, followed with another. He hadn’t eaten breakfast and had been a bit too severe with his diet. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch. If Pendergast didn’t hurry things up, they’d miss the ferry.

Then, to D’Agosta’s surprise, the woman brought the subject up herself.

“Speaking of history, there’s quite a lot of that in my own family. You know of my great-grandfather, Luciano Toscanelli?”

“I do.”

“He did two things in life exceptionally well: playing the violin and seducing women. He was the Mick Jagger of his age. His groupies were countesses, baronesses, princesses. Sometimes he would have two or three women in a day, and not always at different times.” She laughed lightly.

Pendergast cleared his throat, took a piece of bread.

“He had one great love, however, and that was my great-grandmother. The Duchess of Cumberland. He gave her an illegitimate daughter, my grandmother.” She paused, looked at Pendergast curiously. “This is why you came, isn’t it?”

It took Pendergast a moment to reply. “Yes, it is.”

She sighed. “My great-grandfather ended up like so many in the days before penicillin: with a bad dose of venereal disease.”

“Lady Maskelene,” said Pendergast hastily, “please don’t think I have come to pry into your family’s private affairs. I really only have one question that needs answering.”

“I know what that question is. But first, I want you to know the history of my family.”

“There is no need—”

Maskelene blushed, her hand touching the buttons of her shirt. “I want you to know it up front, that’s all. Then we won’t have to speak of it again.”

D’Agosta listened with surprise. I want you to know it up front. Up front of what? Pendergast seemed equally nonplussed. In any case, when he had no answer for this, she began again.

“So my great-grandfather got syphilis. It eventually progressed to the tertiary stage, where the spirochetes attack the brain. His playing changed. It grew bizarre. He gave a concert in Florence where he was pelted by the audience. The family who owned the violin demanded it back. He wouldn’t give it up. He fled to escape them and their agents, traveling from city to city, driven by a rising insanity and aided by countless women. The family’s agents and private detectives pursued him doggedly—but quietly, because keeping the family name secret was of the utmost importance. My great-grandfather stayed one step ahead. He played in his hotel rooms at night: insane, shocking, even terrifying renderings of Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, executed—so the story goes—with enormous technical virtuosity but cold, strange, all wrong. Those who heard him say it was as if the devil himself had taken up the violin.”

She paused.

“Go on,” said Pendergast gently.

“The family who owned the Stormcloud was very powerful. They were related by blood to some of the royal families of Europe. Even so, they couldn’t catch my great-grandfather. They pursued him from one end of Europe to the other. The chase finally ended in the small village of Siusi in the South Tyrol. There, under the peaks of the Dolomites, they cornered him. He was betrayed by a woman, naturally. He escaped out the back of a small albergo and fled into the high mountains with nothing but the violin and the clothes on his back. He ascended the great Sciliar. Do you know it?”

“No,” said Pendergast.

“It’s a high Alpine plateau wedged between the peaks of the Dolomites, cut by ravines and sheer cliffs. They say it’s where the witches once held their black masses. In the summer, a few hardy shepherds graze their flocks there. But this was fall and the Sciliar was deserted. That night it snowed heavily. The next day they found his body, frozen to death, in one of the deserted shepherd’s huts. The Stormcloud was gone. There were no tracks in the snow around the hut, no clues. They concluded that on the way up the Sciliar, in the grip of madness, he had flung the violin into the Falls of the Sciliar.”

“Is this what you believe?”

“Reluctantly, yes.”

Pendergast leaned forward. His normally calm, almost honeyed southern tones had taken on an unusual intensity. “Lady Maskelene, I am here to tell you that the Stormcloud exists.”

Her eyes gazed at him steadily. “I’ve heard that before.”

“I will prove it to you.”

She continued looking at him with a grave, steady face. Finally she gave a wan smile and shook her head sadly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I will get it back. And I will place it in your hands myself.”

D’Agosta listened with surprise. He might be wrong, but he was pretty sure Pendergast’s aim in coming here wasn’t to inform this woman of the violin’s existence. Fact was, he felt surprised Pendergast even mentioned it.

She shook her head more vigorously. “There are hundreds of Stormcloud fakes and copies out there. They were churned out by the gross in the late nineteenth century, sold for nine pounds apiece.”

“When I bring you the violin, Lady Maskelene—”

“Enough of this ‘Lady Maskelene’ business. Every time you say that, I think my mother must have stepped into the room. Call me Viola.”

“Certainly. Viola.”

“That sounds better. And I’ll call you Aloysius.”

“Of course.”

“What an unusual funny name, though. Did your mother read a lot of Russian novels?”

“Unusual names are a tradition in my family.”

Viola laughed. “Just as musical names were in mine. Now tell me about the Stormcloud. Where in the world did you find it? If you did really find it, that is.”

“I’ll tell you the whole story when I bring it to you. You’ll play it—and then you’ll know.”

“It is too much to hope for. Still, I should love to hear it before I die.”

“It would also clear your family name.”

Maskelene laughed, waved her hand. “What rot. I hate being called Lady Maskelene, if you want to know the truth. Titles, family honor—that’s nineteenth-century rubbish.”

“Honor is never out of date.”

She looked at Pendergast curiously. “You’re a rather old-fashioned sort, aren’t you?”

“I don’t pay much attention to current fashions, if that’s what you mean.”

She looked his black suit up and down with an amused smile. “No, I suppose you don’t. I rather like that.”

Again Pendergast looked nonplussed.

“Well”—she stood up, her brown eyes catching the light off the water, a smile dimpling her face—“whether you find the violin or not, come back anyway and tell me about it. Will you?”

“Nothing would please me more.”

“Good. That’s settled.”

Pendergast looked at her gravely. “Which brings me to the point of my visit.”

“The big question. Ah.” She smiled. “Go ahead.”

“What is the name of that powerful family that once owned the Stormcloud?”

“I can do better than give you a mere answer.” She reached into her pocket, removed an envelope, and laid it before Pendergast. In a lovely copperplate hand was written, Dr. Aloysius X. L. Pendergast.

Pendergast looked at it, his face draining of color. “Where did you get this?”

“Yesterday, the current Count Fosco—for that was the family that once owned the violin—paid me a surprise visit. Surprise is hardly the word—I was bowled over. He said you’d be coming, that you were friends, and that he wanted me to give you this.”

Pendergast reached down and slowly picked up the envelope. D’Agosta watched as he slid his finger under the flap, tore it open, and pulled out a card, on which was written in the same generous, flowing hand:

Isidor Ottavio Baldassare Fosco,

Count of the Holy Roman Empire,

Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Quincunx,

Perpetual Arch-Master of the Rosicrucian Masons of Mesopotamia,

Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, etc., etc.,
desires the pleasure of your company
at his family seat,

Castel Fosco,

Sunday, November 4

Castel Fosco

Greve in Chianti

Firenze

Pendergast looked sharply at D’Agosta and then back at Lady Maskelene. “This man is no friend. He’s extremely dangerous.”

“What? That fat, charming old count?” She laughed, but the laughter died when she saw the expression on his face.

“He’s the one who has the violin.”

She stared. “It would be his, anyway—wouldn’t it? I mean, if it were found.”

“He brutally murdered at least four people to get it.”

“Oh, my God—”

“Don’t say anything to anyone about this. You’ll be safe here, on Capraia. He would have killed you already if he thought it was necessary.”

She stared back. “You’re frightening me.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry, but sometimes it’s good to be afraid. It will be over in two or three days. Please be careful, Viola. Just stay here and do nothing until I return with the violin.”

For a moment, she did not reply. Then she stirred. “You must go. You’ll miss the ferry.”

Pendergast took her hand. They stood quite still, looking at each other, saying nothing. Then Pendergast turned and quickly walked through the gate and down the trail.

D’Agosta leaned against the fantail of the ferry, watching the island dissolve on the horizon in much the same way it had appeared: with a sense of expectancy, of a fresh beginning. Pendergast stood beside him. Since they had left the small house on the bluff, the agent hadn’t said a word. He stared back over the churning wake, apparently lost in thought.

“Fosco knew that you knew,” said D’Agosta. “That’s what saved her.”

“Yes.”

“This whole thing. It was just an elaborate plot to get the violin, wasn’t it?”

Pendergast nodded.

“I knew from the beginning that fat bastard had something to do with it.”

Pendergast didn’t respond. His gaze was far away.

“Are you all right?” D’Agosta finally risked asking.

Pendergast started, looked over. “Quite all right, thanks.”

The island had finally disappeared. As if on cue, the low outline of the Tuscan mainland began to materialize on the eastern horizon.

“What now?”

“I accept Fosco’s invitation. It’s one thing to know, quite another to have proof. If we want to get Fosco, we have to get whatever machine he used to commit these murders.”

“So why did Fosco give you an invitation?”

“He wants to kill me.”

“Great. And you plan on accepting?”

Pendergast turned away and gazed back out to sea, his eyes almost white in the brilliant light. “Fosco knows I’ll accept, because it’s the only chance to gather the evidence we need to put him behind bars. If we don’t do it now, he will be back to haunt us next month, perhaps, or a year from now, or ten years . . .” He paused. “And what’s more, he’ll always be a danger to Viola—Lady Maskelene—for what she knows.”

“I get it.”

But Pendergast was still looking out to sea. When he spoke again, his voice was very low. “It ends tomorrow, in the Castel Fosco.”

{ 73 }

Bryce Harriman sat at the old table, taking notes in the harsh light of a Coleman lantern, the Reverend Buck across from him. It was almost midnight, but he wasn’t the least bit sleepy. The day before, he had filed a crackerjack story, about the failed attempt to arrest Buck. He had pieced it together from a half dozen witnesses, and it was juicy: the swaggering police captain coming in to arrest Buck, how he’d panicked and run, leaving it to the other captain—a woman—to straighten things out. Great copy. In the long run, it might turn out to be more than just great copy: he’d begun putting out feelers at the Times, and they seemed receptive to a job interview. This new article would be gravy. And thanks to Buck, he was now the only journalist allowed in the tent city. With this second piece appearing hot on the heels of the first, he was going to score a double whammy. And he would be there tomorrow, too, just in case there was a showdown with New York’s finest.

Judging from the mood in the camp, it was going to be a mess. Since the botched arrest, the whole place had been on edge, restless, belligerent, like a powder keg ready to go. Even at midnight, more than a day after the would-be raid, everyone was still awake, the prayers and camp meetings sounding shrilly through the darkness. A lot of the kids he’d noticed on his first visit to the tent city were gone—a night or two of sleeping on the hard ground, without an Internet connection or cable TV, had sent them scurrying home to their comfy suburbs. What remained was the hard-core element, the real zealots. And there was no shortage of those: there had to be at least three hundred tents here.

Buck himself was different. Gone was the flicker of uncertainty, the faint aura of surprise and wonder that he had possessed before. Now he seemed almost transcendentally calm and assured. When he looked at Harriman, it was as if he was looking right through him to another world.

“Well, Mr. Harriman,” he was saying, “have you gotten what you came for? It’s almost midnight, and I usually deliver a message to the people before retiring.”

“Just one other question. What do you think’s going to happen? The NYPD aren’t just going to walk away, you realize.”

He had half expected the question to shake Buck up a bit, but instead, the man seemed to settle even deeper into something like serenity. “What will happen will happen.”

“It may not be pretty. Are you ready?”

“No, it won’t be pretty, and yes, I am ready.”

“You say that almost as if you know what’s going to happen.”

Buck smiled knowingly but said nothing.

“Aren’t you concerned?” Harriman asked more insistently.

Again that enigmatic smile. Damn, you can’t quote a smile. “We’re talking tear gas maybe, cops swinging billy clubs. No more fun and games.”

“I put my trust in God, Mr. Harriman. Who do you trust?”

Time to wrap this up. “Thank you, Reverend, you’ve been very helpful.” Harriman rose.

“And thank you, Mr. Harriman. Won’t you stay a few minutes to hear my message to the people? As you say, something is about to happen. And as a result, my sermon this evening will be somewhat different.”

The reporter hesitated. He had to be up at five, ready to go. He was pretty sure the cops were going to do their thing tomorrow, and it might begin early. “What’s it on?”

“Hell.”

“In that case, I’ll stay.”

Buck rose and signaled one of his men, who came over, helped him don a simple vestment, and then accompanied him out of the tent. Harriman followed in their wake, pulling his recorder out of one pocket, trying to ignore the heavy reek of the encampment. They were headed, he knew, to a huge glacial erratic that reared out of the earth to the west of the tent city and which was now universally called the “preaching rock.”

The bustle of the camp died away as Buck went out of sight behind the massive boulder, climbed the grassy hummock to the rear, then reappeared on its lofty crag. He raised his hands slowly. Watching from below, Harriman found hundreds of people drifting in out of the darkness to surround him.

“My friends,” he began. “Good evening. Once again I thank you for joining me on this spiritual quest. It’s been my custom, in these evening talks, to speak to you of this quest: to explain why we are here and what it is we must do. But tonight my subject will be different.

“Brothers and sisters, you will soon face a trial. A great trial. We won a mighty victory here yesterday, thanks be to God. But the agents of darkness are not easily turned back. Therefore, you must be strong. Be strong, and accept the will of God.”

Harriman, listening with recorder raised, was surprised by Buck’s tone and manner. His voice was quiet, but it rang with an iron conviction he’d never heard before, even in the very first sermon delivered outside Cutforth’s building. There was a strange look in Buck’s bright eyes: a look of anticipation mingled with an almost stoic resignation.

“I have spoken to you many times about what we have come here to achieve. Now, on the eve of your trial to end all trials, I must take a moment to remind you of what we are up against and who your enemy is. Remember my words even when I am no longer among you.”

The eve of your trial. Who your enemy is. No longer among you. Since his last meeting in Buck’s tent, Harriman had begun reading the Bible—just a little, here and there—and the words of Jesus came back to him now: Whither I go, thou canst not follow me now; but thou shalt follow me afterwards.

“Why, my friends and my brothers, were our medieval ancestors—unsophisticated and unlettered in other ways—so much more God-fearing than people today? But I speak the answer even as I ask the question. Because they had the fear of God. They knew what rewards awaited the chosen few in heaven. And they also knew what awaited the sinful, the wicked, the lazy and unbelieving.

“The fault lies not just with the people. Today’s clergy are even more at fault. They sugarcoat the word of God, make light of his warnings, tell their flocks that hell is merely a metaphor or an antique concept with no actual reality. God’s love is expansive and forgiving, they tell us. They lull their flocks into a false sense of entitlement. As if a baptism here, a few good deeds there, a communion or two, is a ticket to heaven. My friends, this is a tragic mistake.”

Buck paused to glance around at the hushed multitude.

“God’s love is a tough love. In this city, as in all great cities, people die every day. They die by the hundreds. At what point do you suppose all those poor souls begin to realize the real fate that lies in store for them? At what point do the scales fall from their eyes and they learn their entire life has been a lie—that they’ve spent it running from the light ever deeper into the darkness—and that they now have nothing but unimaginable torment to look forward to? There is no way to know for sure. But I believe at least some people have a glimpse of it in their last moments. I believe that, for these people, there is a creeping sense that something is terribly wrong: something far, far worse than the act of dying itself. In those last moments, as the soul begins to separate from the body, the fabric of everyday reality is ripped asunder. And suddenly they can see into the void beyond. Then comes a terrible oppression; overwhelming fear; rising heat. They cannot scream, they cannot flee. This is no panic attack that will pass; this is merely the foretaste of what is to come. This is a step onto the first tread of the long stairway down into hell.

“And what is hell itself like? Our ancestors were told it was a burning lake of fire, of sulfur and brimstone, in which one was eternally submerged. A terrible furnace whose flames bring no light, but merely darkness made visible. And in a simpler time, such a depiction was enough.”

He stopped again to look around, fixing first one, then another, with his eyes.

“Mind you, I do believe this is hell for some. But it is not the only hell. There are countless hells, my brothers and sisters. There is a hell for each of us. Lucifer may be no match for our God. Yet he was a very mighty angel indeed, and as such, has powers far beyond our poor comprehension.

“You must remember something, and remember it always: Lucifer, the devil, was cast out of heaven because of his overmastering envy and evil. In his implacable jealousy, his unquenchable thirst for revenge, he now uses us as his pawns. Just as the rejected child hates a favored rival, he hates us for what we are: beloved children of God. And which of us can hope to comprehend the depths of his bottomless rage? Each human he corrupts, each soul he takes, is for him a victory: a fist shaken up at God.

“He knows our individual weaknesses, our petty desires; he knows what triggers our vanity or our greed or our lust or our cruelty. We have no secrets from him. He has handcrafted temptations for each one of us; he has strewn our path with a thousand ways to veer into darkness. And once he has successfully lured a soul into his kingdom—once he has won, yet again—do you think Satan will be content to leave that soul in a generic hell? Think again, my friends: think again. He who knows all our weaknesses also knows all our fears. Even those we may not know ourselves. And to complete his victory, to make his victim’s suffering supreme, he will fashion each individual hell to be the most unendurable for its particular inhabitant. And worst of all, it will be a hell that lasts forever. And ever. And ever. For some, that may well mean a burning lake of fire. For others, it may mean an eternity nailed up in a black coffin, motionless, lightless, speechless, as insanity doubles and redoubles over long eons. For others, it might mean, say, eternal suffocation. Imagine that for a moment, my friends. Imagine that you’ve held your breath for two minutes, maybe three. Imagine the desperate need for oxygen, the exquisite torture. And yet in hell, there is no release of breath, no drawing in of good sweet air. Nor is there the blankness of oblivion. There is simply that moment of maximal agony, prolonged forever.”

Maximal agony, prolonged forever. Despite himself, Harriman shivered in the warm night.

“Other hells might be more subtle. Imagine the man who always feared going crazy, doing so over decades or even slow centuries. And then beginning the process over. And over. Or imagine the doting mother, forced to watch—again and again and again—how after her own passing her children slide into poverty and neglect, drug addiction, depression, maltreatment, and death.”

Here he stopped, and stepped up to the very edge of the rock.

“Take a moment to think of the very worst hell you could imagine for yourself. And then realize that Satan, who knows you even better than you know yourself, could fashion one far worse. And he will. He already has. In anticipation. Because he has only one salve for his bitter pain: the despair, the desperate pleadings, the cries and sufferings of his victims.”

Buck paused again. He took a deep breath, then another. Then, in an even lower voice, he went on.

“I’ve said there was a hell for each of us. That hell is there, waiting for each one of you. Satan has made your hell so very easy to find, with a wide and comfortable road leading straight to it. It is far, far easier for us to go with the flow, to stroll unthinking down that broad pleasant avenue, far easier than to search for the rough, hidden turnoff that leads to heaven. We must fight against the lure of the easy road. It is a fight, my friends; a fight to the death. Because that is the only way—the only way—we are going to discover that difficult trail to heaven. I ask you to remember this in the trials we are about to face.”

And then he turned and stepped down out of sight.

{ 74 }

When D’Agosta entered Pendergast’s hotel suite, he found the agent at breakfast. The table was set with assorted fruits, breakfast rolls, and the inescapable and inevitable tiny espresso. Pendergast was nibbling daintily at poached eggs and reading what looked like a set of faxed documents. For a brief moment, D’Agosta thought of the earlier meal they’d shared, back in Southampton, when this case was still brand-new. It seemed a distant memory indeed.

“Ah, Vincent,” Pendergast said. “Come in. Would you care to order something?”

“No, thanks.” Although it was a beautiful morning and sunlight gilded the rooms, D’Agosta felt as if a threatening cloud was hanging over them both. “I’m surprised you’ve got an appetite.”

“It’s important I take some refreshment now. I’m not sure how long it will be until my next meal. But that shouldn’t stop you: come, have a croissant. These Alsatian plum preserves from Fauchon are delightful.” He put the faxes aside and picked up La Nazione.

“What’s that you were reading?”

“Some faxes from Constance. I’ll need all the, ah, ammunition I can gather for what’s to come. She has proven most helpful.”

D’Agosta stepped forward. “I’m coming with you,” he said grimly. “I want to get that straight here and now so there won’t be any questions later.”

Pendergast lowered the paper. “I assumed you’d make such a demand. Let me remind you the invitation was for me alone.”

“I doubt that fat-assed count would have any objections.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I’ve come all this way. I’ve been shot at more than once, lost the end of a finger, almost been pushed off a cliff, almost been driven off a cliff.”

“Right again.”

“So don’t expect me to spend the evening relaxing by the pool with a few cold ones while you’re in Fosco’s lair.”

Pendergast smiled faintly. “I have one more errand to run before leaving Florence. Let’s discuss it then.”

And he raised the paper once again.

Two hours later, their car stopped on a narrow street in Florence, outside a vast, austere building of rough stone.

“The Palazzo Maffei,” Pendergast said from behind the wheel. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting here a moment? I won’t be long.” He got out of the car, approached a brass plaque of door buzzers set into the facade, scanned the names, and pressed one. A moment later, a muffled voice rasped over the intercom. Pendergast answered. Then the great door buzzed open and he vanished inside.

D’Agosta watched, curious. He’d picked up enough Italian to know that what Pendergast said into the intercom hadn’t sounded right. It sounded more like Latin, to tell the truth.

Getting out of the car, he crossed the narrow street and examined the buzzers. The one Pendergast pressed was labeled simply Corso Maffei. This told D’Agosta nothing, and he returned to their rental car.

Within ten minutes, Pendergast emerged from the building and got back into the driver’s seat.

“What was that all about?” D’Agosta asked.

“Insurance,” Pendergast replied. Then he turned to look intently at D’Agosta. “The chances of success in this venture are not much better than fifty-fifty. I have to do this. You do not. I would personally prefer it if you didn’t come.”

“No way. We’re in this together.”

“I see you are determined. But let me just remind you, Vincent, that you have a son and what appear to be excellent prospects for advancement, promotion, and a happy life ahead of you.”

“I said, we’re in this together.”

Pendergast smiled and laid a hand on his arm—a strangely affectionate gesture from a man who hardly ever showed affection. “I knew this would be your answer, Vincent, and I am glad. I have come to rely on your common sense, your steadiness, and your shooting ability, among other excellent qualities.”

D’Agosta felt himself unaccountably embarrassed and he grunted a reply.

“We should reach the castle by midafternoon. I’ll brief you on the way.”

The road running south from Florence into Chianti wound through some of the prettiest country D’Agosta had ever seen: hills striped with vineyards turning yellow in fall colors, and pale gray-green olive groves; fairy-tale castles and gorgeous Renaissance villas sprinkled on hills and ridges. Beyond loomed a range of forested mountains, dotted here or there with a grim monastery or an ancient bell tower.

The road loosely followed the ridges above the Greve River. As they passed over the Passo dei Pecorai, the town of Greve came into view far below, lying in a low valley along the river. As they came around another bend in the road, Pendergast pointed a finger at his side window. “Castel Fosco,” he said.

It stood on a lonely spar of rock far up in the Chiantigian hills. From this distance, it looked to D’Agosta like a single massive tower, crenellated and time-worn, rising above the forest. The road turned, dipped, and the castle disappeared. A moment later Pendergast turned off the main road, and after a confusing series of turns onto ever-smaller lanes, they arrived at a mossy wall with an iron gate. The marble plaque beside it read Castel Fosco. The open gate was rotten and rusted, and it seemed to have settled crookedly into the very ground itself. An ancient dirt road ran up from the gate through some vineyards, climbing a steep hillside and disappearing over the brow of the hill.

As they wound their way up the hillside, Pendergast nodded toward the terraced vineyards and groves that lined the road. “A rich estate, apparently, and one of the largest in Chianti.”

D’Agosta said nothing. Every yard they drove farther into the count’s domain seemed to increase the sense of oppression that hung over him.

The road topped the ridge and the castle came into view again, much closer now: a monstrous stone keep perched on a crag far up the mountainside. Built into one side of the keep was a later, yet still ancient, addition: a graceful Renaissance villa with a pale yellow stuccoed exterior and red-tile roofs. Its rows of stately windows stood in strong contrast to the grim, almost brutal lines of the central keep.

The entire structure was surrounded by a double set of walls. The outermost was almost completely in ruins, consisting mostly of gaps of tumbled stone, broken towers, and crumbling battlements. The inner curtain was in much better repair and acted as a kind of retaining wall to the castle itself, its enormous ramparts providing fields of level ground around the exterior. Beyond the castle, the slopes of the mountain rose yet another thousand feet into a wild, forested amphitheater, jagged outcrops forming a serrated semicircular edge against the lowering sky.

“Over five thousand acres,” said Pendergast. “I understand it dates back more than a millennium.”

But D’Agosta did not reply. The sight of the castle had chilled him more than he cared to admit. The sense of oppression grew stronger. It seemed insane, walking into the lion’s den like this. But he’d learned to trust Pendergast implicitly. The man never did anything without a reason. He’d outfoxed the sniper. He’d saved them from death at the hands of Bullard’s men. He’d saved their lives many times before, on earlier cases. Pendergast’s plan—whatever it was—would work.

Of course it would work.

{ 75 }

The car came around a final turn and passed the ruined outer gate. The castle rose above them in its stern and immense majesty. They proceeded down an avenue of cypress trees with massive ribbed trunks and stopped at a parking area just outside the inner curtain. D’Agosta peered at this wall through the passenger window with deep misgiving. It towered twenty feet over his head, its great sloping buttresses streaked with lime, dripping moss and maidenhair ferns. There was no gate in this inner wall, just a spiked and banded pair of wooden doors at the top of a broad stone staircase.

As they got out of the car, there was a humming sound, followed by a deep scraping noise, and the doors opened at an invisible cue.

They mounted the stairs, passed through a hulking doorway, and stepped into what seemed like another world. The smooth lawn of the inner ward ran for a hundred yards to the skirt of the castle itself. To one side of the lawn lay a large, circular reflecting pool surrounded by an ancient marble balustrade, ornamented at its center by a statue of Neptune astride a sea monster. To the right stood a small chapel with a tiled dome. Beyond was another marble balustrade overlooking a small garden that stepped down the hillside, ending abruptly at the fortified inner wall.

There was another scraping noise, and the ground trembled; D’Agosta turned to see the great wooden doors rumbling closed behind them.

“Never mind,” murmured Pendergast. “Preparations have been made.”

D’Agosta hoped to hell he knew what he was talking about. “Where’s Fosco?” he asked.

“We’ll no doubt see him soon enough.”

They crossed the lawn and approached the main entrance of the massive keep. It opened with a creak of iron. And there stood Fosco, dressed in an elegant dove-gray suit, longish hair brushed back, his smooth white face creased with a smile. As always, he was wearing kid gloves.

“My dear Pendergast, welcome to my humble abode. And Sergeant D’Agosta, as well? Nice of you to join our little party.”

He held out his hand. Pendergast ignored it.

The count let the hand drop, his smile unaffected. “A pity. I had hoped we could conduct our business with courtesy, like gentlemen.”

“Is there a gentleman here? I should like to meet him.”

Fosco clucked disapprovingly. “Is this a way to treat a man in his own home?”

“Is it any way to treat a man, burning him to death in his own home?”

A look of distaste crossed Fosco’s face. “So anxious to get to the business at hand, are we? But there will be time, there will be time. Do come in.”

The count stood aside, and they walked through a long archway into the castle’s great hall. It was quite unlike what D’Agosta had expected. A graceful loggia ran along three sides, with columns and Roman arches.

“Note the Della Robbia tondi,” said Fosco, gesturing toward some painted terra-cotta decorations set into the walls above the arches. “But you must be tired after the drive down. I will take you to your quarters, where you can refresh yourselves.”

“Our rooms?” Pendergast asked. “Are we spending the night?”

“Naturally.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary, or even possible.”

“But I must insist.” The count turned and seized an iron ring on the open castle door, drawing it shut with a boom. With a dramatic flourish, he removed a giant key from his pocket and locked it. Then he opened a small wooden box mounted on the nearby wall. Inside, D’Agosta saw a high-tech keypad, wildly out of place amidst the ancient masonry. The count punched a long sequence of numbers into the keypad. In response, there was a clank, and a massive iron bar shot down from above, sliding into a heavy iron bracket and barring the door.

“Now we are safe from unauthorized invasion,” said Fosco. “Or, for that matter, unauthorized departure.”

Pendergast made no answer. The count turned and, moving in his peculiar light-footed way, led them through the hall and into a long, cold stone gallery. Portraits, almost black with age, lined both walls, along with mounted sets of rusted armor, spears, lances, pikes, maces, and other medieval weaponry.

“The armor is of no value, eighteenth-century reproductions. The portraits are of my ancestors, of course. Age has obscured them, fortunately—the counts of Fosco are not a pretty race. We have owned the estate since the twelfth century, when my distinguished ancestor Giovan de Ardaz wrested it from a Longobardic knight. The family bestowed the title ‘cavaliere’ on itself and took as its coat of arms a dragon rampant, bar sinister. During the time of the grand dukes, we were made counts of the Holy Roman Empire by the electress palatine herself. We have always led a quiet existence here, tending our vines and olive groves, neither meddling in politics nor aspiring to office. We Florentines have a saying: The nail that sticks out gets hammered back in. The House of Fosco did not stick out, and as a result, we never felt the blow of the hammer during many, many shifts of political fortune.”

“And yet you, Count, have managed to stick yourself out quite a bit these past few months,” Pendergast replied.

“Alas, and much against my will. It was only to recover what was rightfully ours to begin with. But we shall talk more of this at dinner.”

They passed out of the gallery and through a beautiful drawing room with leaded-glass windows and tapestried walls. Fosco gestured toward some large landscape paintings. “Hobbema and van Ruisdael.”

The drawing room was followed by a long series of graciously appointed, light-filled chambers, until quite suddenly the character of the rooms changed abruptly. “We are now entering the original, Longobardic part of the castle,” Fosco said. “Dating back to the ninth century.”

Here the rooms were small and almost windowless, the only light admitted by arrow ports and tiny, square openings high on the walls. The walls were calcined, the rooms bare.

“I have no use for these dreary old rooms,” said the count as they passed through. “They are always damp and cold. There are, however, several levels of cellars, tunnels, and subbasements below, most useful for making wine, balsamico, and prosciutto di cinghiale. We hunt our own boar here on the estate, you know, and it is justly famous. The lowest of those tunnels were cut into the rock by the Etruscans, three thousand years ago.”

They came to a heavy iron door, set into an even heavier stone wall. Deeper within the castle, D’Agosta could see that the stonework was beaded with moisture.

“The keep,” Fosco said as he unlocked the door with another key.

Immediately inside was a wide, windowless circular staircase that corkscrewed its way up from the depths and curved out of sight above their heads. Fosco removed a battery-powered torch from a wall sconce, turned it on, and led the way up the stairs. After five or six revolutions, they stopped at a small landing containing a single door. Opening it with yet another key, Fosco ushered them into what looked like a small apartment, retrofitted into the old castle keep, its tiny windows overlooking the valley of the Greve and the rolling hills marching toward Florence, far below. A fire burned in a stone fireplace at one end, and Persian rugs covered the terra-cotta floor. There was a comfortable sitting area in front of the fire; a table to one side well furnished with wines and liquors; a wall of well-stocked bookshelves.

“Eccoci quà! I trust you will find your chambers comfortable. There are two small bedrooms on either side. The view is refreshing, don’t you think? I am concerned that you brought no luggage. I will have Pinketts furnish you with anything you might need—razors, bathrobes, slippers, sleeping shirts.”

“I very much doubt we will be staying the night.”

“And I very much doubt you will be leaving.” The count smiled. “We eat late, in the Continental fashion. At nine.”

He bowed, backed out of the door, shutting it with a hollow boom. With sinking heart, D’Agosta heard a key rasp in the lock, and then the footsteps of the count disappearing quickly down the stairway.

{ 76 }

The staging area for the move on Buck’s encampment was a maintenance parking lot behind the arsenal, well out of sight of the tent city. Commissioner Rocker had called up no fewer than three NYPD riot control divisions, along with a SWAT team, two hostage negotiators, officers on horseback, two mobile command units, and plenty of rank and file with helmets and bulletproof vests to manage the arrests. Then there were the fire trucks, ambulances, and prisoner transport vans, all standing by at a discreet distance on 67th Street.

Hayward stood at the northern fringe of the staging area, giving her radio and weapon a final check. The crowd of uniformed officers milling around with batons and riot shields was enormous, not to mention various operations specialists with wires dangling from their ears and even a few confidential informants dressed as tent city residents. She understood the reason for the overkill: if you went in, you went in with overwhelming force, and nine times out of ten the opposition caved. The worst thing you could do was let them think they might have a chance if they made a stand.

And yet these people thought they had God behind them. These weren’t striking bus drivers or municipal workers with spouses and kids, two cars in the driveway. These were true believers. They were unpredictable. Her approach made more sense.

Didn’t it?

Rocker appeared out of the crowd, strode over, and laid a hand on Hayward’s shoulder. “Ready?”

She nodded.

He gave her a fatherly pat. “Radio if you run into heavy weather. We’ll move in early.” He glanced at the array of men and equipment behind them. “I hope to hell none of this is necessary.”

“So do I.”

She could see Wentworth at one of the mobile command units, wire dangling from his ear, talking, gesturing this way and that. He was playing cop, having the time of his life. He glanced in her direction and she turned away. It would be humiliating if she failed. Not only that, it would seriously damage her career. Wentworth had already predicted failure, and it was only through Rocker’s support that her mission had been approved at all. Not for the first time since the last meeting, she wondered why she’d stuck her neck out. This was not the way to advance a career. How many times had she seen that those who went with the flow rode the tide to success? D’Agosta’s attitude must be rubbing off on her.

“Ready?”

She nodded.

Rocker released her shoulder. “Then have at it, Captain.”

She took one more look back at the safety of the staging area. Then she set off along a walkway that curved north around the arsenal, taking her badge from her pocket and clipping it to her jacket as she did so.

In a few minutes, the straggling outer tents of the encampment came into view. She slowed, getting a feel for the crowd. It was noon, and people were moving around everywhere. There was the smell of frying bacon in the air. As she neared the first line of tents, people stopped to stare. She nodded in a friendly way, receiving hostile looks in response. The crowd seemed a lot more tense than on Friday—and no wonder. They weren’t stupid. They knew they weren’t going to get away with threatening police officers. They were waiting for the second shoe to drop. She just had to make sure they realized she wasn’t that shoe.

She entered one of the crooked lanes, feeling all eyes on her, hearing whispered comments. The words Satan and unclean reached her ears. She kept a friendly smile on her face, an easiness in her walk. She remembered her professor in Social Dynamics saying a crowd was like a dog: if you showed fear, it would bite; if you ran, it would chase.

The path was familiar, and in less than a minute, she found herself approaching Buck’s tent. He was sitting at a table out front, reading a book, totally absorbed. The same officious man who had accosted her and Grable two days before—Buck had called him Todd—suddenly appeared in front of her. Already a crowd was forming. Nothing ugly: just curious, silent, and hostile.

“You again,” the man said.

“Me again,” Hayward replied. “Here to chat with the reverend.”

“They’re back!” the man cried to the others, stepping forward to block her way.

“Not ‘they.’ Just me.”

The murmur of the crowd rose like an electric buzz. The air was suddenly tense. Hayward glanced back, surprised at how large the crowd was growing. Focus on Buck. But he remained reading at the desk, ignoring her. From here, she could make out the title: Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, Reader’s Digest Edition.

Todd advanced to the point where he was almost—but not quite—touching her with his body.

“The reverend can’t be disturbed.”

Hayward felt a twinge of something uncomfortably like doubt. Was this plan of hers really going to work? Or was Wentworth right, after all?

She spoke loudly enough for Buck to hear. “I’m just here to talk. I’ve got no arrest warrant. I just want to talk to the reverend, one human being to another.”

“Prevaricator!” someone shouted from the crowd.

She had to get past this aide-de-camp blocking her way. She took a step forward, brushing him.

“That’s assault, Officer,” Todd said.

“If the reverend doesn’t want to talk to me, let me hear him say it himself. Let the reverend make his own decisions.”

“The reverend asked not to be disturbed.” They were still touching, and it gave Hayward the creeps, but she sensed a back-down in the making.

She wasn’t wrong. Todd took a step back, still blocking her way.

“Roman!” came a cry from the crowd.

What is it with this Roman shit? “All I ask is five minutes of your time, Reverend,” she called, leaning around Todd. “Five minutes.”

At last, Buck laid down the book with great deliberation, rose from the table, and finally raised his head to look at her. The instant her eyes met his, she felt a chill. On Friday he’d seemed a little unsure of what he’d wrought; perhaps amenable to persuasion. But today there was a coolness, a calmness, a sense of utter self-confidence she had not seen before. The only emotion she sensed in him was a passing flicker, perhaps, of disappointment. She swallowed.

“Excuse me.” She tried to step past the guardian.

Buck nodded to the man, who took a step to the side. Then Buck looked back at her, but the look was such she was unsure whether he was seeing her, or seeing through her.

“Reverend, I’ve been sent by the NYPD to ask you and your followers a favor.” Keep it chatty, informal, nonintimidating. That’s what she had learned in negotiations training. Let them think they’re making the decisions.

But Buck showed no sign of having heard.

The crowd had fallen ominously silent. She didn’t turn, but she sensed it had grown enormous by now—no doubt much of the encampment.

“Look, Reverend, we’ve got a problem. Your followers are ruining the park, trampling the bushes, killing the grass. On top of that, they’ve been using the surroundings as a public latrine. The neighbors are complaining. It’s a health hazard, especially for you all.”

She paused, wondering if any of this was sinking in.

“Reverend, can you help us out here?”

She waited. Buck said nothing.

“I need your help.”

She heard restless murmuring in the crowd behind her. People were flowing in around the back side of Buck’s tent, filling her field of vision. She was truly surrounded now.

“I’ve got a deal to offer you. I think it’s a fair deal. A straight deal.”

Ask what it is, asshole. It was crucial to get him talking, asking questions, anything. But he said nothing. He continued looking at her, looking past her. Christ, she had somehow misjudged him—or something had changed since their last visit. This was not the same man.

For the first time, the real possibility of failure loomed before her.

“You want to hear it?”

No response.

She forged gamely ahead. “First, the health hazard. We don’t want you or your followers to get sick. We’d like you to give your people a day off. That’s all—a day off. Let them go home, shower, have a hot meal. In return, we’ll give you a parade permit that’ll allow you to gather lawfully with the city’s blessing. Not like this, wrecking the park, annoying residents, earning the disrespect of the whole city. Look, I’ve heard you talk. I know you’re a fair guy, a straight shooter. I’m giving you a chance to go legit, earn some respect—and still get your message out.”

She stopped. Don’t say too much. Let him come round.

All around them, an air of expectancy had grown. Everyone was waiting for the reverend to speak. It all depended on Buck.

At last, he moved. He blinked, raised his hand slowly, almost robotically. The tension increased with the silence. It was so silent, in fact, Hayward could hear birds chirping in the trees around them.

The hand came around and pointed at her.

“Centurion,” he said in a voice so low it was barely more than a whisper.

It was like the release of pressure from a cooker. “Centurion!” came the sudden cry of the crowd. “Soldier of Rome!” The throng jostled and shoved as it began to close in.

For the first time, Hayward felt a stab of real fear. Failure was becoming a foregone conclusion, but there was more than her career at stake now. This crowd was dangerously aroused.

“Reverend, if your answer is no—”

But Buck had turned away, and now, to her overwhelming dismay, he was entering his tent, lifting the flap, disappearing inside. More people streamed in where he’d stood, filling the gap.

He’d left her to the mercy of the crowd.

She turned to face them. Now it was time to get the hell out. “All right, folks, I know when to take no for an answer—”

“Silence, Judas!”

Hayward saw sticks once again, swaying above the heads. It amazed her how ugly a crowd could get, so quickly. She had failed, failed miserably. Her career was ruined, no question. The real question was whether she could get out in one piece.

“I’m leaving,” she said loudly and firmly. “I’m leaving, and I expect to be allowed to leave peacefully. I am an officer of the law.”

She moved toward the wall of people, but this time no path opened. She kept walking, expecting, hoping for, them to fall back. But they didn’t. Several hands reached out and shoved her back—hard.

“I came in peace!” she said loudly, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. “And I’m leaving in peace!” She took another step toward the wall of people, coming face-to-face with Todd. He was brandishing something in one hand. A rock.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said.

He raised his hand as if to throw. She immediately took a step toward him, looking into his eyes, just as one would do with a dangerous dog. It was always the crazies who got to the front of a hot crowd. The followers stayed back, hoping for a good lick once the adversary was down and helpless. But these front ones, they were the killers.

Todd took a step back. “Judas bitch,” he said, waving the rock threateningly.

Reaching down inside and searching for calm, Hayward quickly reviewed her options. If she pulled her piece, that would be the end. Sure, by firing into the air she might drive them back for a moment, but they would be on her in a flash and she’d be forced to shoot into the crowd. And then she’d be dead meat. She could call Rocker, but it would be ten minutes at least before he could mobilize and move in. Blood would be up, and he’d meet immediate resistance. By the time they reached her . . . God, she didn’t have ten minutes, she didn’t even have five.

The only one who could control this crowd was Buck, and he was in his tent.

She backed up, turning in a slow circle. The crowd was so thick she couldn’t even see his tent anymore. And she was being pushed away from it, as if the crowd wanted to keep the unpleasantness of what was to come away from him. Taunts and chanting rose from all sides.

She searched her mind desperately for something useful from her training. Crowd psychology was something that interested her, especially after the Wisher Riots a few years back. Problem was, an angry crowd did not behave like a normal human being. A crowd did not respond to the cues of body language. A crowd did not listen to anything except itself. You could not reason with a crowd. A crowd would enthusiastically commit an act of violence no single member would normally condone.

“Centurion!” Todd had taken another step forward, emboldened, the crowd consolidating behind him. Hysterically angry. They weren’t going to hurt her—they were going to kill her.

“Buck!” she shouted, turning, but it was hopeless, he couldn’t hear over the taunts of the crowd.

She faced them again. “You call yourselves Christians?” she screamed. “Look at you!”

Wrong move. It just pushed their anger up a notch. But it was all she had left.

“Ever heard of turning the other cheek? Loving thy neighbor—”

“Blasphemer!” Todd shook his rock, the crowd flowing with him.

She was really frightened now. She took a step back, felt herself shoved from behind. Her voice cracked. “In the Bible, it says—”

“She’s blaspheming the Bible!”

“You hear her?”

“Shut her up!”

A dead end. Hayward knew she was out of time. She had to figure out something before the stones came raining down. Once the first was thrown, it wouldn’t stop until it was over.

The problem was, she’d exhausted all her options. There was nothing left to do.

Nothing.

{ 77 }

At five minutes to nine, D’Agosta turned from the window to see Pendergast rising calmly from the sofa, where he had been lying motionless for the past half hour. Earlier, the agent had established he could open the door with his lock-picking tools, but he seemed uninterested in exploring, so he’d relocked it and they had waited.

“Good nap?” He wondered how Pendergast could sleep at a time like this. He felt so keyed up it seemed he’d never be able to sleep again.

“I wasn’t napping, Vincent—I was thinking.”

“Yeah. So was I. Like how are we going to get out of this place?”

“Surely you don’t think I have brought us in here without a well-conceived plan of departure? And if my plan does not work, I am a great believer in improvisation.”

“Improvisation? I don’t like the sound of that.”

“These old castles are full of holes. One way or another we’ll escape with the evidence we need and return with reinforcements. Reinforcements that will only be convinced by the evidence. Coming here, Vincent, was our only option—aside from giving up.”

“That’s not an option in my book.”

“Nor in mine.”

There was a knock at the door. It opened and Pinketts stood there, in full livery. D’Agosta’s hand drifted toward his service piece.

Pinketts gave a slight bow and said, in his plummy English, “Dinner is served.”

They followed him back down the staircase and through a series of rooms and passageways to the dining salotto. It was a cheerful space, painted yellow, with a high vaulted ceiling. The table had been laid with silver and plate, an arrangement of fresh roses in the middle. There were three places set.

Fosco was standing at the far end of the room, where a small fire burned in the grate of an enormous stone fireplace, surmounted with a carved coat of arms. He turned quickly, a little white mouse scampering over his fat hand and running up his sleeve.

“Welcome.” He put the mouse away in a small wire pagoda. “Mr. Pendergast, you will sit here, on my right; Mr. D’Agosta on my left, if you please.”

D’Agosta seated himself, edging his chair away from Fosco. The count had always given him the creeps; now he could hardly stand to be in the same room. The man was a fiend.

“A little prosecco? It is my own.”

Both men shook their heads. Fosco shrugged. Pinketts filled his glass with the wine, and the count raised it.

“To the Stormcloud,” he said. “Pity you can’t toast. Have some water, at least.”

“Sergeant D’Agosta and I are abstaining tonight,” replied Pendergast.

“I have prepared a marvelous repast.” He drained the glass and, on cue, Pinketts brought out a platter heaped with what looked to D’Agosta like cold cuts.

“Affettati misti toscani,” said Fosco. “Prosciutto from boar taken on the estate, shot by myself, in fact. Won’t you try some? Finocchiona and soprassata, also from the estate.”

“No, thank you.”

“Mr. D’Agosta?”

D’Agosta didn’t answer.

“Pity we don’t have a dwarf handy to taste the food. I so dislike eating alone.”

Pendergast leaned forward. “Shall we leave the dinner aside, Fosco, and settle the business at hand? Sergeant D’Agosta and I cannot stay the night.”

“But I insist.”

“Your insistence means nothing. We will go when we choose.”

“You will not be leaving—tonight, or any other night, for that matter. I suggest you eat. It will be your last meal. Don’t worry, it isn’t poisoned. I have a much cleverer fate in mind for you both.”

This was greeted by silence.

Pinketts came and poured a glass of red wine. The count swirled it in his glass, tasted it, nodded. Then he looked at Pendergast. “When did you realize it was me?”

Pendergast’s reply, when it came, was slow. “I found a fragment of horsehair at the site of Bullard’s murder. I knew it came from a violin bow. At that point, I recalled the name of Bullard’s boat: the Stormcloud. It all came together: I realized then that this case was merely a sordid attempt at theft through murder and intimidation. My thoughts naturally turned to you—although I’d long been sure the business went beyond Bullard.”

“Clever. I didn’t expect you to put it together so quickly—hence the unseemly rush to kill the old priest. I regret that more than I can say. It was unnecessary, stupid. I had a momentary panic.”

“‘Unnecessary’?” snapped D’Agosta. “‘Stupid’? We’re talking about murdering another human being here.”

“Spare me the moral absolutism.” Fosco sipped his wine, folded a piece of prosciutto onto his fork, ate it, recovered his good humor. He glanced back at Pendergast. “As for me, I knew you were going to be a problem within five minutes of encountering you. Who’d have expected a man like you would go into law enforcement?”

When he didn’t receive an answer, he raised his glass in another toast. “From the very first time I met you, I knew that I would have to kill you. And here we are.”

He took a sip, set down the glass. “I had hoped that idiot Bullard would pull it off. But, of course, he failed.”

“You put him up to that, naturally.”

“Let us just say that, in his frightened condition, he was susceptible to suggestion. And so now it is left to me. But first, don’t you think you should congratulate me on a beautifully executed plan? I extracted the violin from Bullard. And as you know well, Mr. Pendergast, there are no witnesses or physical evidence to connect me to the murders.”

“You have the violin. Bullard once had it. That can be established beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

“It belongs to the Fosco family by legal right. I still have the bill of sale, signed by Antonio Stradivari himself, and the chain of ownership is beyond question. A suitable period will pass following Bullard’s death; then the violin will surface in Rome. I’ve planned it down to the last detail. I will make my claim, pay a small reward to the lucky shopkeeper, and it will come to me free and clear. Bullard told no one why he needed to remove the violin from his laboratory, not even the people at his company. How could he?” Fosco issued a dry chuckle. “So you see, there is nothing, Mr. Pendergast, no evidence at all against me. But then, I have always been a most fortunate man in such matters.” He bit off a piece of bread. “For example, there is an extraordinary coincidence at the very heart of this affair. Do you know what it is?”

“I can guess.”

“On October 31, 1974, in the early afternoon, while on my way out of the Biblioteca Nazionale, I ran into a group of callow American students. You know the type—they throng Florence all year long. It was the afternoon of All Hallows’ Eve—Halloween to them, of course—and they’d been drinking to excess. I was young and callow myself, and I found them so astonishingly vulgar that they amused me. We fell in for the moment. At some point, one of the students—Jeremy Grove to be precise—went on a tear about religion, about God being rubbish for the weak mind, that sort of thing. The sheer arrogance of it annoyed me. I said that I couldn’t speak on the existence of God, but I did know one thing: that the devil existed.”

Fosco laughed silently, his capacious front shaking.

“They all roundly denied the existence of the devil. I said I had friends who dabbled in the occult, who had collected old manuscripts and that sort of thing, and that, in fact, I had an old parchment which contained formulas on how to raise Lucifer himself. We could settle the question that very night. The night was perfect, in fact, being Halloween. Would they like to try it? Oh, yes, they said. What a marvelous idea!”

Another internal disturbance shook Fosco’s person.

“So you put on a show for them.”

“Exactly. I invited them to a midnight séance in my castle, and then rushed back myself to set it all up. It was a great deal of fun. Pinketts helped—and, by the way, he isn’t English at all, but a manservant named Pinchetti who happens to be both a clever linguist and a lover of intrigue. We had only six hours, but we did it up rather well. I’ve always been a tinkerer, a builder of machines and gadgets, and incidentally a designer of fuochi d’artificio—fireworks. There are all sorts of secret passageways, trapdoors, and hidden panels in the cellars here, and we took full advantage of them. That was a night to remember! You should have seen their faces as we recited the incantations, asked the Prince of Darkness to bring them great wealth, offered their souls in return, pricked their fingers and signed contracts in blood—especially when Pinketts activated the theatrics.” He leaned back, pealing with laughter.

“You terrified them. You scared Beckmann so much it ruined his life.”

“It was all in good fun. If it shook up their pathetic little certainties, so much the better. They went their way and I went mine. And here comes the coincidence so marvelous I feel it must be predestination: thirty years later, I discovered to my horror that one of these philistines had acquired the Stormcloud.”

“How did you learn?” Pendergast asked.

“I had been on the track of the Stormcloud almost my entire adult life, Mr. Pendergast. I made it my life’s goal to return that violin to my family. You’ve been to see Lady Maskelene, so you know its history. I knew perfectly well Toscanelli had not thrown it into the Falls of the Sciliar. How could he? As crazy as he was, he knew better than anyone what that violin represented. But if he didn’t destroy it, then what had happened? The answer is not so mysterious. He froze to death in a shepherd’s hut up on the Sciliar, and then it snowed. There were no footprints in the snow. Obviously, someone had found him dead with the violin before it snowed and had stolen the violin. And who was this someone? Just as obviously, the man who owned the hut.”

Pinketts whisked away his plate, then returned bearing another of tortelloni with butter and salvia. Fosco tucked into it with relish.

“Remember how I told you I loved detective work? I have a rare talent for it. I traced the Stormcloud from the shepherd, to his nephew, to a band of Gypsies, to a shop in Spain, to an orphanage in Malta—this way and that it traveled. I shudder to think of the times it was left in the sun; packed in a case with a few threads of straw and thrown into the back of a truck; left unattended in some school auditorium. Mio Dio! Yet it survived. It ended up in France, where it was sold in a lot of junk instruments to a lycée. Some clumsy oaf in the orchestra dropped it, chipped one of the scrolls, and it was taken to a violin shop in Angoulême for repair. The man who owned the shop recognized it, substituted it, and sent back another instrument in its place.” Fosco clucked disapprovingly. “What a moment that must have been for him! He knew he could never acquire legal title to it, so he smuggled it to America and quietly put it up for sale. It took a long time to find a buyer. Who wanted a Stradivarius if you couldn’t play it as a Strad? If you could never establish title to it? If it might be taken from you at any moment? But he finally did find a buyer—in Locke Bullard. Two million dollars—that was all! I found out three months after the deal had closed.”

A dark furor passed over Fosco’s face, rapidly clearing as Pinketts carried in the next course, a bistecca fiorentina, sizzling from the fire. Fosco carved off a piece of almost raw meat, placed it in his mouth, chewed.

“I was perfectly willing to buy it from Bullard, even paying a handsome price, despite the fact it was mine to begin with. But I never got to the point of making an offer. You see, Bullard was going to destroy the violin.”

“To crack Stradivari’s secret formulas once and for all.”

“Exactly. And do you know why?”

“I know Bullard was not in the business of making violins, nor did he have any interest in music.”

“True. But do you know the business his company, BAI, was into? With the Chinese?”

Pendergast did not reply.

“Missiles, my dear Pendergast. He was working on ballistic missiles. That’s why he needed the violin!”

“Bullshit!” D’Agosta interjected. “There can’t possibly be a connection between a three-hundred-year-old violin and a ballistic missile.”

Fosco ignored this. He was still looking at Pendergast. “I sense you know rather more than you let on, my good sir. In any case, I penetrated their laboratory with a mole in my employ. Poor fellow ended up with his head crushed. But before that happened, he did tell me just what Bullard planned to do with the violin.”

He leaned forward, eyes flashing with indignation. “The Chinese, you see, had developed a ballistic missile that could theoretically penetrate the United States’ planned antimissile shield. But they had a problem with their missiles breaking up on re-entry. To make the missile invisible to radar, you know, one can’t have any curved or shiny surfaces. Look at the strange angular shapes of your stealth fighters and bombers. But this wasn’t a bomber flying at six hundred miles an hour: this was a ballistic missile re-entering the atmosphere at ten times that speed. Their test missiles broke up under uncontrollable resonance vibrations during atmospheric re-entry.”

Pendergast nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Bullard’s scientists realized the solution to this problem lay in the Stradivari formula for the varnish. Can you imagine? You see, the key to the Stradivari varnish is that, after a few years of playing, it develops billions of microscopic cracks and flaws, too small to be seen. These are phenomenally effective in dampening and warming the sound of a Stradivari. This is also why the violin must be played regularly—otherwise, the cracks and flaws start knitting back up. Bullard was designing a high-performance coating for those Chinese missiles that would do the same thing—a coating that would have billions of microscopic flaws to dampen the vibrational resonance of re-entry. But he had to figure out precisely what the physics was, why those cracks and flaws did what they did. He had to know how they were distributed three-dimensionally in the varnish; how they made contact with the wood; how wide, long, and deep they were; how they connected to each other.”

Fosco stopped talking long enough to eat some more steak and sip his wine.

“To do that, Bullard needed to cut up a golden period Strad. Any would do, but none were for sale—especially to him. And then along came the black-market Stormcloud. Ecco fatto!”

D’Agosta stared in mingled repulsion and disbelief as the count wiped his red and greasy lips on an oversize napkin. It seemed outrageous, impossible.

“Now you see, Pendergast, why I needed to go to such lengths. It was worth a billion to Bullard on the Chinese deal alone. With more money to come as he resold the technology to a host of other eager buyers. I had to get the violin quickly, before he destroyed it. He had already brought it to his Italian laboratory, where it was guarded under truly impenetrable security. And that’s when it came to me. I’d use the only leverage I had: our first and only encounter, thirty years ago. I’d frighten Bullard into giving up the violin!”

“Through murdering the others who had been at the staged devil raising.”

“Yes. I would kill Grove, Beckmann, and Cutforth, making it look in each case like the devil had finally come for their souls. Beckmann seemed to have disappeared, so that left only Grove and Cutforth. Only two. Whatever I did, it had to be utterly convincing. Bullard was an ignorant, blustering man with few religious impulses. I needed a way to kill them that was so unique and dreadful that the police would be baffled, that would generate all kinds of talk about the devil—and most important, that would convince Bullard. It had to be heat, naturally. And that was how I came to invent my little device. But that is another story.”

He paused for another sip of wine.

“I prepared the scene of Grove’s death with great care. I began by calling and alarming him with a story of a terrible visitation I’d had; how I feared Lucifer was coming for us because of the ceremony years before, how we had to do something. He was skeptical at first, so I had Pinketts set up a few bits of stage business in his house. Strange sounds, smells, and the like. Remarkable how a few props can undermine the conviction of even the most arrogant man. He grew frightened. I suggested some kind of atonement for his sins; hence, the peculiar dinner party. I loaned him my beloved cross. The poor fool gave me the keys to his house, the codes to the alarm system—everything I needed.

“His death worked like a charm. Almost immediately Bullard was on the phone to me. I was careful to ensure all my calls were made from an untraceable phone card. I continued playing the role of terrified count. I told him of strange things that had happened to me, sulfurous smells, disembodied sounds, uncomfortable tingling sensations—all the things, of course, that would happen to him later. I pretended to be convinced the devil was coming for all of us: after all, we had offered our souls in the compact we made thirty years before. The devil had completed his side of the bargain; now it was time for us to fulfill ours.

“After sending Bullard off to stew about this, it was time to deal with Cutforth. I had Pinketts here purchase the apartment next to his, posing as an English baronet, to assist with the various, ah, arrangements. Like Grove, Cutforth scoffed at the idea at first. He’d been convinced my little show back in 1974 was a fraud. But as details of Grove’s death emerged, he grew increasingly nervous. I didn’t want him too nervous—just nervous enough to call Bullard and alarm him further. Which, of course, he did.”

He issued a dry laugh.

“After Cutforth’s death, your vulgar tabloids did a fabulous job beating the drum, whipping people into a frenzy. It was perfect. And Bullard fell apart. He was out of his mind. Then the colpo di grazia: I called Bullard and said that I had managed to cancel my contract with Lucifer!”

Fosco patted his hands together with delight. Watching, D’Agosta felt his stomach turn.

“He was desperate to know how. I told him I’d located an ancient manuscript explaining the devil would sometimes accept a gift in return for a human soul. But it had to be a truly unique gift, something of enormous rarity, something whose loss would debase the human spirit. I told him I’d sacrificed my Vermeer in just such a way.

“Poor Bullard was beside himself. He had no Vermeer, he said; nothing of value except boats, cars, houses, and companies. He begged me to advise him what he should buy, what he should give the devil. I told him it had to be something utterly unique and precious, an object that would impoverish the world by its loss. I said I couldn’t advise him—naturally he couldn’t know I was aware of the Stormcloud—and I said I doubted he owned anything the devil would want, that I had been hugely fortunate to have a Vermeer, that the devil surely would not have accepted my Caravaggio!”

At this witticism, Fosco burst into laughter.

“I told Bullard that, whatever it was, the devil had to have it immediately. The thirty-year anniversary of our original pact was nearing. Grove and Cutforth were already dead. There was not enough time for him to acquire something of the requisite rarity. I reminded him the devil would be able to see into his heart, that there would be no cheating the old gentleman, and that whatever he offered had better fit the bill or his soul would burn forever.

“That’s when he finally broke down and told me he had a violin of great rarity, a Stradivarius called the Stormcloud—would that do? I told him I couldn’t speak for the devil, but that I hoped for his sake it would. I congratulated him on being so fortunate.”

Fosco paused to place another piece of dripping meat into his mouth. “I, of course, returned to Italy far earlier than I let on to you. I was here even before Bullard arrived. I dug an old grimoire out of the library here, gave it to him, told him to follow the ritual and place the violin inside a broken circle. Within his own, unbroken circle, he would be protected. But he must send away all his help, turn off the alarm system, and so forth—the devil didn’t like interruptions. The poor man did as I asked. In place of the devil, I sent in Pinketts, who is devil enough, I can tell you. With theatrical effects and the appropriate garb. He took the violin and retreated, while I used my little machine to dispense with Bullard.”

“Why the machine and the theatrics?” Pendergast asked quietly. “Why not put a bullet in him? The need to terrify your victim had passed.”

“That was for your benefit, my dear fellow! It was a way to stir up the police, keep you in Italy a while longer. Where you would be easier to dispose of.”

“Whether we will be easy to dispose of remains to be seen.”

Fosco chuckled with great good humor. “You evidently think you have something to bargain with, otherwise you wouldn’t have accepted my invitation.”

“That is correct.”

“Whatever you think you have, it won’t be good enough. You are already as good as dead. I know you better than you realize. I know you because you are like me. You are very like me.”

“You could not be more wrong, Count. I am not a murderer.”

D’Agosta was surprised to see a faint blush of color in Pendergast’s face.

“No, but you could be. You have it in you. I can see it.”

“You see nothing.”

Fosco had finished his steak and now he rose. “You think me an evil man. You call this whole affair sordid. But consider what I’ve done. I’ve saved the world’s greatest violin from destruction. I’ve prevented the Chinese from penetrating the planned U.S. antimissile shield, removing a threat to millions of your fellow citizens. And at what cost? The lives of a pederast, a traitor, a producer of popular music who was filling the world with his filth, and a godless soul who destroyed everyone he touched.”

“You haven’t included our lives in this calculation.”

Fosco nodded. “Yes. You and the unfortunate priest. Regrettable indeed. But if the truth be known, I’d waste a hundred lives for that instrument. There are five billion people. There is only one Stormcloud.”

“It isn’t worth even one human life,” D’Agosta heard himself say.

Fosco turned, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “No?”

He turned and clapped his hands. Pinketts appeared at the door.

“Get me the violin.”

The man disappeared and returned a moment later with an old wooden case, shaped like a small dark coffin, covered with the patina of ages. Pinketts placed it on a table next to the wall and withdrew to a far corner.

Fosco rose and strolled over to the case. He took out the bow, tightened it, ran a rosin up and down a few times, and then—slowly, lovingly—withdrew the violin. To D’Agosta, it didn’t look at all extraordinary: just a violin, older than most. Hard to believe it had led them on this long journey, cost so many lives.

Fosco placed it under his chin, stood tall and straight. A moment of silence passed while he sighed, half closing his eyes. And then the bow began moving slowly over the strings, the notes flowing clearly. It was one of the few classical tunes D’Agosta recognized, one that his grandfather used to sing to him as a child: Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. The melody was simple, the measured notes rising, one after another, in a dignified cadence, filling the air with beautiful sound.

The room seemed to change. It became suffused with a kind of transcendent brightness. The tremulous purity of the sound took D’Agosta’s breath away. The melody filled him like a presence, sweet and clean, speaking in a language beyond words. A language of pure beauty.

And then the melody was over. It was like being yanked from a dream. D’Agosta realized that, for a moment, he’d lost track of everything: Fosco, the killings, their perilous situation. Now it all came back with redoubled vengeance, all the worse for having been temporarily forgotten.

There was a silence while Fosco lowered the violin. Then he spoke in a whisper, his voice trembling. “You see now? This is not just a violin. It is alive. Do you understand, Mr. D’Agosta, why the sound of the Stradivarius is so beautiful? Because it is mortal. Because it is like the beating heart of a bird in flight. It reminds us that all beautiful things must die. The profound beauty of music lies somehow in its very transience and fragility. It breathes for a shining moment—and then it expires. That was the genius of Stradivari: he captured that moment in wood and varnish. He immortalized mortality.”

He looked back at Pendergast, eyes still haunted. “Yes, the music always dies. But this”—he held up the violin—“will never die. It will outlive us all a hundred times over. Tell me now, Mr. Pendergast, that I have done wrong to save this violin. Please, say that I have committed a crime.”

Pendergast said nothing.

“I’ll say it,” said D’Agosta. “You’re a cold-blooded murderer.”

“Ah, yes,” Fosco murmured. “One can always count on a philistine to lay down absolute morality.” He carefully wiped down the violin with a soft cloth and put it away. “Beautiful as it is, it isn’t at its best. It needs more playing. I’ve been exercising it every day, fifteen minutes at first, now up to half an hour. It’s healing already. In another six months, it will be back to its perfect self. I will loan it to Renata Lichtenstein. Do you know her? The first woman to win the Tchaikovsky Competition, a girl of only eighteen but already a transcendental genius. Yes, Renata will play it and go on to glory and renown. And then, when she can no longer play, my heir will loan it to someone else, and his heir to someone else, and so it will go down the centuries.”

“Do you have an heir?” Pendergast asked.

D’Agosta was surprised by the question. But Fosco was not; he seemed to welcome it.

“Not a direct heir, no. But I shall not wait long to furnish myself with a son. I have just met the most charming woman. The only drawback is that she is English, but at least she can boast an Italian great-grandfather.” His smile broadened.

As D’Agosta watched, Pendergast grew pale. “You are grotesquely deluded if you think she will marry you.”

“I know, I know. Count Fosco is fat, revoltingly fat. But do not underestimate the power of a charming tongue to capture a woman’s heart. Lady Maskelene and I had a marvelous afternoon on the island. We are both of the noble classes. We understand each other.” He dusted his waistcoat. “I might even go on a diet.”

This was greeted by a short silence. Then Pendergast spoke again. “You’ve showed us the violin. May we now see this little device that you spoke of? The device that killed at least four men?”

“With greatest pleasure. I’m very proud of it. Not only will I show it to you, I’ll give you a demonstration.”

D’Agosta felt a chill. Demonstration?

Fosco nodded to Pinketts, who took the violin and left the room. Within moments he returned with a large aluminum suitcase. Fosco unlatched the case and raised the lid, exposing half a dozen pieces of metal nestled in gray foam rubber. He began removing them, screwing them together. Then he turned and nodded to D’Agosta.

“Will you please stand over there, Sergeant?” he asked quietly.

{ 78 }

“Buck!” Hayward screamed again, fighting against an almost overwhelming panic. “Don’t let them do this!” But it was hopeless; the roar of the crowd drowned out her voice, and Buck was in his tent, flaps closed, out of sight behind a wall of people.

The crowd was closing in now, the noose tightening fast. The ringleader—Buck’s aide-de-camp, bolstered by increasingly frenzied followers—raised the hand with the rock. Watching him, Hayward saw his eyes widen, his nostrils flare. She’d seen that look before: it was the look of someone about to strike.

“Don’t!” she shouted. “This isn’t what you’re about! It’s against everything you stand for!”

“Shut up, centurion!” Todd cried.

She stumbled, righted herself. Even at this moment of extreme danger, she realized she could not show fear. She kept her eyes on Todd—he was the greatest threat, the match for the powder keg—and let her gun hand hover near her piece. As a last resort—a very last resort—she’d have to use it. Of course, once she did, that would be the end. But she wasn’t going to go down like a cat under a pack of dogs.

Something about all this isn’t right. Something was going on; something was being played out here that she didn’t understand.

The cries of the crowd, their strange epithets, made no sense. Centurion. Soldier of Rome. What was this talk? Something Buck was subtly encouraging in recent sermons? And speaking of Buck, why had he seemed disappointed when she arrived—and then just walked away? Why the glassy, expectant look in his eyes? Something had happened to him, between this visit and the last.

What was it?

“Blasphemer!” Todd screamed. He took another step closer.

In response, the crowd tightened around Hayward. She had barely enough room to turn around now. She could feel rancid breath on the back of her neck; feel her heart beating like mad. Her hand strayed closer to the butt of her gun.

There was a pattern here, if only she could see it. There had to be.

She fought to stay rational. Her only way out of this was Buck himself. There was no other.

Quickly, she went back over her knowledge of deviant psychology, over Buck’s possible motivations. What had Wentworth said? Possibly paranoid schizophrenic, potential for a Messianic complex. Deep down, she was still convinced Buck was no schizophrenic.

But a Messianic complex . . . ?

The need to be the Messiah. Perhaps—just perhaps—Wentworth was more right on that point than he knew.

Then, in an instant of revelation, it came to her. All of Buck’s new hopes, new desires, were suddenly laid bare. This talk about Romans—they weren’t talking about Roman Catholics. They were talking about real Romans. Pagan Romans. Centurions. The soldiers who came to arrest Jesus.

She suddenly understood the script Buck was following. That was why he ignored her, walked back into the tent. She didn’t fit into his vision of what had to happen.

She faced the crowd, addressed them in her loudest voice. “A band of soldiers are coming to arrest Buck!”

This had a galvanic effect on the crowd. The yelling faltered a little, front to back, like the ripple of a stone on a pond.

“Did you hear!”

“The soldiers are coming!”

“They’re coming!” Hayward yelled encouragingly.

The crowd took up the cry as she hoped they would, acting as a megaphone to Buck. “The soldiers are coming! The centurions are coming!”

There was a movement in the crowd, a kind of general sigh. As one group moved back, Hayward saw that Buck had reappeared at the door of his tent. The crowd seethed with expectation. Todd raised his rock once again, then hesitated.

It was the opening she needed. Momentary, but just enough to call Rocker. She slipped out her radio and bent forward, shielding herself from the crowd.

“Commissioner!” she called out.

For a moment, static. Then Rocker’s voice crackled over the tiny speaker.

“What the hell’s going on, Captain? It sounds like a riot. We’re mobilizing, we’re going in now and getting your ass out—”

“No!” Hayward said sharply. “It’ll be a bloodbath!”

“She’s using her radio!” Todd screamed. “Betrayer!”

“Sir, listen to me. Send in thirty-three men. Thirty-three exactly. And those undercover cops you’ve been using for on-site intel, the ones dressed like Buck’s followers? Send in one of them. Just one.”

“Captain, I have no idea what you’re—”

“Shut up, please, and listen. Buck has to act out the passion of Christ. That’s how he sees himself. He’s New York’s sacrificial lamb. There’s no other explanation for his behavior. So we’ve got to play along, let him act it out. The undercover cop, he’s the shill, he’s Judas, he’s got to embrace Buck. Do you hear, sir? He’s got to embrace Buck. And then the cops move in and make the cuff. You do that, Commissioner, and there’ll be no riot. Buck will go peacefully. Otherwise—”

“But thirty men? That’s not enough—”

“Thirty-three. The number in a Roman band.”

“Get her radio!” Hayward was jostled. She spun away, shielding her radio.

“Are you telling me Buck thinks—”

“Just do it, sir. Now!”

Hayward felt herself shoved hard from behind. She lost her grip on the radio, and it went flying into the crowd.

“Agent of darkness!”

Hayward had no idea if Rocker had understood. More to the point, she didn’t know how the crowd would act. Buck might have his script, but would this frenzied mob follow it, too?

She looked toward Buck, who was now wading into the crowd. “Make way for the soldiers of Rome!” she yelled. “Make way!” She pointed southwest, the direction she knew the police would come from.

It was amazing: people were turning, looking. Buck himself was looking. He was standing, calm and tall, waiting for the drama to begin.

“Here they come!” others were yelling. “Here they come!”

There was a surge of confusion, a scuffling as the rest of the group began to arm themselves with rocks and sticks. Suddenly Buck held up his arms, tried to say something. The sound of the crowd fell.

“He’s about to speak!” people called out. “Silence, everyone!”

Buck intoned in a deep, penetrating voice, “Make way for the centurions!”

This took everyone by surprise. Some took tighter grips on their makeshift weapons; others looked over their shoulders, in the direction of the approaching police. Still others looked at Buck, uncertain they had heard him correctly.

“This is as it should be!” Buck cried. “It is time to fulfill that which the prophets have spoken. Make way, my brothers and sisters, make way!”

The cry was taken up, at first raggedly, then with growing conviction. “Make way!”

“Do not fight them!” Buck cried. “Drop your weapons! Make way for the centurions!”

“Make way for the centurions!”

Buck spread his hands, and the crowd began to part hesitatingly before him.

As she watched, Hayward felt a flush spread through her limbs. It was working. The attention of the crowd had shifted from her. Only Todd, the aide-de-camp, seemed not to accept the change. He was still staring from her to Buck and back again, as if too caught up in the frenzy of the moment to shift direction.

“Traitor!” he barked at her.

And now, right on cue, a phalanx of cops came running through the distant trees toward them. Rocker had understood, after all: he’d come through. They waded into the outer fringes of the crowd, shoving and pushing with their riot shields. But already, with Buck’s exhortations, the people were falling back.

“Let them pass!” Buck was crying, arms spread.

Now the cops were barreling down the open lane, trampling tents, shoving aside stragglers. As they broke into the open area before Buck’s tent, there was a moment of panic and struggle. Todd raised his rock, fury twisting his features. “You did this, you bitch—!”

And the rock came flying, striking a glancing blow to Hayward’s temple. She staggered back, fell to her knees, feeling the hot trickle of blood.

Suddenly Buck was there, his strong arms around her, raising her up and staying the crowd with his hand. “Put up thy swords! They have come to arrest me, and I will go with them peacefully! This is the will of God!”

Dazed, Hayward looked at Buck. He dabbed at her wound with a snowy handkerchief. “Suffer ye thus far,” he murmured. His face was radiant, suffused with light.

Of course, she thought. Even this is part of the script.

There was more confusion. Someone embraced Buck—the shill at last—she heard Buck saying, “Judas, betrayest thou me with a kiss?”—and then the cops were all around, and he was pulled away from her. The cut on her head was bleeding freely, and she felt woozy.

“Captain Hayward?” she heard somebody call out. “Captain Hayward’s been hurt!”

“Officer down! We need a medic!”

“Captain Hayward, you all right? Did he assault you?”

“I’m all right,” she said, shaking away the wooziness as cops crowded around her, everyone trying to help. “It’s nothing, just a scratch. It wasn’t Buck.”

“She’s bleeding!”

“Forget it, it’s nothing. Let me go.” They released her reluctantly.

“Who was it? Who assaulted you?”

Todd was staring, humanity shocked back into him, horrified at what he’d done.

Hayward looked away. Another arrest right now could be disastrous. “Don’t know. Came out of nowhere. It doesn’t matter.”

“Let’s get you to an ambulance.”

“I’ll walk by myself,” she said, brushing off yet another proffered arm. She felt embarrassed. It was nothing: scalp wounds always bled a great deal. She looked around, blinking her eyes. An immense silence seemed to have settled on the crowd. The police had the cuffs on Buck and had formed a semicircle around him, already moving him out. The crowd looked on, stunned, while Buck exhorted them to remain calm, be peaceful, hurt no one.

“Forgive them,” he said.

All the momentum was gone. Buck had ordered them to stand down, and they had obeyed.

It was over.

{ 79 }

Immediately, D’Agosta pulled out his service piece and drew down on the count. “No fucking way,” he said.

The count stared at the gun, sighing condescendingly. “Put away that gun, you fool. Pinketts?”

The manservant, who had left the room, now returned, carrying a large pumpkin in both arms. He set it down on the hearth before the fireplace.

“It is true, Sergeant D’Agosta, you would have been a much more effective demonstration. But it would have caused such a mess.” Fosco went back to assembling the device.

D’Agosta moved slowly backward, slipping his gun back into his holster as he did so. Somehow, the act of drawing his weapon brought fresh resolve. He and Pendergast were both armed. At the first indication of trouble, he would have no hesitation about taking out both the count and Pinketts. Except for some kitchen help, there didn’t seem to be any other servants around—but he knew that, with the count, appearances were deceptive.

“There we go.” Fosco hefted the assembled machine, which looked something like a large rifle, made primarily of stainless steel, with a bulbous dish at one end and a barrel sporting half a dozen buttons and dials at the other. “As I said, I knew I had to kill Grove and Cutforth in such a way that the police would be utterly baffled. It had to be done with heat, of course. But how? Burning, arson, boiling—much too common. It had to be mysterious, unexplainable. That was when I recalled the phenomenon known as spontaneous human combustion. You know the first documented case of it was here in Italy?”

Pendergast nodded. “The countess Cornelia.”

“Countess Cornelia Zangari de’ Bandi di Cesena. Most dramatic. How, I wondered, could a similarly devilish effect be duplicated? Then I thought of microwaves.”

“Microwaves?” D’Agosta repeated.

The count smiled patronizingly at him. “Yes, Sergeant. Just like your own microwave oven. They seemed perfect for my needs. Microwaves heat from the inside out. They can be focused, just like light, to—say—burn a body while leaving the rest of the environment intact. Microwaves heat water far more selectively than dry materials, fats, or oils, so they would burn a wet body before heating the rugs or furnishings. And they have an ionizing and heating effect on metals with a certain number of valence electrons.”

Fosco ran a hand over his device, then laid it on the table next to him. “As you know, Mr. Pendergast, I’m a tinkerer. I love a challenge. It’s quite simple to build a microwave transmitter that would deliver the necessary wattage. The problem was the power supply. But I. G. Farben, a German company which my family was connected with during the War, makes a marvelous combination of capacitor and battery capable of delivering the requisite charge.”

D’Agosta glanced at the microwave device. It looked almost silly, like a cheap prop to an old science fiction movie.

“It would never work as a weapon of war: the top theoretical range is less than twenty feet, and it takes time to do its work. But it suited my purposes perfectly. I had quite a time working out the kinks. Many pumpkins were sacrificed, Sergeant D’Agosta. At last, I tested it on that old pedophile in Pistoia—the one whose tomb you examined. There was a bit of a meltdown—the human body takes a lot more heating than a pumpkin. I rebuilt the device with improvements and used it more successfully on the terrorized Grove. It wasn’t quite enough to set the man on fire, but it did the job. Then I arranged the scene to my satisfaction, packed up, and left, locking everything and turning the alarm back on. With Cutforth it was even simpler. As I said, my man Pinketts had rented the apartment next door and was undertaking ‘renovations.’ He made a marvelous elderly English gentleman, poor man, all bent over and muffled up against the chill.”

“That explains why they couldn’t identify a suspect from the security video cams,” D’Agosta said.

“Pinketts used to be in the theater, which frequently comes in handy for my purposes. In any case, the weapon works beautifully through walls made of drywall and wooden studs. Microwaves, my dear Pendergast, have the marvelous property of penetrating drywall like light through glass, as long as there is no moisture or metal. There could of course be no metal nails in the wall between the two apartments, because metal absorbs microwaves and would heat up and cause a fire. So Pinketts opened our side of the wall, removed the nails, and replaced them with wooden dowels. When it was all over, he put our side of the wall back up. The whole operation was disguised as part of the remodeling job. Pinketts himself did the honors on Cutforth while I was at the opera with you. What better alibi than to contrive to spend the evening of the murder with the detective himself!” Fosco heaved in silent mirth.

“And the smell of sulfur?”

“Sulfur burned with phosphorus in a censer, injected through the wall at cracks around the molding.”

“How did you burn the images into the wall?”

“The hoofprint in Grove’s house was done directly, focusing the microwave. The image in Cutforth’s apartment had to be done indirectly—Pinketts couldn’t get into the apartment—by focusing the device against a mask. That was a little trickier, but it worked. Burned the image right through the wall. Brilliant, don’t you think?”

“You’re sick,” said D’Agosta.

“I am a tinkerer. I like nothing more than solving tricky little problems.” He grinned horribly and picked up the device. “Now please stand back. I need to adjust the range of the beam. It wouldn’t do to scorch us as well as the pumpkin.”

Fosco raised the ungainly thing, slid its leather strap over his shoulder, aimed it at the pumpkin, adjusted some knobs. Then he pressed a rudimentary kind of trigger. D’Agosta stared in horrified fascination. There was a humming noise in the capacitor—that was all.

“Right now the device is working up from its lowest setting. If that pumpkin were our victim, he would begin to experience a most awful crawling sensation in his guts and over his skin about now.”

The pumpkin remained unaffected. Fosco turned a knob, and the humming went up a notch.

“Now our victim is screaming. The crawling sensation has gotten unbearable. I imagine it’s like a stomach full of wasps, stinging endlessly. His skin, too, would start to dry and blister. The rising heat within his muscles would soon cause the neurons to begin firing, jerking his limbs spasmodically, causing him to fall down and go into convulsions. His internal temperature is soaring. Within a few more seconds he’ll be thrashing on the ground, biting off or swallowing his tongue.”

Another tick of the dial. Now a small blister appeared on the skin of the pumpkin. It seemed to soften, sag a bit. A soft pop, and the pumpkin split open from top to bottom, issuing a spurt of steam.

“Now our victim is unconscious, seconds from death.”

There was a muffled boiling sound inside the pumpkin, and the fissure widened. With a sudden wet noise, a jet of orange slime forced itself from the split, oozing over the floor in steaming rivulets.

“No comment necessary. By now, our victim is dead. The interesting part, however, is yet to come.”

Blisters began swelling all over the surface of the pumpkin, some popping with little puffs of steam, others breaking and weeping orange fluid.

Another tick of the dial.

The pumpkin split afresh, with a second rush of boiling pulp and seeds squeezing out in a hot viscous paste. The pumpkin sagged further and darkened, the stem blackening and smoking; more fluid and seeds oozed from the cracks along with jets of steam. And then suddenly, with a sharp popping sound, the seeds began to explode. The pumpkin seemed to harden, the room filling with the smell of burned pumpkin flesh; then, with a sudden paff!, it burst into flame.

“Ecco! The deed is done. Our victim is on fire. And yet, if you were to place your hand on the stone next to the pumpkin, you would find it barely warm to the touch.”

Fosco lowered the device. The pumpkin continued to smolder, a flame licking the stem, sizzling and crackling as it burned, a foul black smoke rising slowly.

“Pinketts?”

The servant, without missing a beat, picked up a bottle of acqua minerale from the dinner table and poured it over the pumpkin. Then he gave the bubbling remains a deft kick into the fire, heaped on a few more sticks, and retired again to the corner.

“Marvelous, don’t you think? And yet it’s much more dramatic with a human body, I can assure you.”

“You’re one sick fuck, you know that?” said D’Agosta.

“This man of yours, Pendergast, is beginning to annoy me.”

“Clearly a man of many virtues,” Pendergast replied. “But I think this has gone on long enough. It is time for us to get to the remaining business at hand.”

“Quite, quite.”

“I have come here to offer you a deal.”

“Naturally.” Fosco’s lip curled cynically.

Pendergast glanced at the count a moment, his looks unreadable, letting the silence build. “You will write out and sign a confession of all that you have told us tonight, and you will give me that diabolical machine as proof. I will escort you to the carabinieri, who will arrest you. You will be tried for the murders of Locke Bullard and Carlo Vanni, and as an accomplice in the murder of the priest. Italy has no death penalty, and you will probably be released in twenty-five years, at the age of eighty, to live the remainder of your days in peace and quiet—if you manage to survive prison. This is your side of the bargain.”

Fosco listened, an incredulous smile developing on his face. “Is that all? And what will you give me in exchange?”

“Your life.”

“I wasn’t aware my life was in your hands, Mr. Pendergast. It seems to me it’s the other way around.”

D’Agosta saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Pinketts had withdrawn a 9mm Beretta and had it trained on them. D’Agosta’s hand moved toward his own weapon, unstrapped the keeper.

Pendergast stopped him with a shake of his head. Then he removed an envelope from his pocket. “A letter identical to this one has been placed with Prince Corso Maffei, to be opened in twenty-four hours if I have not returned to reclaim it.”

At the name of Maffei, Fosco paled.

“You are a member of the secret society known as the Comitatus Decimus, the Company of Ten. As a member of this society, which dates back to the Middle Ages, you inherited and were entrusted with certain documents, formulas, and manuscripts. You abused that trust, in particular on October 31, 1974, when you went through a mock ceremony using those same instruments to frighten a group of American students. Then you compounded it with these killings.”

The paleness had given way to mottled fury. “Pendergast, this is absurd.”

“You know better than I it is not. You belong to this secret society by virtue of your title. You had no choice in the matter: you were born into it. You didn’t take it seriously as a young man; you thought it a joke. Only years later did you realize the severity of that mistake.”

“This is all bluster, a poor attempt to save your own skin.”

“It’s your skin you should be concerned about. You know what awaits those who break the society’s seal of silence. Remember what happened to the marchese Meucci? The ten men who head the Comitatus have enormous money, power, and reach. They will find you, Fosco—you know that.”

Fosco said nothing, simply staring back at Pendergast.

“As I said, I will give you your life back by retrieving that letter—but only after I have received your signed confession and escorted you to the carabinieri headquarters. The violin you may keep. It is yours, after all. A fair deal, when you consider it.”

Fosco tore open the letter with a fat hand and began to read. After a moment, he paused and looked up. “This is infamy!”

Pendergast merely watched as Fosco returned his attention to the document, hands visibly shaking.

D’Agosta observed this interchange with growing comprehension. Now he understood the purpose of Pendergast’s stop that morning, a stop he had referred to as “insurance.” He had been depositing the copy of his letter with this Prince Maffei. How Pendergast had put all this together, and exactly what it meant, D’Agosta didn’t know. No doubt he would learn in time. But his overwhelming feeling was one of relief. Once again, Pendergast had saved their asses.

The count lowered the document abruptly. His face had gone white.

“How did you know this? Someone must have already broken the seal of the Comitatus! Someone else must pay, not me!”

“I learned it from you, and nobody else. That is all you need to know.”

Fosco appeared to be struggling to master himself. He placed the letter on the table, faced Pendergast. “Very well. I had expected a strong opening move, but this one does you credit. Twenty-four hours, you say? Pinketts will escort you back to your rooms while I consider my riposte.”

“No fucking way,” said D’Agosta. “We’re leaving. You can telephone our hotel when you’re ready to hand over the confession.” He glanced at Pinketts, who had his gun trained on them, the muzzle moving back and forth. D’Agosta figured the chances were pretty good that—if he timed it right—he could put a bullet in Pinketts before the man could react.

“You will go to your quarters and await my answer,” the count said imperiously.

When nobody moved, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to Pinketts.

All it took was a faint movement in the man’s hand, and D’Agosta had dropped, rolled, and fired in one smooth, endlessly practiced move. Without even a cry, Pinketts staggered back against the wall, Beretta still in hand, firing once above their heads. D’Agosta rose to his knee and fired two more shots. Pinketts jerked, the gun skidded across the floor, coming to rest in a corner. Pendergast had his own gun out and was now aiming at the count.

Slowly, Fosco raised his hands.

Suddenly, men appeared in the doorways leading out of the dining room: rough-looking men in peasant dress, guns in hand, faces set. They came in orderly, deliberately, without haste, sure of themselves. In a moment, more than half a dozen had entered, guns aimed at Pendergast and D’Agosta.

There was a long silence, interrupted only by a long, gargling rattle from Pinketts that wheezed off into silence.

Fosco’s hands were still raised. “We seem to be at a standoff,” he said. “How very theatrical. You kill me, my men kill you.” Though the words sounded light, they held a harsh, chill undertone.

“Let us walk out of here,” said D’Agosta. “And nobody’ll get killed.”

“You’ve already killed Pinketts,” Fosco replied crisply. “Here you are, the man who dared lecture me on the sanctity of human life. Pinketts, who was my best and most loyal servant.”

D’Agosta took a step toward the count.

“Agent Pendergast!” Fosco said, turning and raising his voice. “A moment’s reflection will show you this is a game you cannot win. At the count of three, I will order D’Agosta killed. I will die too, at your hand. You, on the other hand, will live to ponder how you brought death to your partner. You know me well enough to know it’s not a bluff. You will lay down the gun—because you have the letter.”

He paused. “One.”

“It’s a bluff!” D’Agosta shouted. “Don’t fall for it!”

“Two.”

Pendergast laid down his weapon.

The count paused again, hands still in the air. “Now, Mr. D’Agosta, you haven’t put down your gun. Do I need to say that last number, or can you understand the situation has gone against you? Even with your remarkable marksmanship, you will not succeed in dropping more than one or two of my men before you are sent back to your Maker.”

D’Agosta slowly lowered his gun. He still had a second strapped to his leg, and he knew Pendergast had one, too. The game was not over by a long shot. And they still had the letter.

Fosco looked from one to the other, eyes glittering. “Very well. My men will escort you to your rooms while I consider your offer.”

{ 80 }

Dawn was finally breaking through the tiny windows of the keep when Pendergast emerged from his room. D’Agosta, sitting by the fire, grunted an acknowledgment. He had spent the night tossing restlessly, unable to sleep, but Pendergast seemed to have had no difficulty.

“Excellent fire, Vincent,” he said, smoothing the front of his suit and taking a seat nearby. “I find these fall mornings a bit chilly.”

D’Agosta gave the fire a savage poke. “Nice sleep?”

“The bed was an abomination. Otherwise, passable, thank you.”

D’Agosta heaved on another log. He hated all this waiting, this not knowing, and was unable to completely suppress his irritation at Pendergast’s going directly to his room the night before without a satisfactory explanation.

“How did you know about that secret society business, anyway?” he asked a little gruffly. “I’ve seen you pull a rabbit out of a hat before, but this one took the cake.”

“What a delightful mixed metaphor. I had a suspicion that Fosco was involved in some way or another, even before I found the horsehair from the Stormcloud at the site of Bullard’s killing.”

“When did you first suspect him?”

“You recall the associate I mentioned, Mime? I had him perform Internet background checks on the recent activities of all who were at Grove’s last party. His research eventually picked up the fact that, six months ago, Fosco quietly purchased a rare seventeenth-century Florentine cross from an antique dealer on the Via Maggio.”

“The one he gave Grove?”

“Exactly. And recall the count himself was careful to point out to me that, had Grove lived only one more day, he would have been forty million dollars richer.”

“Yeah. Anytime someone volunteers an alibi, something’s fishy.”

“The count’s Achilles’ heel is his volubility.”

“That and his big mouth.”

“I began to search for weaknesses in the count. He was clearly a dangerous man, and I felt we needed every advantage we could get—just in case. You may recall the comment of the colonnello’s, back at his barracks, about secret societies. He said the Florentine nobility was ‘rife with them.’ I began to wonder if Fosco belonged to such a secret society, and if so, whether it might be used against him in some way. The Florentine nobility are among the oldest in Europe—their lineages go back to the 1200s. Most of their ancient titles are associated with various arcane orders and guilds, some going as far back as the Crusades. Most have secret documents, rites, and so forth. The Knights Templars, the Black Gonfaloniers, the Cavaliers of the Rose—there are many others.”

D’Agosta nodded silently.

“Some of these societies take themselves extremely seriously, even if their original function has long passed and all that remains are empty observances and ceremonies. The count, coming from one of the most ancient families, surely belonged by hereditary right to a number of them. I e-mailed Constance, who managed to unearth several possibilities. I followed up with some of my own contacts here in Italy.”

“When?”

“The night before last.”

“And here I thought you were fast asleep in your hotel suite.”

“Sleep is an unfortunate biological requirement that both wastes time and leaves one vulnerable. At any rate, I uncovered hints of the existence of the Comitatus Decimus, the Company of Ten. It was a group of assassins formed during the most contentious years of the thirteenth century, long before the Medici came to power. One of the founders of the order was a French baron named Hugo d’Aquilanges, who brought to Florence some peculiar manuscripts full of the dark arts. Using these manuscripts, the group conjured up the devil—or so they believed—to aid in their midnight assassinations. They swore blood secrecy to each other, and any violation was punishable by immediate death. The cavaliere Mantun de Ardaz da Fosco was another of the founders; he passed membership with the title to his son and so forth, down to our Fosco. Their line, apparently, was also the keeper of the library of the Comitatus. It was these ancient documents Fosco used in conjuring up the devil for Bullard and the rest on All Hallows’ Eve. Whether he planned to use those documents from the beginning, I can’t be sure. But he would have learned Beckmann could read Italian and that Grove, even as a student, was knowledgeable about old manuscripts. Fosco couldn’t pass off any old manuscript—it had to be the real thing. I believe that he simply could not resist the fun. Of course, he didn’t realize at the time what it meant—or what penalties his breach of secrecy would incur. You see, members aren’t inducted into the order until they reach the age of thirty.”

“But you still haven’t explained how you knew Fosco belonged.”

“The research indicated that when the hereditary member is inducted into the society, he is marked with a black spot—a tattoo, really—using a bottle of ashes from the corpse of Mantun de Ardaz, who was drawn, quartered, and burned in the Piazza della Signoria for heresy. This black spot is placed directly over the heart.”

“And when did you get a glimpse of that?”

“When I interviewed him at the Sherry Netherland. He wore an open-necked white shirt. Of course, at the time I didn’t understand its significance—it merely looked like a large mole.”

“But you remembered it.”

“A photographic memory can be quite useful.”

Abruptly, Pendergast motioned for D’Agosta to be silent. For about a minute they waited, motionless. Then D’Agosta heard footsteps, a soft knock.

“Come in,” Pendergast said.

The door opened and Fosco slipped through, followed by half a dozen men with guns. He bowed. “Good morning to you both. I trust you passed a decent night?”

D’Agosta did not reply.

“And how was your night, Count?” Pendergast asked.

“I always sleep like a baby, thank you.”

“Funny how most murderers do.”

Fosco turned to D’Agosta. “You, on the other hand, look a little peaked, Sergeant. I hope you haven’t caught cold.”

“You make me sick.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Fosco said with a smile. Then he glanced back at Pendergast. “As promised, I’ve considered your offer. And I have brought you my riposte.”

He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a smooth white envelope. He held it out to Pendergast, eyes twinkling.

D’Agosta was startled to see Pendergast go pale as he took the envelope.

“That’s right. The very letter you left with Prince Maffei. Unopened and unread. I believe the word here is check, Mr. Pendergast. Your move.”

“How did—?” D’Agosta began. Then he fell silent.

Fosco waved his hand. “Mr. Pendergast didn’t count on my brilliance. I told Prince Maffei that my castle had been burglarized and that I was concerned for the safety of the Comitatus’s most secret manuscript—which, as the librarian of the Comitatus, I of course had in my possession. I asked him if he would hold it himself for safekeeping until the burglars had been caught. Naturally he took me to his most secure repository, where I felt sure he would have placed your letter. I didn’t know, of course, what you had said to him about the letter, so I felt it was better not even to mention it. The old fool opened his vault to put in the manuscript, and there, amidst all his moldy old papers, was a fresh, crisp envelope! I knew it had to be yours. A quick sleight of hand and the letter was mine. When you fail to return, the prince Maffei will open his vault and find nothing, and no doubt begin to worry about the toll old age is taking on his feeble mind.” Fosco laughed silently, his capacious front shaking, holding out the envelope.

There was a silence as Pendergast stared at the envelope. Then he took it, opened it, glanced at the sheet inside, and let it fall to the ground.

“I said check, but perhaps I should have said checkmate, Mr. Pendergast.” He turned to the men standing in the doorway. They were dressed in rough woolen and leather clothing, each pointing a firearm. Another man, in a stained suede jacket, stood behind them. He had a small, sharp face and was watching them with intelligent eyes.

D’Agosta’s hand crept toward his gun. Pendergast noticed, made a brief suppressing motion.

“That’s right, D’Agosta. Your superior knows it is futile—only in the movies can two men overpower seven. Of course, I am quite willing to see you both die right here and now. But then,” he added teasingly, “don’t lose hope—there’s always the chance you might escape!” He chucked and turned. “Fabbri, disarm these gentlemen.”

The man in the leather jacket stepped forward, held out his hand. After a moment, Pendergast removed his backup weapon and handed it to him. With a huge sense of foreboding, D’Agosta reluctantly gave the man his own as well.

“Now search them,” said the count.

“You first, Mr. Pendergast,” Fabbri said in a heavily accented voice. “Remove your jacket and your shirt. Then stand over there with your arms up.”

Pendergast did as ordered, handing each article of clothing to Fabbri. When Pendergast removed his shirt, D’Agosta noticed for the first time that the agent wore a chain around his neck, with a small pendant attached: a strange design of a lidless eye hovering over the image of a phoenix, rising from the ashes of a fire.

One of the peasants shoved Pendergast toward the wall. Fabbri began patting him down expertly. He quickly found a stiletto.

“There will be lock-picking tools as well,” said the count.

Fabbri searched Pendergast’s collar and cuffs, finally removing a small tool kit held there with Velcro. Other things appeared: a syringe and needle, some small test tubes.

“You’ve got quite an arsenal tucked away in that suit of yours,” Fosco said. “Fabbri, set it all on the table over here, if you please.”

Removing a stitching knife, Fabbri proceeded to cut open the linings of Pendergast’s suit, searching them thoroughly. Out came other items—tweezers, some small folded packets of chemicals—which the man placed on the table.

“His mouth. Check his mouth.”

The man opened Pendergast’s mouth, checked his teeth, looked under his tongue.

D’Agosta recoiled in horror at this indignity. With the discovery of each additional tool, he’d felt his hopes dim further. But Pendergast had a lot of tricks up his sleeve. He’d get them out of this somehow.

Fabbri directed Pendergast to step to one side and bend his head forward so he could search his hair. Pendergast complied, his arms still raised, positioning himself so he was facing away from the half-circle of men and the count, who was examining the items on the table with murmurs of interest. Now Fabbri’s back was turned to D’Agosta, while Pendergast was facing him. And D’Agosta was amazed at what he saw.

He saw Pendergast, moving his hands ever so slightly, extract a tiny piece of metal from between the ring and little fingers of his left hand. Somehow he had managed to palm this at the beginning of the search.

“All right,” Fabbri said. “Lower your arms and step over here.”

Pendergast did as directed. With a motion so fleeting D’Agosta wasn’t even sure he’d seen it, Pendergast tucked the piece of metal beneath Fabbri’s own jacket collar—using the man himself as a hiding place.

Next, Fabbri examined Pendergast’s shoes, cutting off the heels with a knife and stabbing through the sole in several places. This produced a second lock-picking set. He frowned and returned once again to Pendergast’s suit.

At last, the search was completed, leaving Pendergast’s clothes in tatters.

“Now the other one,” said Fosco.

They repeated the same process with D’Agosta, stripping him and unstitching everything, subjecting him to the same humiliating search.

“I would leave you both bare,” said the count, “but the dungeons of this castle are so damp. I would hate to see you catch cold.” He nodded toward their clothes. “Get dressed.”

They did so.

Fabbri spun them around and manacled their hands behind their backs. “Andiamoci.”

The count turned and stepped out of the apartment. Fabbri followed, then Pendergast and D’Agosta. The half dozen thugs brought up the rear.

Down the circular staircase they went, out of the keep and back into the ancient rooms of the castle. The count led the way back to the dining salotto, then through the kitchen and into a large, drafty pantry. An arched opening was set into the far wall, with a staircase descending out of sight. The group descended this into a deep, vaulted tunnel, its walls weeping moisture and encrusted with calcite crystals. Silently they walked past storerooms and empty galleries of stone.

“Ecco,” said the count, stopping before a low doorway. Fabbri stopped in turn, and Pendergast, his eyes on the ground, clumsily stumbled into him from behind. Fabbri cursed and pushed him away, sending the agent sprawling to the stone floor.

“Get in,” said the count.

Pendergast rose to his feet and ducked into the tiny room beyond the doorway. D’Agosta followed. The iron door slammed, the metal key turned, and they were in darkness.

The count’s face appeared at the small grating set into the door.

“You’ll be secure here,” he said, “while I attend to a few final details. And then I will be back. You see, I have prepared something special, something fitting, for you both. For Pendergast, a literary end—something out of Poe, actually. And for D’Agosta, murderer of my Pinchetti, I will use my microwave device one more time before destroying it, and with it the last evidence of my involvement in this affair.”

The face vanished. A moment later, the faint illumination of the corridor was extinguished.

D’Agosta sat in the dark, listening to the echo of retreating footsteps. In a moment, all was silent save for the faint dripping of water and the flutter of what D’Agosta thought must be bats.

He shifted, pulled his torn clothes more tightly around him. Pendergast’s voice came to him through the darkness, so low as to be almost inaudible.

“I don’t see any reason to delay our departure. Do you?”

“Was that a lockpick I saw you hiding under Fabbri’s collar?” D’Agosta whispered.

“Of course. Most obliging of him to carry it for me. Naturally, I stumbled into him just now in order to reclaim it. And now I have little doubt that Fabbri or one of the others is outside, guarding us. Bang on the door, Vincent, and see if you can’t get a response from him.”

D’Agosta banged and shouted: “Hey! Let us out! Let us out!”

The echoes slowly died away in the corridor beyond.

Pendergast touched D’Agosta’s arm and whispered again. “Keep making noise while I pick the lock.”

D’Agosta shouted, yelled, and swore. A minute later, Pendergast touched his arm once again.

“Done. Now listen. The man waiting in the dark no doubt has an electric torch, which he’ll turn on at the slightest indication of funny business. I’m going to find him and take care of him. You keep making noise as a diversion, and to cover any sounds of my crawling through the dark.”

“Okay.”

D’Agosta once again took up the cry, stomping around and demanding to be let out. It was pitch-black, and he could see nothing of what Pendergast was doing. He yelled and yelled. Suddenly there was a loud thump outside, followed by a thud. Then a beam of light stabbed through the low opening.

“Excellent work, Vincent.”

D’Agosta ducked back out beneath the low doorway. There, about twenty feet away, was Fabbri, facedown on the stone floor, arms flung wide.

“Are you sure there’s a way out of this pile?” D’Agosta asked.

“You heard the squeaking of bats. Right?”

“Right.”

“There must be a way out.”

“Yeah, for a bat.”

“Where bats fly, so shall we. But first we must get our hands on the machine. It’s our only real evidence against the count.”

{ 81 }

They made their way back through the dark stonework of the storage cellars and furtively climbed the ancient stairway to the pantry. Pendergast checked the room carefully, then motioned D’Agosta forward. Slowly, they moved from the pantry to the kitchen: a huge room with parallel tables of oiled pine and marble, and a massive fireplace replete with grills and racks. Cast-iron cookware hung on great hooks and chains from the ceiling. No sounds issued from the dining salotto beyond. All appeared deserted.

“When Pinketts retrieved the weapon,” whispered Pendergast, “he came through this kitchen, and was gone no more than a minute. It has to be close.”

“Why would it still be in the same place?”

“Remember what Fosco said. He’s planning to use it once more—on you. Other than the dining area, there are only two ways out of this room. The pantry we just came through, and that.” He pointed to a door leading into what looked like an old meat locker.

At that moment, footsteps sounded from beyond the dining room. They flattened themselves behind the door of the kitchen. Voices spoke in Italian, too indistinct to make out, but approaching.

“Let’s keep looking,” Pendergast said after a moment. “Any moment now the alarm might be raised.”

He ducked into the meat locker: a cool stone room hung with prosciutti and salami, shelves groaning under the weight of massive wheels of aging cheeses. Pendergast shone Fabbri’s torch around the crowded space. There was a gleam of aluminum on one of the upper shelves.

“There!” D’Agosta grabbed the case.

“Too bulky,” Pendergast said. “Get rid of the case and let’s assemble the weapon.”

They opened the case, and—with a little difficulty—Pendergast screwed together the various parts. He handed it to D’Agosta, who slung it over his shoulder by its attached leather strap. Then they hurried back into the kitchen. More voices, this time from the dining room itself. Then the hiss of a radio. A voice rasped out, loud, full of panic.

“Sono scappati!”

A flurry of activity, followed by retreating footsteps.

“They’ve got radios,” Pendergast murmured. He paused only another moment. Then he dashed back through the kitchen and across the dining room, D’Agosta following, weapon bouncing on his shoulder. They ran out into the central gallery, past the age-darkened portraits and luxurious tapestries.

Dim voices could be heard ahead.

“This way,” Pendergast said, nodding toward a small open door. They ran through it to find themselves in an old armory. Rusted swords, armor, and chain mail hung from the walls. Without a word, Pendergast took down a sword, examined it, put it back, took down another.

The voices grew louder. And then a group of men passed by the doorway, running at top speed toward the dining room and the kitchen.

Pendergast peered out, and then motioned to D’Agosta.

They continued down the gallery, then veered away through a maze of elegant chambers, arriving at last in the small, damp, windowless rooms surrounding the old keep. D’Agosta heard no footsteps but their own. It seemed they were temporarily in luck: nobody expected they’d head for the heart of the castle instead of making toward the outer walls.

No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he heard a voice ahead, talking furiously. He looked around. There was no place to hide in this series of bare stone rooms.

Pendergast swiftly got behind the door, D’Agosta crouching at his back. A man appeared in the doorway, jogging, radio in hand. Pendergast raised his sword with one swift motion; the man grunted, then sprawled forward onto the floor, run through, blood running out over the paving stones.

In an instant, Pendergast had retrieved the man’s handgun, a 9mm Beretta. He handed the sword to D’Agosta and gestured for him to follow.

Ahead yawned the entrance to a circular staircase, leading down into darkness. They began flying down the steps, two at a time. Then Pendergast raised his hand.

Footsteps rang faintly from below. Someone was running up toward them.

“How many thugs does the fat fuck employ?” D’Agosta muttered.

“As many as he wants, I imagine. Stay still. We have the advantage of surprise and altitude.” And Pendergast aimed the gun carefully down the curve of the stairs. Moments later, a man in peasant dress appeared. Pendergast fired without hesitation, then knelt beside the crumpled form, retrieved his weapon, and tossed it to D’Agosta.

A second man was shouting up from below. “Carlo! Cosa c’è?”

Pendergast darted down the stairs, tattered suit flapping behind him, and—leaping toward the second man—sent him sprawling backward with a kick to the head. He landed lightly, paused to pluck the man’s gun from his hand, and thrust it into the waistband of his trousers.

They ran down the dank corridor leading away from the staircase. Behind them, D’Agosta could hear shouts and cries. Pendergast switched off the flashlight to make them less of a target, and they continued forward in almost complete darkness.

Ahead, the tunnel divided. Pendergast stopped, examined the ground, the ceiling.

“Note the guano? The bats fly out this way.”

They took the left-hand tunnel. Now a faint light appeared in the distance behind them. A shot rang out, whining off stone. D’Agosta stopped to return fire. Their pursuers hung back.

“What about the microwave weapon?” he asked.

“Useless in this situation. Takes too long to operate, doesn’t have the range. Besides, we don’t have the time now to figure out how to use it.”

The tunnel branched again. D’Agosta smelled fresh air ahead, then caught a faint glow of light. They ran around another corner, then another—and suddenly came up against a thick grate of iron bars, bright light streaming in between them. D’Agosta could see that the grate opened onto the cliff below the castle. Beyond, he could make out the steep flanks of the mountain, to the left plunging into a deep ravine and to the right rising to pinnacles and crags.

“Shit.”

“I expected something like this,” said Pendergast. He swiftly examined the bars. “Ancient, but sound.”

“What now?”

“We make a stand. I’m counting on that shooting ability of yours, Vincent.”

Pendergast flattened himself against the last angle of the tunnel, and D’Agosta did the same. The men were coming up faster now—judging by the footsteps, there were at least half a dozen of them. D’Agosta turned, aimed, squeezed off a shot. In the dimness, he saw one of the figures fall. The rest scattered, flattening themselves against the rough rock walls. There was an answering blast of a shotgun. This was followed by the fast stutter of an automatic weapon: two short bursts, the bullets caroming off the ceiling in showers of sparks and stone.

“Shit!” D’Agosta said, shrinking back involuntarily.

“Keep holding them, Vincent, while I see what I can do about these bars.”

D’Agosta crouched low, ducked briefly around the corner, fired. The automatic weapon returned fire, the bullets once again ricocheting off the ceiling, thudding into the ground in a scattered pattern not far from D’Agosta.

They’re deliberately aiming for the ricochet.

He yanked his magazine out of the grip, examined it. It was a ten-shot magazine: six bullets were visible, plus the one in the chamber.

“Here’s the spare clip,” Pendergast said, tossing it to him. “Conserve your fire.”

D’Agosta glanced at it: full. He had seventeen shots.

Another short burst of automatic-weapons fire came zinging off the ceiling, thudding into the ground directly before his feet.

Angle of incidence equals angle of refraction, D’Agosta vaguely remembered from his pool-shooting days. He fired at the place where he’d seen the rounds ricochet off, fired a second time, each time aiming for a smooth patch of stone, carefully angling for the ricochet.

He heard a cry. Score one to mathematics.

Now a fusillade of shots came ricocheting in. D’Agosta rolled back just in time, half a dozen rounds slapping the ground where he had been.

“How’s it going?” he called over his shoulder.

“More time, Vincent. Buy me time.”

More bullets came in off the ceiling, with a spray of broken stone.

Time. D’Agosta had no choice but to return fire again. He crawled up to the angle, peered around. A man had ducked out from the shadows and was running up to a closer position. D’Agosta fired once and winged the man, who retreated with a cry.

Now Pendergast was firing his own gun in measured shots. Glancing back, D’Agosta could see him shooting into the masonry holding the grate in place.

More shots came in, landing about him in irregular spots. D’Agosta squeezed off another round.

Pendergast had emptied his magazine. “Vincent!” he called.

“What?”

“Toss me your gun.”

“But—”

“The gun.”

Pendergast caught it, took careful aim, and fired point-blank into the masonry at each point where the bars were cemented. The cement was old and soft, and the shots were taking effect, but still D’Agosta winced, unable to prevent himself from counting the wasted bullets. One, two, three, four, click. Pendergast popped out the spent magazine, tossed it aside. D’Agosta handed him the spare. The fire from around the corner had intensified. They had only moments before they were overrun.

Seven more shots rang out. Then Pendergast paused, crouched.

“Kick together. On three.”

They gave the grate a violent kick, but it remained immobile.

Pendergast fired two more shots, then tucked the gun into his waistband.

“Kick again. From the ground.”

They lay on their backs, cocked their legs, struck the grate together.

It moved.

Again, then yet again—and now it came free, clanging down the cliff face with a shower of rocks and pebbles.

They stood and approached the edge. The rough rock went straight down at least fifty feet before beginning to level out.

“Shit,” D’Agosta murmured.

“No choice. Toss the device. Look for brush, the gentlest landing place possible. Then climb down.”

D’Agosta leaned out, tossed the microwave weapon down into a thick patch of bushes. Then, swallowing his terror, he turned and eased himself over the edge. Sliding down slowly, holding fast to the mortar of the grate with his hands, he found a purchase for his feet. Then another descent, another purchase. In a moment, his face was below the edge of the chamber, clinging to the cliff face.

And then Pendergast was suddenly beside him. “Go sideways as you descend. It’s easier to see footholds, and you’ll make a more difficult target.”

The rock was shelving limestone, dreadfully sheer but offering abundant hand- and footholds. While it probably would have provided little challenge to a professional rock climber, D’Agosta was terrified nonetheless. His feet kept slipping, and his leather-soled shoes were almost useless.

Down he went, gingerly, one hand after the other, trying not to scrape his hurt finger against the sharp rocks. Pendergast was far below already, descending swiftly.

Shots echoed from the opening above, followed by a tremendous fusillade, followed by silence. Then a rush of voices: Eccoli! Di là!

D’Agosta glanced up to see a few heads craning out over the gulf. A hand with a gun appeared, aiming right at him. He was a sitting duck. Christ, it was over.

Pendergast’s gun cracked from far below: his final round. The shooter was hit square in the forehead; he staggered, fell, then came hurtling silently past, headed for the rocks below. D’Agosta looked away, resumed his descent as quickly as he dared.

From the opening above came more commotion. D’Agosta saw another figure appear cautiously, this time with the automatic weapon in hand. D’Agosta recognized the stubby form of an Uzi.

He flattened himself against the rock. Pendergast had vanished out of sight below. Where the hell was he?

He heard the Uzi go off in short bursts, rounds humming past his ear. He tried fishing out with his leg, searching for another foothold, but realized he was protected only by a thin shelf of rock overhead; if he moved again, he would be exposed.

Another burst confirmed the fact: he was pinned.

“Pendergast!”

No answer.

More shots came, stinging his face with splinters of stone. He shifted one foot, probed.

Another burst, and he felt one of the rounds nick his shoe. He pulled his leg back. He was hyperventilating now, gasping for breath as he clung to the tiny purchase. He had never felt so terrified in his life.

More shots, the stone fragmenting.

They were shooting through the thin shelf above him. Even if he didn’t move, they’d get him. He felt blood running down his cheek from where the stone chips had cut him.

Then he heard a single shot, this time from below; a scream from overhead; and then another man hurtled past, Uzi flying.

Pendergast. He must have reached the bottom and retrieved the dead man’s weapon.

D’Agosta began to climb down in a panic, slipping, recovering, slipping again. There was another shot from below, then another—Pendergast covering him, keeping the opening above clear of men.

The rock began to level out a little and he half climbed, half slid the last twenty feet. Then he was on his feet at the top of a scree slope, soaked in perspiration, heart hammering, his legs like jelly. Pendergast was here, crouched behind a rock, firing up again at the opening.

“Get the device and let’s go,” he said.

D’Agosta rose, scrambled down to the thicket of bushes, and retrieved the weapon. One of its bulbs was slightly dinged, and the device looked a little smudged and scratched, but otherwise it seemed undamaged. He slung it over his shoulder and raced for the cover of the trees. Pendergast joined him a moment later.

“Down. To the Greve road.”

They took off downhill, leaping and running through chestnut trees, the sound of shots behind and above growing fainter and fainter.

And then, suddenly, Pendergast stopped again.

In the ensuing silence, D’Agosta heard a sound rising from below. The measured baying of dogs.

A lot of dogs.

{ 82 }

Pendergast listened for a moment, then he turned to D’Agosta. “The count’s boar-hunting dogs. With their handlers. Coming up from below.”

“Oh, my God . . .”

“They’re trained to fan out into an impenetrable line, trap their prey, and surround it. We’ve no choice. We’ve got to go up and over the top of the mountain. That’s our only chance to escape.”

They turned and began scrambling up through the steep woods, moving at an angle to the slope, away from the castle. It was a tough, nasty ascent: the chestnut forest was full of brush and brambles, the ground wet and the leaves slippery. D’Agosta could hear the baying of the dogs below, dozens and dozens it seemed, overlapping into a cacophony of noise. The sounds echoed clear across the valley, from one end to the other. They seemed to be getting closer.

They climbed through an especially steep section of forest and broke out onto a gentler slope, planted in vines, leaves yellow in the fall air. They ran uphill between the rows, stumbling and panting through the wet clods, sticky earth clinging to their shoes.

There was no question: the dogs were gaining.

At the far end of the vineyard, Pendergast paused a second to reconnoiter. They were in a couloir between two mountain ridges. Above, the ridges narrowed as they approached the summit, about half a mile away. The castle lay below them on its own projecting shelf of rock, grim and dark.

“Come on, Vincent,” Pendergast said. “There’s not a moment to lose.”

The vineyard gave way to another steep slope, thickly covered with chestnut trees. They thrashed their way upward, briars tearing at their already tattered clothes. The broken wall of some ancient ruin came into view overhead, an old casa colonica sunken in vines. They climbed past the ruin and its outbuildings and entered an overgrown clearing. Again Pendergast paused to examine the hillside above them.

D’Agosta felt his heart was going to explode. The microwave device was a dead weight across his shoulder. Staring down the ridgeline, gasping for breath, he caught a brief glimpse of several of the dogs below, running, baying. Their line was tightening. He could now make out the distant whistling and shouting of the handlers.

Pendergast was staring intently upslope, where the couloir narrowed toward the summit. “I see a glint of steel.”

“Men?”

Pendergast nodded. “Have you ever hunted boar?”

“No.”

“That’s precisely how we’re being hunted. Like boar. Up there, where that draw narrows, will be the hunters. Perhaps a dozen, maybe more, arranged in blinds. Their field of fire will completely cover the upper part of the ridge.” He nodded, almost as if in approval. “It’s a standard hunt. The dogs flush out the boar and drive them up a narrowing valley toward a ridgeline, where they are forced to break cover and are taken down by the hunters.”

“So what do we do?”

“We don’t behave like boar. Instead of running away from the dogs, we head sideways.”

He turned and ran along the slope, at right angles to the fall line, following the rise and fall of the topography. The baying of the dogs was closer, their sounds echoing back among the rises of land, making it appear as if the animals were approaching from all sides.

The steep flank of the mountain lay perhaps a quarter mile in front of them. If they could get over that, D’Agosta thought as they stumbled forward, they could outflank the dogs and head downhill again. But the forest grew ever steeper and denser, slowing them down. And then, quite suddenly, they reached the lip of a small but very steep ravine, a stream at its bottom plunging down over sharp boulders. On the other side, perhaps twenty feet away, was a cliff of wet, moss-covered rock.

It was impassable.

Pendergast turned back. The dogs seemed very close now. D’Agosta could even hear the crackling of twigs, the breaking of brush, the curses of the handlers.

“We can’t cross this ravine,” Pendergast said. “That leaves only one choice. We must go up, try to creep through the line of hunters.”

Pendergast pulled out the handgun he’d taken from the fallen man, checked the magazine. “Three rounds left,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They resumed their climb. It seemed incredible to D’Agosta that he could go any farther, but adrenaline—and the dreadful baying of the boar hounds—kept him moving.

After a few minutes, the forest thinned and it grew brighter. They crouched, then crept forward slowly. Above, the forest gave way completely to meadows and brushy draws. D’Agosta caught his breath in dismay. The draws were full of impenetrable brush; the meadows were open and bare, dotted with isolated copses of trees. The land rose another quarter of a mile, hemmed between the two ridges of rock, finally topping over a barren summit. It was like a shooting gallery.

Pendergast examined the summit for at least a minute, despite the rapidly approaching dogs. Then he shook his head.

“It’s no good, Vincent. It’s suicide to go farther. There will be too many men up there, and they’ve no doubt been hunting boar in this valley all their lives. We’ll never break through.”

“Are you sure? Sure the men are up there, I mean?”

Pendergast nodded, looking back up the ridge. “I can see at least half a dozen from here. It’s impossible to say how many others are hidden behind the rock blinds.” He paused, as if considering. Then he spoke rapidly, almost to himself. “The ring is already closed on either side and above. And we can’t go down: we’ll never penetrate the line of dogs.”

“Are you positive?”

“Not even a two-hundred-pound male boar, moving through heavy brush at thirty miles an hour, can get past those dogs. As soon as the boar hits the line, the dogs converge, and . . .”

He stopped. Then he looked at D’Agosta, eyes glittering.

“Vincent, that’s it. There is a way out. Listen to me. I will head directly downhill. When I hit the line of dogs, their cry will bring the others, and they’ll bunch. Meanwhile, you move a couple of hundred yards laterally, that way, quick as you can. Then go slowly downhill. Slowly. When you hear the cornering cry of the dogs—it’s an unmistakable sound—you’ll know I’ve hit the line and they’re baying at me. The line will break as the dogs converge, and that’s when you can pass. Then, and only then. Is that clear? Listen for the cornering cry. When you break through, head straight to the Greve road.”

“And you?”

Pendergast held up the gun.

“With three shots? You’ll never do it.”

“There’s no other way.”

“But where will I meet up with you? The Greve road?”

Pendergast shook his head. “Don’t wait for me. Get the colonnello and return in full force as soon as possible. In full force. You understand? Take the machine—you’ll need it to convince him.”

“But . . .” D’Agosta stopped. And then—only then—did the full consequences of Pendergast’s intentions reveal themselves to him.

“The hell with that,” he said. “We go together.”

The baying grew closer.

“Only one of us can get through. There’s no other way. Now, go!”

“I won’t. No way . . . I’m not leaving you to the dogs . . .”

“Damn you, Vincent, you must!” And without another word, Pendergast turned his back and took off downhill.

“No!” D’Agosta shouted. “Noooo—!”

But it was too late.

He felt paralyzed, rooted to the spot in disbelief. Pendergast’s thin black figure was leaping like a cat down the hill, gun upraised—and then it vanished into the trees.

There was nothing to do but follow the plan. Almost robotically, D’Agosta began scrambling along the hill, moving laterally, until he had gone about three hundred yards. He turned, prepared to descend.

Then he stopped. Ahead, in a thickly wooded copse beneath a spur of rock, stood a lone figure. From any other vantage point, he would have been invisible below the outcropping of rock. He stood very still, looking at D’Agosta.

Jesus, D’Agosta thought. This is it.

He reached for the microwave device, thought better of it. The man wasn’t armed; or, if he was, his weapon was out of sight. This situation was better handled with bare hands. He gathered himself to leap forward.

But then he hesitated. Though the man was dressed in peasant garb, he seemed different from the rest of Fosco’s men. He was very tall and slender, perhaps four inches taller than Pendergast, and he wore a closely trimmed beard. There was something strange about his eyes. They were different colors: the left was hazel, the right an intense blue.

Maybe he’s a local, D’Agosta thought. Or a poacher, or something. Great fucking time to be out for a stroll.

Suddenly, he became aware of the dogs again. They were still baying: a regular, measured sound, as before.

No more time to waste. The man had turned calmly away from him, uninterested. D’Agosta began descending slowly, waiting for the change in the dogs’ cry. He glanced back once and saw the stranger, still motionless, looking intently downslope.

D’Agosta turned back and continued slowly and carefully down through the forest. Forget him. The important thing now was Pendergast. He would escape. He had to, he had to . . .

And then, suddenly, off to his right and below, he heard a single dog barking hysterically, its voice sounding a much higher, more urgent note than before. He paused, listening. Another took up the cry, then a third. In a moment, the whole line had taken it up. D’Agosta could hear them converging on a single spot with a babel of high-pitched barking. Then came the report of a gun, the shriek of a dog. The frenzy increased in pitch. It was a terrifying sound, interrupted by a second shot, then a third. These were followed in turn by the lower boom-boom of an old, heavy-caliber carbine. D’Agosta could see nothing through the dense brush, but he could hear what was happening all too clearly.

This was his chance. Hugging the machine close to him, D’Agosta ran downhill as hard and fast as he could, leaping, ripping through brambles, stumbling, recovering, running on and on. He broke through a small clearing, and there—far off to his right now—he caught one last glimpse of Pendergast: a lone figure in black, surrounded by a boiling pack of dogs, a dozen or more men converging from two sides and below, each with heavy rifles trained on him. The din was incredible, the frenzied ring of dogs closing in, the bolder ones dashing forward, attempting to tear out chunks of flesh.

D’Agosta kept running, running—and then he was past the line, the dogs’ terrible ravening cry now behind and above him. He kept on going, the nightmarish shrieking of the dogs, the cursing and shouting of the handlers, ringing ever more faintly in his ears. The hunt was over, the quarry cornered—only it wasn’t a boar, it was a human being. Pendergast. And he wasn’t going to escape: not this time, he wasn’t.

{ 83 }

Buck sat on the cot in his cell at the Manhattan Detention Center, listening and waiting. It was a modern, sterile facility, all white walls and fluorescent lighting, the lights recessed behind caged glass. Despite the fact that it was past midnight, he could hear a lot of noise from the other prisoners, who were banging on the bars, yelling, arguing, demanding lawyers. Some were shouting in unintelligible languages that sounded harsh, almost barbarous.

He’d been processed, fingerprinted, photographed, showered, given a change of clothes. He’d been fed, given a copy of the Times, been offered a phone to call a lawyer—and told absolutely nothing. It seemed he’d been in the cell forever. Every hour that passed turned the screw another notch. When would it begin? Is this what Christ felt, waiting to be brought before Pontius Pilate? He would have preferred almost anything—beating, torture, abuse—to this interminable wait. And this environment was sterile, suffocating. What was worse, he’d been given a cell to himself. His treatment was almost cruel in its courtesy. He wondered how much longer he could stand these people coming and going with his food: these people who never answered his questions, never looked him in the eye, never said a word.

He knelt to pray. When would it happen? When would the walls shake, the voices sound on high, the ground open to swallow the unclean? When would the screams of the damned fill the air, the kings and princes run to hide among the rocks, the four horsemen of the Apocalypse appear in the sky? He didn’t even have a window to look out of, no way to see anything.

The suspense was literally killing him.

Yet another guard appeared: a large black man in a blue uniform, carrying a tray.

“What’s this?” Buck asked, looking up.

No answer. The man opened the sliding tray in the bars, set it down, slid it in, shut the slot, turned, and walked away.

“What’s happening out there?” Buck cried. “What’s—?”

But the orderly had disappeared.

Buck rose and sat down again on the bunk. He looked at the food: a bagel with cream cheese and jelly; a chicken breast sitting in some congealed gravy; some grayish green beans and carrots; a dollop of hardening mashed potatoes. The sheer banality of it made him sick.

Now, above the usual prison sounds, he heard something else: voices, a clang, a sudden burst of shouting from the other prisoners. Buck stood up.

Was it starting? Was it starting at last?

Four police officers appeared down the hall, heavily armed, billy clubs swinging from their hips, swaggering in formation. For him: they were coming for him. He felt a tingle of anticipation. Something would happen now. It might be very hard. It would no doubt test him to the utmost. But whatever it was, he would accept it. It was part of God’s great plan.

They halted outside his cell. He stared back at them, waiting. One stepped forward and read from a card clipped to a green folder.

“Wayne Paul Buck?”

He nodded, stiffening.

“You’re to come with us.”

“I’m ready,” he said, defiantly but with quiet dignity.

The man unlocked the cell. The others stood back, guns at the ready.

“Step out, please. Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

He did as he was told. It was going to be bad, very bad: he could feel it. The cold steel of the cuffs went around his wrists, and there was a click: a portent of things to come.

“This way, sir.”

Sir. The mocking was beginning.

They marched him silently down the hall to an elevator, rose a few floors, then down another sterile corridor to a gray metal door. They knocked.

“Come in,” said a feminine voice.

The door opened, and Buck found himself in a small office with a metal desk, a single window looking out over the nightscape of lower Manhattan. Sitting at the desk was that one, the female cop who had led the centurions in to arrest him.

He stood proudly before her, unbowed. She was his Pontius Pilate.

She accepted the folder from the lead cop. “Have you had access to a lawyer?” she asked.

“I don’t need a lawyer. God is my advocate.” He noticed, for the first time, how pretty she was—and how young. She had a discreet bandage above her ear, where she had been hit with the rock. He had saved her from death.

The devil has many faces.

“As you wish.” She rose, pulled her jacket off a hook, slid into it, then nodded to the policemen. “Is the marshal ready?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“Where?” Buck asked.

Her only answer was to lead the way down the hall. They took another elevator down and out through a maze of corridors into the yard, where an unmarked police car sat, idling, gleaming beneath a dozen sodium lamps. A uniformed cop was behind the wheel. A small, heavyset man in gray polyester stood beside the passenger door, hands clasped before him.

“You can uncuff him,” Hayward said to the cops. “Put him in the back, please.”

They uncuffed him, opened the door, eased him in. Meanwhile, Hayward was talking to the man in the suit, giving him the green folder and a clipboard. He signed the clipboard, handed it back to her, got in beside the driver, and slammed the door.

Now Hayward leaned in at the rear window. “You’re probably wondering what’s going to happen to you, Mr. Buck.”

Buck felt a rush of emotion. This was it: he was being led away, taken to meet his end, his supreme moment. He was ready.

“This gentleman is a U.S. marshal, who is going to escort you by plane back to Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, where you are wanted for parole violation.”

Buck sat there, stunned. This couldn’t be. More mockery. It was a trick, a ruse.

“Did you hear me?”

Buck did not acknowledge. It had to be a trick.

“The D.A. decided not to file any charges against you here in New York—too much trouble. And to tell you the truth, you didn’t really do anything all that wrong, outside of exercising your right of free speech in a rather misguided way. We were lucky, avoided a riot, managed to disperse the crowd peacefully once you left. Everyone went home and the area’s now fenced. Soon the Parks Department will be giving it a thorough cleaning and reseeding, which it needed anyway. So, you see, no real harm was done, and we felt it better to let the whole incident die a quiet death and be forgotten.”

Buck listened, hardly able to believe his ears.

“And what about me?” he finally managed to say.

“Like I said, we’re shipping you back to Oklahoma, where there’s a parole officer really anxious to talk to you. We don’t want you. They had a prior and wanted you back. Nice ending all around.”

She smiled, laid her hand on the side of the car. “Mr. Buck? Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t all right. He felt sick. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. It was a trick, a vicious trick.

She leaned in just a little farther. “Mr. Buck? If you don’t mind, there’s something personal I’d like to say to you.”

He stared at her.

“First of all, there’s only one Jesus and you aren’t Him. Another thing: I’m a Christian, and I try to be a good one, although I may not always succeed. You had no right to stand there when I was at the mercy of that crowd, point your finger at me, and pass judgment. You should take a good look at that passage in the Gospel of Matthew: Judge not, that ye be not judged . . . Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother’s eye.”

She paused. “I always liked the King James Version the best. Now, listen. You worry about yourself from now on, being a good citizen, keeping out of trouble, and obeying the law.”

“But . . . You don’t realize . . . It’s going to happen. I warn you, it’s coming.” Buck could barely articulate the words.

“If there’s a Second Coming in the works, you sure as heck won’t get advance notice—that much I do know.”

With that, she smiled, patted the side of the car, and said, “Farewell, Mr. Buck. Keep your nose clean.”

{ 84 }

In the elegantly appointed dining room within the main massing of the Castello Fosco, the count waited, quite patiently, for his dinner. The walls of the fifteenth-century villa were extremely thick, and there was no sound at all save the faint mechanical whirring of Bucephalus from a white T-stand nearby, applying his artificial beak to an artificial nut. The stately windows of the room looked out over a spectacular landscape: the hills of Chianti, the deep valley of the Greve. But Fosco was content to sit in his heavy oak chair at one end of the long table, reviewing—with delicious tranquillity—the events of the day.

His reverie was broken by the shuffle of feet in the passageway. A moment later his cook, Assunta, appeared, bearing a large serving tray. Placing it at the far end of the table, she presented the dishes to him one by one; a simple maltagliati ai porcini; oxtail, served alla vaccinara; fegatini grilled over the fire; a contorno of fennel braised in olive oil. It was the simple, homely fare his cook excelled at and Fosco preferred while in the country. And if Assunta’s presentation lacked the polish and subtlety of Pinketts—that, alas, could not be helped.

He thanked her, pouring himself a glass of the estate’s exceptional Chianti Classico as she left the room. And then he applied himself to his dinner with relish. Although he felt famished, he ate slowly, savoring every bite, every mouthful of wine.

At last, meal complete, he rang a small silver bell that lay near his right hand. Assunta reappeared.

“Grazie,” he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a huge linen napkin.

Assunta curtsied a little awkwardly.

The count rose. “Once you have cleared away, you may take a few days off.”

The cook glanced at him inquiringly without raising her head.

“Per favore, signora. It has been months since you visited your son in Pontremoli.”

The curtsy deepened. “Mille grazie.”

“Prego. Buona sera.” And the count turned lightly on his heel and left the dining room.

Once the cook had departed, the castle would be empty of servants. His men had done their work and departed. Even the groundskeepers had been given a few days’ absence. Only Giuseppe, the ancient dogmaster, remained on the estate: as it happened, he could not be spared.

It was not that Fosco distrusted his retainers: they all had ancient ties to his family, some going back as far as eight hundred years, and their loyalty was without question. It was simply that he wanted to finish this business undisturbed.

He moved slowly and purposefully through the huge rooms of the castle: the salone; the hall of portraits; the hall of armor. His stroll took him back through time: first, through the older, thirteenth-century additions, then into still older chambers, built half a millennium earlier. Here there was no electricity, no modern conveniences such as plumbing or central heating. The warren of small, windowless rooms grew dark and oppressive, and Fosco stopped to pull a torch from a wall sconce and light it. Turning to an ancient worktable nearby, he picked up something else and tucked it into his waistcoat. Then he took a side passage and continued on and down: down into a subterranean warren of tunnels cut into the living rock.

Many of the extensive basements of the Castello Fosco were taken up with the production of the estate. A great many rooms were devoted to winemaking: filled with bottling machinery and fermentation vats, or with countless small barrels of French oak. Others were given over to the aging of boar hams: deep, cool spaces from whose ceilings hung countless hams, still covered in coarse fur. Still others were used for storing olive oil or making balsamico. But here—far beneath the bulk of the castle’s stronghold—there were no such large and well-ventilated spaces. Narrow vaults dug deeply into the beetling cliff face of limestone, and stairs corkscrewed down toward old wells and chambers unused for half a millennium.

It was one of these staircases that Fosco now descended. The air was chill, the walls slick with damp. The count slowed further: the hand-cut steps were slippery, and if he fell there would be nobody to hear his cries.

At last, the staircase ended in a labyrinth of narrow vaults, lined in ancient brick. Niches were cut into the walls, and each contained a skeleton: some long-deceased family member or—more likely, given the sheer number—fallen allies from wars fought a millennium ago. The air was bad here, and Fosco’s torch guttered as he threaded his complex path.

As he penetrated deeper into the maze, the ancient walls grew more uneven. He passed several places where they had fallen away from the rock, leaving heaps of scattered bricks. Skeletons lay in thick profusion, as if dumped and abandoned where they lay, the bones chewed and scattered by rats.

The vault finally ended in a cul-de-sac. The darkness here was so thick, so complete, that Fosco’s torch barely penetrated. He took another step forward, waved the torch in a cautious arc into the last recess ahead of him.

The guttering flame revealed the figure of Agent Pendergast, head lolled forward onto his chest. His face was scratched and bleeding in a dozen places. His normally immaculate black suit was shredded and dirty, the jacket lying in a heap at his feet. His hand-tailored English shoes were covered in thick Tuscan mud. He appeared unconscious and would have sunk to the ground before Fosco if not for the heavy chain bound tightly across his chest. This was fixed to an iron staple set into the limestone wall, and was padlocked to a second iron staple on Pendergast’s far side. His wrists hung limply at his sides, secured by additional lengths of chain fixed to the rear wall of the niche.

Fosco’s first sweep of the torch had been a careful one. He had learned, even now, not to underestimate his opponent. But Pendergast was clearly immobilized, helpless. Emboldened, the count brought the torch forward again.

As the light of the torch crossed his face, Pendergast stirred. His eyes fluttered open.

Instantly, Fosco stepped back. “Agent Pendergast?” he crooned. “Aloysius? Are we awake?”

Pendergast did not answer, but his eyes remained open. He moved his limbs weakly, flexed his manacled hands.

“Please forgive me, but I’m afraid the restraints are necessary. As you shall soon understand.”

When there was no response, the count continued. “You no doubt feel weak, barely able to stir. And you may be experiencing a certain degree of amnesia. Phenobarbital does have that effect at times: it seemed the easiest way to return you to the castle without undue exertions. So allow me to refresh your memory. You and the good sergeant D’Agosta grew tired of my hospitality and desired to leave. I, naturally, took objection. There was a nasty struggle, I’m afraid, in which my beloved Pinketts perished. You had deposited some paperwork I was obliged to reclaim. Then came your escape attempt. Sergeant D’Agosta made good his escape, I fear. But the important thing is that you’re back, my dear Agent Pendergast: back safely again in the bosom of Castel Fosco! And I insist you remain here, as my guest. No, really—I’ll hear no objection.”

Fosco placed the torch carefully into an iron wall mounting. “I beg your pardon for the scant accommodation. Still, these chambers are not without their natural charm. You’ll notice the white webwork that gleams from the cavern walls? It’s nitre, my dear Pendergast—you of all people should appreciate the literary allusion. And thus understand what is to follow.”

And to underscore this, the count slipped his hand into his waistcoat and slowly withdrew a trowel.

Staring at it, Pendergast’s dull, drug-heavy eyes gleamed briefly.

“Aha!” the count cried, pleased. “It is not lost on you! Let us then proceed with all haste.” And turning to one side, he swept away a heap of tumbled bones, revealing a large quantity of freshly slaked mortar.

Using the trowel, he laid a thick line of mortar along the front lip of the recess. Then he moved to one of the piles of collapsed brick and, two at a time, brought the bricks back to the niche, laying them carefully in a line atop the mortar. Within a few minutes, the first course of bricks was in place and Fosco was troweling another layer of mortar along its top.

“How wonderful these bricks are!” he said as he worked. “They are many centuries old, made from the very clay of the hillside. See how massive: none of your trifling English bricks for Fosco! I’ve called for a great deal of lime in the mortar—nearly two parts lime to each part sand—but then I want your final habitation to be as strong as possible. I want it to last through the ages, my dear Pendergast. I want it to last until the final trump is sounded!”

Pendergast said nothing. But his drug-clouded eyes had cleared. They watched Fosco work with an almost feline stoicism—if, Fosco reflected, stoicism was the correct word. Finishing the second course of bricks, he paused to return the gaze.

“I’ve been preparing this for some time,” he said. “Quite some time, in fact. You see, ever since our first meeting—at the memorial service for Jeremy Grove, when we had our little disagreement over the Ghirlandaio panel—I realized you were the most formidable opponent I had ever faced.”

He paused, waiting. But still Pendergast said nothing, did not move except to blink his eyelids. And so Fosco returned to his work and—with the energy of a sudden surge of anger—laid the third, fourth, and fifth course of bricks.

When he laid the last brick of the sixth course in place, he paused once more. The brief anger had passed and he was again himself. The wall reached now to Pendergast’s waist. Throwing back the tails of his coat, Fosco perched daintily on the old pile of bricks to rest. His gaze fell almost kindly on the prisoner.

“You’ll note I’m laying the bricks in Flemish bond, alternating the headers with the stretchers,” he said. “Beautiful, is it not? I could have been a mason, perhaps, had I so chosen. Of course, building such a wall is time-consuming. Consider it my final gift. My parting gift. You see, once the last brick is in place, it will not take long—perhaps a day, perhaps two, depending on how much air seeps through these ancient walls. I am no sadist. Your death will not be unduly prolonged—though I imagine slow suffocation in the dark might not be quite as merciful as one would hope. It cannot be helped.”

He sat for a moment, catching his breath. Then he went on, his voice now almost meditative.

“Do not think, Signor Pendergast, I take this responsibility lightly. I realize that by entombing you here, I rob the world of a great intellect. It will be a duller place without you. However, it will also be safer, for me and those like me: men and women who would prefer to pursue their destinies unfettered by laws devised by their inferiors.”

He glanced into the recess. With the wall half complete, the niche lay in deepest shadow. Only the gaunt lines of Pendergast’s bloodied face reflected in the torchlight.

The count looked at him quizzically. “Still nothing? Very well: let us continue.” And he pulled himself to his feet.

The next three tiers were laid in silence. Finally, as Fosco put the last brick of the ninth course in position and smoothed fresh mortar across its top, Pendergast spoke. The wall had reached the level of his pale eyes, and his voice echoed hollowly inside the new-made vault.

“You must not do this,” he said. His voice had none of its usual creamy, almost lazy precision.

This, Fosco knew, was a side effect of the phenobarbital. “But my dear Pendergast, it is done!” He troweled off the mortar and returned to the brick pile.

The tenth course was half laid before Pendergast spoke once more. “There is something I must do. Something unfinished, of great importance to the world. A member of my family is in a position to do great harm. I must be allowed to stop him.”

Fosco halted, listening.

“Let me complete that task. Then I will return to you. You . . . you may then dispose of me as you see fit. I give you my word as a gentleman.”

Fosco laughed. “Do you take me for a fool? I am to believe you shall return, willingly, like Regulus to Carthage, to meet your end? Bah! Even if you do keep your word, when should I expect you? Twenty or thirty years from now, when you have grown old and tired of life?”

No answer came from the darkness of the niche.

“But this task you mention. It intrigues me. A family member, you say? Give me more details.”

“Free me first.”

“That is impossible. But come—I see we are simply bandying words. And I weary of this task.” And more quickly now, Fosco finished the tenth course and started on the eleventh and last.

It was when only a single stone remained to be fitted and mortared into the wall that Pendergast spoke again. “Fosco”—the voice was faint, sepulchral, as if emerging from the deepest recesses of a tomb—“I ask you, as a gentleman and a human being. Do not place that brick.”

“Yes. It does seem a shame.” And Fosco hefted the final brick in his hand. “But I’m afraid the time has come for us to part. I thank you for the pleasure of your company these last few days. I say to you, not arrivederla, but addio.” And he forced the last stone into place.

As he smoothed away the last bit of excess mortar, Fosco heard—or thought he heard—a sound from the tomb within. A low moan, or exhalation of breath. Or was it just the wind, crying through the ancient catacombs? He pressed his head to the freshly laid wall and listened intently.

But there was nothing further.

Fosco stepped back, kicked a pile of scattered bones into position before the wall, then grabbed the torch and made his way hastily through the rat’s nest of tunnels to the ancient stairwell. Reaching it, he began to climb—a dozen steps, two dozen, three—heading for the surface and the warm evening sunlight, leaving the restless netherworld of shadows far behind.

{ 85 }

D’Agosta sat silently in the backseat of the car as it moved up the winding mountain road. The countryside was as beautiful as it had been two days before: the hills clad in autumn raiment, shining rust and gold under the early morning sun. D’Agosta barely noticed. He was staring up at the cruel-looking keep of Castel Fosco, just now rising into view above its spar of gray rock. Merely seeing the castle again brought a chill not even the convoy of police cars could allay.

He shifted the weight of the canvas bag from one leg to the other. Inside was Fosco’s diabolical weapon. The chill evaporated before the furious, carefully controlled anger that burned within him. D’Agosta tried to channel that anger: he’d need it for the encounter to come. The maddening, excruciating twelve-hour delay was finally over. The paperwork, the warrant, had finally come through; the bureaucracy had been satisfied. Now he was back here, on the enemy’s home ground. He had to stay calm, stay in control. He knew he had only one shot to save Pendergast—if indeed Pendergast was still alive—and he wasn’t going to blow it by losing his cool.

Colonnello Esposito, sitting beside him, took a last deep drag on his cigarette, then ground it out in an ashtray. He’d been quiet during the drive, moving only occasionally to light a new cigarette. Now he, too, glanced out the window.

“A most formidable residence,” he said.

D’Agosta nodded.

Esposito pulled out a fresh cigarette, reconsidered, replaced it, and turned to D’Agosta. “This Fosco you describe seems a shrewd character. It will be necessary to catch him red-handed, secure the evidence ourselves. We will therefore go in fast.”

“Yes. Good.”

Esposito ran a hand over his brushed-back gray hair. “He is also clearly one who leaves nothing to chance. I worry that Pendergast may be . . .” His voice trailed off.

“If we hadn’t waited twelve hours—”

The colonnello shook his head. “One cannot change the way things are.” He fell silent while the cars passed the castle’s ruined outer gate and made their way along the avenue of cypress trees. Then he stirred again. “One request, Sergeant.”

“What?”

“Let me do the talking, if you please. I will make sure the conversation is in English. Fosco speaks English well?”

“Perfectly.”

D’Agosta was more exhausted than he ever remembered being. Every limb ached, and his skin was scratched and torn in countless places. Only his iron resolve to rescue Pendergast, his fear about what his friend might be undergoing at the hands of the count, kept him going. Maybe he’s still alive, he thought. Back in the same cell. Of course he is. He must be.

D’Agosta prayed briefly, fervently, that this would prove the case. The alternative was too dreadful to contemplate.

The cars pulled into the graveled parking area just outside the inner wall. Here, in the deep shadow of the stone buttresses, it was chilly. D’Agosta opened the car door and stepped out briskly despite his aches and pains.

“The Fiat,” he said. “Our rented car. It’s gone.”

“What model?” Esposito asked.

“A Stylo, black. License IGP 223.”

Esposito turned to one of his men and barked an order.

The castle seemed deserted, almost preternaturally quiet. The colonnello nodded to his men, then led the way quickly up the stone steps to the banded doors.

This time, the doors to the inner ward did not open by themselves. In fact, it took five minutes—and increasingly agitated raps by the colonnello—before they groaned slowly open. There, on the far side, stood Fosco. His gaze traveled over the knot of policemen, coming to rest at last on D’Agosta. He smiled.

“Why, my heavens! It’s Sergeant D’Agosta. How are you finding Italy?”

D’Agosta did not reply. Just the sight of the grotesque count brought on a rush of loathing. Keep it cool, he reminded himself.

Fosco was puffing just a bit but otherwise seemed his jovial, unflappable self. “Please excuse my delay in responding. I wasn’t expecting any company today.” Then he turned toward the colonnello. “But we haven’t yet been introduced. I am Fosco.”

“I am Colonnello Orazio Esposito of the Nucleo Investigativo,” Esposito said brusquely. “We have a warrant to search these premises. I would ask you to step aside, sir.”

“A warrant!” Surprise bloomed on the count’s face. “What’s it about?”

Esposito ignored him, walking past, barking orders to his men. He turned to the count. “My men will need access to all parts of the castle.”

“Of course!” The count hastened across the lawn of the inner ward, past the purling fountain, and into the fastness of the dark and brooding keep, putting on a remarkable front of surprise and alarm, mingled with subservient cooperation.

D’Agosta maintained a stony silence, keeping his canvas bag well away from Fosco. He noticed that, this time, none of the massive doors scraped closed behind them.

The count led the way down the central gallery and into a room D’Agosta hadn’t seen before: a large and elegant library, its walls covered with ancient volumes, leather spines stamped and gilded. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth.

“Please, gentlemen,” Fosco said, ushering them in. “Have a seat. Can I offer you sherry? A cigar?”

“I’m afraid there is no time for pleasantries,” Esposito said. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a sheet of paper bearing official stamps, laid it on the table. “Here is the warrant. We will search the basements and cellars first, then work our way up.”

The count had taken a cigar from a carved wooden box. “Of course I shall cooperate, but I’d like to know what it’s about.”

“Sergeant D’Agosta has leveled very grave charges against you.”

“Against me?” the count said. He glanced at D’Agosta. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Kidnapping, attempted murder—and the accusation that you are still holding Pendergast.”

The surprise on Fosco’s face deepened. “But this—this is outrageous!” He lowered the cigar, looking from D’Agosta to Esposito and back again. “Sergeant, is this true? Do you make such accusations?”

“Let’s go,” said D’Agosta impatiently. Although he kept his tone level, he seethed inwardly at the masterful acting. The count truly looked like a man struggling with shock and disbelief.

“Well. If that is the case, who am I to protest?” Fosco examined the cigar, snipped off the end with a tiny silver clipper, lit it. “But you may put away that warrant, Officer. I give you and your men free run of the castle. Every door is open to you. Search where you will. Please allow me to assist you in any way I can.”

Esposito turned briskly to some of the carabinieri, speaking in Italian. The men saluted, fanned out, disappeared.

Esposito turned back to D’Agosta. “Sergeant, perhaps you could take us to the room where you were incarcerated for the night. Count, you will accompany us.”

“I would insist upon it. The Foscos are an ancient and noble family, and we value our honor above all else. These charges must be addressed, and settled, immediately.” He glanced back at D’Agosta with just a trace of indignation.

D’Agosta led the way down the gallery, through the drawing room, and into the long procession of elegant chambers. The count followed, walking in his peculiar light-footed way, pointing out various works of art and sights of interest for the colonnello, who ignored him. The remaining two carabinieri brought up the rear.

Then came a point where D’Agosta lost his way. He looked around, stepped forward, stopped again. There had been a door in this stuccoed wall—hadn’t there?

“Sergeant?” Esposito said.

“Perhaps I could be of assistance?” Fosco volunteered.

D’Agosta glanced through one doorway, backtracked, looked through another. It had been less than twenty-four hours; he couldn’t have forgotten. Could he? He advanced, touched the stucco, but it was old, crumbling, anything but fresh.

“The sergeant said the apartment where he was held prisoner was in the tower itself,” the colonnello told Fosco.

The count cast a puzzled gaze on the colonnello, turned to D’Agosta. “There is only one apartment in the tower, but it is not this way.”

“Take us to it.”

The count led them quickly through a series of passages and low, dark stone rooms, barren of furnishings.

“This is the oldest part of the castle,” Fosco said. “Dating back to the ninth century. It’s rather cold and depressing. There are no modern amenities like electricity or plumbing. I never come here myself.”

Within a minute, they had reached the heavy iron door of the keep. Fosco opened it with difficulty, the lock rusty. The door creaked open, Fosco brushing away cobwebs. He led the way up the staircase beyond, the echo of feet filling the stony spaces. Reaching the landing, D’Agosta paused before the door of their apartment. It was ajar.

“Is this it?” Esposito asked.

D’Agosta nodded.

Esposito beckoned to his men, who came forward, opened the door, and stepped inside. Esposito followed, D’Agosta on his heels.

The snug apartment where he’d spent the night before last was gone. The rugs, bookshelves, and furniture were nowhere to be seen. Lights, plumbing fixtures—everything that had been retrofitted into the space was now gone. Instead, he gazed into a chill, dark vault filled with decaying lumber, broken stone carvings, moldering stacks of heavy draperies. A massive iron chandelier, twisted and rusting, lay on the floor. Everything was coated in a thick mantle of dust. It looked like a storage area for the cast-off detritus of past centuries.

“Sergeant—are you sure this is the room?”

D’Agosta’s astonishment gave way to puzzlement, then anger. “Yes, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t like this at all. There were bedrooms, a bathroom—”

The room fell silent.

So that’s the game, D’Agosta thought. “The count has used the twelve hours it took to get the warrant to fix things. To disguise everything.”

Esposito ran his finger over the dust on an old, wormy table, rubbed it between thumb and finger, then looked at D’Agosta rather intently. He turned to the count. “Are there any other apartments in the tower?”

“As you can see, this occupies the entire upper floor.”

Esposito looked back at D’Agosta. “All right. What next?”

“We went down to dinner.” D’Agosta was careful to keep his voice calm. “In the main dining room. Fosco said we’d never leave the castle alive. There was an exchange of gunfire. I killed his manservant.”

The count’s eyebrows shot up again. “Pinketts?”

Within five minutes, they were stepping into the cheery dining salotto. But it was as D’Agosta had begun to fear: there were no bloodstains, no sign of any struggle. The remains of a single breakfast lay on the table.

“You’ll excuse me, I hope,” Fosco said, gesturing toward the half-eaten meal. “You caught me breakfasting. As I said, I was not expecting visitors. And I gave the staff a few days off.”

Esposito was strolling around the room, hands clasped behind his back, examining the walls, searching for chips or holes that would indicate bullet marks. He asked, “Sergeant, how many rounds were exchanged?”

D’Agosta thought a moment. “Four. Three went into Pinketts. The other should be somewhere on the wall above the fireplace. If it hasn’t been plastered over.”

But of course there was no mark: none at all.

Esposito turned toward the count. “This Pinketts, may we meet him?”

“He’s back in England for a few weeks. Left the day before yesterday—a death in the family, I understand. I would be glad to give you his address and telephone number in Dorset.”

Esposito nodded. “Later.”

Another silence fell over the room.

He’s not English! D’Agosta almost shouted. And his name’s not Pinketts! But he knew there was no point in arguing about it now. Fosco had clearly prepared things all too well. And he would not allow himself to rise to the bait—not in front of the colonnello.

Find Pendergast. That’s the most important thing.

Two of the carabinieri returned, speaking rapidly in Italian to the colonnello. Esposito turned to D’Agosta. “My men found no sign of the car in the garages or anywhere else on the grounds.”

“He’s obviously disposed of it.”

Esposito nodded thoughtfully. “What was the rental company?”

“Eurocar.”

Esposito turned back to his men, spoke in Italian. The men nodded and left.

“After Fosco returned from Florence, we were locked in an old storeroom,” D’Agosta said, struggling against a growing sense of panic. “In the cellars. I can lead you there. The stairway’s just off the pantry.”

“Please.” And Esposito gestured for him to proceed.

D’Agosta led the group out of the dining room, through the large and empty kitchen, and into the pantry beyond. The staircase leading down to the storage cellars was now covered by a massive armoire, copper pots and cookware hanging from its ancient brass hooks.

Bingo! D’Agosta thought.

“The stairway’s behind there,” he said. “He’s covered it up with that armoire.”

Esposito nodded to his two men, who moved it with great difficulty. D’Agosta felt himself go cold. The stairway was gone. In its place was bare wall, ancient and dusty as the rest of the room.

“Feel it!” he said, unable now to keep the frustration and mounting horror from his voice. “He’s bricked it in! The mortar’s got to be still wet!”

The colonnello stepped forward, removed a penknife from his pocket, and stabbed its point into the mortar. Small, dried pieces crumbled away in a train of dust. He dug it in farther, probing. Then he turned and, without a word, handed the knife to D’Agosta.

D’Agosta knelt, felt along the bottom. The wall looked old, dusty—there were even what appeared to be cobwebs exposed by the moving of the armoire. He stepped back, looked around the room. No mistake: this was the right place.

“The count has covered it up. Disguised it somehow. There was a door here.”

Another, longer, silence fell. Esposito’s eyes met D’Agosta’s, then looked away.

Seeing the speculative look, D’Agosta felt a renewed sense of steely determination settle over him. “Let’s join your men. Search the whole goddamned place.”

An hour later, D’Agosta found himself back in the central gallery. They had explored more passages, salons, rooms, vaults, basements, and tunnels than he’d ever imagined one castle could hold. The castle was so large, so sprawling, it was impossible to know whether or not they had covered all its drafty spaces and dank stairwells. All his muscles quivered with weariness. The canvas bag with the microwave weapon hung like a dead weight by his side.

As the search progressed, Esposito had grown increasingly quiet. Throughout it all, Fosco had stayed by their side, solicitous, patient, unlocking every door, even suggesting new routes of inquiry from time to time.

Now, the count cleared his throat. “Could I suggest we return to my library? We can talk more comfortably there.”

As they seated themselves around the fire, one of the carabinieri came in and whispered in Esposito’s ear. The colonnello nodded, then dismissed the man with a gesture, his expression unreadable. Fosco once again offered him a cigar, and this time Esposito accepted. D’Agosta watched all this with a sense of growing disbelief. He felt rage taking over now, almost beyond his ability to control, combined with a sense of horror and grief. It was unreal, a nightmare.

Esposito spoke at last, his voice neutral. “My men looked into the Stylo. It was returned to Eurocar at 13:00 yesterday. The chit was signed by A. X. L. Pendergast, paid for with an American Express card belonging to Pendergast. A Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast had a reservation on a flight to Palermo at 14:30 from Firenze Peretola. We’re still trying to find out whether he was, in fact, on that flight. The airlines these days are so difficult . . .”

“Of course it will appear he was on the flight! Can’t you see what Fosco’s game is?”

“Sergeant—”

“It’s all bullshit!” D’Agosta said, rising from his chair. “Orchestrated by Fosco! Just like he walled up the passageway, disguised the apartment. Just like he’s planned every fucking thing!”

“Sergeant, please,” Esposito said quietly. “Control yourself.”

“You said yourself we were dealing with a determined man!”

“Sergeant.” The voice was firmer.

D’Agosta stood, almost out of his mind with rage, frustration, and grief. Fosco had Pendergast’s credit card. What did it mean? And now the bastard was slipping through his fingers. Pendergast was gone, vanished. He made an almost superhuman struggle at control—if he lost it, he would never have another chance. He had to find a chink in the count’s armor. “He’s not in the castle, then. They’ve taken him into the woods, up on the mountain. We’ve got to search the area.”

Esposito puffed thoughtfully on the cigar, waiting for D’Agosta to finish. Then he spoke. “Sergeant D’Agosta. In your story, you claim the count killed four people to get back a violin—”

“At least four people. We’re just wasting time here! We have to—”

Esposito raised a hand for silence. “Excuse me. You claim the count killed these men with that device you’re carrying.”

“Yes.” D’Agosta tried to control his breathing.

“Why don’t you show it to the count?”

D’Agosta pulled the microwave device from the bag.

“My goodness,” Fosco said, staring with great interest. “What is that?”

“The sergeant tells us it is a microwave weapon,” Esposito said. “Designed by you, and used by you, to burn to death Mr. Locke Bullard, a peasant from Abetone, and two other people back in the United States.”

Fosco looked first at the colonnello, then at D’Agosta, astonishment and then—pity?—on his face. “The sergeant says this?”

“Correct.”

“A machine, you say? That zaps people, turns them into smoking piles of ash? That I built?” He spread his hands, astonishment on his face. “I should like to see a demonstration.”

“Sergeant, perhaps you’d care to demonstrate the device for us and the count?”

D’Agosta looked down at the weapon, turned it over in his hands. Fosco’s skeptical tone went unrefuted by the colonnello, and no wonder: the device looked almost cartoonish, a Flash Gordon confection.

“I don’t know how to use it,” D’Agosta said.

“Try,” said Esposito, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

It occurred to D’Agosta that if he could get it working, it might be his only chance to turn the tide. It was his last chance.

He pointed it toward the fireplace hearth, where—as if placed as a deliberate challenge—sat a fresh pumpkin. He tried to clear his mind, tried to remember precisely what Fosco had done before. He turned a knob, pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

He spun more dials, pressed a button, aimed, pulled the trigger.

Still nothing.

For all he knew, it had been damaged during the escape, when he tossed it into the bushes. He fiddled with the dials, pulling the trigger again and again, hoping for the low hum he’d heard during the demonstration. But the machine remained silent, cold.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” said Esposito quietly.

Slowly, very slowly, D’Agosta replaced it in the canvas bag. He could hardly bring himself to look at the colonnello. The man was staring at him, his face a mask of skepticism. No, not just skepticism: pure disbelief, anger—and pity.

From over Esposito’s shoulder, Fosco also stared. Then—very slowly and deliberately—Fosco reached into his collar, drew out a chain with a medallion at the end, and draped it carefully over his shirtfront, patting it familiarly with a plump hand.

With a sudden, burning shock of recognition, D’Agosta recognized the medallion: the lidless eye over a phoenix rising from the ashes. Pendergast’s own chain. Fosco’s private message was all too terribly clear.

“You bastard—!” And D’Agosta lunged for the count.

In a moment, the carabinieri leaped on D’Agosta and pulled him back, restraining him against a far wall of the library. The colonnello quickly placed himself between D’Agosta and Fosco.

“The son of a bitch! That’s Pendergast’s chain! There’s your proof! He killed Pendergast and took it!”

“Are you all right?” Esposito asked the count, ignoring D’Agosta.

“Quite all right, thank you,” Fosco said, sitting back and smoothing his capacious front. “I was startled, that is all. To settle the question once and for all, so there can be no doubt—” He turned the disc over, and there, on the reverse of the medallion, evidently worn by time, was an intricate engraving of the count’s own crest.

Esposito looked at the crest, then turned to stare at D’Agosta, dark eyes glittering. D’Agosta, clamped in the arms of six men, could barely move. He tried to regain control of himself, his voice. The way the count had said So there can be no doubt, with that peculiar emphasis on the words no doubt . . . It was a message aimed directly at D’Agosta. It was a message that told him he was too late. Those twelve hours maneuvering for the warrant had proved fatal. The desperate hope D’Agosta had been fighting to hold on to—that the count might have kept Pendergast alive, a prisoner—guttered and died. Pendergast was dead. So there can be no doubt . . .

Esposito extended his hand to Fosco. “Abbiamo finito qui, Conte. Chiedo scusa per il disturbo, e la ringrazio per la sua pazienza con questa faccenda piuttosto spiacevole.”

The count inclined his head graciously. “Niente disturbo, Colonnello. Prego.” He glanced in D’Agosta’s direction. “Mi dispiace per lui.”

Esposito and Fosco shook hands. “We’ll be going now,” Esposito said. “There is no need to show us out.” And with this he bowed deeply to Fosco and left the room, ignoring D’Agosta.

The carabinieri holding D’Agosta released him. D’Agosta picked up the canvas bag and headed for the door. A red mist hung before his eyes. In the doorway, he stopped to look back at Fosco. “You’re a dead man,” he said, barely managing to speak. “You—”

But the words died in his throat as Fosco swiveled to stare at him in turn, his large features and wet lips spreading into a horrible grin. It was like nothing D’Agosta had ever seen before—malevolent, triumphant, a grotesque leer of exultation. If the count had spoken the words out loud, the message couldn’t have been clearer. He had murdered Pendergast.

And then the smile was gone, hidden behind a cloud of cigar smoke.

Colonnello Esposito said nothing during the walk back along the gallery, across the manicured lawn, through the gate of the inner ward. He remained silent as the cars made their way down the narrow road, past the cypress trees and olive groves. It was not until they were on the main road back to Florence that he turned to D’Agosta.

“I misjudged you, sir,” he said in a low, chill voice. “I welcomed you here, gave you credentials, cooperated with you in every way. In return, you disgraced yourself and humiliated me and my men. I will be lucky if the count doesn’t bring a denuncia against me for this invasion of his home and insult to his person.”

He leaned a little closer. “You may consider all your official privileges revoked from this moment on. The paperwork to have you declared persona non grata in Italy will take a little time—but if I were you, signore, I would leave this country by the next available flight.”

Then he sat back, stared stonily out the window, and spoke no more.

{ 86 }

It was approaching midnight when Count Fosco finished his evening constitutional and, puffing slightly, returned to the main dining salotto of the castle. Whether in town or country, it was his habit, before turning in, to take a short stroll for his health’s sake. And the long galleries and corridors of Castel Fosco offered an almost endless variety of perambulations.

He took a seat in a chair facing the vast stone fireplace, warming his hands before the merry blaze, dispelling the damp embrace of the castle. He’d take a glass of port and sit here awhile before retiring: sit here, and contemplate the end of a successful day.

The end, in fact, of a successful undertaking.

His men had been paid off and had all melted away, back into the huts and tenant farmhouses of his estate. The small detachment of police had gone, along with Sergeant D’Agosta and his fire and bluster. The man would soon be on a flight back to New York. The servants would not return until the next morning. The castle seemed almost watchful in its silence.

Fosco rose, poured himself a glass of port from a bottle on an ancient sideboard, then returned to his comfortable chair. For the past few days, the walls of the castle had rung with noise and excitement. Now, by comparison, they seemed preternaturally quiet.

He sipped the port, found it excellent.

It was a great pity, not having Pinketts, or rather Pinchetti, here to anticipate his every need. It was a great pity, to think of him at rest in an unmarked tomb within the family vault. The man would be difficult, even impossible, to replace. Truth to tell, sitting here by himself, in this vast empty edifice, Fosco found himself feeling just the least bit lonely.

But then, he reminded himself, he was not alone. He had Pendergast for company—or, at least, his corpse.

Fosco had faced many adversaries in the past, but none had shown the brilliance or tenacity of Pendergast. In fact, had it not been for Fosco’s home soil advantages—his moles in the police and elsewhere, the maturity of his long-laid plans, the scope of his contingency arrangements—the story might well have ended differently. Even so, he’d felt just the least bit anxious. And so Fosco had made sure this evening’s constitutional took him back down—very deep down indeed—to Pendergast’s current domicile. Just to make sure. As expected, he’d found the newly mortared but carefully disguised wall as he left it. He’d rapped on it, listened, called softly, but, of course, there was no answering response. Almost thirty-six hours had passed. No doubt the good agent was already dead.

He sipped the port, sank back in the chair, basking in the reflections of a successful outcome. There was, of course, one loose end: Sergeant D’Agosta. Fosco reflected on the fury, the impotent murderous rage, on the policeman’s face as he’d been led off the grounds. Fosco knew this rage would soon fade. And in its place would come first resignation, then uncertainty, and then—ultimately—fear. Because by now D’Agosta surely must know the kind of man he was dealing with. He, Fosco, would not forget. He would snip off that loose end, finish the business, make D’Agosta repay the debt he incurred for shooting Pinchetti, and in so doing retrieve his clever little invention.

But there was no hurry. No hurry at all.

As he sipped his port, Fosco realized there was, in fact, a second loose end. Viola, Lady Maskelene. He thought of her, tending her bit of vineyard, strong limbs made tawny by the Mediterranean sun. Her bearing, her movements, had a mix of good breeding, catlike athleticism, and sexuality he found deliciously intoxicating. Her conversation sparkled like no other woman’s he had met. She was bursting with vitality. She would bring warmth to any place she visited—even Castel Fosco . . .

A faint sound, like the scurry of dead leaves on stone, came from the darkness beyond the room.

Fosco paused in mid-sip.

Slowly, he put the glass down, stood, and walked to the main entrance to the salotto. Beyond lay the long gallery, lit only by the moon and the occasional wall sconce. Long ranks of suited armor lined the walls, glowing faintly in the pallid light.

Nothing.

Fosco turned thoughtfully. The old castle was full of rats; it was high time he had the head gardener in again to deal with them.

He began walking back toward the fire, feeling a chill that could not entirely be explained by the cool air.

Then he stopped again. There was one thing, he knew, that would put him in fine high spirits.

Taking a tack away from the fire, he made for the small doorway that led into his private workshop. He crossed the dark room, threading his way through a maze of lab tables and freestanding equipment, until he reached the wooden paneling of the rear wall. He knelt, ran one fat hand along the polished wainscoting, found a tiny detent. He pressed it. One of the wooden panels above his head popped ajar with a faint snick. Rising, the count pulled the panel wide, exposing a large safe retrofitted into the stonework of the wall. He punched a code into the safe’s keypad, and its door sprung open. Carefully, reverently, the count reached inside and pulled out the small, coffin-shaped wooden case that held the Stormcloud Stradivarius.

He carried the case into the dining salotto and placed it on the table against the wall, well away from the heat of the fire, leaving it closed, so it would slowly accustom itself to the change in temperature. Then he returned to his seat. Compared to the chill of the lab, it was deliciously warm before the fire. He took another sip of port, thinking about what he would play. A Bach chaconne? A flashy Paganini? No: something simple, something clean, refreshing . . . Vivaldi. “La Primavera,” from Le Quattro Stagioni.

After a few minutes, he rose again, walked over to the violin, undid the brass fastening, and lifted the lid. He did not play it, not yet: it would need at least another ten minutes to adjust to the ambient temperature and humidity. He merely gazed dotingly on its wondrous and mysterious finish, its sensual lines. Staring at the violin, Fosco felt a joy, a sense of completion, flood through him.

He returned to his comfortable chair, loosened his cravat, undid his waistcoat. The Stormcloud was back where it belonged: in the family seat. He had snatched it from the jaws of oblivion. It had been worth the expense, the extravagant planning, the danger, the lives. It was worth any cost, any struggle. As Fosco stared at it, glowing crimson in the warm reflected firelight, it seemed to him that the instrument was not of this world. Rather, it was the voice—the song—of the better world to come.

It was now very warm in the room. He rose, took up a poker, pushed the logs back a little, turned his chair from the fire. “La Primavera.” The sweet, lively melody coursed through his mind as if he was already playing it. Five more minutes. He removed his cravat and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

A log cracked loudly in the fireplace, startling him; he sat bolt upright, the port sloshing out of his glass and spilling onto his open waistcoat.

He sat back slowly, wondering at the sense of unease. Nerves: the affair had taken more of a toll on him than he’d thought. His stomach gave a small lurch, and he set down the glass of port. Perhaps he should have taken something stronger as a digestivo: a drop of Calvados, a grappa, or, even better, one of the excellent herbal digestives produced by the monks at Monte Senario.

A most unpleasant sensation of poor digestion now infused his stomach. He rose, lumbered over to the sideboard—how uncharacteristically heavy he felt on his feet!—and took out a small bottle of Amaro Bor-ghini, filled a small glass with the reddish-brown liquid, and returned to the chair. His stomach was protesting vociferously, and he took a swallow, then a second, of the bitter liqueur. And as he did, he heard another sound, like a footfall, at the door.

He half rose, but felt weak and sank back. Naturally, there was nobody there. There couldn’t be. The servants had all been given a few days off. It was his imagination playing tricks with him. It was the strain of the last few days. He was getting on in years for business such as this.

His innards were almost boiling with indigestion and he drained the glass, shifting in his chair, trying to get comfortable. The heat in the room had grown oppressive, but, blast it, there was no one to douse the fire. He fetched a deep, shuddering sigh. He would calm himself, then take out the Stormcloud and restore his previous mood with a leaping rendition of “La Primavera.”

Only calmness did not come. He felt a strange oppression creep stealthily over him—a pressure that seemed to build slowly, layer on layer, from within. This was not indigestion; he was getting ill. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, aware that his heart was beating uncomfortably fast. He had caught a chill in the crypts, no doubt, hefting those heavy bricks, brought out by his unwise second visit to those clammy, nitred depths. He would take a holiday; leave tomorrow, in fact. The isle of Capraia, he told himself, would be a perfect spot . . .

He extended a trembling hand toward the glass of amaro, but the liqueur suddenly tasted wrong, like hot pitch and vinegar in his mouth—hot, even, in his hand. Burning hot. He rose with a cry, the glass falling away and dashing to pieces against the floor. Fosco whirled, stumbled, righted himself.

Porca miseria, what was happening?

He gasped, felt his eyes smart, felt his mouth go dry, his heart accelerate. For a moment, he wondered if he was having a fit of some kind, or perhaps a heart attack. He’d heard heart attacks often began with a feeling just like this: a feeling that something, something, was terribly wrong. But there was no localized pain to his chest or arm. Instead, the terrible oppression within grew, and still grew, until it enveloped him. His very guts seemed to writhe. He looked around frantically, but there was nothing—not the bottle of port, not the violin, not the furniture or the rich tapestries—nothing to give any aid or explanation.

His insides felt as if they were crawling, boiling. He felt his mouth twitching, his eyes blinking uncontrollably, grimacing, his fingers jerking. The heat was like being suffocated with a burning blanket. His skin felt as if it was covered with a blanket of bees. Now fear and heat rose within him as one: an unendurable, irresistible heat that had nothing to do with the fire on the hearth—

Suddenly he knew. He knew.

“D’Agosta—!” he choked, but his throat closed up and no more words came out.

He whirled toward the closed door of the salotto, staggered forward, fell over the side table with a crash, rose to his knees. His muscles were jerking spasmodically, but with an enormous effort of will, he began to crawl forward.

“Bastardo—!” It came out like a choked cry. As he did so, his limbs began to take on a life of their own, twitching and jerking with a horrible violence, but he had only a few more feet to go; he gave one superhuman lurch, seized the door handle. It was burning hot, and he felt his skin popping and sizzling, yet he clung tenaciously, heaved, turned—locked.

With a suppressed shriek he sank, collapsing at the door, writhing. The heat grew, and grew, like lava spreading itself through his veins. A terrible piercing whine, like the buzz of a monstrous gnat, filled his head. What was that he smelled burning? All of a sudden the count went rigid. His jaws clamped together involuntarily, grinding with such force his teeth chipped and split. Now, unbidden, his many sins and excesses paraded before him in a terrible blur. As the heat continued to grow—intolerable yet still increasing, an inferno of agony he could never have imagined possible—Fosco felt his vision grow dim and strange. His eyes jerked around the room, coming to rest on the fire, while reality itself began to distort, fall away, and he began to see things beyond . . .

. . . Oh, dear Jesus, what is that dark shape rising in the fire . . . ?

And now, summoning every last ounce of willpower he possessed—despite the teeth grinding into meal and the blood that filled his mouth and the swelling tongue that refused to move—Fosco began to slur, in something between a gargle and a groan, the words of the Lord’s Prayer.

Pater noster . . .

He felt his skin blister, his oiled hair curl and smoke. He clawed his hands across the stone floor in agony, tearing away the nails in his efforts to get out the words:

. . . Qui es in coelis . . .

Over the shrieking buzz in his ears, Fosco could hear—as if rising from the deepest depths of the earth—the rich and terrible laughter, not of Sergeant D’Agosta, not of any earthly being . . .

. . . Sanctificetur . . .

He tried, with the last of a supreme effort of will, to continue the prayer, but the subcutaneous fat was boiling beneath the skin of his lips:

. . . Sanctiferrrrrrrr . . .

And then came the point where no sound, not even a scream, was possible to utter.

{ 87 }

Bryce Harriman ducked into the stale, smoke-fouled office of his editor, Rupert Ritts. He had been waiting for this moment a long, long time, and he was determined to enjoy it, drag it out as long as possible. It would be a story he’d tell his kids and grandkids, put in his memoirs. One of the moments he’d savor the rest of his life.

“Harriman!” Ritts came around from behind his desk—his idea of a show of respect—and seated himself on one corner. “Take a seat.”

Harriman sat. Why not? Let Ritts talk a bit first.

“That was quite a piece you wrote on Hayward and that man, Buck. I’m almost sorry that cracker preacher got his ass sent back to Oklahoma. I hope he decides to move back to the Big Apple once his parole is up.” He laughed and picked a piece of paper from his desk. “Here’s something I bet you’ll be interested to hear: newsstand circ for the week ending today.” He waved the paper in Harriman’s face. “Nineteen percent above this same time last year, six percent above last week, sixty percent sell-through.”

Ritts grinned, as if the newsstand circulation and sell-through figures of the New York Post were the be-all and end-all of Harriman’s existence. Harriman kicked back in the chair, listening, a practiced smile on his face.

“And look at this. Advertising revenues up three and a half.”

Another pause so that Harriman might absorb and glorify in the stupendous news.

Ritts lit a cigarette. He snapped the lighter shut, exhaled. “Harriman, don’t ever say I don’t give credit where credit is due. This was your story from beginning to end. You did it. Sure, I helped with some ideas here and there, gave you the benefit of my experience, nudged you in the right direction once or twice—but this was your story.”

Ritts paused, as if waiting. For what? Effusive, genuflecting thanks? Harriman leaned back and listened, still smiling.

“Anyway, as I was saying, you did this. You’ve been noticed, and I mean noticed, by the powers on high.”

Who was that? Harriman wondered. The big cheese himself? That would be a joke. The guy probably couldn’t even get into his father’s club.

Now Ritts dropped his bomb. “Next week, I want you to be my guest at the annual News Corporation dinner at Tavern on the Green. This wasn’t just my idea—although I heartily approved. It was”—and now his eyes flashed upward as if a heavenly host had issued the invitation—“his idea. He wants to meet you, shake your hand.”

Meet me, shake my hand. This was beautiful. God, this was beautiful. He couldn’t wait to tell his friends about this.

“It’s black tie—you got one of those? If not, I rent mine at a place opposite Bloomingdale’s. Discount Tux, best deal in the city.”

Harriman could hardly believe his ears. What a bozo. Not even ashamed to admit he rented his tuxes. “I have one or two, thanks,” he said coolly.

Ritts looked at him a little strangely. “You all right? You do know about the annual dinner, right? I mean, I’ve been in this business thirty years and let me tell you, this is something special. It’s Thursday evening, drinks at six in the Crystal Room, dinner at seven. You and a guest. Bring your squeeze, if you have one.”

Harriman sat forward. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Come alone, then. No problem.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t come at all. I’m otherwise engaged.”

“What?”

“I’m busy.”

There was a shocked silence. And then Ritts was off his perch. “You’re busy? Aren’t you listening? I’m talking about dinner with the man himself! I’m talking about the News Corp. annual fucking dinner!”

Harriman rose and dusted his sleeve, on which Ritts’s ashes had fallen as he’d waved his cigarette around in excitement.

“I’ve accepted an appointment as a reporter at a newspaper called the New York Times. Perhaps you know of it.” Harriman slipped an envelope out of his pocket. “My letter of resignation.” He laid it on the desk, right on the shiny place where Ritts usually perched his ass.

There it was. Said and done. He’d drawn it out about as long as he could. There was no point in wasting any more time: he had a new office to fix up, a lot to do. After all, Bill Smithback would be returning from his extended honeymoon on Monday to find the surprise of his life: Bryce Harriman, associate reporter, fellow colleague, occupying the office next door.

Now, that would be something.

God, life was good.

He turned and walked to the door, turning just once to get a final look at Ritts, standing there, mouth open, for once with nothing to say.

“See you around, old chap,” Harriman said.

{ 88 }

The big jet hit the tarmac with a jolt; tipped back into the air at an angle; then settled once more onto the ground, thrust reversers screaming.

As the plane decelerated, a lazy voice came over the P.A. system. “This is your captain speaking. We’ve landed at Kennedy Airport, and as soon as we get clearance, we’ll taxi to the gate. Meanwhile, y’all please keep your seats. Sorry about that bit of turbulence back there. Welcome to New York City.”

Faint applause arose here and there from a sea of ashen faces, then died quickly away.

“Bit of turbulence,” muttered the man in the aisle seat. “Is that what he calls it? Shit on a stick. You couldn’t pay me enough to get back in a plane after this.”

He turned to his seatmate, nudged him with his elbow. “Glad to be back on the ground, pal?”

The nudge brought D’Agosta back to the present. He turned slowly away from the window, through which he’d been staring without really seeing, and glanced at the man. “What’s that?”

The man snorted in disbelief. “Come on, stop playing it cool. Me, my own life passed before my eyes at least twice the last half hour.”

“Sorry.” And D’Agosta turned back to the window. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

D’Agosta walked woodenly through Terminal 8 on his way out of customs, suitcase in one hand. All around him, people were talking excitedly, hugging, laughing. He passed by them all, barely noticing, eyes straight ahead.

“Vinnie!” came a voice. “Hey, Vinnie. Over here!”

D’Agosta turned to see Hayward, waving, walking toward him through the crowds. Laura Hayward, beautiful in a dark suit, her black hair shining, her eyes as deep and blue as the water off Capraia. She was smiling, but the smile did not reach quite as far as those perfect eyes.

“Vinnie,” she said, embracing him. “Oh, Vinnie.”

Automatically, his arms went around her. He could feel the welcoming tightness of her clasp; the warmth of her breath on his neck; the crush of her breasts against him. It was like a galvanic shock. Had it really been only ten days since they last embraced? A shudder passed through him: he felt strange, like a swimmer struggling upward from a very great depth.

“Vinnie,” she murmured. “What can I say?”

“Don’t say anything. Not now. Later, maybe.”

Slowly, she released him.

“My God. What happened to your finger?”

“Locke Bullard happened.”

They began to move through the baggage area. A silence grew between them, just long enough to become awkward.

“How’s it been here?” he asked at last, lamely.

“Not much has happened since you called last night. We’ve still got ten detectives working the Cutforth murder. Technically. And from what I hear, that Southampton chief of police is catching holy hell for lack of progress on Grove.”

D’Agosta gritted his teeth, started to speak, but Hayward put a finger to his lips.

“I know. I know. But that’s the nature of the job sometimes. Now that Buck’s out of the picture and the Post has moved on to other things, Cutforth’s finally off the front page. Eventually it’ll become just another unsolved murder. Along with Grove’s, of course.”

D’Agosta nodded.

“Amazing that it was Fosco. I’m floored.”

D’Agosta shook his head.

“It’s a hell of a thing, knowing who the perp is but being able to do nothing.”

There was the ring of a claxon; an amber alarm flashed overhead; and a carousel nearby began to move.

“I was able to do something,” he said in a low voice.

Hayward looked at him sharply.

“I’ll explain in the car.”

Ten minutes later they were on the Van Wyck Expressway, halfway back to Manhattan, Hayward at the wheel. D’Agosta sat beside her, idly looking out the window.

“So it was all about a violin,” Hayward said. “The whole damn thing. A lousy violin.”

“Not just any violin.”

“I don’t care. It wasn’t worth all those deaths. And it especially wasn’t worth—” But here she stopped, as if hesitant to break some unspoken code between them. “Where is it now?”

“I sent it by special courier to a woman on the island of Capraia. Comes from a line of violinists. She’ll restore it to the Fosco family at a time of her choosing, when the new heir is settled in. Somehow, I think that’s what Pendergast would have wanted.”

It was the first time Pendergast’s name had passed between them.

“I know you couldn’t explain on the phone,” she went on. “But what happened, exactly? After you took the Italian police to Fosco’s castle yesterday morning, I mean.”

D’Agosta did not reply.

“Come on, Vinnie. It’ll be better if you talk about it.”

D’Agosta sighed. “I spent the rest of the day combing the Chianti countryside. Talking to farmers. Talking to villagers. Anyone who might have seen anything, heard anything. Checking my hotel for messages. Of course, there was nothing. But I had to be sure, you see—absolutely sure . . .”

Hayward waited. After a moment, he went on.

“The thing is, deep down, I was already sure. We’d searched the castle. And then there was that look Fosco gave me, that awful look. If you’d seen it . . .” He shook his head. “Close to midnight, I drifted back to the castle. Went in the same way we’d come out. I took the time to figure out how the microwave device worked. And then I . . . used it. One last time.”

“You brought Fosco to justice. Avenged your partner. I’d have done the same thing.”

“Would you?” D’Agosta asked quietly.

Hayward nodded.

D’Agosta shifted restlessly. “There’s not much more to tell. I spent this morning back in Florence, checking hospitals, morgues, police reports. More to keep busy than for anything else. And then I boarded the plane.”

“What did you do with that weapon?”

“Disassembled it, smashed the pieces, and deposited them in half a dozen garbage cans around Florence.”

She nodded. “And what are your plans now?”

D’Agosta shrugged. He hadn’t given this any thought. “I don’t know. Go back to Southampton, I guess. Face the music.”

A small smile crept over her face. “Didn’t you hear what I said? It’s the chief who’s facing the music. He got back from vacation and was so eager to hog the limelight that now it’s all coming back to roost. Braskie’s running against him in the next election, odds-on favorite to win.”

“Even worse for me.”

She changed lanes. “There’s something else you should know. They’ve suspended the NYPD hiring freeze. That means you can work the city again. Get your old job back.”

D’Agosta shook his head. “No way. I’ve been away too long. I’m old goods.”

“It hasn’t been that long. They’re rehiring by seniority. And with your experience in Southampton, and as FBI liaison . . .” She paused to negotiate the ramp onto the Long Island Expressway. “Of course, it couldn’t be in my division. But they’ve got openings in several of the downtown precincts.”

D’Agosta sat a moment, letting this penetrate. Then he looked at her sharply. “Wait a minute. My old job back, openings downtown. You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you? Have a talk with Rocker, or something like that?”

“Me? You know the kind of cop I am. By the book. Miss Straight Arrow.” But her smile seemed to deepen briefly.

Up ahead, the maw of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel loomed, gridworks of tile illuminated by fluorescent tubes. Hayward merged smoothly into the E-ZPass toll lane.

From the passenger seat, D’Agosta watched her: the beautiful lines of her face, the curve of her nose, the little furrow of concentration as she negotiated the evening traffic. It was wonderful just to see her again, to be here by her side. And yet he could not escape the sense of desolation that enveloped him. It was like a hollowness he carried around, a vacuum that could not be filled.

“You’re right,” he said as they entered the tunnel. “It doesn’t matter if that violin’s the most precious ever made. It wasn’t worth Pendergast dying. Nothing was worth that.”

Hayward kept her eyes on the road. “You don’t know he’s dead.”

D’Agosta didn’t answer. He’d told himself this already: once, twice, a thousand times. When everything had been stacked against them—when there seemed no way they could possibly survive—Pendergast had always saved them. At times, it had seemed almost miraculous. And yet, this time, Pendergast had not reappeared. This time, it felt different.

Then there was that other feeling, the one that made him almost physically ill. It was the image of Pendergast, there in the clearing, surrounded by dogs. Everyone—the hunters, the handlers, the beaters—closing in. Only one of us can get through. There’s no other way.

D’Agosta felt his throat close up. “You’re right. I have no proof. Except maybe this.” He reached into his pocket, drew out Pendergast’s platinum chain and pendant: a lidless eye over a phoenix, rising from fiery ash, now pitted and partly melted. The chain he’d retrieved from Fosco’s burning, smoking corpse. He stared at it a moment. He balled the hand into a fist, pressed a knuckle against his teeth. He felt a ridiculous impulse to burst into tears.

The worst of it was, D’Agosta knew he was the one who should have been left on that hill. He wished, more than anything else, that he had been left on that hill.

“Anyway, he would have contacted me by now. Or you. Or somebody.” He paused. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Constance.”

“Who?”

“Constance Greene. His ward.”

They drove through the rest of the tunnel in silence, finally emerging into the Manhattan night. Then he felt Hayward take his hand.

“Let me off anywhere,” he said, sick at heart. “Penn Station’s fine. I’ll take the LIRR out to Southampton.”

“Why?” she replied. “There’s nothing for you out there. Your future’s here, in New York City.”

D’Agosta remained silent as the car cruised west: past Park, past Madison, past Fifth.

“You have a place to stay in town?” she asked.

D’Agosta shook his head.

“I—,” Hayward began. Then she, too, fell silent.

D’Agosta roused himself, glanced at her. “What?” It was hard to tell, but in the reflected light of the streetlamps, he thought she was blushing.

“I was just thinking. If you’re coming back to the NYPD, working here in the city . . . well, why not stay with me? For a while,” she added hastily. “You know. See how it works out.”

For a moment, D’Agosta didn’t answer. He just looked back out at the lights passing over the windshield.

Then he realized, quite abruptly, he had to let go. Let go, at least for the moment. The past was over and done. Tomorrow was an unknown, still to come. He had no control over either. All he could control, all he could live, was the here and now. Knowing this didn’t make things any better, really—but it did make them easier to bear.

“Look, Vinnie,” Hayward said in a low voice. “It doesn’t matter what you say. I just can’t believe that Pendergast is dead. My gut tells me he’s still alive. The guy’s as close to indestructible as a body can be. He’s cheated death a thousand times. He’ll do it again somehow. I know he will.”

D’Agosta smiled faintly.

Ahead, a traffic light turned red. She eased to a stop, then turned to look at him.

“So, you coming back with me, or what? It’s not polite to make a lady ask twice.”

He turned to her, squeezed her hand.

“I think I’d like that,” he said, his smile broadening. “I think I’d like that very much.”

{ Epilogue }

A chill November sun illuminated, but did not warm, the bleak stone ramparts of Castel Fosco. The garden was deserted; the marble fountain purled and splashed for no one. Beyond the castle walls, dead leaves swirled over the gravel of the parking area, obscuring the tracks of the many vehicles that had come and gone earlier in the day. Now all was quiet. The narrow road leading down the mountainside was empty. A single raven sat on the battlements above, gazing silently over the valley of the Greve.

The coroner’s van had removed Fosco’s body around mid-morning. The police lingered a little longer, snapping photos, taking statements, looking for evidence but finding nothing of value. Assunta, who had discovered the corpse, had been borne away, ashen and distraught, by her son. The few remaining servants had also gone off, taking advantage of the unexpected vacation. There seemed little reason to stay. Fosco’s nearest relation, a distant cousin, was vacationing on the Costa Smeralda of Sardinia and would not arrive for several days at least. Besides, none were eager to linger in a place to which death had made such a gruesome visitation. And so the castle was left to brood in shadows and silence.

Nowhere was the silence more profound than in the ancient passageways that riddled the rock far beneath the basements of the castle. Here there was not even the rustle of the wind to disturb the dusty tombs and stone sarcophagi of the forgotten dead.

The deepest of these passages, carved by Etruscans into the living rock more than three thousand years before, twisted down into black depths and came to an end in a horizontal tunnel. At the far end of this tunnel stood a brick wall with a small scatter of bones lying before it. Though the tunnel was dark, even with the aid of a torch it would have been almost impossible to tell the wall had been built only forty-odd hours before, sealing up an ancient tomb, the bones of its former occupant, an unknown Longobardic knight, swept out and left lying in the dirt.

The ancient tomb that lay behind the brick wall was just large enough to contain a man. Inside that tomb there was no sound. Darkness reigned so profoundly that even the very passage of time seemed suspended.

And then a muffled sound broke the stillness: a faint footfall.

This was followed by a rattle, as if a bag of tools had been set down on the ground. Silence descended briefly once again. And then came an unmistakable sound: the scrape of iron against mortar, the sharp rap of a hammer against a cold chisel.

The rapping went on in a low, measured cadence, methodical, like the ticking of a clock. Minutes passed, and the sound stopped. Another silence, and then there were the faint sounds of scraping, the abrasion of brick against mortar; a few more sharp raps—and suddenly a faint light appeared in the tomb, a glowing crack that outlined the rectangular shape of a brick in the upper portion of the wall. With a soft, slow grating, the brick was withdrawn, millimeter by millimeter. Then it was gone, and a soft yellow light shone through the newly opened hole, penetrating the darkness of the tomb.

A moment later, two eyes appeared in the glowing rectangle, gazing in with curiosity, perhaps even anxiety.

Two eyes: one hazel, one blue.

An Aside to the Reader

Some readers will note we have done something quite unusual in Brimstone. Perhaps certain English professors will shake their heads and wonder that such a vile offense could have been committed against great literature.

We are speaking of how we’ve brazenly lifted the character of Count Isidor Ottavio Baldassare Fosco from the pages of The Woman in White, the great novel by the Victorian author Wilkie Collins, and inserted him bodily into Brimstone.

For those not familiar with Collins, he invented the modern detective novel with the publication of his work The Moonstone. The Woman in White, published a few years earlier in 1860, was in our opinion his greatest novel and one of the most popular books of the Victorian Age. Today it is well-nigh forgotten.

We apologize for purloining the character of Count Fosco. Yet it is the highest tribute we can pay to one of our favorite writers, who has certainly influenced our own fiction. We owe an enormous debt to Wilkie Collins, as do all writers of detective fiction (whether they know it or not). If, perchance, this prompts some of our more adventurous readers to pick up The Woman in White, we will be very pleased. And to those critics who protest the pilfering of Fosco as a trangression against literature, we respond:

Braveggia, urla! T’affretta
a palesarmi il fondo dell’alma ria!

Acknowledgments

Lincoln Child would like to thank Bruce Swanson, Mark Mendel, Pat Allocco, Chris and Susan Yango, Jerry and Terry Hyland, Anthony Cifelli, M.D., Norman San Agustin, M.D., and Lee Suckno, M.D., for their friendship and assistance. Ongoing thanks to Special Agent Douglas Margini for his advice on New York, New Jersey, and federal law enforcement matters. Thanks to Jill Nowak for an insightful reading of the text. Bob Przybylski was very useful in nailing down some of the firearms details. Thanks also to Monsignor Bob Diacheck for reading and commenting on the manuscript. Thanks to my family, nuclear and extended, for putting up with an eccentric writer. Special thanks to my wife, Luchie, and my daughter, Veronica, for their love and support.

Douglas Preston is greatly indebted to Alessandro Lazzi, who kindly invited me to observe a wild boar hunt on his estate in the Tuscan Apennines. I thank Mario Spezi for providing much useful information on the workings of the Italian carabinieri and criminal investigation in general. I would like to express my appreciation to Mario Alfiero for his help with Neapolitan dialect. Some of the settings in the novel would not have been possible without the kind help of many people: in particular, the Cappellini family, owners of the Castello di Verrazzano in Greve; the Matta family, proprietors of Castello Vicchiomaggio; the monks of La Verna and Sacro Speco, Subiaco. I would also like to thank Niccolò Capponi for his help and our Italian translator, Andrea Carlo Cappi, for his advice and support. I thank Andrea Pinketts for the lending of his illustrious name. And last but not least, once again I thank my family, who can never be thanked enough: Isaac, Aletheia, Selene, and Christine.

And, as always, we want to thank in particular those people who make the Preston-Child novels possible: Jaime Levine, Jamie Raab, Eric Simonoff, Eadie Klemm, and Matthew Snyder.

In closing, we would like to distance ourselves from any misinterpretation of scripture by Wayne P. Buck, or any misapplication of the golden ratio by Professor Von Menck. All persons, police departments, corporations, institutions, governmental agencies, and locations both American and Italian mentioned in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

DANCE OF DEATH

Lincoln Child
dedicates this book to his daughter, Veronica

Douglas Preston
dedicates this book to his daughter, Aletheia

One

DEWAYNE MICHAELS SAT in the second row of the lecture hall, staring at the professor with what he hoped passed for interest. His eyelids were so heavy they felt as if lead sinkers had been sewn to them. His head pounded in rhythm with his heart and his tongue tasted like something had curled up and died on it. He’d arrived late, only to find the huge hall packed and just one seat available: second row center, smack-dab in front of the lectern.

Just great.

Dewayne was majoring in electrical engineering. He’d elected this class for the same reason engineering students had done so for three decades—it was a gimme. “English Literature—A Humanist Perspective” had always been a course you could breeze through and barely crack a book. The usual professor, a fossilized old turd named Mayhew, droned on like a hypnotist, hardly ever looking up from his forty-year-old lecture notes, his voice perfectly pitched for sleeping. The old fart never even changed his exams, and copies were all over Dewayne’s dorm. Just his luck, then, that—for this one semester—a certain renowned Dr. Torrance Hamilton was teaching the course. It was as if Eric Clapton had agreed to play the junior prom, the way they fawned over Hamilton.

Dewayne shifted disconsolately. His butt had already fallen asleep in the cold plastic seat. He glanced to his left, to his right. All around, students—upperclassmen, mostly—were typing notes, running microcassette recorders, hanging on the professor’s every word. It was the first time ever the course had been filled to capacity. Not an engineering student in sight.

What a crock.

Dewayne reminded himself he still had a week to drop the course. But he needed this credit and it was still possible Professor Hamilton was an easy grader. Hell, all these students wouldn’t have shown up on a Saturday morning if they thought they were going to get reamed out . . . would they?

In the meantime, front and center, Dewayne figured he’d better make an effort to look awake.

Hamilton walked back and forth on the podium, his deep voice ringing. He was like a gray lion, his hair swept back in a mane, dressed in a snazzy charcoal suit instead of the usual threadbare set of tweeds. He had an unusual accent, not local to New Orleans, certainly not Yankee. Didn’t exactly sound English, either. A teaching assistant sat in a chair behind the professor, assiduously taking notes.

“And so,” Dr. Hamilton was saying, “today we’re looking at Eliot’s The Waste Land—the poem that packaged the twentieth century in all its alienation and emptiness. One of the greatest poems ever written.”

The Waste Land. Dewayne remembered now. What a title. He hadn’t bothered to read it, of course. Why should he? It was a poem, not a damn novel: he could read it right now, in class.

He picked up the book of T. S. Eliot’s poems—he’d borrowed it from a friend, no use wasting good money on something he’d never look at again—and opened it. There, next to the title page, was a photo of the man himself: a real weenie, tiny little granny glasses, lips pursed like he had two feet of broomstick shoved up his ass. Dewayne snorted and began turning pages. Waste Land, Waste Land . . . here it was.

Oh, shit. This was no limerick. The son of a bitch went on for page after page.

“The first lines are by now so well known that it’s hard for us to imagine the sensation—the shock—that people felt upon first reading it in The Dial in 1922. This was not what people considered poetry. It was, rather, a kind of anti-poem. The persona of the poet was obliterated. To whom belong these grim and disturbing thoughts? There is, of course, the famously bitter allusion to Chaucer in the opening line. But there is much more going on here. Reflect on the opening images: ‘lilacs out of the dead land,’ ‘dull roots,’ ‘forgetful snow.’ No other poet in the history of the world, my friends, ever wrote about spring in quite this way before.”

Dewayne flipped to the end of the poem, found it contained over four hundred lines. Oh, no. No . . .

“It’s intriguing that Eliot chose lilacs in the second line, rather than poppies, which would have been a more traditional choice at the time. Poppies were then growing in an abundance Europe hadn’t seen for centuries, due to the numberless putrefying corpses from the Great War. But more important, the poppy—with its connotations of narcotic sleep—seems the better fit to Eliot’s imagery. So why did Eliot choose lilacs? Let’s take a look at Eliot’s use of allusion, here most likely involving Whitman’s ‘When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.’”

Oh, my God, it was like a nightmare: here he was in the front of the class and not understanding a word the professor was saying. Who’d have thought you could write four hundred lines of poetry on a freaking waste land? Speaking of wasted, his head felt like it was packed full of ball bearings. Served him right for hanging out until four last night, doing shots of citron Grey Goose.

He realized the class around him had gone still, and that the voice from behind the lectern had fallen silent. Glancing up at Dr. Hamilton, he noticed the professor was standing motionless, a strange expression on his face. Elegant or not, the old fellow looked as if he’d just dropped a steaming loaf in his drawers. His face had gone strangely slack. As Dewayne watched, Hamilton slowly withdrew a handkerchief, carefully patted his forehead, then folded the handkerchief neatly and returned it to his pocket. He cleared his throat.

“Pardon me,” he said as he reached for a glass of water on the lectern, took a small sip. “As I was saying, let’s look at the meter Eliot employs in this first section of the poem. His free verse is aggressively enjambed: the only stopped lines are those that finish his sentences. Note also the heavy stressing of verbs: breeding, mixing, stirring. It’s like the ominous, isolated beat of a drum; it’s ugly; it shatters the meaning of the phrase; it creates a sense of disquietude. It announces to us that something’s going to happen in this poem, and that it won’t be pretty.”

The curiosity that had stirred in Dewayne during the unexpected pause faded away. The oddly stricken look had left the professor’s face as quickly as it came, and his features—though still pale—had lost their ashen quality.

Dewayne returned his attention to the book. He could quickly scan the poem, figure out what the damn thing meant. He glanced at the title, then moved his eye down to the epigram, or epigraph, or whatever you called it.

He stopped. What the hell was this? Nam Sibyllam quidem . . . Whatever it was, it wasn’t English. And there, buried in the middle of it, some weird-ass squiggles that weren’t even part of the normal alphabet. He glanced at the explanatory notes at the bottom of the page and found the first bit was Latin, the second Greek. Next came the dedication: For Ezra Pound, il miglior fabbro. The notes said that last bit was Italian.

Latin, Greek, Italian. And the frigging poem hadn’t even started yet. What next, hieroglyphics?

It was a nightmare.

He scanned the first page, then the second. Gibberish, plain and simple. “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” What was that supposed to mean? His eye fell on the next line. Frisch weht der Wind . . .

Abruptly, Dewayne closed the book, feeling sick. That did it. Only thirty lines into the poem and already five damn languages. First thing tomorrow morning, he’d go down to the registrar and drop this turkey.

He sat back, head pounding. Now that the decision was made, he wondered how he was going to make it through the next forty minutes without climbing the walls. If only there’d been a seat up in the back, where he could slip out unseen . . .

Up at the podium, the professor was droning on. “All that being said, then, let’s move on to an examination of—”

Suddenly, Hamilton stopped once again.

“Excuse me.” His face went slack again. He looked—what? Confused? Flustered? No: he looked scared.

Dewayne sat up, suddenly interested.

The professor’s hand fluttered up to his handkerchief, fumbled it out, then dropped it as he tried to bring it to his forehead. He looked around vaguely, hand still fluttering about, as if to ward off a fly. The hand sought out his face, began touching it lightly, like a blind person. The trembling fingers palpated his lips, eyes, nose, hair, then swatted the air again.

The lecture hall had gone still. The teaching assistant in the seat behind the professor put down his pen, a concerned look on his face. What’s going on? Dewayne wondered. Heart attack?

The professor took a small, lurching step forward, bumping into the podium. And now his other hand flew to his face, feeling it all over, only harder now, pushing, stretching the skin, pulling down the lower lip, giving himself a few light slaps.

The professor suddenly stopped and scanned the room. “Is there something wrong with my face?”

Dead silence.

Slowly, very slowly, Dr. Hamilton relaxed. He took a shaky breath, then another, and gradually his features relaxed. He cleared his throat.

“As I was saying—”

Dewayne saw the fingers of one hand come back to life again, twitching, trembling. The hand returned to his face, the fingers plucking, plucking the skin.

This was too weird.

“I—” the professor began, but the hand interfered with his speech. His mouth opened and closed, emitting nothing more than a wheeze. Another shuffled step, like a robot, bumping into the podium.

“What are these things?” he asked, his voice cracking.

God, now he was pulling at his skin, eyelids stretched grotesquely, both hands scrabbling—then a long, uneven scratch from a fingernail, and a line of blood appeared on one cheek.

A ripple coursed through the classroom, like an uneasy sigh.

“Is there something wrong, Professor?” the T.A. said.

“I . . . asked . . . a question.” The professor growled it out, almost against his will, his voice muffled and distorted by the hands pulling at his face.

Another lurching step, and then he let out a sudden scream: “My face! Why will no one tell me what’s wrong with my face!”

More deathly silence.

The fingers were digging in, the fist now pounding at the nose, which cracked faintly.

“Get them off me! They’re eating into my face!”

Oh, shit: blood was now gushing from the nostrils, splashing down on the white shirt and charcoal suit. The fingers were like claws on the face, ripping, tearing; and now one finger hooked up and—Dewayne saw with utter horror—worked itself into one eye socket.

“Out! Get them out!”

There was a sharp, rotating motion that reminded Dewayne of the scooping of ice cream, and suddenly the globe of the eye bulged out, grotesquely large, jittering, staring directly at Dewayne from an impossible angle.

Screams echoed across the lecture hall. Students in the front row recoiled. The T.A. jumped from his seat and ran up to Hamilton, who violently shrugged him off.

Dewayne found himself rooted to his seat, his mind a blank, his limbs paralyzed.

Professor Hamilton now took a mechanical step, and another, ripping at his face, tearing out clumps of hair, staggering as if he might fall directly on top of Dewayne.

“A doctor!” the T.A. screamed. “Get a doctor!”

The spell was broken. There was a sudden commotion, everyone rising at once, the sound of falling books, a loud hubbub of panicked voices.

“My face!” the professor shrieked over the din. “Where is it?”

Chaos took over, students running for the door, some crying. Others rushed forward, toward the stricken professor, jumping onto the podium, trying to stop his murderous self-assault. The professor lashed out at them blindly, making a high-pitched, keening sound, his face a mask of red. Someone forcing his way down the row trod hard on Dewayne’s foot. Drops of flying blood had spattered Dewayne’s face: he could feel their warmth on his skin. Yet still he did not move. He found himself unable to take his eyes off the professor, unable to escape this nightmare.

The students had wrestled the professor to the surface of the podium and were now sliding about in his blood, trying to hold down his thrashing arms and bucking body. As Dewayne watched, the professor threw them off with demonic strength, grabbed the cup of water, smashed it against the podium, and—screaming—began to work the shards into his own neck, twisting and scooping, as if trying to dig something out.

And then, quite suddenly, Dewayne found he could move. He scrambled to his feet, skidded, ran along the row of seats to the aisle, and began sprinting up the stairs toward the back exit of the lecture hall. All he could think about was getting away from the unexplainable horror of what he’d just witnessed. As he shot out the door and dashed full speed down the corridor beyond, one phrase kept echoing in his mind, over and over and over:

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Two

VINNIE? VIN? Sure you don’t want any help in there?”

“No!” Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta tried to keep his voice cool and even. “No. It’s all right. Just a couple more minutes.”

He glanced up at the clock: almost nine. A couple more minutes. Yeah, right. He’d be lucky if he had dinner on the table by ten.

Laura Hayward’s kitchen—he still thought of it as hers; he’d only moved in six weeks before—was usually an oasis of order, as calm and immaculate as Hayward herself. Now the place looked like a war zone. The sink was overflowing with soiled pots. Half a dozen empty cans lay in and around the wastebasket, dribbling out remnants of tomato sauce and olive oil. Almost as many cookbooks lay open on the counter, their pages obscured by bread crusts and blizzards of flour. The lone window looking down on the snowy intersection of 77th and First was speckled with grease from frying sausages. Although the vent fan was going full blast, the odor of burned meat lingered stubbornly in the air.

For weeks now, whenever their schedules allowed time with each other, Laura had thrown together—almost effortlessly, it seemed—meal after delicious meal. D’Agosta had been astonished. For his soon-to-be-ex-wife, now up in Canada, cooking had always been an ordeal accompanied by histrionic sighs, clanging of pans, and—more often than not—disagreeable results. It was like night and day with Laura.

But along with his astonishment, D’Agosta also felt a bit threatened. As a detective captain in the NYPD, not only did Laura Hayward outrank him, but she outcooked him as well. Everybody knew men made the best chefs, especially Italians. They blew the French out of the water. And so he’d kept promising to cook her a real Italian dinner, just like his grandmother used to make. Each time he repeated the promise, the meal seemed to grow in complexity and spectacle. And at last, tonight was the night he would cook his grandmother’s lasagna napoletana.

Except that once he got in the kitchen, he realized he didn’t remember exactly how his grandmother cooked lasagna napoletana. Oh, he’d watched dozens of times. He’d often helped out. But what precisely went into that ragù she spooned over the layers of pasta? And what was it she’d added to those tiny meatballs that—along with the sausage and various cheeses—made up the filling? He had turned in his desperation to Laura’s cookbooks, but each one had offered conflicting suggestions. And so now here he was, hours later, everything at varying stages of completion, frustration mounting by the second.

He heard Laura say something from her banishment in the living room. He took a deep breath.

“What was that, babe?”

“I said I’ll be home late tomorrow. Rocker’s having a state-of-the-force meeting with all the captains on January 22. That leaves me only Monday evening to get status reports and personnel records up to date.”

“Rocker and his paperwork. How is your pal the commissioner, by the way?”

“He’s not my pal.”

D’Agosta turned back to the ragù, boiling away on the stove. He remained convinced that he’d gotten his old job on the force back, his seniority restored, only because Laura had put a word in Rocker’s ear. He didn’t like it, but there it was.

A huge bubble of ragù rose from the pot, burst like a volcanic eruption, and spewed sauce over his hand. “Ouch!” he cried, dousing the hand in dishwater while turning down the flame.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Everything’s just fine.” He stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon, realized the bottom had burned, moved it hastily onto a back burner. He raised the spoon to his lips a little gingerly. Not bad, not bad at all. Decent texture, nice mouth feel, only a slight burned taste. Not like his grandmother’s, though.

“What else goes in the ragù, Nonna?” he murmured.

If there was any response from the choir invisible, D’Agosta couldn’t hear it.

Suddenly, there was a loud hissing from the stove. The giant pot of salted water was bubbling over. Swallowing a curse, D’Agosta turned down the heat on that as well, tore open a box of pasta, dumped in a pound of lasagna.

The sound of music filtered in from the living room: Laura had put on a Steely Dan CD. “I swear I’m going to speak to the landlord about that doorman,” she said through the door.

“Which doorman?”

“That new one who came on a few weeks ago. He’s the surliest guy I’ve ever met. What kind of a doorman doesn’t even open the door for you? And this morning he wouldn’t call me a cab. Just shook his head and walked away. I don’t think he speaks English. At least, he pretends he doesn’t.”

What do you expect for twenty-five hundred a month? D’Agosta thought to himself. But it was her apartment, so he kept his mouth shut. And it was her money that paid the rent—at least for now. He was determined to change that as soon as possible.

When he’d moved in, he hadn’t brought any expectations with him. He’d just gone through one of the worst times in his life, and he refused to let himself think more than a day ahead. Also, he was still in the early stages of what promised to be an unpleasant divorce: a new romantic entanglement probably wasn’t the smartest thing for him right now. But this had turned out far better than he could ever have hoped. Laura Hayward was more than a girlfriend or lover—she’d become a soulmate. He’d thought that their both being on the job, her ranking him, would be a problem. It was just the opposite: it gave them common ground, a chance to help each other, to talk about their cases without worrying about confidentiality or second-guessers.

“Any new leads on the Dangler?” he heard Laura ask from the living room.

The Dangler was the NYPD’s pet name for a perp who’d recently been stealing money from ATMs with a hacked bank card, then exposing his johnson to the security camera. Most of the incidents had been in D’Agosta’s precinct.

“Got a possible eyewitness to yesterday’s job.”

“Eyewitness to what?” Laura asked suggestively.

“To the face, of course.” D’Agosta gave the pasta a stir, regulated the boil. He glanced at the oven, made sure it was up to temperature. Then he turned back to the messy counter, mentally going over everything. Sausage: check. Meatballs: check. Ricotta, Parmesan, and mozzarella fiordilatte: all check. Looks like I might pull this one out of a hat, after all . . .

Hell. He still had to grate the Parmesan.

He threw open a drawer, began rummaging frantically. As he did so, he thought he heard the doorbell ring.

Maybe it was his imagination: Laura didn’t get all that many callers, and he sure as hell didn’t get any. Especially this time of night. It was probably a delivery from the Vietnamese restaurant downstairs, knocking at the wrong door.

His hand closed over the box grater. He yanked it out, set it on the counter, grabbed the brick of Parmesan. He chose the face with the finest grate, raised the Parmesan to the steel.

“Vinnie?” Laura said. “You’d better come out here.”

D’Agosta hesitated only a moment. Something in her tone made him drop everything on the counter and walk out of the kitchen.

She was standing in the front doorway of the apartment, speaking to a stranger. The man’s face was in shadow, and he was dressed in an expensive trench coat. Something about him seemed familiar.

Then the man took a step forward, into the light. D’Agosta caught his breath.

“You!” he said.

The man bowed. “And you are Vincent D’Agosta.”

Laura glanced back at him. Who’s he? her expression read.

Slowly, D’Agosta released the breath. “Laura,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Proctor. Agent Pendergast’s chauffeur.”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

Proctor bowed. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

She simply nodded in reply.

Proctor turned back to D’Agosta. “Now, sir, if you’d kindly come with me?”

“Where?” But already D’Agosta knew the answer.

“Eight ninety-one Riverside Drive.”

D’Agosta licked his lips. “Why?”

“Because someone is waiting for you there. Someone who has requested your presence.”

“Now?”

Proctor simply bowed again in reply.

Three

D’AGOSTA SAT in the backseat of the vintage ’59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, looking out the window but not really seeing anything. Proctor had taken him west through the park, and the big car was now rocketing up Broadway.

D’Agosta shifted in the white leather interior, barely able to contain his curiosity and impatience. He was tempted to pepper Proctor with questions, but he felt sure the chauffeur would not respond.

Eight ninety-one Riverside Drive. The home—one of the homes—of Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast, D’Agosta’s friend and partner in several unusual cases. The mysterious FBI agent whom D’Agosta knew, and yet did not know, who seemed to have as many lives as a cat . . .

Until that day not two months ago, when he’d seen Pendergast for the last time.

It had been on the steep flank of a hill south of Florence, Italy. The special agent had been below him, surrounded by a ravening pack of boar-hunting dogs, backed up by a dozen armed men. Pendergast had sacrificed himself so D’Agosta could get away.

And D’Agosta had let him do it.

D’Agosta stirred restlessly at the memory. Someone who has requested your presence, Proctor had said. Was it possible that, despite everything, Pendergast had somehow managed to escape? It wouldn’t be the first time. He suppressed a surge of hope . . .

But no, it was not possible. He knew in his heart that Pendergast was dead.

Now the Rolls was cruising up Riverside Drive. D’Agosta shifted again, glancing out at the passing street signs: 125th Street, 130th. Very quickly, the well-tended neighborhood surrounding Columbia University gave way to dilapidated brownstones and decaying hulks. The usual loiterers had been chased indoors by the January chill, and in the dim light of evening the street looked deserted.

Up ahead now, just past 137th Street, D’Agosta could make out the boarded-up facade and widow’s walk of Pendergast’s mansion. The dark lines of the vast structure sent a chill through him.

The Rolls pulled past the gates of the spiked iron fence and stopped beneath the porte-cochère. Without waiting for Proctor, D’Agosta let himself out and stared up at the familiar lines of the rambling mansion, windows covered with tin, looking for all the world like the other abandoned mansions along the drive. Inside, it was home to wonders and secrets almost beyond belief. He felt his heart begin to race. Maybe Pendergast was inside, after all, in his usual black suit, sitting in the library before a blazing fire, the dancing flames casting strange shadows over his pale face. “My dear Vincent,” he would say, “thank you for coming. May I interest you in a glass of Armagnac?”

D’Agosta waited as Proctor unlocked, then opened, the heavy door. Pale yellow light streamed out onto the worn brickwork. He stepped forward while Proctor carefully relocked the door behind him. He felt his heart beat still faster. Just being back inside the mansion sent a strange mix of emotions coursing through him: excitement, anxiety, regret.

Proctor turned toward him. “This way, sir, if you please.”

The chauffeur led the way down the length of the gallery and into the blue-domed reception hall. Here, dozens of rippled-glass cabinets displayed an array of fabulous specimens: meteorites, gems, fossils, butterflies. D’Agosta’s eyes stole across the parquet floor to the far side, where the double doors of the library lay open. If Pendergast was waiting for him, that’s where he’d be: sitting in a wing chair, a half-smile playing across his lips, enjoying the effect of this little drama on his friend.

Proctor ushered D’Agosta toward the library. Heart pounding, he stepped through the doors and into the sumptuous room.

The smell of the place was as he remembered it: leather, buckram, a faint hint of woodsmoke. But today there was no fire crackling merrily on the hearth. The room was cold. The inlaid bookshelves, full of leather-bound volumes tooled in gold, were dim and indistinct. Only a single lamp glowed—a Tiffany piece standing on a side table—casting a small pool of light in a vast lake of darkness.

After a moment, D’Agosta made out a form standing beside the table, just outside the circle of light. As he watched, the form advanced toward him across the carpeting. He recognized immediately the young girl as Constance Greene, Pendergast’s ward and assistant. She was perhaps twenty, wearing a long, old-fashioned velvet dress that snugged her slender waist and fell in lines almost to the floor. Despite her obvious youth, her bearing had the poise of a much older woman. And her eyes, too—D’Agosta remembered her strange eyes, full of experience and learning, her speech old-fashioned, even quaint. And then there was that something else, something just the other side of normal, that seemed to cling to her like the antique air that exhaled from her dresses.

Those eyes seemed different today. They looked haunted, dark, heavy with loss . . . and fear?

Constance held out her right hand. “Lieutenant D’Agosta,” she said in a measured tone.

D’Agosta took the hand, uncertain as always whether to shake it or kiss it. He did neither, and after a moment the hand was withdrawn.

Normally, Constance was polite to a fault. But today she simply stood before D’Agosta, without offering him a chair or inquiring after his health. She seemed uncertain. And D’Agosta could guess why. The hope that had been stirring within him began to fade.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked, her voice almost too low to make out. “Anything at all?”

D’Agosta shook his head, the flame of hope dashed out.

Constance held his glance a moment longer. Then she nodded her understanding, her gaze dropping to the floor, her hands fluttering at her sides like confused white moths.

They stood there together in silence for a minute, perhaps two.

Constance raised her eyes again. “It’s foolish for me to continue to hope. More than six weeks have passed without a word.”

“I know.”

“He is dead,” she said, voice even lower.

D’Agosta said nothing.

She roused herself. “That means it is time for me to give you this.” She went to the mantelpiece, took down a small sandalwood box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A tiny key already in her hand, she unlocked it and, without opening it, held it out toward D’Agosta.

“I have delayed this moment too long already. I felt that there was still a chance he might appear.”

D’Agosta stared at the box. It looked familiar, but for a moment he could not place where he’d seen it before. Then it came to him: it had been in this house, this very room, the previous October. He’d entered the library and disturbed Pendergast in the act of writing a note. The agent had slipped it into this same box. That had been the night before they left on their fateful trip to Italy—the night Pendergast told him about his brother, Diogenes.

“Take it, Lieutenant,” Constance said, her voice breaking. “Please don’t draw this out.”

“Sorry.” D’Agosta gently took the box, opened it. Inside lay a single sheet of heavy cream-colored paper, folded once.

Suddenly, the very last thing D’Agosta wanted to do was to take out that piece of paper. With deep misgivings, he reached for it, opened it, and began to read.

My dear Vincent,

If you are reading this letter, it means that I am dead. It also means I died before I could accomplish a task that, rightfully, belongs to me and no other. That task is preventing my brother, Diogenes, from committing what he once boasted would be the “perfect” crime.

I wish I could tell you more about this crime, but all I know of it is that he has been planning it for many years and that he intends it to be his apotheosis. Whatever this “perfect” crime is, it will be infamous. It will make the world a darker place. Diogenes is a man with exceptional standards. He would not settle for less.

I’m afraid, Vincent, that the task of stopping Diogenes must now fall to you. I cannot tell you how much I regret this. It is something I would not wish on my worst enemy, and especially not on somebody I’ve come to regard as a trusted friend. But it is something I believe you are best equipped to handle. Diogenes’s threat is too amorphous for me to take to the FBI or other law enforcement agency, since he contrived his own false death some years ago. A single, dedicated individual has the best chance of preventing my brother from carrying out this crime. That individual is you.

Diogenes has sent me a letter consisting of only one thing: a date, January 28. In all likelihood, the crime will be committed on that date. I would not, however, make any assumptions—the date could mean nothing at all. Diogenes is, if anything, unpredictable.

You will need to take a leave of absence from the Southampton P.D. or wherever you are currently employed. This cannot be avoided. Get all the information you can from Detective Captain Laura Hayward, but for her own sake minimize her involvement. Diogenes is an expert on forensics and police procedure, and any information left at the scene of the crime—assuming, God forbid, you are not in time to stop said crime—will no doubt be cleverly contrived to mislead the police. Hayward, as fine an officer as she is, is no match for my brother.

I’ve left a separate note for Constance, who will at this point know all the particulars of this matter. She will make my house, my finances, and all my resources available to you. She will immediately put at your disposal a bank account containing $500,000 in your name, to use as you see fit. I recommend that you use her invaluable research skills, though I ask that you keep her out of your direct investigation for obvious reasons. She must never leave the mansion—ever. And you must watch her very, very carefully. She is still fragile, both mentally and physically.

As a first step, you should pay a visit to my Great-Aunt Cornelia, who is confined to a hospital on Little Governors Island. She knew Diogenes as a boy, and she will provide you with the personal and family information you will undoubtedly need. Treat this information—and her—with great care.

One final word. Diogenes is consummately dangerous. He is my intellectual equal, but he was somehow formed without the slightest shred of moral conscience. In addition, a severe childhood illness left him damaged. He is motivated by an undying hatred of myself and an utter contempt for humanity. Do not gain his attention any earlier than you have to. Be vigilant at all times.

Goodbye, my friend—and good luck.

Aloysius Pendergast

D’Agosta looked up. “January 28? My God, that’s just one week away.”

Constance only bowed her head.

Four

IT WAS THE SMELL of the place, she thought, that really brought home the fact she was back in the museum: that mixture of mothballs, dust, old varnish, and a whiff of decay. She walked down the great fifth-floor corridor, past the oaken office doors, each sporting the name of a curator in black-edged gold leaf. She was surprised at how few new names there were. A lot of things had changed in six years, but here, in the museum, time seemed to run at a different pace.

She had been worried—more worried than she cared to admit—about how it would feel to be back in the museum several years after the most frightening experience of her life. In fact, that worry had delayed her decision to return. But she had to admit, after a slightly rough first couple of days, that little of the old terror still clung to the place. Her nightmares, the lingering sense of vulnerability, had faded with the years. The old events, the bad events, were now ancient history. And the museum was still a wonderful old pile, a Gothic castle of Brobdingnagian proportions, full of wonderful, eccentric people—and bursting with strange and fascinating specimens. The most extensive collection of trilobites in the world. Lucifer’s Heart, the most precious diamond ever found. “Snaggletooth,” the largest and best-preserved T. rex fossil known.

Nevertheless, she had been careful not to stray into the museum’s sub-basement. And it was not laziness that made her limit the number of nights she worked much past closing.

She remembered the time when she had walked down this august corridor for the first time as a graduate student of no account. Graduate students were so low on the museum’s totem pole they were not even despised—they were simply invisible. Not that she’d been resentful: it was a rite of passage everyone had to go through. Back then she was a nobody—a “you,” or, at best, a “Miss.”

How things had changed. Now she was “Doctor,” sometimes even “Professor,” and her name appeared in print with a string of titles after it: Pierpont Research Fellow (the “fellow” part always made her smile); adjunct professor of ethnopharmacology; and her most recent title, only three weeks old: editor in chief of Museology. While she’d always told herself that titles meant nothing, she was surprised to discover that, once she’d acquired them, they were most gratifying. Professor . . . that had a nice round sound to it, especially on the lips of those crusty old curators who, six years ago, wouldn’t even give her the time of day. Now they went out of their way to ask her opinion or press their monographs on her. Just that morning, no less a personage than the head of anthropology and her titular boss, Hugo Menzies, had asked solicitously after the subject of her panel discussion for the forthcoming Society of American Anthropologists meeting.

Yes: a refreshing change, indeed.

The office of the director lay at the end of the hall, in one of the coveted tower offices. She paused before the great oaken door, darkened with the patina of a century. She raised her hand, then lowered it, suddenly feeling nervous. She took a deep breath. She felt happy to be back in the museum, and she wondered yet again if the sudden controversy she was about to launch herself into wasn’t a serious mistake. She reminded herself that this controversy had been forced on her and that as editor of Museology she had to take a stand. If she ducked this one, she would immediately lose her credibility as an arbiter of ethics and free expression. Worse, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

Her hand fell firmly upon the oaken door, once, twice, three times, each knock firmer than the last.

A moment of silence. Then the door was opened by Mrs. Surd, the dry and efficient secretary to the museum’s director. The sharp blue eyes gave her a rapid once-over as she stepped aside.

“Dr. Green? Dr. Collopy is expecting you. You may go straight in.”

Margo approached the inner door, if anything darker and more massive than the other, grasped the ice-cold brass knob, turned it, and pushed it open on well-oiled hinges.

There, behind the great nineteenth-century desk, under a vast painting by De Clefisse of Victoria Falls, sat Frederick Watson Collopy, director of the New York Museum of Natural History. He rose graciously, a smile creasing his handsome face. He was dressed in a somber gray suit of old-fashioned cut, the starched white shirtfront enlivened only by a bright red silk bow tie.

“Ah, Margo. How good of you to come. Please take a seat.”

How good of you to come. The note she had received had more the flavor of a summons than an invitation.

Collopy came around his desk and indicated a plush leather armchair which formed part of a group arrayed before a pink marble fireplace. Margo sat down and Collopy followed, taking a seat opposite her.

“Care for anything? Coffee, tea, mineral water?”

“Nothing, thank you, Dr. Collopy.”

He leaned back, threw one leg casually over the other.

“We’re so pleased to have you back at the museum, Margo,” he said in his old New York society drawl. “I was delighted when you agreed to accept the editorship of Museology. We felt so lucky to lure you away from GeneDyne. Those research papers you published really impressed us, and your background here in ethnopharmacology made you the perfect candidate.”

“Thank you, Dr. Collopy.”

“And how do you find it? Everything to your satisfaction?” His voice was genteel, even kind.

“Everything is well, thank you.”

“I am glad to hear it. Museology is the oldest journal in its field, publishing continuously since 1892, and still the most respected. It is a great responsibility and challenge you’ve taken on, Margo.”

“I hope to carry on the tradition.”

“And so do we.” He stroked his closely trimmed iron-gray beard meditatively. “One of the things we are proud of is the strongly independent editorial voice of Museology.”

“Yes,” said Margo. She knew where this was going, and she was ready.

“The museum has never interfered with the editorial opinions expressed in Museology, and we never will. We consider the editorial independence of the journal to be well-nigh sacred.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“On the other hand, we would not like to see Museology devolve into a . . . what should one call it? An op-ed organ.” The way he said it made it sound like another kind of organ entirely. “With independence comes responsibility. After all, Museology bears the name of the New York Museum of Natural History.”

The voice remained soft-spoken, and yet it had taken on an edge. Margo waited. She would remain cool and professional. In fact, she had already prepared her response—even written it out and memorized it so she could express herself more eloquently—but it was important to let Collopy have his say.

“That is why the previous editors of Museology have always been exceedingly careful about how they exercised their editorial freedom.” He let the words hang in the air.

“I assume you’re referring to the editorial I am about to publish on the repatriation request of the Tano Indians.”

“Exactly. The letter from the tribe, asking for the return of the Great Kiva masks, arrived only last week. The board of trustees has not yet discussed it. The museum hasn’t even had time to consult its lawyers. Isn’t it a bit premature to be editorializing on something that hasn’t even begun to be evaluated? Especially when you’re so new to the position?”

“It seems to me a straightforward issue,” she said quietly.

At this, Collopy leaned back in his chair, a patronizing smile on his face. “It is anything but straightforward, Margo. Those masks have been in the museum’s collections for one hundred and thirty-five years. And they’re to be the centerpiece of the Sacred Images show, the biggest exhibition in the museum since Superstition, six years ago.”

Another heavy silence.

“Naturally,” Collopy went on, “I’m not going to ask you to alter your editorial stand. I will merely point out that there may be a few facts you are unaware of.” He pressed an almost invisible button on his desk and said into an equally invisible speaker: “The file, Mrs. Surd?”

A moment later, the secretary appeared with an ancient file in her hand. He thanked her, glanced at it, then handed it to Margo.

Margo took the file. It was very old and brittle and gave off a fearful smell of dust and dry rot. She opened it carefully. Inside were some handwritten papers in spidery mid-nineteenth-century script, a contract, some drawings.

“That is the original accession file of the Great Kiva masks you seem so anxious to return to the Tano Indians. Have you seen it?”

“No, but—”

“Perhaps you should have before you drafted your editorial. That first document is a bill of sale, itemizing two hundred dollars for the masks: a lot of money back in 1870. The museum didn’t pay for those Great Kiva masks in trinkets and beads. The second document is the contract. That X is the signature of the chief of the Great Kiva Society—the man who sold the masks to Kendall Swope, the museum’s anthropologist. The third document, there, is the letter of thanks the museum wrote to the chief, in care of the Indian agent, which was read to him by the agent, promising the chief that the masks would be well taken care of.”

Margo stared at the ancient papers. It continually amazed her how tenacious the museum was with everything, especially documents.

“The point is, Margo, the museum bought those masks in good faith. We paid an excellent price for them. We’ve now owned them for almost one and a half centuries. We’ve taken beautiful care of them. On top of that, they’re among the most important objects in our entire Native American collection. Many thousands of people view them—are educated by them, make career choices in anthropology or archaeology because of them—every week. Not once in a hundred and thirty-five years did any member of the Tano tribe complain or accuse the museum of acquiring them illegally. Now, doesn’t it seem just a tad unfair for them to suddenly be demanding them back? And right before a blockbuster exhibition in which they are the featured attraction?”

Silence fell in the grand tower office, with its tall windows overlooking Museum Drive, its dark-paneled walls graced with Audubon paintings.

“It does seem a bit unfair,” Margo said evenly.

A broad smile creased Collopy’s face. “I knew you would understand.”

“But it won’t change my editorial position.”

A gradual freezing of the air. “Excuse me?”

It was time for her speech. “Nothing in that accession file changes the facts. It’s quite simple. The chief of the Great Kiva Society didn’t own the masks to begin with. They weren’t his. They belonged to the entire tribe. It would be like a priest selling off church relics. By law, you can’t sell something you don’t own. That bill of sale and contract in that folder are not legally valid. What’s more, when he bought the masks, Kendall Swope knew that, and that is clear from the book he wrote, Tano Ceremonials. He knew the chief didn’t have the right to sell them. He knew the masks were a sacred part of the Great Kiva ceremony and must never leave the kiva. He even admits the chief was a crook. It’s all right there in Tano Ceremonials.”

“Margo—”

“Please let me finish, Dr. Collopy. There’s an even more important principle at stake here. Those masks are sacred to the Tano Indians. Everyone recognizes that. They can’t be replaced or remade. The Tanos believe each mask has a spirit and is alive. These aren’t conveniently made-up beliefs; they’re sincere and deeply held religious convictions.”

“But after one hundred and thirty-five years? Come, now. Why hadn’t we heard a peep from those people all this time?”

“The Tano had no idea where the masks had gone until they read about the upcoming exhibition.”

“I simply cannot believe they were mourning the loss of those masks for all this time. They were long forgotten. This is all too convenient, Margo. Those masks are worth five, maybe ten million dollars. It’s about money, not about religion.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve spoken to them.”

“You’ve spoken to them?”

“Of course. I called and spoke to the governor of Tano Pueblo.”

For a moment, Collopy’s mask of implacability fell away. “The legal implications of this are staggering.”

“I was simply fulfilling my responsibility as editor of Museology to learn the facts. The Tanos do remember, they remembered all along—those masks, as your own carbon dating proved, were almost seven hundred years old when they were collected. Believe me, the Tanos remember their loss.”

“They won’t be properly curated—the Tanos don’t have the proper facilities to take care of them!”

“They should never have left the kiva to begin with. They aren’t ‘museum specimens’—they’re a living part of Tano religion. Do you think the bones of St. Peter under the Vatican are being ‘properly curated’? The masks belong in that kiva, whether it’s climate-controlled or not.”

“If we give these masks back, it would set a terrible precedent. We’ll be inundated with demands from every tribe in America.”

“Perhaps. But that’s not a valid argument. Giving back those masks is the right thing to do. You know it, and I’m going to publish an editorial saying so!”

She stopped, swallowed, realizing she had violated all her resolutions by raising her voice.

“And that is my final, and independent, editorial judgment,” she added more quietly.

Five

THERE WERE NO secretaries, receptionists, or low-echelon flunkies seated outside the entrance to Glen Singleton’s office. The room itself was no larger than any of the other few dozen offices scattered around the cramped and dusty confines of the precinct house. There was no sign on the door announcing the exalted status of its tenant. Unless you were a cop yourself, there would be no way of knowing this was the office of the head honcho.

But that, D’Agosta reflected as he approached, was the captain’s style. Captain Singleton was that rarest of police brass, a guy who’d worked his way up honorably through the ranks, built a reputation not from kissing ass, but by solving tough cases with solid police work. He lived and breathed for one reason: to get criminals off the streets. He was perhaps the hardest-working cop D’Agosta had ever known, save Laura Hayward. D’Agosta had worked for more than his fair share of incompetent desk jockeys, and that made him respect Singleton’s professionalism all the more. He sensed that Singleton respected him, too, and to D’Agosta that meant a great deal.

All this made what he was about to do even harder.

Singleton’s door was wide open, as usual. It wasn’t his style to limit access—any cop who wanted to see him could do so at any time. D’Agosta knocked, half leaning into the doorway. Singleton was there, standing behind the desk, talking into the phone. Even at his desk, the man never seemed to sit down. He was in his late forties, tall and lean, with a swimmer’s physique—he swam laps every morning at six, without fail. He had a long face and an aquiline profile. Every other week he had his salt-and-pepper hair cut by the ridiculously expensive barber in the basement of the Carlyle, and he always looked as well groomed as a presidential candidate.

Singleton flashed a smile at D’Agosta and gestured for him to come in.

D’Agosta stepped inside. Singleton pointed to a seat, but D’Agosta shook his head: something about the captain’s restless energy made him feel more comfortable on his feet.

Singleton was clearly talking to somebody in NYPD public relations. His voice was polite, but D’Agosta knew that, inside, Singleton was doing a slow boil: his interest lay in police work, not P.R. He hated the very concept, telling D’Agosta, “Either you catch the perp or you don’t. So what’s there to spin?”

D’Agosta glanced around. The office was decorated so minimally it was almost anonymous. No photos of family; no obligatory picture of the captain shaking hands with the mayor or commissioner. Singleton was one of the most decorated cops on active duty, but there were no commendations for bravery, no plaques or citations framed on the walls. Instead, there was just some paperwork sitting on a corner of his desk, fifteen or twenty manila folders on a nearby shelf. On a second shelf, D’Agosta could see handbooks on forensic technique and crime scene investigation, half a dozen well-thumbed books on jurisprudence.

Singleton hung up the phone with a sigh of relief. “Hell,” he said. “I feel like I spend more time juggling community action groups than I do catching bad guys. It’s enough to make me wish I was on foot patrol again.” He turned toward D’Agosta with another short smile. “Vinnie, how’s it going?”

“Okay,” D’Agosta replied, not feeling okay at all. Singleton’s friendliness and approachability made this little visit all the more difficult.

The captain hadn’t requested D’Agosta: he’d been assigned to the division by the commissioner’s office. This would have guaranteed D’Agosta a suspicious, hostile reception from other brass he’d known—Jack Waxie, for instance. Waxie would have felt threatened, kept D’Agosta at arm’s length, made sure he got the low-profile cases. But Singleton was just the opposite. He’d welcomed D’Agosta, personally brought him up to speed on the details and procedures unique to his office, even put him in charge of the Dangler investigation—and, at the moment, cases didn’t get any higher-profile than that.

The Dangler hadn’t killed anybody. He hadn’t even used a gun. But he’d done something almost as bad: he’d subjected the NYPD to public ridicule. A thief who emptied ATMs of cash, then whipped out his dong for the benefit of their security cameras, was perfect fodder for the daily tabloids. So far, the Dangler had paid visits to eleven ATMs. Each new robbery meant more front-page headlines, smirking, full of innuendo. Each time, the NYPD had its face rubbed in it afresh. Dangler’s streak grows longer, the Post had trumpeted after the last robbery, three days before. Police find themselves short.

“How’s our witness?” Singleton asked. “She panning out?” He stood behind his desk, looking at D’Agosta. The captain had piercing blue eyes, and when they looked at you, it was like you were the center of the universe: for that brief moment, at least, you had his complete and undivided attention. It was unnerving.

“Her story checks out against the security cam.”

“Good, good. Hell, you’d think in this digital age the banks would be able to manage better coverage with their security cams. The guy seems to know their sweep, their range—you think he worked in security once?”

“We’re looking into that.”

“Eleven hits and all we still know for sure is he’s Caucasian.”

And circumcised, D’Agosta thought mirthlessly. “I had our detectives call all the branch managers on the hot list. They’re installing additional hidden cameras.”

“The perp might be working for the security firm that provides the cameras.”

“Looking into that, too.”

“One step ahead of me. That’s what I like to hear.” Singleton moved toward the pile of paperwork, began riffling through it. “This guy’s pretty territorial. All his jobs have been within a twenty-square-block area. So the next step is to stake out the choicest machines he hasn’t hit yet. Unless we can narrow down the list of potentials, we’ll be spread too thin. Thank God we aren’t working any active homicides at the moment. Vinnie, I’ll leave it to you to interface with the task force, draw up a list of most likely ATMs based on the earlier hits, and allocate manpower for the stakeouts. Who knows? We might just get lucky.”

Here it comes, D’Agosta thought. He licked his lips. “Actually, that’s what I came in to talk to you about.”

Singleton stopped, fixed him once again with his intense gaze. Wrapped up in his work the way he was, it hadn’t occurred to the captain that D’Agosta might have come in about anything else. “What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t really know how to say this, but . . . sir, I wish to request a leave of absence.”

Singleton’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “A leave of absence?”

“Yes, sir.” D’Agosta knew how it sounded. But no matter how he’d rehearsed in his mind, it never seemed to come out right.

Singleton held his gaze a moment longer. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. A leave of absence. You’ve been here six weeks, and you want a leave of absence?

“Anything I should know, Vinnie?” he asked in a low voice.

“It’s a family matter,” D’Agosta replied after a brief pause. He hated himself for stammering under Singleton’s gaze, and hated himself even more for lying. But just what the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry, Cap, but I’m taking unlimited time off to go chase a man who’s officially dead, whose whereabouts are unknown, for a crime that hasn’t yet been committed? There was no question in his mind, no question at all, this was something he had to do. It was so important to Pendergast that he’d left instructions from beyond the grave. That was more than enough. But that didn’t make this any easier or feel any more right.

Singleton held him in a look that was both concerned and speculative.

“Vinnie, you know I can’t do that.”

With a sinking sensation, D’Agosta realized it was going to be even harder than he anticipated. Even if he had to quit, he would—but that would be the end of his career. A cop could quit once, but not twice.

“It’s my mother,” he said. “She’s got cancer. They think it’s terminal.”

Singleton stood quite still for a moment, taking this in. Then he rocked slightly on his heels. “I’m very, very sorry to hear that.”

There was another silence. D’Agosta wished somebody would knock on the door, or the phone would ring, or a meteor would strike the precinct house—anything to deflect Singleton’s attention.

“We just found out,” he went on. “It was a shock, a real shock.” He paused, sick at heart. He’d just blurted out the first excuse he could think of, but already it seemed an appalling choice. His own mother, cancer . . . shit, he’d have to go to confession after this, big-time. And call his mom in Vero Beach, send her two dozen roses.

Singleton was nodding slowly. “How much time do you need?”

“The doctors don’t know. A week, maybe two.”

Singleton nodded again, even more slowly. D’Agosta felt himself flushing all over. He wondered what the captain was thinking.

“She doesn’t have much time left,” he went on. “You know how it is. I haven’t exactly been a model son. I just feel I need to be with her, right now, through this . . . Just like any son would,” he concluded lamely. “You could rack it up against future vacation and sick leave.”

Singleton listened closely, but this time he didn’t nod. “Of course,” he said.

He gazed at D’Agosta a long time. His look seemed to say: A lot of people have sick parents, personal tragedies. But they’re professionals. What’s so different about you? Breaking eye contact at last, he turned away, picking up the sheaf of papers that lay on his desk.

“I’ll have Mercer and Sabriskie coordinate the stakeouts,” he said crisply over his shoulder. “Take whatever time you need, Lieutenant.”

Six

A DENSE FOG lay over the stagnant marshlands of Little Governors Island. From out of the murk came the mournful blast of a tugboat drifting down the East River. Manhattan was less than a mile across the icy black waters, but no lights from the cityscape pierced the veil of mist.

D’Agosta sat in the front passenger seat, holding grimly to the door handle as Laura Hayward’s unmarked pool car bounced and swayed over the rough one-lane road. The headlights stabbed into the gloom, twin shafts of yellow that caromed wildly up and down, briefly illuminating the rutted drive and the skeletal chestnut trees that lined it.

“I think you missed one pothole back there,” he said.

“Never mind about that. Let me get this straight. You told Singleton your mom has cancer?”

D’Agosta sighed. “It was the first thing that came into my head.”

“Jeez, Vinnie. Singleton’s own mother died of cancer. And guess what? He never missed a day of work. Had the funeral on a Sunday. Everybody knows that story.”

“I didn’t.” D’Agosta winced, thinking back over what he’d said to his captain that morning. You know how it is. I just feel I need to be with her, right now, through this. Just like any son would. Nice going, Vinnie.

“And I still can’t believe you’re taking a leave of absence to hunt for this brother of Pendergast’s, based on a letter and a hunch. Don’t get me wrong: nobody respected Pendergast more than me, he was the most brilliant law enforcement officer I ever met. But he had a fatal weakness, Vinnie, and you know what it was. He didn’t respect the rules. He thought he was above the rest of us schmucks who are bound by the regulations. And I hate to see you picking up that attitude.”

“I’m not picking up that attitude.”

“This search for Pendergast’s brother is so far beyond the rule book it isn’t even funny. I mean what, exactly, are you planning to do if you find this Diogenes?”

D’Agosta didn’t answer. He hadn’t gotten that far yet.

The car shuddered as the front left tire sank into a rut. “Are you sure this is the right way?” she asked. “I can’t believe there’s a hospital out here.”

“It’s the right way.”

Ahead, vague shapes were gradually becoming visible through the fog. As the car approached, the shapes resolved themselves into the pointed bars of a wrought-iron gate, set in a ten-foot-high wall of moss-covered bricks. The sedan pulled up before the closed gate, an ancient guardhouse beside it. A plaque on the gate read Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

A guard appeared, flashlight in hand. D’Agosta leaned across Hayward, displaying his badge. “Lieutenant D’Agosta. I have an appointment to see Dr. Ostrom.”

The man retreated into the guardhouse, checked a printed list. A moment later, the gate creaked slowly open. Hayward drove past and up a cobbled drive to a rambling structure, its battlements and towers half obscured by drifting mist. Along its upper edge, D’Agosta could see rows of crenellated stone, like broken teeth against the blackness.

“My God,” Hayward said, peering through the windshield. “Pendergast’s great-aunt is in there?”

D’Agosta nodded. “Apparently, this place used to be an expensive sanatorium for tubercular millionaires. Now it’s a loony bin for murderers found not guilty by reason of insanity.”

“What did she do, exactly?”

“Constance tells me she poisoned her whole family.”

Hayward glanced at him. “Her whole family?”

“Mother, father, husband, brother, and two children. She thought they’d been possessed by devils. Or maybe the souls of Yankee soldiers shot dead by her father. Nobody seems to be quite sure. Whatever the case, be sure to keep your distance. She’s apparently skilled at acquiring razor blades and concealing them on her person. Put two orderlies in the emergency room in the last twelve months.”

“No kidding.”

Inside, Mount Mercy Hospital smelled of rubbing alcohol and damp stone. Beneath the drab institutional paint, D’Agosta could still glimpse the remains of an elegant building, with hand-carved wood ceilings and paneled walls, the hallway floors of well-worn marble.

Dr. Ostrom was waiting for them in a “quiet room” on the second floor. He was a tall man in a spotless medical coat who, even without speaking, managed to convey the air of having several more important things to do. Glancing around the sparsely appointed space, D’Agosta noticed that everything—table, plastic chairs, light fixture—was either bolted to the floor or hidden behind steel mesh.

D’Agosta introduced himself and Hayward to Ostrom, who nodded politely in return but did not offer to shake hands. “You’re here to see Cornelia Pendergast,” he said.

“At her grandnephew’s request.”

“And you’re familiar with the, ah, special requirements necessary for such a visit?”

“Yes.”

“Keep well back at all times. Make no sudden movements. Do not, at any time, touch her or allow her to touch you. You’ll only be able to spend a few minutes with her; any longer and she’s likely to become excited. And it’s of paramount importance she not become excited. When I see any such indications, I’ll be forced to conclude the interview immediately.”

“I understand.”

“She doesn’t like receiving strangers and may not see you, and there’s nothing I can do to force the issue. Even if you had a warrant . . .”

“Tell her I’m Ambergris Pendergast. Her brother.” This was the name Constance Greene had suggested.

Dr. Ostrom frowned. “I don’t approve of deception, Lieutenant.”

“Then don’t call it deception. Call it a white lie. It’s important, Doctor. Lives may be at stake.”

Dr. Ostrom seemed to consider this. Then he nodded brusquely, turned, and left the room through a heavy steel door set in the back wall.

All was silent for several minutes. Then—at what seemed a great distance—the voice of an elderly lady could be heard raised in querulous complaint. D’Agosta and Hayward exchanged glances.

The raillery grew louder. Then the steel door opened again and Cornelia Pendergast was wheeled into view.

She was sitting in a wheelchair whose every surface was encased in thick black rubber. A small needlepoint pillow sat in her lap, on which rested her two withered hands. Ostrom himself pushed the wheelchair, and behind him came two orderlies wearing padded protective garments. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned dress of black taffeta. She looked tiny, with sticklike arms and a narrow frame, her face obscured by a mourning veil. It seemed impossible to D’Agosta that this frail-looking creature had recently slashed two orderlies. As she came into view and the wheelchair stopped, the string of invectives ceased.

“Raise my veil,” she commanded. Her southern accent was cultivated, almost British, in its modulations.

One of the orderlies approached and—standing at arm’s length—lifted the veil with a gloved hand. Unconsciously, D’Agosta leaned forward, staring curiously.

Cornelia Pendergast stared back. She had a sharp, catlike face and pale blue eyes. Despite her advancing years, her liver-spotted skin had a strangely youthful glow. As he looked at her, D’Agosta’s heart accelerated. He could see—in her intent gaze, in the lines of her cheekbones and jaw—faint outlines of his vanished friend. The resemblance would have been stronger but for the gleam of madness in her eyes.

For a moment, the room fell utterly silent. As Great-Aunt Cornelia held his gaze, D’Agosta became afraid she would erupt with anger at his lie.

But then she smiled. “Dear brother. So good of you to come all this way to visit me. You’ve kept away so very long, you bad creature. Not that I blame you, of course—it’s almost more than I can bear, living in the North with all these barbarous Yankees.” She gave a little laugh.

Okay, D’Agosta thought to himself. Constance had told him Great-Aunt Cornelia lived in a fantasy world and would believe herself to be in one of two places: Ravenscry, her husband’s estate north of New York City, or in the old Pendergast family mansion in New Orleans. Obviously, today she was in the former.

“Nice to see you, Cornelia,” D’Agosta replied guardedly.

“And who is this lovely young lady at your side?”

“This is Laura, my . . . my wife.”

Hayward shot him a glance.

“How delightful! I always wondered when you’d take a bride. High time the Pendergast line was invigorated by new blood. May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps? Or better still, your favorite, a mint julep?”

She glanced at the orderlies, who had taken up positions as far away from the woman as possible. They remained motionless.

“We’re fine, thank you,” D’Agosta said.

“I suppose it’s just as well. We have such dreadful help these days.” She flapped a hand toward the two orderlies behind her, who fairly jumped. Then she leaned forward, as if to impart a confidence across the room. “I envy you. Life is so much more gracious in the South. People up here take no pride in being members of the servile class.”

As D’Agosta nodded in sympathy, a strange, dreamlike unreality began to settle over him. Here was this elegant old woman chatting amiably to a brother she’d poisoned almost forty years before. He wondered just how he was going to go about this. Ostrom had said to keep the meeting short. He’d better get to the point.

“How, ah, how is the family?” he asked.

“I’ll never forgive my husband for bringing us up to this drafty pile. Not only is the climate dreary, but the lack of culture is shocking. My dear children are my comfort.”

The fond smile that accompanied this observation chilled D’Agosta. He wondered if she’d watched them die.

“Of course, there are no neighbors fit for company. As a result, my days are my own. I try to walk for the sake of my health, but the air is so raw I’m frequently driven inside. I’ve gone as pale as a ghost. See for yourself.” And from the pillow, she lifted up a thin, palsied hand for his inspection.

Automatically, D’Agosta stepped forward. Ostrom frowned and nodded for him to stay back.

“How about the rest of the family?” D’Agosta asked. “I haven’t heard from—from our nephews in a long time.”

“Aloysius comes to visit me here every now and then. When he needs advice.” She smiled again, and her eyes flashed. “He’s such a good boy. Attentive to his elders. Not like the other one.”

“Diogenes,” D’Agosta said.

Great-Aunt Cornelia nodded. “Diogenes.” She gave a shudder. “From the day he was born, he was different. And then there was his illness . . . and those peculiar eyes of his.” She paused. “You know what they said about him.”

“Tell me.”

“Dear me, Ambergris, have you forgotten?”

For an uncomfortable moment, D’Agosta thought a look of skepticism passed over the old woman’s face. But it soon vanished as her expression turned inward. “The Pendergast bloodline has been tainted for centuries. There but for the grace of God go you and I, Ambergris.”

A suitably pious pause followed this statement. “Young Diogenes was touched even from the beginning. A bad seed indeed. After his sudden illness, the darker side of our lineage reached full flower in him.”

D’Agosta remained silent, not daring to say more. After a moment, Great-Aunt Cornelia stirred and began again.

“He was a misanthrope from the beginning. Both boys were loners, of course—they were Pendergasts—but with Diogenes it was different. Young Aloysius had one close friend his age, I recall—he became quite a famous painter. And, dear me, Aloysius would spend a lot of time in the bayou among the Cajuns and others of that sort, to which I naturally objected. But Diogenes had no friends at all. Not a one. You remember how none of the other children would go near him. They were all scared to death of him. The illness made it so much worse.”

“Illness?”

“Very sudden—scarlet fever, they said. That’s when his eye changed color, went milky. He’s blind in that eye, you know.” She shuddered.

“Now, Aloysius, he was just the opposite. The poor boy was bullied. You know how we Pendergasts are frequent objects of scorn among the common folk. Aloysius was ten, I believe, when he began visiting that queer old Tibetan man down on Bourbon Street—he always had the most uncommon acquaintances. The man taught him all that Tibetan nonsense, you know, with the unpronounceable name, chang or choong something or other. He also taught Aloysius that peculiar way of fighting which guaranteed he was never bothered by bullies again.”

“But the bullies never picked on Diogenes.”

“Children have a sixth sense about that kind of thing. And to think Diogenes was younger and smaller than Aloysius.”

“How did the two brothers get along?” D’Agosta asked.

“Ambergris, you’re not getting forgetful in your old age, are you, dear? You know Diogenes hated his older brother. Diogenes never cared for anyone but his mother, of course, but he seemed to put Aloysius in a special category altogether. After the illness particularly.”

She paused, and for a moment her mad eyes seemed to dim, as if she was peering far into the past. “Surely, you remember Aloysius’s pet mouse.”

“Oh, sure. Of course.”

“Incitatus he called it, after the emperor Caligula’s favorite horse. He was reading Suetonius at the time, and he used to walk around with the tiny beast on his shoulder, chanting: ‘All hail Caesar’s beautiful mouse, Incitatus!’ I have a perfect horror of mice, you know, but the little white thing was so friendly and calm I found myself able to bear it. Aloysius was so patient with the creature, he loved it so. Oh, the tricks he taught it! Incitatus could walk upright on his hind legs. He must have responded to a dozen different commands. He could fetch a Ping-Pong ball for you and balance it on his nose like a seal. I remember you laughing so, dear, I feared your sides would split.”

“I remember.”

Great-Aunt Cornelia paused. Even the impassive guards seemed to be listening.

“And then one morning young Aloysius woke to find a wooden cross planted at the foot of his bed. A little cross, no more than six inches high, beautifully and lovingly made. Incitatus had been crucified upon it.”

D’Agosta heard Laura Hayward inhale sharply.

“Nobody had to ask. Everyone knew who’d done it. It changed Aloysius. He never had another pet after Incitatus. As for Diogenes, that was just the beginning of his, ah, experiments on animals. Cats, dogs, even poultry and livestock began to disappear. I recall one particularly unpleasant incident with a neighbor’s goat . . .”

At this, Great-Aunt Cornelia stopped speaking and began to laugh, quite softly, under her breath. It went on for a long time. Dr. Ostrom, growing alarmed, frowned at D’Agosta and pointed to his watch.

“When did you last see Diogenes?” D’Agosta asked quickly.

“Two days after the fire,” the old woman replied.

“The fire,” D’Agosta repeated, trying not to make it sound like a question.

“Of course, the fire,” Great-Aunt Cornelia said, her voice suddenly agitated. “When else? The dreadful, dreadful fire that destroyed the family and convinced my husband to bring me and the children up to this drafty mansion. Away from New Orleans, away from all that.”

“I think we’re done here,” Dr. Ostrom said. He nodded to the guards.

“Tell me about the fire,” D’Agosta pressed.

The old woman’s face, which had gone almost fierce, now took on a look of great sorrow. Her lower lip trembled, and her hands twitched beneath the restraints. Despite himself, D’Agosta couldn’t help but marvel at the suddenness with which these changes overtook her.

“Now, listen,” Dr. Ostrom began.

D’Agosta held up his hand. “One minute more. Please.” When he looked back at Great-Aunt Cornelia, he found she was staring directly at him.

“That superstitious, hateful, ignorant mob. They burned our ancestral home, may the curse of Lucifer be on them and their children for all eternity. By that time, Aloysius was twenty and away at Oxford. But Diogenes was home that night. He saw his own mother and father burned alive. The look on his face when the authorities pulled him from the basement, where he’d gone to hide . . .” She shuddered. “Two days later, Aloysius returned. We were staying with relatives by then, in Baton Rouge. I recall Diogenes taking his older brother into another room and closing the door. They were only inside for five minutes. When Aloysius came out, his face was dead white. And Diogenes immediately walked out the front door and disappeared. He didn’t take anything, not even a change of clothing. I never saw him again. The few times we heard from him, it was either by letter or through family bankers or solicitors, and then nothing. Until, of course, the news of his death.”

There was a moment of tense silence. The sorrow had left the old woman’s face, leaving it calm, composed.

“I do believe it’s time for that mint julep, Ambergris.” She turned sharply. “John! Three mint juleps, well chilled, if you please. Use the icehouse ice, it’s so much sweeter.”

Ostrom spoke sharply. “I’m sorry, your guests have to go.”

“A pity.”

An orderly arrived with a plastic cup of water. He handed it gingerly to the old woman, who took it in her withered hand. “That’s enough, John. You are dismissed.”

She turned to D’Agosta. “Dear Ambergris, you’re leaving an old woman to drink alone, shame on you.”

“It was nice seeing you,” D’Agosta said.

“I do hope you and your lovely bride will come again. It’s always a pleasure to see you . . . brother.” Then she abruptly bared her teeth in what seemed half-smile, half-snarl; raised a spotted hand; and drew the black veil down over her face once again.

Seven

SOMEWHERE, a clock chimed midnight, its deep, bell-like tones muted by the plush drapes and hanging tapestries of the library in the old mansion at 891 Riverside Drive.

D’Agosta sat back from the table and stretched in the leather armchair, fingertips working the kinks out of the small of his back. This time the library felt a lot more cheery: a fire was crackling atop wrought-iron firedogs, and light from half a dozen lamps threw a mellow glow into the remotest corners. Constance was sitting beside the fire, sipping tisane from a china cup and reading Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Proctor, who had not forgotten D’Agosta’s own taste in beverages, had drifted in a few times, replacing warm, half-finished glasses of Budweiser with chilled ones.

Constance had produced all the materials Pendergast saved concerning his brother, and D’Agosta had spent the evening poring over them. Here, in this familiar room, with its walls of books and its scent of leather and woodsmoke, D’Agosta could almost imagine Pendergast at his side, helping him take up the long-cold trail, pale eyes glittering with curiosity at the onset of the chase.

Except there was precious little here to chase. D’Agosta glanced over the documents, clippings, letters, photographs, and old reports that littered the table. Pendergast had clearly taken his brother’s threat seriously: the collection was beautifully organized and annotated. It was almost as if Pendergast knew that, when the time ultimately came, he might not be around to face the challenge; that the task might be left to others. He’d saved every scrap of information, it seemed, that he had been able to obtain.

Over the last several hours, D’Agosta had read everything on the table two and, in some cases, three times. After Diogenes had severed his connection with the Pendergast clan following the death of his mother and father, he had gone largely into hiding. For almost a year, there was no word at all. Then a letter arrived from a family lawyer, asking that a sum of $100,000 be wired to a Zurich bank for Diogenes’s benefit. This was followed a year later by another, similar letter, demanding that $250,000 be wired to a bank in Heidelberg. The family rejected this second request, and it prompted a response from Diogenes. That letter now sat on the table, sealed between two panels of clear Lucite. D’Agosta glanced once again at the spidery, meticulous script, so curiously inappropriate for a boy of seventeen. There was no date or location, and it was addressed to Pendergast:

Ave, frater—

I find it disagreeable to write you on this subject, or any other for that matter. But you force my hand. For I have no doubt you are the one behind the denial of my request for funds.

I need not remind you I will come into my inheritance in a few years. Until that time I shall now and then require certain trifling sums such as I requested last month. You will find it in your best interests, and in the best interests of others you may or may not know, to honor such requests. I should have thought our final discussion in Baton Rouge would have made that clear. I am very much preoccupied at present with various lines of research and study and have no time to earn money in the conventional manner. If forced to do so, I will obtain the funds I need—in a manner amusing to myself. If you do not wish to see my attentions diverted in this way, you will honor my request with all haste.

The next time I write you, it shall be on a matter of my own choosing, not yours. I will not bring this up again. Good-bye, brother. And bonne chance.

D’Agosta put the letter aside. Records showed that the money was promptly sent. The following year, a similar sum was wired to a bank in Threadneedle Street, London. A year later, another sum was sent to a bank in Kent. Diogenes surfaced briefly on his twenty-first birthday to claim his inheritance—eighty-seven million dollars. Two months later, he was reported to have been killed in an automobile accident in Canterbury High Street. Burned beyond recognition. The inheritance was never found.

D’Agosta turned the bogus death certificate over in his hands.

I am very much preoccupied at present with various lines of research and study. But what, exactly? Diogenes certainly didn’t say, and his brother was silent on the matter. Or almost silent. D’Agosta let his eye fall on a pile of news clippings. They had been taken from a variety of foreign magazines and newspapers. Each had been labeled with an attribution and a date, and those in foreign languages had translations attached—once again, Pendergast thinking ahead.

Most of these clippings dealt with unsolved crimes. There was an entire family in Lisbon, killed by botulism, yet without any trace of food found in their stomachs. A chemist at the University of Paris, Sorbonne, was discovered with radial arteries of both wrists severed and the body carefully exsanguinated. Yet there was no blood at the murder scene. Files on several of the chemist’s experiments were found to be missing. Additional clippings described still other deaths, more grisly, in which the corpses seemed to have been victims of various tortures or experimentation—the bodies were too badly damaged to be certain. And yet other clippings were mere obituaries. There seemed to be no logic or pattern to the deaths, and Pendergast did not leave any commentary on what it was that he had found interesting.

D’Agosta picked up the pile, riffled through it. There was a variety of thefts, too. A pharmaceutical manufacturing company, reporting the robbery of a freezer full of experimental drugs. A collection of diamonds mysteriously vanished from a vault in Israel. A rare, fist-sized piece of amber containing a leaf from a long-extinct plant, lifted from a wealthy couple’s apartment in Paris. A unique, polished T. rex coprolite, dating precisely from the K-T boundary.

He replaced the clippings on the table with a sigh.

Next his eye fell on a small sheaf of papers from Sandringham, a private school in the south of England that Diogenes attended—unknown to his family—to finish out his last year of upper school. He had managed to get himself accepted on the strength of several forged documents and a phony set of parents hired for the occasion. Despite a first-semester report card putting him in the first of every form, he was expelled a few months later. Judging from the paperwork, the school gave no reason for the expulsion and responded to Pendergast’s queries with evasion, even agitation. Other papers showed that Pendergast had contacted a certain Brian Cooper on several occasions—Cooper had briefly been the roommate of Diogenes at Sandringham—but it seemed the boy refused to respond. A final letter from the youth’s parents said Brian had been placed in an institution, where he was being treated for acute catatonia.

Following the expulsion, Diogenes slipped completely out of view for more than two years. And then he had surfaced to claim his inheritance. Four months later, he staged his own death in Canterbury.

After that, silence.

No—that wasn’t quite true. There was one final communication. D’Agosta turned toward a folded sheet of heavy linen paper, sitting alone at one corner of the table. He reached for it, opened it thoughtfully. At the top was an embossed coat of arms, a lidless eye over two moons, a lion crouched beneath. And at the very center of the sheet was a date, written in violet ink with what D’Agosta now recognized as Diogenes’s handwriting: January 28.

Inexorably, D’Agosta’s mind returned once again to the October day when he’d first held the letter—here, in this room, on the eve of their departure to Italy. Pendergast had shown it to him and spoken briefly of Diogenes’s plan to commit the perfect crime.

But D’Agosta had returned from Italy alone. And now it was up to him—and nobody else—to follow through for his dead partner, to stop the crime that presumably would occur on January 28.

Less than a week away.

He felt a rising panic; there was so little time left. The roommate at Sandringham: now, there was a lead. He’d call the parents tomorrow, see if the boy was talking. Even if he struck out there, undoubtedly there were other boys at the school who had known Diogenes.

D’Agosta folded the paper carefully and returned it to the table. Beside it lay a single black-and-white photograph, scuffed and creased with age. He picked it up, held it to the light. A man, a woman, and two young boys, standing before an elaborate wrought-iron railing. An imposing mansion could be seen in the middle distance. It was a warm day: the boys were in shorts, and the woman wore a summer dress. The man stared at the camera with a patrician face. The woman was beautiful, with light hair and a mysterious smile. The boys were perhaps eight and five. The elder stood straight, arms behind his back, looking gravely into the lens. His light blond hair was carefully parted, his clothes pressed. Something about the shape of the cheekbones, the aquiline features, told D’Agosta this was Agent Pendergast.

Beside him was a younger boy with ginger hair, hands pressed together, fingers pointed skyward, as if in prayer. Unlike his older sibling, Diogenes seemed faintly disheveled. But there was nothing in his dress or his grooming to account for this. Maybe it was something in the relaxed, almost languid draping of his limbs, so out of context with the chastely positioned hands. Maybe it was the parted lips, too full and sensual for a person so young. Both eyes looked the same—this must have been before the illness.

Still, D’Agosta was drawn to the eyes. They weren’t looking at the camera, but at some point past it if they were looking at anything at all. They seemed dull, almost dead, out of place in that childish little face. D’Agosta felt an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach.

There was a rustle beside him and D’Agosta jumped. Constance Greene had suddenly materialized at his side. She seemed to have Pendergast’s ability to approach with almost total silence.

“I’m sorry,” Constance said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No problem. Looking at all this stuff is enough to creep anyone out.”

“Excuse me. Creep out?”

“It’s just an expression.”

“Have you found anything interesting? Anything at all?”

D’Agosta shook his head. “Nothing we didn’t talk about earlier.” He paused. “The only thing is, I didn’t see anything in here about Diogenes’s illness. Scarlet fever, according to Aunt Cornelia. She said it changed him.”

“I wish there was more information I could give you. I’ve searched the collections and the family papers, just in case there was something Aloysius overlooked. But he was very thorough. There’s nothing else.”

Nothing else. Diogenes’s whereabouts, his appearance, his activities, even the crime he planned to commit: everything was a blank.

There was only a date—January 28. Next Monday.

“Maybe Pendergast was wrong,” D’Agosta said, trying to sound hopeful. “About the date, I mean. Maybe it’s not for another year. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.” He gestured at the documents strewn across the table. “All this seems so far away and long ago. It’s hard to believe something big’s about to happen.”

The only response from Constance was a faint, and fleeting, smile.

Eight

HORACE SAWTELLE passed the oversize vellum menu back to the waiter with relief. He wished that once—just once—a client would come to him. He hated the sprawling concrete jungles they all worked in: Chicago, Detroit, and now New York. Once you got to know it, Keokuk wasn’t so bad. He knew all the best watering holes and titty bars. Some of his clients might even develop a deep admiration for certain Iowan charms.

Across the table, his client was ordering something that sounded like cough-up of veal. Horace Sawtelle wondered if the man really knew what the hell he was asking for. He himself had scanned the menu, first one side and then the other, with deep misgivings. Handwritten French script, and unpronounceable at that. He’d settled on something called steak tartare. Hell, how bad could it be? Even the French couldn’t ruin steak. And he liked tartar sauce on fish sticks.

“You don’t mind if I glance through them once more before signing?” the client asked, holding up the sheaf of contracts.

Sawtelle nodded. “You go right ahead.” Never mind that they’d spent the last two hours going over them with a damn magnifying glass. You’d think the guy was buying a million dollars’ worth of Palm Beach real estate instead of fifty grand in machine parts.

The client buried his nose in the paperwork and Sawtelle looked around, idly crunching on a breadstick. They were sitting in what looked to him like a glassed-in sidewalk café, protruding out into the sidewalk from the main restaurant. Every table was full: these pasty-faced New Yorkers needed all the sunlight they could get. Three women sat at the next table, black-haired and gaunt, picking at huge fruit salads. On the far side, a fat businessman was digging into a plate of something yellow and slippery.

A truck passed in a shriek of grinding gears, seemingly inches away from the glass wall, and Sawtelle’s hand closed reflexively, breaking the breadstick. He wiped his hand on the tablecloth in disgust. Why the hell had the client insisted on eating out here, in the January chill? He glanced up through the glass ceiling at the pink awning, La Vielle Ville stitched on it in white. Above towered one of the huge cliff dwellings that passed for apartments in New York City. Sawtelle eyed the rows of identical windows rising toward the sooty sky. Like a damn high-rise prison. Probably held a thousand people. How could they stand it?

There was a flurry of activity near the entrance to the kitchen and Sawtelle glanced over disinterestedly. Maybe it was his lunch. Prepared tableside, the menu had said. And just how the hell were they going to do that: wheel a Weber grill over and fire up the charcoal? But sure enough, here they came, a whole damn procession of men in white smocks, pushing what looked like a small gurney in front of them.

The chef parked the rolling table at Sawtelle’s elbow with a proud flourish. He barked a few orders in rapid-fire French and several underlings began to scurry around, one chopping onions, another frenziedly beating a raw egg. Sawtelle scanned the rolling table. There were little white toast points, a pile of round green things he guessed were capers, spices and dishes of unknown liquids, and a cupful of minced garlic. In the center, a fist-sized wad of raw hamburger. No steak or tartar sauce to be had for love or money.

With great ceremony, the chef dropped the hamburger into a stainless bowl, poured in the raw egg, the garlic, and onions, then began mashing everything together. In a few moments, he removed the sticky mass and dropped it back onto the rolling table, working it slowly between his fingers. Sawtelle glanced away, making a mental note to ask that the hamburger be cooked extra-well-done. You never know what kinds of diseases these New Yorkers carry around. And where was the damn grill, anyway?

At that moment, a waiter appeared at the client’s side and slipped a plate onto the table. Sawtelle looked over in surprise just as another waiter darted in and slid something in between his own knife and fork. Looking down, Sawtelle saw with incredulity that the glistening patty of raw beef—now tamped down into a neat little mound—sat in front of him, surrounded by wedges of toast, chopped eggs, and capers.

Sawtelle looked up again quickly, uncomprehending. Across the table, the client was nodding approvingly.

The chef beamed at them briefly from the far side of the table, then stepped back as his flunkies began wheeling the apparatus away.

“Excuse me,” Sawtelle said in a low voice. “You haven’t cooked it.”

The chef stopped. “Pourquoi?”

Sawtelle jerked a finger in the direction of his plate. “I said, you haven’t cooked it. You know, heat. Fire. Flambé.”

The chef shook his head vigorously. “No, monsieur. Is no cook.”

“You don’t cook steak tartare,” the client said, pausing as he was about to sign the contracts. “It’s served raw. You didn’t know?” A superior smile came briefly to his lips, then vanished.

Sawtelle sat back, rolling his eyes heavenward, struggling to keep his temper. Only in New York. Twenty-five bucks for a mound of raw hamburger.

Suddenly, he stiffened. “Sweet Caesar, what the hell is that?”

Far above him, a man dangled in the sky: limbs flung wide and flailing silently in the chill air. For a moment, it seemed to Sawtelle that the man was just hovering there, as if by magic. But then he made out the thin taut line of rope that arrowed upward from the man’s neck. It disappeared into a window above, black and broken. Sawtelle stared openmouthed, thunderstruck by the sight.

Others in the restaurant had followed his gaze. There were sharp intakes of breath, a sudden gasp.

The figure jerked and shuddered, its back arching in agony until the victim seemed almost bent double. Sawtelle watched, transfixed with horror.

Then, suddenly, the rope parted. The man, flapping his arms and churning his legs, dropped directly toward him.

Just as suddenly, Sawtelle found he could move again. With an inarticulate cry, he threw himself backward in his chair. A split second later, there came an explosion of glass, and a shape hurtled past in a shower of glass and landed with a deafening crash on the women and their fruit salads, which disintegrated into a strange pastel eruption of reds and yellows and greens. From his position on his back on the floor, Sawtelle felt something warm and wet slap him hard across the side of the face, followed almost immediately by a shower of broken glass, dishes, cups, forks, spoons, and flowers, all raining down from the impact.

A strange silence. And then the cries began, the screams of pain, horror, and fear, but they seemed strangely soft and far away. Then he realized that his right ear was full of an unknown substance.

As he lay on his back, the full impact of what had just happened finally registered. Disbelief and horror washed over him once again. For a minute, maybe two, he found himself unable to move. The cries and shrieks grew steadily louder.

At last, with a heroic effort, he forced his unwilling limbs to respond. He rose to his knees, then staggered to his feet. Other people were now climbing to their feet, the room filling with the muffled shrieks and moans of the damned. Glass lay everywhere. The table at his right had turned into a crumpled mound of food, gore, flowers, tablecloth, napkins, and splintered wood. His own table was covered with glass. The twenty-five-dollar mound of raw hamburger was the only thing that had been spared, and it sat in solitary splendor, fresh and gleaming, all by itself.

His eyes moved to his client, who was still sitting, motionless, his suit splattered with something indescribable.

Abruptly, involuntarily, Sawtelle’s limbs went into action. He swiveled about, found the door, took a step, lost his balance, recovered, took another.

The client voice followed him. “Are—are you going?”

The question was so inane, so inappropriate, that Sawtelle broke into a choking, hoarse laugh. “Going?” he repeated, clearing his ear with a tug. “Yeah. I’m going.” He lurched toward the door, coughing with laughter, his feet crunching across glass and ruin, anything to get away from this terrible place. He hit the sidewalk and turned south, his walk breaking into a run, scattering pedestrians in his wake.

From now on, people would just have to come to Keokuk.

Nine

WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR. got out of the cab, tossed a crumpled twenty through the front passenger window, and looked up Broadway toward Lincoln Center. A few blocks uptown he could make out a vast throng of people. They’d spilled out into Columbus and across 65th Street, creating one mother of a traffic jam. He could hear people leaning on their horns, the shriek of sirens, the occasional earth-shuddering blaaaat of a truck’s air horn.

Smithback threaded his way through the sea of motionless vehicles, then turned north and began jogging up Broadway, his breath misting in the cold January air. It seemed he ran just about everywhere these days. Gone was the dignified, measured step of the ace New York Times reporter. Now he rushed to get his copy in on time, dashed to each new assignment, and sometimes filed two stories a day. His wife of two months, Nora Kelly, was not happy. She’d had expectations of unhurried dinners, sharing with each other the events of the day, before retiring to a night of lingering pleasure. But Smithback found he had little time for either eating or lingering. Yes, he was on the run these days: and for good reason. Bryce Harriman was running, too, and he was hard on Smithback’s heels.

It had been one of the worst shocks of Smithback’s life to return from his honeymoon and find Bryce Harriman lounging in his office doorway, grinning smugly, wearing the usual insufferably preppie clothes, welcoming him back to “our paper.”

Our paper. Oh, God.

Everything had been going his way. He was a rising star at the Times, had nailed half a dozen great scoops in as many months. Fenton Davies, his editor, had started turning automatically to Smithback when it came time to hand out the big assignments. He’d finally convinced his girlfriend Nora to stop chasing old bones and digging up pots long enough to get hitched. And their honeymoon at Angkor Wat had been a dream—especially the week they’d spent at the lost temple of Banteay Chhmar, hacking through the jungle, braving snakes, malaria, and stinging ants while exploring the vast ruins. He remembered thinking, on the plane ride home, that life couldn’t possibly get any better.

And he’d been right.

Despite Harriman’s smarmy collegiality, it was clear from day one that he was gunning for Smithback. It wasn’t the first time they’d crossed swords, but never before at the same paper. How had he managed to get rehired by the Times while Smithback was halfway around the world? The way Harriman sucked up to Davies, bringing the editor lattes every morning, hanging on his every word like he was the Oracle of Delphi, made Smithback’s gorge rise. But it seemed to be working: just last week, Harriman had bagged the Dangler story, which by rights belonged to Smithback.

Smithback quickened his jog. Sixty-fifth and Broadway—the spot where some guy had reportedly fallen right into the midst of dozens of people eating lunch—was just ahead now. He could see the cluster of television cameras, reporters checking their cassette recorders, soundmen setting up boom microphones. This was his chance to outshine Harriman, seize the momentum.

No briefing under way yet, thank God.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath as he elbowed his way through the crowd.

Up ahead, he could see the glassed-in café of La Vielle Ville. Inside, police were still working the scene: the periodic flash of the police photographer lit up the glass restaurant. Crime scene tape was draped everywhere like yellow bunting. His eye rose to the glass roof of the café and the huge, jagged hole where the victim had fallen through, and still farther, up the broad facade of Lincoln Towers, until it reached the broken window from which the victim had precipitated. He could see cops there, too, and the bright bursts of a flash unit.

He pushed forward, looking around for witnesses. “I’m a reporter,” he said loudly. “Bill Smithback, New York Times. Anybody see what happened?”

Several faces turned to regard him silently. Smithback took them in: a West Side matron carrying a microscopic Pomeranian; a bicycle messenger; a man balancing a large box filled with Chinese takeout on one shoulder; half a dozen others.

“I’m looking for a witness. Anybody see anything?”

Silence. Most of them probably don’t even speak English, he thought.

“Anybody know anything?”

At this, a man wearing earmuffs and a heavy coat nodded vigorously. “A man,” he said in a thick Indian accent. “He fall.”

This was useless. Smithback pushed himself deeper into the crowd. Up ahead, he spotted a policeman, shooing people onto the sidewalk, trying to clear the cross street.

“Hey, Officer!” Smithback called out, using his elbows to dig through the gawking herd. “I’m from the Times. What happened here?”

The officer stopped barking orders long enough to glance his way. Then he went back to his work.

“Any ID on the victim?”

But the cop ignored him completely.

Smithback watched his retreating back. Typical. A lesser reporter might be content to wait for the official briefing, but not him. He’d get the inside scoop, and he wouldn’t even break a sweat trying.

As he looked around again, his eye stopped at the main entrance to the apartment tower. The building was huge, probably sported a thousand apartments at least. There’d be people inside who knew the victim, could provide some color, maybe even speculate on what happened. He craned his neck, counting floors, until he again reached the open window. Twenty-fourth floor.

He began pushing his way through the crowd again, avoiding the megaphone-wielding cops, tacking as directly as he could toward the building’s entrance. It was guarded by three large policemen who looked like they meant business. How on earth was he going to get in? Claim to be a tenant? That wasn’t likely to work.

As he paused to survey the milling throng of press outside, his equanimity quickly returned. They were all waiting, like restless sheep, for some police brass to come out and begin the briefing. Smithback looked on pityingly. He didn’t want the same story everybody else got: spoon-fed by the authorities, telling only what they wanted to tell with the requisite spin attached. He wanted the real story: the story that lay on the twenty-fourth floor of Lincoln Towers.

He turned away from the crowd and headed in the opposite direction. All big apartment buildings like this had a service entrance.

He followed the facade of the building up Broadway until he finally reached its end, where a narrow alley separated it from the next building. Thrusting his hands back into his pockets, he turned down the alley, whistling jauntily.

A moment later, his whistling stopped. Up ahead lay a large metal door marked Service Entrance—Deliveries. Standing beside the door was another cop. He was staring at Smithback and speaking into a small radio clipped to his collar.

Damn. Well, he couldn’t just stop dead in his tracks and turn around—that would look suspicious. He’d just walk right past the cop like he was taking a shortcut behind the building.

“Morning, Officer,” he said as he came abreast of the policeman.

“Afternoon, Mr. Smithback,” the cop replied.

Smithback felt his jaw tighten.

Whoever was in charge of this homicide investigation was a pro, did things by the book. But Smithback was not some third-rate line stringer. If there was another way in, he’d find it. He followed the alley around the back of the building until it turned a right angle, heading once again toward 65th.

Yes. There, not thirty yards in front of him, was the staff entrance to La Vielle Ville. Deserted, with no cop loitering around outside. If he couldn’t get to the twenty-fourth floor, at least he could check out the place where the man had landed.

He moved forward quickly, excitement adding spring to his step. Once he’d checked out the restaurant, there might even be a way to get into the high-rise. There had to be connecting passages, perhaps through the basement.

Smithback reached the battered metal door, pulled it ajar, began to step in.

Then he froze. There, beside a brace of massive stoves, several policemen were taking statements from cooks and waiters.

Everybody slowly turned to look at him.

He put a tentative foot in, like he was going somewhere.

“No press,” barked one of the cops.

“Sorry,” he said, flashing what he feared was a ghastly smile. “Wrong way.”

And, very gently, he closed the door and stepped back, walking back around to the front of the building, where he was once more repelled by the sight of the vast herd of reporters, all waiting like sheep to the slaughter.

No way, not him, not Bill Smithback of the Times. His eye cast around for some angle of attack, some idea that hadn’t occurred to the others—and then he saw it: a pizza delivery man on a motorbike, hopelessly trying to work his way through the crowd. He was a skinny man with no chin wearing a silly hat that said Romeo’s Pizzeria, and his face was splotched and red with frustration.

Smithback approached him, nodded toward the carrier mounted on the back. “Got a pizza in there?”

“Two,” the man said. “Look at this shit. They’re gonna be stone-cold, and there goes my tip. On top of that, if I don’t get it there in twenty minutes, they don’t have to pay—”

Smithback cut him off. “Fifty bucks for your two pizzas and the hat.”

The man looked at him blankly, like a complete idiot.

Smithback pulled out a fifty. “Here. Take it.”

“But what about—”

“Tell them you got robbed.”

The man couldn’t help but take the money. Smithback swiped the hat off the man’s head, stuck it on his own, opened the rear carrier on the motorbike, and hauled out the pizza boxes. He moved through the crowd toward the door, carrying the pizzas in one hand and jerking off his tie with the other, stuffing it in his pocket.

“Pizza delivery, coming through!” He elbowed his way to the front, came up against the blue barricades draped in crime scene tape.

“Pizza delivery, SOC team, twenty-fourth floor.”

It worked like a dream. The fat cop manning the barricade shoved it aside and Smithback hiked through.

Now for the triumvirate at the door.

He strode confidently forward as the three cops turned to face him.

“Pizza delivery, twenty-fourth floor.”

They moved to block his way.

“I’ll take the pizzas up,” one said.

“Sorry. Against company rules. I got to deliver directly to the customer.”

“Nobody’s allowed in.”

“Yeah, but this is for the SOC team. And if you take it up, how am I going to collect my money?”

The cops exchanged an uncertain glance. One shrugged. Smithback felt a glow. It was going to work. He was as good as in.

“They’re getting cold, come on.” Smithback pressed forward.

“How much?”

“Like I said, I have to deliver directly to the customer. May I?” He made one more tentative step, almost bumped into the large gut of the lead cop.

“No one’s allowed up.”

“Yes, but it’s just for a—”

“Give me the pizzas.”

“Like I said—”

The cop reached out. “I said, give me the damn pizzas.”

And just like that, Smithback realized he was defeated. He docilely held them out and the cop took them.

“How much?” the cop asked.

“Ten bucks.”

The cop gave him ten, no tip. “Who’s it for?”

“The SOC team.”

“Your customer got a name? There’re a dozen SOC up there.”

“Ah, I think it was Miller.”

The cop grunted, disappeared in the dim lobby carrying the pizzas, while the other two closed rank, blocking the door. The one who had shrugged turned back. “Sorry, pal, but could you bring me a fifteen-inch pie, pepperoni, garlic, and onions with extra cheese?”

“Up yours,” Smithback said, turning and walking back to the barriers. As he squeezed through the press of reporters, he heard some snickers and someone called out, “Nice try, Bill.” And another shrilled out in an effeminate voice, “Why, Billy darling, that hat looks dreamy on you.”

Smithback pulled the hat off in disgust and tossed it. For once, his reportorial genius had failed. He was already getting a bad feeling about this assignment. It had barely started and already it was smelling rotten. Despite the January frost in the air, he could almost feel Harriman’s hot breath on the back of his neck.

He turned and—with heavy heart—took his place in the crowd to wait for the official briefing.

Ten

LIEUTENANT VINCENT D’AGOSTA pushed open the door of McFeeley’s Ale House, feeling bone-tired. McFeeley’s was about as cozy an Irish bar as you could still find in New York, and D’Agosta needed a little comfort right about now. The place was dark, long, and narrow, with a thickly varnished wooden bar on one side, booths along the other. Ancient sporting prints hung from the walls, indistinguishable underneath a heavy mantle of dust. Behind the bar, bottles stood six rows deep in front of the mirrored wall. An old jukebox sat near the door, the kind where the Irish selections were printed in green ink. On tap were Guinness, Harp, and Bass. The place smelled of greasy cooking and spilled beer. Just about the only nostalgic touch missing, in fact, was tobacco smoke, and D’Agosta didn’t miss that at all: he’d given up cigars years before, when he quit the force and moved to Canada to write.

McFeeley’s was half empty, the way D’Agosta liked it. He chose a stool, pulled it up to the bar.

Patrick, the bartender, caught sight of him and came over. “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said, sliding a coaster in front of him. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going.”

“The usual?”

“No, Paddy, a black and tan, please. And a cheeseburger, rare.”

A pint appeared a moment later and D’Agosta sank his upper lip meditatively into the mocha-colored foam. He almost never allowed himself this kind of indulgence anymore—he had lost twenty pounds in the last few months and didn’t intend to gain them back—but tonight he’d make an exception. Laura Hayward wouldn’t be home until late: she was working the bizarre hanging that had taken place on the Upper West Side at lunchtime.

He’d spent a fruitless morning chasing leads. There was nothing in the public records office on Ravenscry, Great-Aunt Cornelia’s estate in Dutchess County. He’d made inquiries with the NOPD about the long-burned Pendergast residence in New Orleans, with similar results. In both cases, there was nothing about Diogenes Pendergast.

From headquarters, he’d journeyed back to 891 Riverside to reexamine Pendergast’s scanty collection of evidence. He’d called the London bank to which, according to Pendergast’s records, Diogenes had requested money be deposited years before. The account had been closed for twenty years, no forwarding information available. Inquiries at the banks in Heidelberg and Zurich brought the same answer. He spoke with the family in England whose son had briefly been Diogenes’s roommate at Sandringham, only to learn the youth had killed himself one day after being removed from protective restraints.

Next, he called the firm of lawyers that had acted as intermediaries in the correspondence between Diogenes and his family. This time the red tape was almost interminable: he was transferred from one legal secretary to another, each requiring a repetition of his request. At long last, an attorney who would not identify himself came on the line and informed D’Agosta that Diogenes Pendergast was no longer a client; that attorney-client privilege forbade giving out further information; and that, besides, all relevant files had long been destroyed at said person’s request.

Five hours and at least thirty phone calls later, D’Agosta had learned precisely zip.

Next, he turned to the newspaper clippings Pendergast had collected of various odd crimes. He’d considered calling the case officers involved but decided against it. Pendergast had no doubt done this already; if there had been any information worth sharing, he would have put it in the files. Anyway, D’Agosta still had no clue what Pendergast thought important about these clippings, scattered as they were across the globe, the crimes they reported bizarre yet seemingly unconnected.

It was now past two o’clock. D’Agosta knew his boss, Captain Singleton, would be out: he invariably spent his afternoons in the field, following up personally on the important cases. So D’Agosta left 891 Riverside and made his way down to the precinct house, where he slunk to his desk, turned on his computer terminal, and punched in his password. For the rest of the afternoon, he had moused his way through every law enforcement and governmental database he could access: NYPD, state, federal, WICAPS, Interpol, even the Social Security Administration. Nothing. Despite all the crushing, endless documentation generated by the interlocking tangle of government bureaucracies, Diogenes walked through it all like a wraith, leaving no impression behind him. It was almost as if the guy were really dead, after all.

That was when he gave up and went to McFeeley’s.

His cheeseburger arrived and he began to eat, barely tasting it. His investigation wasn’t even forty-eight hours old, and already he’d just about run out of leads. Pendergast’s vast resources seemed of little use against a ghost.

He took a few more halfhearted bites from his burger, finished his drink, dropped some bills on the bar, nodded to Patrick, and left. Get all the information you can from Detective Captain Laura Hayward, but for her own sake minimize her involvement. D’Agosta had, in fact, told her little of his investigations since their visit to Great-Aunt Cornelia. In a perverse way, it seemed best.

Why?

He thrust his hands into his pockets, bent into the chill January wind. Was it because of the levelheaded things he was certain she’d say? Vinnie, this is crazy. A letter containing nothing but a date. Some half-baked threats made twenty, thirty years ago. I can’t believe you’re wasting your time.

And maybe—just maybe—he was afraid she’d convince him it was crazy, too.

Strolling along, he approached the intersection of 77th and First Avenue. The ugly white brick apartment building he shared with Laura Hayward rose at the corner. Shivering, he glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock. Laura wouldn’t be home yet. He’d set the table for her, put what was left of the lasagna napoletana in the microwave. He was curious to hear more about this new murder case she was working. Anything to keep his mind from running in circles.

The doorman made a belated, insolent attempt to open the door for him. D’Agosta walked past into the narrow lobby, sounding his pocket for the key. Ahead, one of the elevators stood open invitingly. D’Agosta stepped in, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor.

Just as the elevator doors were closing, a gloved hand shot in, forcing them open. It was the obnoxious doorman. He stepped in, then turned to face forward, crossing his arms before him and ignoring D’Agosta. The unpleasant smell of body odor filled the small space.

D’Agosta glanced at him with irritation. He was a swarthy-looking fellow with a fleshy face, brown eyes, overweight. Strange: he hadn’t pressed a floor button of his own. D’Agosta looked away, losing interest, directing his gaze to the floor indicator as the elevator rose. Five, six, seven . . .

The doorman leaned forward, pressed the stop button. The elevator came to an abrupt halt.

D’Agosta glanced over. “What’s your problem?”

The doorman didn’t bother looking at him. Instead, he pulled an override key from his pocket, inserted it into the control panel, turned it, and withdrew it. With a jerk, the elevator began descending again.

Laura’s right, D’Agosta thought. This jerk’s got a serious attitude problem. “Look, I don’t know where the hell you think you’re going, but you can wait until I’ve reached my floor.” D’Agosta pressed the button marked 15 again.

The elevator didn’t respond. It was still descending, past the lobby now and heading for the basement.

In a heartbeat, D’Agosta’s irritation turned to alarm. His cop radar went off full blast. The cautionary words of Pendergast’s note suddenly flashed through his mind: Diogenes is consummately dangerous. Do not gain his attention any earlier than you have to. Almost without thinking, he reached into his coat and yanked out his service piece.

But even as he did so, the doorman spun toward him and, with an amazing, lightninglike move, thrust him up against the elevator wall, pinning his arms behind his back in a viselike grip. D’Agosta struggled, only to find he had been expertly restrained. He drew breath to yell for help, but—almost as if by telepathy—a gloved hand clamped down hard over his mouth.

D’Agosta struggled briefly again, hardly believing how swiftly and totally he had been disarmed and immobilized.

And then the doorman did a strange thing. He leaned forward, brought his lips directly to D’Agosta’s ear. When he spoke, it was in the faintest of whispers.

“My sincerest apologies, Vincent . . .”

Eleven

DETECTIVE CAPTAIN LAURA HAYWARD walked across the living room and glanced out the window, careful not to brush against the table that had been placed beneath it. Through the shattered hole, she could see that, far below, Broadway was finally quiet. She’d given her men strict orders to seal off the scene, and they’d done a good job: the injured had been quickly removed by ambulance, the gawkers and rubberneckers had eventually grown tired and cold and had drifted away. The press had been more tenacious, but they, too, had eventually settled for the terse statement she’d given late in the afternoon. It had proved a complicated, messy crime scene, involving the apartment and the restaurant below, but she’d coordinated all the investigative teams personally and now—at last—the on-site forensic work was wrapping up. The fingerprint examiners, photo technicians, and crime scene analysts had already left. Only the evidence custodian remained, and she would be gone within the hour.

Laura Hayward derived immense satisfaction from a well-worked homicide. Violent death was a disorderly affair. But as a scene was analyzed—as wave after wave of forensic investigators, medical examiners, technicians, and criminalists went about their jobs in the scripted fashion—the chaos and horror were compartmentalized, ordered, and labeled. It was as if the investigation itself restored some of the natural order that the act of murder had overturned.

And yet, as she looked over this scene, Hayward felt no satisfaction. She felt instead an inexplicable sense of unease.

She shivered, blew on her hands, buttoned the top button of her coat. What with the broken window, and her instructions to touch nothing (not even the heat), the room was only a few degrees warmer than outside. For a moment, she found herself wishing D’Agosta were there. No matter: she’d tell him about the case when she got home. He’d be interested, she knew, and he often surprised her with practical, creative suggestions. Maybe it would get his mind off his unhealthy obsession with Pendergast’s brother. Just when he’d gotten over Pendergast’s death, just when his sense of guilt had seemed to ease, he’d been summoned by that damned chauffeur . . .

“Ma’am?” a sergeant said, popping his head into the living room. “Captain Singleton is here.”

“Show him in, please.” Singleton was the local precinct captain, and Hayward expected he would show up personally. He was one of those old-fashioned captains who felt their place was with their men, working cases, on the street or at the scene of a crime. Hayward had worked with Singleton before and found him one of the best captains in the city when it came to working with Homicide—cooperative, deferring when it came to forensics, but involving himself usefully in every step of the investigation.

And now in the doorway the man himself appeared, natty in a long camel’s-hair coat, his carefully trimmed hair impeccable as always. He paused, eyes moving about restlessly, taking in the scene. Then he smiled, stepped forward, and offered his hand. “Laura.”

“Glen. Nice to see you.” The handshake was brief and businesslike. She wondered if Singleton knew about her and D’Agosta, decided immediately that he didn’t: they had both been careful to keep their relationship out of the NYPD rumor mill.

Singleton waved his hand around the room. “Beautiful work, as usual. Hope you don’t mind my sticking my nose in.”

“Not at all. We’re just about squared away.”

“How’s it going?”

“Just fine.” She hesitated. No reason not to tell Singleton: unlike most police brass, he got no joy out of backstabbing potential rivals for advancement—nor was he threatened by being upstaged by Homicide. Besides, he was a captain, too—she could rely on his discretion.

“Actually, I’m not so sure,” she said in a quieter tone.

Singleton glanced over at the evidence custodian, who was standing in a far corner of the room jotting some notations on a clipboard. “Want to tell me about it?”

“The lock on the front door was expertly picked. It’s a small apartment, just two bedrooms, one converted into an artist’s studio. The perpetrator entered the apartment undetected and apparently hid here—” She pointed to a dark corner near the doorway. “He jumped the victim as he entered the living room, probably hit him over the head. Unfortunately, the body was so badly damaged by the fall that it might be difficult to determine the weapon the attacker used.” She pointed to the adjoining wall, where a spray of blood defaced a painting of Central Park’s boat pond. “Take a look at that impact splatter.”

Singleton examined. “Fairly small, medium-velocity drops. A blunt instrument of some kind?”

“That’s our take. The cast-off patterns, here and here, back up the assumption. And the height of the spray relative to the wall is what indicates a blow to the head. Judging by the pattern of travel—note the crown droplets moving across the rug—the victim staggered a few feet, then collapsed where that ponding stain has been marked. The amount of blood is also suggestive of a head wound—you know how much they bleed.”

“I take it no weapon was recovered?”

“None. Whatever was used, the perp took it with him.”

Singleton nodded slowly. “Go on.”

“It appears that the attacker then dragged the stunned victim to the sofa, where—and this is strange—he tended the wound he’d just inflicted.”

“Tended?”

“Dabbed at it with gauze pads from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Several empty packages were found next to the sofa, some bloody pads tossed in the trash.”

“Any prints?”

“The guys from Latents lifted about fifty from all over the apartment. Even took a few from the blood of the victim, Duchamp, with an amido black methanol solution. All the prints matched Duchamp, his help, or known acquaintances. There were no others: not on the medicine cabinet, not on the doorknob, not on the packets of gauze.”

“The murderer wore gloves.”

“Surgical rubber, based on trace residues. The lab will be able to confirm by morning.” Hayward gestured at the sofa. “Next the victim was bound, arms tied behind his back in a series of elaborate knots. The same heavy cordage was used to fashion the hangman’s noose. I had forensics remove the ropes from the body and bag them. The knots are like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” She nodded to a series of oversize plastic bags which lay, tagged and sealed, atop a blue evidence locker.

“Strange-looking ropes, too.”

“It’s about the only evidence the perp left behind. That, and a few fibers from his clothing.” It’s the only bit of good news in the whole case, Hayward thought to herself. Rope had almost as many characteristics as fingerprints: type of twist, turns per inch, number of plies, filament attributes. That, along with the particular type and style of knot, could speak volumes.

“By the time Duchamp came to again, he was probably already bound. The murderer shoved that long desk into position there beneath the window. Then—somehow—he forced Duchamp to climb onto the desk and, in effect, walk the plank. Or, I should say, run the plank. The man basically leaped out through the window, hanging himself.”

Singleton frowned. “You sure about that?”

“Take a look at the desk.” Hayward showed him a series of bloody footprints across the desktop, each flagged and labeled.

“Duchamp walked through his own blood on the way to the desk. See how, in the first set of prints, he’s standing at rest? As the others lead toward the window, the distance between them grows larger. And look how, in this last print before the window, only the ball of the shoe hit the desk. These are acceleration marks.”

Singleton stared at the desk for at least a minute. Then he glanced over at Hayward. “They couldn’t have been faked? The murderer couldn’t, say, have taken off Duchamp’s shoes, made the marks, then replaced them on his feet?”

“I wondered about that, too. But the forensics boys said that would have been impossible. You can’t fake prints like that. Besides, the pattern of breakage of the window frame is consistent with somebody leaping through it, rather than somebody being manhandled, or pushed, out of it.”

“Holy crap.” Singleton stepped forward. The shattered window was like a jagged eye staring out into the Manhattan night. “Imagine Duchamp standing there, arms tied behind his back, a hangman’s noose hanging from his neck. What could somebody say that would induce him to take a running leap out his own window?”

He turned back again. “Unless it was voluntary. Assisted suicide. After all, there was no sign of struggle—was there?”

“None. But then, what are we to make of the perp picking the lock? Wearing gloves? Assaulting Duchamp before tying him up? The footprints on the desk show none of the false starts, the hesitation, you usually see in suicide attempts. Besides, we’ve done preliminary interviews of Duchamp’s neighbors, some friends, a few clients. Everybody said he was the sweetest, gentlest man they’d ever met. Always a kind word for everyone, always smiling. His doctor backed that up as well. No psychological troubles. Unmarried, but no signs of any recent breakup. Financially stable. Made plenty of money from his paintings.” Hayward shrugged. “No stressors of any kind that we know about.”

“Any of the neighbors see anything?”

“Nobody. We’ve impounded the videotapes from building security. They’re being gone over now.”

Singleton pursed his lips, nodding. Then, putting his hands behind his back, he strolled slowly around the room, looking carefully at the traces of fingerprint powder, the labeled pins, and the evidence markers. At last, he stopped beside the locker. Hayward came over and together they stared at the heavy length of rope within the sealed bag. It was a very unusual material, glossy rather than rough, and the color was equally strange: dark purple verging on black, the color of eggplant. The hangman’s noose was wrapped in the requisite thirteen loops, but they were the strangest loops Hayward had ever seen: thick and complex, like a mass of knotted intestine. In another, smaller bag lay the cord used to bind Duchamp’s wrists. Hayward had instructed the workers to cut the cord, not the knot, which was almost as exotic and serpentine as the hangman’s noose.

“Look at those,” Singleton said, whistling. “Big, fat idiot knots.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Hayward replied. “I’ll have the ligature specialist run them through the FBI’s knot database.” She hesitated. “Here’s something unusual. The rope he was hung from was cut partway through with a sharp knife, maybe a razor, at the center of its length.”

“You mean—” Singleton stopped.

“Right. The rope was supposed to break the way it did.”

They stared a moment longer at the strange coils of rope, shimmering faintly in the incandescent light.

From behind, the evidence custodian cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Captain,” she said. “Can I remove that now?”

“Sure.” Hayward stepped back as the woman carefully placed the bags into the evidence locker, sealed it, then began wheeling the locker toward the front door.

Singleton watched her go. “Anything taken? Valuables, money, paintings?”

“Not a thing. Duchamp had close to three hundred dollars in his wallet and some really valuable old jewelry on his dresser. Not to mention a studio full of expensive paintings. Nothing was touched.”

Singleton’s eyes were on her. “And this feeling of uneasiness you spoke about?”

She turned to face him. “I can’t really put a finger on it. On the one hand, the whole scene feels a little too clear and cold—almost like it’s a setup. This was certainly a carefully, almost masterfully executed crime. And yet nothing makes any sense. Why knock the guy over the head, then doctor the wound? Why tie him up, put a noose around his neck, force him to jump out a window, but then deliberately weaken the rope so he falls to his death after a brief struggle? What could Duchamp possibly have been told that would make him leap to his own death like that? And above all: why go to all this trouble to kill a harmless watercolor artist who never hurt a fly? I get the sense that there’s a deep and subtle motive for this crime, and so far we haven’t even begun to guess at it. I’ve already got Psych working on a profile. I can only hope we’ll learn what makes him tick. Because unless we find the motive, how the hell are we supposed to find the killer?”

Twelve

FOR A MOMENT, D’Agosta went rigid in shock and disbelief. The voice was familiar and yet strange. Instinctively, he tried to speak again, but the gloved hand clamped down still harder over his mouth.

“Shhhh.”

The elevator doors rolled open with a faint chime. Still holding D’Agosta in a tight restraint, the man peered cautiously out into the dark basement corridor, looking carefully in both directions. Then he gave D’Agosta a gentle shove out into the dingy hall, steering him through a series of narrow, high-ceilinged passages of yellow cinder block. At last, he brought D’Agosta up short before a scuffed metal door, unlabeled and painted the same color as the walls. They were near the building’s power plant: the low rumble of furnaces was clearly audible. The man glanced around once again, then stopped to examine a small cobweb that stretched across one edge of the door frame. Only then did he withdraw a key from his pocket, unlock the door, and usher D’Agosta quickly inside, closing the door and carefully locking it.

“Glad to see you looking so well, Vincent.”

D’Agosta could not summon a word.

“My sincerest apologies for the brusque behavior,” the man said, crossing the room with swift steps and checking the lone basement window. “We may speak freely here.”

D’Agosta remained astounded by the disconnect between the man’s voice—those unmistakable, mellifluous southern tones with the lazy consistency of molasses—and the man himself: a total stranger in a spotty doorman’s uniform, stocky, dark-complected, with brown hair and eyes and a round face. Even his bearing, his manner of walking, was unfamiliar.

“Pendergast?” D’Agosta asked, finally finding his voice.

The man bowed. “The very same, Vincent.”

“Pendergast!” And before he realized what he was doing, D’Agosta had crushed the FBI agent in a bear hug.

Pendergast went rigid for a few seconds. Then, gently but firmly, he disengaged himself from the embrace and took a step back. “Vincent, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you again. I have missed you.”

D’Agosta seized his hand and shook it, embarrassment mingling with the surprise, relief, and joy. “I thought you were dead. How—?”

“I must apologize for the deception. I’d intended to remain ‘dead’ even longer. But circumstances have forced my hand.” He turned his back. “Now, if you don’t mind . . .” He slipped out of the doorman’s coat, which D’Agosta could now see was cleverly padded around the shoulders and midriff, and hung it on the back of the door.

“What happened to you?” D’Agosta asked. “How did you escape? I turned Fosco’s castle upside down looking for you. Where the hell have you been?” As the initial shock began to recede, he felt himself filling with a thousand questions.

Pendergast smiled faintly under this barrage. “You shall know all, I promise. But first, make yourself comfortable—I’ll only be a moment.” And with that, he turned and vanished into a back room.

For the first time, D’Agosta examined his surroundings. He was in the living room of a small, dingy apartment. A threadbare sofa was shoved against one wall, flanked by two wing chairs, their arms spotted with stains. A cheap coffee table held a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines. A battered rolltop desk sat against one wall, its writing surface bare save for a sleek Apple PowerBook: the only thing out of place in the monochromatic room. Some faded Hummel pictures of big-eyed children hung on the nondescript walls. A bookshelf was stuffed with paperbacks, mostly popular novels and cheesy best sellers. D’Agosta was amused to find a personal favorite, Ice Limit III: Return to Cape Horn, among the well-thumbed reads. Beyond the living room, an open door led to a kitchen, small but tidy. The place was about as far removed from Pendergast’s digs at the Dakota or his Riverside Drive mansion as you could get.

There was a faint rustle and D’Agosta jumped to find Pendergast—the real Pendergast—standing in the doorway: tall, slender, his silver eyes glittering. His hair was still brown, his skin swarthy, but his face had morphed back into the fine, aquiline features D’Agosta knew so well.

Pendergast smiled again, as if reading D’Agosta’s mind. “Cheek pads,” he said. “Remarkable how effectively they can change one’s appearance. I’ve removed them for the present, however, since I find them rather uncomfortable. Along with the brown contact lenses.”

“I’m floored. I knew you were a master of disguises, but this beats all . . . I mean, even the room . . .” D’Agosta jerked a thumb in the direction of the bookcase.

Pendergast looked pained. “Even here, alas, nothing can appear out of place. I must keep up the image of doorman.”

“And a surly one at that.”

“I find that exhibiting unpleasant personality traits helps one evade deeper scrutiny. Once people typecast me as a peevish doorman with a chip on his shoulder, they look no farther. May I offer you a beverage?”

“Bud?”

Pendergast shuddered involuntarily. “My dissembling has its limits. Perhaps a Pernod or Campari?”

“No, thanks.” D’Agosta grinned.

“I take it you received my letter.”

“That’s right. And I’ve been on the case ever since.”

“Progress?”

“Precious little. I paid a visit to your great-aunt. But that can wait a bit. Right now, my friend, you have some serious explaining to do.”

“Naturally.” Pendergast motioned him to a seat and took a chair opposite. “I recall we parted in haste on a mountainside in Tuscany.”

“You could say that. I’ll never forget the last time I saw you, surrounded by a pack of boar-hunting dogs, every one eager to take a chunk out of you.”

Pendergast nodded slowly, and his eyes seemed to go far away. “I was captured, bound, sedated, and carried back to the castle. Our corpulent friend had me transported deep into the tunnels beneath. There he chained me in a tomb whose former occupant had been unceremoniously swept out. He proceeded—in the most genteel way, of course—to wall me in.”

“Good God.” D’Agosta shuddered. “I brought the Italian police in to search for you the next morning, but it was no use. Fosco had removed all traces of our stay. The Italians thought I was a lunatic.”

“I learned later of the count’s curious death. Was that you?”

“Sure was.”

Pendergast nodded approvingly. “What happened to the violin?”

“I couldn’t leave it lying around the castle, so I took it and . . .” He paused, feeling uncertain how Pendergast would feel about what he had done.

Pendergast raised his eyebrows in query.

“I brought it to Viola Maskelene. I told her you were dead.”

“I see. How did she react?”

“She was very shocked, very upset. Although she tried to cover that up. I think . . .” D’Agosta hesitated. “I think she cares for you.”

Pendergast was silent, his face a mask.

D’Agosta and Pendergast had first met Viola Maskelene the prior November, while working on a case in Italy. It had been obvious to D’Agosta that, from the moment the two saw each other, something ineffable had passed between Pendergast and the young Englishwoman. He could only guess what Pendergast was now thinking.

Pendergast suddenly roused himself. “You did the correct thing, and now we can consider the case of the Stormcloud violin definitively closed.”

“But look,” D’Agosta said, “how did you escape the castle? How long were you walled up down there?”

“I was chained in the tomb for almost forty-eight hours.”

“In the dark?”

Pendergast nodded. “Slowly suffocating, I might add. I found a certain specialized form of meditation to be most useful.”

“And then?”

“I was rescued.”

“By who?”

“My brother.”

D’Agosta, still reeling from Pendergast’s near-miraculous reappearance, felt himself go numb with shock. “Your brother? Diogenes?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought he hated you.”

“Yes. And because he hates me, he needs me.”

“For what?”

“For at least the past six months, Diogenes had made it his business to monitor my movements, as part of his preparation for the crime. I regret to say I was completely unaware of it. I had always believed myself the biggest impediment to his success and that someday he would attempt to kill me. But I was wrong—foolishly wrong. The opposite was true. When Diogenes learned of my peril, he launched a daring rescue. He entered the castle, disguised as a local—he is more the master of disguise than I am—and freed me from the tomb.”

D’Agosta was seized by a sudden thought. “Wait. His eyes are two different colors, right?”

Pendergast nodded again. “One is hazel, the other a milky blue.”

“I saw him. On the hillside there, above Fosco’s castle. Just after we were separated. He was standing in the shadow of a rock ledge, watching the proceedings, as calm as if it was the first race at Aqueduct.”

“That was him. After freeing me from my imprisonment, he transported me to a private clinic outside Pisa, where I recuperated from dehydration, exposure, and the wounds inflicted by Fosco’s dogs.”

“I still don’t get it. If he hated you—if he planned to commit this so-called perfect crime—why not just leave you walled up?”

Pendergast smiled again, but this time the smile held no mirth. “You must always remember, Vincent, that we are dealing with a uniquely deviant criminal mind. How little I understood his real plans.”

At this, Pendergast abruptly rose and went to the kitchen. A moment later, D’Agosta heard the clink of ice in a glass. When the agent returned, he held a bottle of Lillet in one hand and a tumbler in the other.

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in a drink?”

“No. Now tell me, for God’s sake, what you mean.”

Pendergast splashed a few fingers of Lillet into the glass. “If I had died, I would have ruined everything for Diogenes. You see, Vincent, I am the primary object of his crime.”

“You? You’re going to be the victim? Then why—?”

“I am not going to be the victim. I already am the victim.”

“What?”

“The crime has commenced. It is being successfully executed as we speak.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I have never been more serious in my life.” Pendergast took a long gulp of Lillet, refilled the glass. “Diogenes disappeared during my recovery at the private clinic in Pisa. As soon as I recovered, I returned to New York, incognito. I knew his plans were almost mature, and New York seemed the best place to mount the effort to stop him. I had little doubt the crime would take place here. This city offers the greatest anonymity, the best opportunities to hide, adopt an alter ego, develop his plan of attack. And so now—aware that my brother had been keeping tabs on my movements—I remained ‘dead’ as a way to move about unseen. It meant keeping all of you in the dark. Even Constance.” At this, a stab of pain crossed Pendergast’s face. “I regret that more than I can say. Still, it seemed the most prudent way to proceed.”

“And so you became a doorman.”

“The position allowed me to keep an eye on you and, through you, others important to me. I have a better chance of hunting Diogenes from the shadows. And I would not have revealed myself had certain events not forced my hand prematurely.”

“What events?”

“The hanging of Charles Duchamp.”

“That bizarre murder over by Lincoln Center?”

“Correct. That, and another murder in New Orleans three days ago. Torrance Hamilton, professor emeritus. Poisoned in front of a crowded lecture hall.”

“What’s the connection?”

“Hamilton was one of my tutors in high school, the man who taught me French, Italian, and Mandarin. We were very close. Duchamp was my dearest—in fact, my only—childhood friend. He’s the only person from my youth I’ve remained in touch with. Both murdered by Diogenes.”

“It couldn’t be a coincidence?”

“Impossible. Hamilton was poisoned by a rare nerve toxin, placed in his water glass. It’s a synthetic toxin, very similar to that produced by a certain spider native to Goa. An ancestor of my father’s died of a bite from that same spider when he was a minor functionary in India during the Raj.” Pendergast took another sip. “Duchamp was hung from a noose, which then parted, plunging him twenty stories to his death. My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same manner. He was hanged in New Orleans in 1871 for murdering his wife and her lover. Because the gibbet had been badly damaged in recent riots, they hung him instead from one of the upper courthouse windows on Decatur Street. But Maurice’s violent struggles, combined with a defective rope, caused it to part, sending him plummeting to his death.”

D’Agosta stared at his friend in horror.

“These deaths, and the manner in which they were staged, were Diogenes’s way of attracting my attention. Perhaps now, Vincent, you can understand why Diogenes needs me alive.”

“You can’t mean that he’s—”

“Precisely. I had always assumed his crime would be against humanity. But now I know I am his target. My brother’s so-called perfect crime is to murder everyone close to me. That’s the real reason he rescued me from Fosco’s castle. He doesn’t want me dead, he wants me alive—alive so he can destroy me in a far more exquisite way, leaving me filled with misery and self-reproach, torturing myself with the knowledge that I was unable to save those few people on earth . . .” Pendergast paused, took a steadying breath. “Those few people on earth I truly care about.”

D’Agosta swallowed. “I can’t believe this monster’s related to you.”

“Now that I know the true nature of his crime, I’ve been forced to abandon my initial plan and develop a new one. It’s not an ideal plan, but it is the best possible under the circumstances.”

“Tell me.”

“We must prevent Diogenes from killing again. That means locating him. And here’s where I’ll need your help, Vincent. You must use your access as a law enforcement officer to glean as much as you can from the crime scene evidence.”

He handed a cell phone to D’Agosta. “Here’s a phone I’ll use to keep in contact with you. Because time is of the essence, we’ll need to start locally, with Charles Duchamp. Dig up whatever evidence you can find and bring it to me. No crumb is too small. Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward—but for God’s sake don’t tell her what you’re up to. Not even Diogenes can leave a totally clean crime scene.”

“Good as done.” D’Agosta paused. “So what’s with the date on the letter? January 28?”

“I no longer have any doubt that is the day he plans to complete his crime. But it is vital you keep in mind that the crime has already begun. Today is the twenty-second. My brother has been planning this infamy for years, maybe decades. All his preparations are in place. I shudder to think who he might kill in the next six days.” And at this, Pendergast sat forward and stared at D’Agosta, his eyes glittering in the dim room. “Unless Diogenes can be stopped, everyone close to me—and that would certainly include you, Vincent—may die.”

Thirteen

SMITHBACK TOOK his usual place in the darkest corner of the Bones, the dingy restaurant behind the museum favored as an after-hours hangout by museum employees who—it seemed—never tired of the sight of bones. The official name of the place was the Blarney Stone Tavern; it had acquired its nickname from the owner’s penchant for hammering bones of all shapes, sizes, and sources onto the walls and ceiling.

Smithback looked at his watch. Miracle of miracles, he was ten minutes early. Maybe Nora would be early, too, and they could have a few extra minutes to talk. He felt like he hadn’t seen his new wife in ages. She had promised to meet him here for a burger and beer before she returned to the museum to work late on the big upcoming show. And he himself had a story of sorts to write up and file before the 2 A.M. deadline.

He shook his head. What a life: two months married and he hadn’t been laid in a week. But it wasn’t so much making love he missed as Nora’s companionship. Talk. Friendship. The truth was, Nora was Smithback’s best friend, and right now he needed his best friend. The Duchamp murder story was going badly: he’d gotten nothing more than the same crap as the other papers. The cops were keeping a tight lid on information, and his usual sources could offer nothing. Here he was, Smithback of the Times, and his latest stories were nothing more than the reheated leftovers of a few briefings. Meanwhile, he could almost smell Bryce Harriman’s ambition to muscle in on the story, take it away from him, leave him with the damn Dangler assignment he’d managed to slough off so adroitly when the Duchamp case first broke.

“Whence the dark look?”

Smithback looked up, and there was Nora. Nora, her bronze-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, her freckled nose wrinkled by a smile, her green eyes sparkling with life.

“This seat taken?” she asked.

“Are you kidding? Jesus, woman, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

She slid her bag to the floor and sat down. The obligatory droopy-eared, hangdog-faced waiter appeared, like a pallbearer at a funeral, and stood silently awaiting their order.

“Bangers and mash, fries, glass of milk,” said Nora.

“Nothing stronger?” Smithback asked.

“I’m going back to work.”

“So am I, but that never stopped me. I’ll take a shot of that fifty-year-old Glen Grant, backed up by a steak and kidney pie.”

The waiter gave a mournful dip of his head and was gone.

Smithback took her hand. “Nora, I miss you.”

“Likewise. What a crazy life we lead.”

“What are we doing here in New York City? We should go back to Angkor Wat and live in some Buddhist temple in the jungle for the rest of our lives.”

“And take a vow of celibacy?”

Smithback waved his hand. “Celibacy? We’ll be like Tristan and Isolde in our own jeweled cave, making love all day long.”

Nora blushed. “It was quite a shock, coming back to reality after that honeymoon.”

“Yeah. Especially to find that circus ape Harriman, grinning and bobbing in my doorway.”

“Bill, you’re too obsessed with Harriman. The world’s full of people like that. Ignore him and move on. You should see the people I have to work with at the museum. Some of them should be numbered and put in a glass case.”

Their food arrived within minutes, along with Smithback’s drink. He picked it up, clinked Nora’s glass of milk. “Slainte.”

“Chin-chin.”

Smithback took a sip. Thirty-six dollars a shot and worth every penny. He watched Nora tuck into her meal. Now, there was a woman with healthy appetites—no fussy little salads for her. He recalled a certain moment that illustrated his point, back in the ruins of Banteay Chhmar, and felt an amorous stirring in his loins.

“So how are things at the museum?” he asked. “You whipping them into shape over that new show?”

“I’m only the junior curator, which means I’m mostly a whippee.”

“Ouch.”

“Here we are, six days from opening, and a quarter of the artifacts haven’t even been mounted yet. It’s a zoo. I’ve got only one more day to write label copy for thirty objects, and then I have to curate and organize an entire exhibit on Anasazi burial practices. And just today they said they want me to give a lecture on southwestern prehistory for the lecture series. Can you believe it? Thirteen thousand years of southwestern prehistory in ninety minutes, complete with slides.” She took another bite.

“They’re asking too much of you, Nora.”

“Everybody’s in the same boat. Sacred Images is the biggest thing to hit the museum in years. And on top of that, the geniuses that run the place have decided to upgrade the museum’s security system. You remember what happened with the security system the last time they had a blockbuster exhibition? You know, Superstition?”

“Oh, God. Don’t remind me.”

“They don’t want even the possibility of a repetition. Except that every time they upgrade the security for a new hall, they have to shut and lock the damn place down. It’s impossible to get around—you never know what’s going to be closed off. The bright side is that in six days it’ll be over.”

“Yeah, and then we’ll be ready for another vacation.”

“Or a stretch in a padded cell.”

“We’ll always have Angkor,” Smithback intoned dramatically.

Nora laughed, squeezed his hand. “And how’s the Duchamp story going?”

“Terrible. The homicide captain in charge is a woman named Hayward, a real ballbuster. Runs a tight ship. No leaks anywhere. I can’t get a scoop to save my life.”

“I’m sorry, Bill.”

“Nora Kelly?”

A voice broke in, vaguely familiar. Smithback looked up to see a woman approaching their table—small, intense, brown hair, glasses. He froze in astonishment, and so did she. They stared at each other in silence.

Suddenly, she smiled. “Bill?”

Smithback grinned. “Margo Green! I thought you were living up in Boston, working for that company, what’s its name?”

“GeneDyne. I was, but corporate life wasn’t for me. Great money, but no fulfillment. So now I’m back at the museum.”

“I had no idea.”

“Just started six weeks ago. And you?”

“Wrote a few more books, as you probably know. I’m now at the Times. Got back from my honeymoon just a few weeks ago.”

“Congratulations. Guess that means you won’t be calling me Lotus Blossom anymore. I assume this is the lucky woman?”

“She sure is. Nora, meet an old friend of mine, Margo Green. Nora works at the museum, too.”

“I know.” Margo turned. “In fact, Bill, no offense, but I was actually looking for her, not you.” She stretched out her hand. “Perhaps you don’t remember, Dr. Kelly, but I’m the new editor of Museology. We met at the last departmental meeting.”

Nora returned the handshake. “Of course. I read all about you in Bill’s book Relic. How are things?”

“May I sit down?”

“To tell you the truth, we . . .” Nora’s voice trailed off as Margo took a seat.

“I’ll only be here for a moment.”

Smithback stared. Margo Green. It seemed like another lifetime, it was so long ago. She hadn’t changed much, except that maybe she seemed more relaxed, more confident. Still trim and athletic. She was wearing an expensive tailored suit, a far cry from the baggy L. L. Bean shirts and Levi’s of her graduate student days. He glanced down at his own Hugo Boss suit. They had all grown up a little.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “Two heroines from my books, together for the first time.”

Margo cocked her head questioningly. “Oh, really? How’s that?”

“Nora was the heroine of my book Thunderhead.”

“Oh. Sorry. Haven’t read it.”

Smithback kept smiling gamely. “What’s it like to be back at the museum?”

“It’s changed a lot since we were first there.”

Smithback felt Nora’s gaze upon him. He wondered if she assumed Margo was an old girlfriend and that perhaps there were certain salty things he’d left out of his memoirs.

“Seems like ages ago,” Margo went on.

“It was ages ago.”

“I often wonder what happened to Lavinia Rickman and Dr. Cuthbert.”

“No doubt there’s a special circle of hell reserved for those two.”

Margo chuckled. “What about that cop D’Agosta? And Agent Pendergast?”

“Don’t know about D’Agosta,” Smithback said. “But the word around the Times foreign desk is that Pendergast went missing under mysterious circumstances a few months ago. Flew to Italy on assignment and never came back.”

A shocked look came over Margo’s face. “Really? How strange.”

A brief silence settled over the table.

“Anyway,” Margo resumed, turning once again to Nora, “I wanted to ask your help.”

“Sure,” Nora said. “What is it?”

“I’m about to publish an editorial on the importance of repatriating Great Kiva masks to the Tano tribe. You know about their request?”

“I do. I’ve also read the editorial. It’s circulating the department in draft.”

“Naturally, I’ve run into opposition from the museum administration, Collopy in particular. I’ve started contacting all the members of the Anthropology Department to see if I can build a united front. The independence of Museology must be maintained, and those masks must be returned. We’ve got to be together on this as a department.”

“What is it you want me to do?” asked Nora.

“I’m not circulating a petition or anything quite so overt. I’m just asking for informal support from members of the department if it comes to a showdown. A verbal assurance. That’s all.”

Smithback grinned. “Sure, no problem, you can always count on Nora—”

“Just a minute,” Nora said.

Smithback fell silent, surprised at the sharp tone.

“Margo was speaking to me,” Nora said dryly.

“Right.” Smithback hastily smoothed down an unrepentant cowlick and retreated to his drink.

Nora turned to Margo with a rather chilly smile. “I’m sorry, I won’t be able to help.”

Smithback stared from Nora to Margo in surprise.

“May I ask why not?” Margo asked calmly.

“Because I don’t agree with you.”

“But it’s obvious that those Great Kiva masks belong to the Tanos—”

Nora held up a hand. “Margo, I am thoroughly familiar with them and with your arguments. In one sense, you’re right. They belonged to the Tano and they shouldn’t have been collected. But now they belong to all of humanity—they’ve become a part of the human record. What’s more, taking those masks out of the Sacred Images exhibition would be devastating this late in the game—and I’m one of the curators of the show. Finally, I’m a southwestern archaeologist by training. If we started giving back every sacred item in the museum, there’d be nothing left. Everything is sacred to Native Americans—that’s one of the beautiful things about Native American culture.” She paused. “Look, what’s done is done, the world is the way it is, and not all wrongs can be righted. I’m sorry I can’t give you a better answer, but there it is. I have to be honest.”

“But the issue of editorial freedom . . .”

“I’m with you one hundred percent on that one. Publish your editorial. But don’t ask me to back your arguments. And don’t ask the department to endorse your private opinions.”

With that, Margo stared first at Nora, then at Smithback.

Smithback grinned nervously, took another sip of his drink.

Margo rose. “Thank you for your directness.”

“You’re welcome.”

She turned to Smithback. “It’s great to see you again, Bill.”

“Sure thing,” he mumbled.

He watched Margo walk away. Then he realized Nora’s gaze was on him.

“‘Lotus Blossom’?” she said tartly.

“It was just a joke.”

“Former girlfriend of yours?”

“No, never,” he replied hastily.

“You’re sure about that?”

“Not even a kiss.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I can’t stand that woman.” She turned to stare at Margo’s departing figure. Then she looked back. “And to think she hasn’t read Thunderhead. I mean, that’s much better than some of the earlier stuff you wrote. I’m sorry, Bill, but that book Relic—well, let’s just say you’ve matured a lot as a writer.”

“Hey, what was wrong with Relic?”

She picked up her fork and finished her meal in silence.

Fourteen

WHEN D’AGOSTA arrived at the Omeleteria, Hayward had already taken their usual booth by the window. He hadn’t seen her for twenty-four hours—she’d pulled an all-nighter at the office. He paused in the doorway of the restaurant, looking at her. The morning sunlight had turned her glossy black hair almost blue, given her pale skin the sheen of fine marble. She was industriously making notes on a Pocket PC, chewing her lower lip, brow knitted in concentration. Just seeing her sent a throb of affection through him so sharp it was almost painful.

He didn’t know if he was going to be able to do this.

She looked up suddenly, as if aware of his gaze. The look of concentration vanished and a smile broke over her beautiful features.

“Vinnie,” she said as he approached. “Sorry I missed your lasagna napoletana.”

He kissed her, then took a seat opposite. “It’s okay. Lasagna’s lasagna. I’m worried you’re working too hard.”

“Nature of the business.”

Just then a skinny waitress came up, placed an egg white omelette before Hayward, started to refill her coffee cup.

“Just leave the pot, please,” Hayward said.

The waitress nodded, turned to D’Agosta. “Need a menu, hon?”

“No. Give me two fried eggs, over well, with rye toast.”

“I went ahead and ordered,” Hayward said, taking a gulp of her coffee. “Hope you don’t mind. I’ve got to get back to the office and—”

“You’re going back?”

Hayward frowned, gave her head a single vigorous shake. “I’ll rest tonight.”

“Pressure from on high?”

“There’s always pressure from on high. No, it’s the case itself. I just can’t get a handle on it.”

D’Agosta watched as she tucked into her omelet, feeling the dismay grow inside him. Unless Diogenes can be stopped, everyone close to me may die, Pendergast had told him the night before. Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward. He glanced around the coffee shop, looking at the faces, looking for one bluish-white, one hazel eye. But, of course, Diogenes would be wearing contacts, disguising his most striking characteristic.

“Why don’t you tell me about the case?” he asked as easily as he could.

She took another bite, dabbed at her mouth. “The autopsy results came back. No surprise there. Duchamp died of massive internal injuries resulting from his fall. Several pharyngeal bones were fractured, but the hanging itself didn’t cause death: the spinal cord had not been severed and asphyxiation hadn’t yet occurred. And here’s the first of many weird things. The rope had been cut almost through beforehand with a very sharp blade. The killer wanted it to part during the hanging.”

D’Agosta felt himself go cold. My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same manner . . .

“Duchamp was initially subdued in his apartment, then tied up. There was a contusion on the left temple, but the head itself was so badly crushed in the fall we can’t be certain that’s what caused all the blood in the apartment. But get this: the contusion had been doctored and bandaged, apparently by the killer.”

“I see.” The case made sense to D’Agosta . . . too much sense. And he could say nothing to Hayward.

“Then the perp pushed a long desk up against the window, convinced Duchamp to climb on it, and take a running jump out the window.”

“Unassisted?”

Hayward nodded. “With his hands bound behind him and a noose around his neck.”

“Anyone see the perp?” D’Agosta felt a constriction in his chest; he knew who the perp was, yet he couldn’t tell her directly. It was an unexpectedly difficult feeling.

“Nobody in the apartment building remembers seeing anybody unusual. There’s only one possible sighting, by a basement security camera. Just a rear view of a man in a trench coat. Tall, thin. Light hair. We’re having the image digitally enhanced, but the techs aren’t hopeful we’ll get enough to be useful. He knew the camera was there and took care passing through its field of view.” She finished her coffee and poured herself another.

“We went through the victim’s papers, his studio, looking for any motive,” she went on. “None. Then we used his Rolodex to call up friends and acquaintances. Nobody we spoke with could believe it. A real Mister Rogers, this guy Duchamp. Oh, and here’s a bizarre coincidence. Duchamp knew Agent Pendergast.”

D’Agosta froze. He didn’t know what to say, how to act. Somehow, he just couldn’t be phony with Laura Hayward. He felt a flush spread across his face.

“Seems they were friends. Pendergast’s Dakota address was on the Rolodex. According to Duchamp’s appointment book, the two had lunch three times last year, always at ‘21.’ Too bad we can’t get Pendergast’s take on this from beyond the grave. Right about now I think I’d welcome even his help.”

Suddenly, she stopped, catching sight of D’Agosta’s expression. “Oh, Vinnie,” she said, sliding a hand across the table and grasping his. “I’m sorry. That was a thoughtless thing to say.”

This made D’Agosta feel ten times worse. “Maybe this is the crime Pendergast warned me about in his note.”

Slowly, Hayward withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry?”

“Well . . .” D’Agosta stammered. “Diogenes hated his brother. Maybe he plans to revenge himself on Pendergast by killing off Pendergast’s friends.”

Hayward looked at him, her eyes narrowing.

“I heard there was another friend of Pendergast’s killed recently. A professor in New Orleans.”

“But, Vinnie, Pendergast is dead. Why kill his brother’s friends now?”

“Who knows how crazy people think? All I’m saying is that, if it were my case, I’d consider it a suspicious coincidence.”

“How’d you hear about this New Orleans murder?”

D’Agosta looked down, arranged his napkin on his lap. “I can’t recall. I think maybe his—his secretary, Constance, mentioned it to me.”

“Well, there are lots of strange aspects to the case, I’ll give you that.” Hayward sighed. “It’s far-fetched, but I’ll look into it.”

The waitress reappeared with his breakfast order.

D’Agosta hardly dared meet Laura’s eyes. Instead, he lifted his fork and knife and sliced into the glistening egg. A jet of yellow spurted across the plate.

D’Agosta jerked back. “Waitress!”

The woman, half a dozen booths away already, turned and walked slowly back.

D’Agosta handed her the plate. “These eggs are runny. I said over well. I didn’t say over easy.”

“All right, hon, hold your water.” The woman took the plate and walked away.

“Ouch,” Hayward said in a low voice. “Don’t you think you were hard on the poor woman?”

“I hate runny eggs,” D’Agosta said, staring into his coffee once again. “I can’t stand looking at them.”

There was a brief silence. “What’s wrong, Vinnie?” she asked.

“This Diogenes business.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s time you dropped this wild-goose chase and got back on the job. It’s not going to bring Pendergast back. Singleton’s not going to let this go on forever. On top of that, you’re not acting like yourself. Nothing like getting back to work as a way of curing the blues.”

You’re right, he thought. He wasn’t acting like himself because he wasn’t feeling like himself. It felt bad enough, not telling Hayward the truth. But it went even beyond that: here he was, pumping her for information while withholding the fact Pendergast was still alive.

He arranged his lips into what he hoped was a sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry, Laura. You’re right: it’s time I got back on the job. And here I am, acting cranky, when you’re the one who’s had no sleep. What else about the case kept you up all night?”

She glanced at him searchingly for a moment. Then she took another bite of her omelet, pushed it away. “I’ve never seen such a careful murder. It’s not just the fact there are so few clues, but the ones we have are so damn puzzling. The only evidence left behind by the perp, other than the ropes, was some clothing fibers.”

“Well, that gives you three clues to work, at least.”

“That’s right. The fibers, the rope, and the structure of the knots. And so far, we’ve come up blank on all three. That’s what kept me away all night: that, and the usual paperwork. The fibers are of some kind of exotic wool that forensics hasn’t seen before. It’s in none of the local or federal databases. We’ve got a textile expert working on it. Same with the ropes. The material is nothing manufactured in America, Europe, Australia, the Middle East.”

“And the knots?”

“They’re even more bizarre. The ligature specialist—who we dragged out of bed at three, by the way—was fascinated. At first glance, they look random, massive, like some bondage fetishist gone crazy. But they’re not that at all. Turns out they’re expertly fashioned. Very intricate. The specialist was staggered: he said he’d never seen the knot before, that it seemed to be of a new type entirely. He went into a whole riff on mathematics and knot theory that I couldn’t even begin to follow.”

“I’d like to see a photograph of the knots, if I could.”

She flashed him another questioning gaze.

“Hey, I was in the Boy Scouts,” he said with a levity he didn’t feel.

She nodded slowly. “I had this instructor at the Academy, Riderback. Remember him?”

“Nope.”

“He was fascinated by knots. He used to say they were a three-dimensional manifestation of a fourth-dimensional problem. Whatever that means.” She took another sip of coffee. “Sooner or later, those knots are going to help us crack this case.”

The waitress came back, placing D’Agosta’s eggs before him with a look of triumph. Now they were wizened-looking, almost desiccated, crisp around the edges.

Hayward glanced at the plate, a smile returning to her lips. “Enjoy,” she said with a giggle.

Suddenly, his coat began to vibrate. For a moment, D’Agosta went rigid in surprise. Then, remembering the cell phone Pendergast had given him, he dug a hand into his pocket and pulled it out.

“New phone?” Hayward asked. “When’d you pick that up?”

D’Agosta hesitated. Then, rather abruptly, he decided that he just couldn’t tell her one more lie.

“Sorry,” he said, standing up. “Gotta go. I’ll explain later.”

Hayward half rose as well, a look of surprise on her face. “But, Vin—”

“Will you get breakfast?” he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her. “I’ll get the next.”

“But—”

“See you tonight, sweetheart. Good luck with the case.” And—holding her questioning stare with his own for a brief moment—he gave her shoulders a parting squeeze, turned, and hurriedly left the restaurant.

He glanced once more at the message displayed on the tiny cell screen:

SW Corner 77 and York. NOW.

Fifteen

THE BIG BLACK LIMO, tearing southward on York Avenue, appeared seconds after D’Agosta reached the corner. It slewed to a stop; the door flew open. Even before D’Agosta shut the door, the limo was accelerating from the curb, driver leaning on the horn, cars behind them screeching to a halt to let the big car pass.

D’Agosta turned in astonishment. A stranger sat in the seat beside him: tall, slender, well tanned, dressed in an impeccable gray suit, slim black attaché case across his knees.

“Don’t be alarmed, Vincent,” said the familiar voice of Pendergast. “An emergency has forced me to change my spots again. Today I am an investment banker.”

“Emergency?”

Pendergast handed D’Agosta a sheet of paper, carefully sealed within layers of glassine. It read:

Nine of Swords: Torrance Hamilton

Ten of Swords: Charles Duchamp

King of Swords, Reversed: Michael Decker

The Five of Swords—?

“Diogenes is telegraphing his move in advance. Baiting me.” Disguise or no disguise, Pendergast’s face was as grim as D’Agosta had ever seen it.

“What are those—tarot cards?”

“Diogenes always had an interest in tarot. As you may have guessed, those cards involve death and betrayal.”

“Who’s Michael Decker?”

“He was my mentor when I first moved to the FBI. Before, I’d been in more, ah, exotic forms of government service, and he helped me make a rather difficult transition. Mike’s highly placed in Quantico these days, and he’s been invaluable in clearing the way for my somewhat unorthodox methods. It was thanks to Mike that I was able to get the FBI involved so quickly on the Jeremy Grove murder last fall, and he helped smooth some ruffled feathers after a small case I handled in the Midwest prior to that.”

“So Diogenes is threatening another one of your friends.”

“Yes. I can’t raise Mike on his cell or at home. His secretary tells me he’s on elevated assignment, which means they won’t release any details about it—even if I were to reveal myself as a colleague. I must warn him in person, if I can find him.”

“As an FBI agent, though, he must be pretty hard to get the jump on.”

“He’s one of the best field agents in the Bureau. I fear that would deter Diogenes not at all.”

D’Agosta glanced back at the letter. “Your brother wrote this?”

“Yes. Curious: it doesn’t look like his handwriting—more like a crude attempt to disguise his handwriting, rather. Far too crude, in fact, for him. And yet there’s something strangely familiar about it . . .” Pendergast’s voice trailed off.

“How’d you get it?”

“It arrived at my Dakota apartment early this morning. I employ a doorman there, Martyn, to take care of special things for me. He got it to Proctor, and Proctor got it to me through a prior arrangement.”

“Proctor knows you’re alive?”

“Yes. Constance Greene does, too, as of last night.”

“What about her? Does she still think you’re dead?”

D’Agosta didn’t say the name—he didn’t need to. Pendergast would know he was referring to Viola Maskelene.

“I haven’t communicated with her. It would put her in grave danger. Ignorance, as painful as it is, will keep her safe.”

There was a brief, awkward silence.

D’Agosta changed direction. “So your brother took this letter to the Dakota? Aren’t you having the place watched?”

“Of course. Very carefully. It was delivered by a derelict. When we caught him and questioned him, he said he was paid to deliver it by a man on Broadway. His description was too vague to be of use.”

The limo sheared toward the on-ramp for the FDR Drive, leaning into the turn, wheels smoking.

“You think your FBI friend will listen?”

“Mike Decker knows me.”

“It seems to me that you rushing down to warn Decker is exactly what Diogenes expects.”

“Correct. It is like a forced move in chess: I’m falling into a trap and there’s not a thing I can do about it.” Pendergast looked at D’Agosta, eyes bright even behind brown contact lenses. “We must find some way to reverse the pattern, get on the offensive. Have you learned anything more from Captain Hayward?”

“They recovered some fibers from the site. That and the ropes are the only hard evidence they’ve got so far. There are some other weird things about the murder, too. For example, it seems Diogenes stunned Duchamp with a blow to the head, then doctored and bandaged the injury before killing him.”

Pendergast shook his head. “Vincent, I must know more. I must. Even the smallest, least significant detail could be critical. I have, shall we say, a connection in New Orleans who is getting me the police dossier on the Hamilton poisoning. But I have no such connection here, for the Duchamp case.”

D’Agosta nodded. “Understood.”

“There’s another thing. Diogenes seems to be working forward, choosing his victims chronologically. That means you might soon be at risk. We worked together on my first really large-scale case on the FBI—the museum murders.”

D’Agosta swallowed. “Don’t worry about me.”

“It seems Diogenes has begun to take pleasure in giving me advance warning. We might assume you and other potential targets are temporarily safe—at least until I receive the next message. Even so, Vincent, you must take every precaution possible. The safest thing is to go back to work immediately. Surround yourself with police, remain in the precinct house when not on call. Most important, alter all your habits—every single one. Temporarily move your residence. Take cabs instead of walking or riding the subway. Go to bed and rise at different hours. Change everything in your life that might cause you danger—or danger to those you care about. An attempt on your life could easily result in collateral damage to others, in particular Captain Hayward. Vincent, you’re a good officer—I don’t need to tell you what to do.”

The limo came screeching to a stop. The blacktopped expanse of the East 34th Street Heliport lay directly ahead, its stubby, three-hundred-foot runway gleaming dully in the morning sun. A red Bell 206 Jet Ranger was waiting on the tarmac, rotors turning. Pendergast abruptly slipped into investment banker mode, his face relaxing, the glittering hatred and determination vanishing from his eyes, leaving behind a pleasant blandness.

“One other thing,” D’Agosta said.

Pendergast turned back.

D’Agosta reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved something, held it out in a closed fist. Pendergast reached out and D’Agosta dropped into his palm a platinum medallion, slightly melted along one edge, on a chain. On one side of the medallion was the image of a lidless eye hovering over a phoenix, rising from the ashes of a fire. A crest of some sort had been stamped into the other side.

Pendergast stared at it, a strange expression passing over his face.

“Count Fosco was wearing this when I went back to his castle with the Italian police. He showed it to me, privately, as proof you were dead. You’ll see the bastard engraved his own crest on the back—his final trick against me. I thought you’d want it.”

Pendergast turned it over, peered at it, turned it over again.

“I took it from him the night I . . . paid him a final visit. Maybe it’ll bring you good luck.”

“Normally I despise luck, but at the moment I find myself in singular need of it. Thank you, Vincent.” Pendergast’s voice was almost too low to be heard above the revving of the rotors. He placed the medallion around his neck, tucked it into his shirt, and grasped D’Agosta’s hand.

And then, without another word, he strode across the tarmac toward the waiting chopper.

Sixteen

THE CHOPPER LANDED at a corporate heliport in Chevy Chase, Maryland, where a car without a driver awaited. By nine o’clock, Pendergast was crossing into D.C. It was a cold, sunny January day, with a weak yellow sun filtering through the bare branches of the trees, leaving frost in the shadows.

In a few minutes, he was driving along Oregon Avenue, lined with stately mansions—one of Washington’s most exclusive suburbs. He slowed as he passed Mike Decker’s house. The tidy, brick-fronted Georgian seemed as somnolent as the rest of the neighborhood. No car was parked outside, but that in itself meant nothing: Decker ranked a car and driver when he wanted one.

Pendergast drove a block farther, then pulled over to the curb. Taking out a cell phone, he once again tried Decker’s home and mobile. No answer.

Behind the row of mansions lay the wooded fastness of Rock Creek Park. Pendergast got out of the car with his attaché case and walked thoughtfully into the park. Diogenes, he felt sure, would be watching the scene and would recognize him despite his disguise—just as he felt sure he would recognize his brother, no matter what.

But he saw no one and heard nothing but the faint rush of water from Rock Creek.

He walked briskly along the fringe of the park, then darted across a driveway, crossed a garden, and came up through a hedge into Decker’s backyard. The yard was deep and well tended, falling away at the rear into the dense woods of the park. There, hidden from the neighbors by thick shrubbery, he glanced up at the windows. They were closed, white curtains pulled shut. Glancing at the adjoining houses, he proceeded, with practiced casualness, across the yard and to the back door, pulling on a pair of gloves as he did so and leaving his attaché on the stoop.

Pendergast paused again, his alert eyes taking in every detail. Then, without knocking, he peered through the small window.

Decker’s kitchen was modern and almost spartan in its bachelor emptiness. A folded newspaper lay on a counter beside the phone; a suit jacket had been draped over the back of a chair. On one side of the room, a door—shut—opened no doubt onto the basement stairway; on the other side, a dark corridor led into the front rooms of the house.

A shape lay on the floor of the corridor, vague in the dim light. It moved feebly, once, twice.

In an instant, Pendergast moved to pick the lock, only to find that the knob—broken—turned easily in his hand. There was a telltale cut wire: a security system had been bypassed. Nearby, the phone wire had also been snipped. He swept inside, darting toward the shape in the hall and kneeling on the broad floorboards.

A male Weimaraner lay there, eyes glassy, rear legs still twitching in slowing spasms. Pendergast ran his gloved fingers quickly over the dog’s frame. Its neck had been broken in two places.

Now, rising, Pendergast reached into his pocket. When his hand appeared again, it was holding a gleaming Wilson Combat TSGC .45. Moving quickly and with utter silence, Pendergast searched the first floor of the house: wheeling around corners, gun extended, eyes darting over every surface and place of concealment. Living room, dining room, front hall, bath: all empty and still.

Next, Pendergast flew up the stairs, pausing to glance around at the upper landing. Four rooms gave onto a central hallway. Sunlight lanced in through the open doors, illuminating a few dust motes dancing lazily in the sluggish air.

Gun at the ready, he spun around the first doorway, which led into a back bedroom. Inside, the guest beds were made with almost military perfection, bedspreads tight across the mattresses and over the pillows. Beyond, the gaunt trees of Rock Creek Park were visible through the window. Everything was wrapped in a deep silence.

A faint sound came from nearby.

Pendergast froze, his hyperacute senses strained to the maximum. There had been one sound, only one: the slow outrush of air, like a languorous sigh.

He exited the back bedroom, darted across the hall, paused outside the entrance to the room opposite. Tall bookshelves and the edge of a table could be seen through the open door: a study. Here, closer, another sound could just be discerned—a fast, running patter as of a faucet improperly closed.

Tensing, gun forward, Pendergast wheeled around the door frame.

Mike Decker sat in a leather chair, facing his desk. He was ex-military and had always endowed his movements with economy and precision, yet it was not preciseness that kept him so erect in the chair. A heavy steel bayonet had been driven into his mouth, angling down through his neck and pinning him to the headrest. The point of the old bayonet pierced all the way through the chair back, sticking out the back side, its rough edge heavy with blood. Drops fell from its tip onto the sodden carpet.

Another low sigh sounded in Decker’s ruined throat, like the collapsing of a bellows. It died into a faint, bloody gargle. The man stared sightlessly at Pendergast, white shirt stained a uniform red. Streams of blood still flowed across the table, running in slow meanders and draining, with a pattering sound, to the floor.

For a moment, Pendergast remained still, as if thunderstruck. Then he removed one glove and—leaning forward, careful not to step in the blood that had ponded beneath the chair—placed the back of his hand against Decker’s forehead. The man’s skin felt supple, elastic, and its surface temperature was no cooler than Pendergast’s own.

Abruptly, Pendergast drew back. The house was silent—except for the steady dripping.

The sighs, Pendergast knew, were postmortem: air bleeding from the lungs as the body relaxed against the bayonet. Even so, Mike Decker had been dead less than five minutes. Probably less than three.

Yet again, he hesitated. The precise time of death was irrelevant. What was far more important was Pendergast’s realization that Diogenes had waited until Pendergast entered the house before killing Decker.

And that meant his brother might still be here, in this house.

In the distance, at the threshold of hearing, came the wail of police sirens.

Pendergast swept the room, eyes glittering, searching for the slightest clue that might help him track down his brother. His eye finally rested on the bayonet—and, abruptly, he recognized it.

A moment later, his gaze fell to Decker’s hands. One lay slack; the other was clenched in a ball.

Ignoring the approaching sirens, Pendergast withdrew a gold pen from his pocket and carefully teased the clenched hand open. Inside lay three strands of blond hair.

Retrieving a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket, he bent forward and examined the hairs. Returning his hand back into his pocket, he exchanged the loupe for a pair of tweezers. Very carefully, he plucked every strand from the motionless hand.

The sirens were louder now.

By now, Diogenes was certainly gone. He had choreographed the scene, managed its many variables, with perfection. He had entered the house, no doubt immobilized Decker with some kind of drug, then waited for Pendergast to arrive before killing him. Chances were that Diogenes had deliberately tripped the burglar alarm while leaving the house.

A senior FBI agent lay dead, and the house would be picked apart in the search for clues. Diogenes would not risk sticking around—and neither could he.

He heard a screeching of tires, a confusion of sirens, as a phalanx of police cars barreled down Oregon Avenue, now just seconds from the house. Pendergast glanced back at his friend one last time, briskly wiped a trace of excess moisture from one eye, then dashed down the stairs.

The front door was now wide open, a security panel beside it blinking red. He leaped over the inert form of the Weimaraner, exited through the back door, snagged his attaché case, sprinted across the yard, and—tossing the strands of hair into a pile of dead leaves—vanished like a ghost into the shadowy depths of Rock Creek Park.

Seventeen

MARGO GREEN was the first to arrive at the museum’s grand old Murchison Conference Room. As she settled into one of the old leather chairs flanking the massive nineteenth-century oak table, she took in the marvelous—but somewhat disconcerting—details: the trophy heads of now endangered species gracing the walls; the brace of elephant tusks flanking the door; the African masks, leopard, zebra, and lion skins. Murchison had done his fieldwork in Africa over a century before, and had enjoyed a career as a great white hunter alongside his more serious profession of anthropology. There was even a pair of elephant’s-foot wastebaskets at opposite ends of the room. But this was a museum, and a museum must not throw anything away, no matter how politically incorrect it may have become.

Margo used the few moments of quiet before the rest of the department arrived to look through her notes and organize her thoughts. She felt a rising nervousness she seemed unable to quell. Was she doing the right thing? She’d been here all of six weeks, and now, with her very first issue of Museology, she was injecting herself into the midst of controversy. Why was it so important to her?

But she already knew the answer. Personally, she had to make a stand on something she believed in. And professionally, as editor of Museology, it was the right thing to do. People would expect the journal to comment on the issue. Silence, or a weak, waffling editorial, would be noted by all. It would set the tone of her editorship. No—it was important to show that Museology would continue to be relevant and topical while not fearing the controversial. This was her opportunity to show the profession that she meant business.

She went back to her notes. Because the item in question was owned by the Anthropology Department, it was the anthro curators who were most concerned. She would not get a second chance to make her case to the whole department, and she wanted to get it right.

Other curators were now drifting in, nodding to her, chatting among themselves, rattling the almost empty coffee urn, which was boiling into tar the remains of the coffee prepared that morning. Someone poured a cup, then replaced it with a clatter and a suppressed expression of disgust. Nora Kelly arrived, greeted Margo cordially, and took her seat on the opposite side of the table. Margo looked around the room.

All ten curators were now here.

The last to arrive was Hugo Menzies, chairman of the Anthropology Department since the untimely death of Dr. Frock six years before. Menzies gave Margo a special smile and nod, then took his seat at the head of the vast table. Because the bulk of Museology articles were on anthropological subjects, he had been appointed as her supervisor. And—she suspected—he had also been instrumental in her hiring. Unlike everybody else on staff—who favored lawyerly briefcases—Menzies carried around a classy canvas shoulder bag by John Chapman & Company, a top manufacturer of English fishing and shooting gear. At the moment, he was taking some papers out of the bag, squaring and organizing them. Next, he put on his reading glasses, adjusted his tie, and smoothed down his untidy thatch of white hair. Finally, he checked his watch, raised his lively blue eyes to the waiting group, cleared his throat.

“Glad to see you all here,” he said, his voice reedy and old-fashioned. “Shall we commence?”

There was a general shuffling of papers.

“Rather than go through the usual business,” he said, glancing at Margo, “let’s go straight to a subject I know is on all your minds: the problem of the Great Kiva masks.”

More shuffling of papers, glances at Margo. She straightened her back, kept her face neutral and composed. Deep in her heart, she believed she was right, and that helped give her the strength and conviction she needed.

“Margo Green, the new editor of Museology, has asked to speak to you all. As you know, the Tano Indians are requesting the return of the Great Kiva masks, a centerpiece of our upcoming show. As chairman of the department, it’s my job to make a recommendation to the director on this matter: whether we give up the masks, keep them, or seek some compromise. We are not a democracy, but I can promise you your opinions will carry great weight with me. I might add that the director himself will also be seeking the advice of the board and the museum’s attorneys before he makes his final decision, so mine is not the last word.” He smiled, turned to Margo. “And now, Margo, would you like to take the floor?”

Margo rose, looked around the room.

“Most of you probably know I’m planning to run an editorial in the next issue of Museology, calling for the return of the Great Kiva masks to the Tanos. A draft of the editorial has circulated, and it’s caused some consternation in the administration.” She swallowed, trying to conceal the nervous flutter she could hear in her voice.

She went on to speak about the history of the masks and how they were collected, gaining confidence and poise.

“For those of you who aren’t familiar with the Tano Indians,” she said, “they live on a remote reservation on the New Mexico-Arizona border. Because of their isolation, they still retain their original language, religion, and customs, while living with one foot in the modern world. Less than twenty percent of the tribe identify themselves as Christian. Anthropologists believe they settled in their present area along the Tano River almost a thousand years ago. They speak a unique language, apparently unrelated to any other. I’m telling you these things because it’s important to emphasize that these are not Native Americans in genotype alone, trying belatedly to recapture long-lost traditions. The Tano are one of the few tribes who have never lost their traditions.”

She paused. People were listening attentively, and while she knew not all agreed with her, at least they were giving her a respectful hearing.

“The tribe is divided into moieties—that is, two religious groups. The Great Kiva Society masks are used only when these moieties come together for religious ceremonies in the Great Kiva—the kiva being the circular underground chamber that serves as their place of worship. They hold these great ceremonies only once every four years. They believe these ceremonies maintain balance and harmony in the tribe, in all people of the earth, and in the natural world. They believe—and I’m not exaggerating here—that the terrible wars and natural disasters of the last hundred years are due to the fact that they don’t have the Great Kiva masks and have been unable to perform properly the ceremony restoring balance and beauty to the world.”

She went on for another five minutes and then wrapped it up, glad that she’d been able to keep it relatively short.

Menzies thanked her, glanced around the table. “And now, let the debate begin.”

There was a shuffling. Then a thin voice piped up, carrying a slightly aggrieved tone. It was Dr. Prine. The slope-shouldered curator rose to his feet. “Being a specialist in Etruscan archaeology, I don’t know much about the Tano Indians, but I think the whole business has a bad odor to it. Why are the Tano suddenly so interested in these masks? How do we know the Tano won’t just turn around and sell them? They must be worth millions. I’m very suspicious about their motives.”

Margo bit her lip. She remembered Prine from her graduate student days: a dim bulb that had only grown dimmer with the passage of years. His life’s research, she recalled, was a study of Etruscan liver divination.

“For these reasons and many others,” Prine went on, “I’m strongly in favor of keeping the masks. In fact, I can’t believe we’re seriously considering returning them. We bought them, we own them, and we should keep them.” He sat down abruptly.

A short chubby man with a furze of red hair encircling a large bald spot rose next. Margo recognized him as George Ashton, chief curator of the Sacred Images exhibition. Ashton was a capable anthropologist, if temperamental and easily riled. And he looked riled now.

“I agree with Dr. Prine, and I take strong objection to this editorial.” He turned to Margo, his eyes almost popping from his round red face, chin doubling and tripling in his excitement. “I consider it highly inappropriate that Dr. Green raised this question at this time. We’re less than a week from the opening of the biggest show at the museum in years, costing almost five million dollars. The Great Kiva masks are the centerpiece of the show. If we pull those masks, there’s no way the show will open on time. Really, Dr. Green, I find your timing on this matter to be truly unfortunate.” He paused long enough to give Margo a fiery stare, then turned to Menzies. “Hugo, I propose we table this question until after the show has closed. Then we can debate it at leisure. Of course, giving back the masks is unthinkable, but for heaven’s sake let’s make that decision after the show.”

Margo waited. She would respond at the end—if Menzies gave her the opportunity.

Menzies smiled placidly at the indignant curator. “For the record, George, I would note that the timing has nothing to do with Dr. Green—it’s in response to the receipt of a letter from the Tano Indians, which was triggered by your own pre-publicity campaign for the show.”

“Yes, but does she have to publish this editorial?” Ashton slashed the air with a piece of paper. “She could at least wait until after the show closes. This is going to create a public relations nightmare!”

“We are not in the business of public relations,” said Menzies mildly.

Margo cast him a grateful look. She had expected his support, but this was more than just support.

“Public relations are a reality! We can’t just sit in our ivory tower and ignore public opinion, can we? I’m trying to open a show under the most trying conditions, and I do not appreciate being undercut like this—not by Dr. Green and certainly not by you, Hugo!”

He sat down, breathing hard.

Menzies said quietly, “Thank you for your opinion, George.”

Ashton nodded curtly.

Patricia Wong, a research associate in the Textile Department, stood up. “The issue, it seems to me, is simple. The museum acquired the masks unethically, perhaps even illegally. Margo demonstrates that clearly in her editorial. The Tano asked for them back. If we as a museum have any pretense to ethics, we should return them right away. I respectfully disagree with Dr. Ashton. To keep the masks for the show and display them to all the world and then return them admitting we were wrong to have them—that would look hypocritical, or at best opportunistic.”

“Hear, hear,” said another curator.

“Thank you, Dr. Wong,” said Menzies as the woman sat back down.

And now Nora Kelly was standing up, sweeping cinnamon hair from her face, slender and tall. She looked around, poised and confident. Margo felt a swelling of irritation.

“There are two questions before us,” she began, her voice low and reasonable. “The first is whether Margo has the right to publish the editorial. I think we all agree that the editorial independence of Museology must be preserved, even if some of us don’t like the opinions expressed.”

There was a general murmuring of agreement, except from Ashton, who crossed his arms and snorted audibly.

“And I am one of those who does not agree with this editorial.”

Here it comes, thought Margo.

“It’s more than a question of mere ownership. I mean, who owns Michelangelo’s David? If the Italians wanted to break it up to make marble bathroom tiles, would that be acceptable? If the Egyptians decided to level the Great Pyramid for a parking lot, would that be okay? Do they own it? If the Greeks wanted to sell the Parthenon to a Las Vegas casino, would that be their right?”

She paused.

“The answer to these questions must be no. These things are owned by all of humanity. They are the highest expressions of the human spirit, and their value transcends all questions of ownership. So it is with the Great Kiva masks. Yes, the museum acquired them unethically. But they are so extraordinary, so important, and so magnificent that they cannot be returned to the Tano to disappear forever into a dark kiva. So I say: publish the editorial. Let’s have the debate. But for God’s sake, don’t give back the masks.” She paused again, thanked them for listening, and sat down.

Margo felt a redness creeping into her face. As much as she hated to admit it, Nora Kelly was formidable.

Menzies looked around, but it appeared that no one had any more comments. He turned to Margo. “Anything further to add? Now is the time to speak.”

She sprang to her feet. “Yes. I’d like to rebut Dr. Kelly.”

“Please.”

“Dr. Kelly has conveniently overlooked one critical point: the masks are religious objects, unlike everything else she cited.”

Nora was immediately on her feet. “The Parthenon isn’t a temple? The David isn’t a figure from the Bible? The Great Pyramid isn’t a sacred tomb?”

“For heaven’s sakes, they’re not religious objects now. No one goes to the Parthenon to sacrifice rams anymore!”

“Exactly my point. Those objects have transcended their original limited religious function. Now they belong to all of us, regardless of religion. Just so with the Great Kiva masks. The Tano may have created them for religious purposes, but now they belong to the world.”

Margo felt the flush spread through her body. “Dr. Kelly, may I suggest that your logic is better suited to an undergraduate classroom in philosophy than a meeting of anthropologists in the greatest natural history museum in the world?”

A silence followed. Menzies slowly turned toward Margo, fixed her with his blue eyes, over which his eyebrows were drawn down in displeasure. “Dr. Green, passion in science is a marvelous quality. But we must insist upon civility as well.”

Margo swallowed. “Yes, Dr. Menzies.” Her face flamed. How had she allowed herself to lose her temper? She didn’t even dare glance over at Nora Kelly. Here she was, not only creating controversy but making enemies in her own department.

There was a general nervous clearing of throats, a few whispers.

“Very well,” Menzies said, his voice back to its soothing note. “I’ve gotten the drift of opinion from both sides, and it appears we are more or less evenly divided. At least among those with opinions. I have made my decision.”

He paused, casting his eye around the group.

“I will be bringing two recommendations to the director. The first is that the editorial be published. Margo is to be commended for initiating the debate with a well-reasoned editorial, which upholds the best traditions of Museology journal.”

He took a breath. “My second recommendation is that the masks be returned to the Tano. Forthwith.”

There was a stunned silence. Margo could hardly believe it—Menzies had come down one hundred percent on her side. She had won. She sneaked a glance at Nora, saw the woman’s face now reddening as well.

“The ethics of our profession are clear,” Menzies went on. “Those ethics state, and I quote: ‘The first responsibility of an anthropologist is to the people under study.’ It pains me more than I can say to see the museum lose those masks. But I have to agree with Drs. Green and Wong: if we are to set an ethical example, we must return them. Yes, the timing is certainly awkward, and it creates an enormous problem with the exhibition. I’m sorry, George. It can’t be helped.”

“But the loss to anthropology, to the world—” Nora began.

“I have said what I have to say,” said Menzies, just a shade of tartness entering his voice. “This meeting is adjourned.”

Eighteen

BILL SMITHBACK ROUNDED a corner, stopped, then breathed a sigh of relief. There, at the far end of the corridor, lay the door to Fenton Davies’s office, open and unvexed by the lingering shade of Bryce Harriman. In fact, come to think of it, Smithback hadn’t seen much of Harriman at all today. As he walked toward Davies’s office, a fresh spring in his step, he rubbed his hands together, feeling a delicious shudder of schadenfreude at Harriman’s bad luck. To think Harriman had been so eager to get his mitts on the Dangler story. Well, he was welcome to it. In retrospect, it wasn’t really much of a Times story, anyway: far too undignified, tending toward the burlesque. Still, Harriman—what with his recent stint at the Post—would probably find it right up his alley.

Smithback chuckled as he walked.

He, on the other hand, had scored a major coup by landing the Duchamp murder. It was everything a big story should be: unusual, compelling, galvanic. It was the number one topic of conversation around watercoolers all over the city: the gentle, kindly artist who—for no apparent reason—had been bound, a hangman’s noose fitted around his neck, then forced out of a twenty-fourth-story window and sent crashing through the roof of one of Manhattan’s fancy French restaurants. All this in broad daylight in front of hundreds of witnesses.

Smithback slowed a little as he approached Davies’s office. True, those many witnesses were proving hard as hell to track down. And so far, he’d had to content himself with the police department’s official line and what discreet conjectures he’d drummed out of those usually in the know, who were proving disconcertingly out of the know in this case. But the story would break open. Nora was right when she said he always came through in the end. How well she understood him. It was just a matter of working every angle, maintaining traction.

No doubt that was why Davies had summoned him: the editor was eager for more. No sweat, he’d tell Davies he was chasing down some choice leads from his confidential sources. He’d get his ass back up to Broadway and 65th. Today there wouldn’t be any cops around to cramp his style. Then he’d go haunt the precinct house, talk to an old pal there, see what crumbs he could pick up. No, he corrected himself: crumbs wasn’t the right word. Other reporters picked up crumbs, while Smithback found the cake—and ate it, too.

Chuckling at his own metaphorical wit, he paused at the secretarial station outside Davies’s office. Vacant. Late lunch, Smithback thought. Striding forward, feeling and looking every inch the ace reporter, he breezed up, raising his hand to knock on the open door.

Davies was sitting, Buddha-like, behind his cluttered desk. He was short and perfectly bald, with fastidious little hands that always seemed to be doing something: smoothing his tie or playing with a pencil or tracing the lines of his eyebrows. He favored blue shirts with white collars and tightly knotted paisley ties. With his high, soft voice and effeminate mannerisms, Davies might look to the uninitiated like a pushover. But Smithback had learned that this was not the case. You didn’t get to be an editor at the Times without at least a few pints of barracuda blood coursing through your veins. But his delivery was so mild it sometimes took a moment to realize you’d just been disemboweled. He played his cards close to his vest, listened more than he spoke, and one rarely knew what he was really thinking. He didn’t fraternize with his reporters, didn’t hang out with the other editors, and seemed to prefer his own company. There was only one extra chair in his office, and it was never occupied.

Except that today it was occupied by Bryce Harriman.

Smithback froze in the doorway, hand still raised in midknock.

“Ah, Bill.” Davies nodded. “Good timing. Please come in.”

Smithback took a step forward, then another. He struggled to keep his eyes from meeting Harriman’s.

“Planning to file a follow-up on the Duchamp murder?” Davies asked.

Smithback nodded. He felt dazed, as if somebody had just sucker-punched him in the gut. He hoped to hell it didn’t show.

Davies ran his fingertips along the edge of his desk. “What’s the angle going to be?”

Smithback was ready with his answer. This was Davies’s favorite question, and it was a rhetorical one: his way of letting reporters know he didn’t want any grass growing under their feet.

“I was planning a local-interest angle,” he said. “You know, the effect of the killing on the building, the neighborhood, friends and family of the victim. And, of course, I was planning a follow-up story on the progress of the investigation. The detective in charge, Hayward, is the youngest homicide captain in the force and a woman to boot.”

Davies nodded slowly, allowing a meditative hmmmm to escape his lips. As usual, the response communicated nothing about what he was really thinking.

Smithback, his nervousness heightened, elaborated. “You know the drill: unnatural death comes to the Upper West Side, matrons afraid to walk their poodles at night. I’ll weave in a sketch of the victim, his work, that sort of thing. Might even do a sidebar on Captain Hayward.”

Davies nodded again, picked up a pen, rolled it slowly between his palms.

“You know, something that could run on the first page of the Metro Section,” Smithback said gamely, still pitching.

Davies put down the pen. “Bill, this is bigger than a Metro story, the biggest homicide in Manhattan since the Cutforth murder, which Bryce here covered when he was at the Post.”

Bryce here. Smithback kept his face pleasant.

“It’s a story with a lot of angles. Not only do we have the sensational manner of death, but we also have—as you point out—the posh location. Then we have the man himself. An artist. And the female homicide detective.” He paused. “Aren’t you biting off a little more than you can chew—for a single story, that is?”

“I could make it two, even three. No problem.”

“No doubt you could, but then the stretched-out time frame becomes problematic.”

Smithback licked his lips. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was standing and Harriman was sitting.

Davies went on. “I personally had no idea that Duchamp was, in his own quiet way, a painter of some renown. He wasn’t trendy or popular with the SoHo crowd. More of a Sutton Place style of artist, a Fairfield Porter. Bryce and I were just talking about it last night.”

“Bryce,” Smithback repeated. The name tasted like bile in his mouth. “Last night?”

Davies waved his hand with studied nonchalance. “Over drinks at the Metropolitan Club.”

Smithback felt himself stiffen. So that was how the smarmy prick had managed it. He’d taken Davies for drinks at his father’s fancy club. And Davies, it seemed, like any number of editors Smithback had known, was a sucker for that kind of thing. Editors were the worst social climbers, always hanging around the fringes of the rich and famous, hoping to catch a few scraps that dropped from the table. Smithback could just imagine Davies being ushered into the cloistered fastness of the Metropolitan Club; shown to a luxurious chair in some gilded salon; served drinks by deferential men in uniform; all the while exchanging hushed greetings with various Rockefellers, De Menils, Vanderbilts—that was just the thing to turn Davies’s Maplewood, New Jersey, head all the way around.

Now, at last, he glanced again in Harriman’s direction. The scumbag was sitting there, one leg tucked primly over the other, looking as nonchalant as if he did this every day. He didn’t bother returning Smithback’s look. He didn’t need to.

“We haven’t just lost a citizen here,” Davies went on. “We’ve lost an artist. And New York is a poorer place for his loss. See, Bill, you just never know who lives in that apartment next door. It could be a hot dog vendor or a sanitation worker. Or it could be a fine artist whose paintings hang in half the apartments in River House.”

Smithback nodded again, frozen smile on his lips.

Davies smoothed his tie. “It’s a great angle. My friend Bryce here will handle it.”

Oh, God. For a bleak and terrible moment, Smithback thought he was about to be reassigned to the Dangler.

“He’ll cover the society aspect of the story. He knows several of Duchamp’s important former clients, he’s got the family connections. They’ll talk to him, whereas . . .”

His voice trailed off, but Smithback got the message: whereas they won’t talk to you.

“In short, Bryce can give us the silk-stocking view that Times readers appreciate. I’m glad to see you have a handle on the cop and street angle. You keep that up.”

The cop and street angle. Smithback felt his jaw muscles flex involuntarily.

“It goes without saying that you’ll both share information and leads. I’d suggest regular meetings, keeping in touch. This story is certainly big enough for the both of you, and it doesn’t look like it’s going away any time soon.”

Silence descended briefly over the office.

“Was there anything else, Bill?” Davies asked mildly.

“What? Oh, no. Nothing.”

“Then don’t let me keep you.”

“No, of course not,” Smithback said. He was practically stammering now with shock, mortification, and fury. “Thanks.” And as he turned to leave the office, Harriman finally glanced in his direction. There was a smug half-smile on his shit-eating face. It was a smile that seemed to say: See you around, partner.

And watch your back.

Nineteen

SO HOW WAS your first day back?” Hayward asked, gamely sawing away at a chicken breast.

“Fine,” D’Agosta replied.

“Singleton didn’t give you a hard time?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you were just out two days, which probably helped matters. He’s intense—sometimes too intense—but he’s a hell of a cop. So are you. That’s why I know you two will get along.”

D’Agosta nodded, pushed a piece of plum tomato around his plate, then lifted it to his mouth. Chicken cacciatore was the one recipe he could pull off without thinking—barely.

“This is pretty good, Vinnie. Really. I’ll have to let you into the kitchen more often.” And she smiled across the table.

D’Agosta smiled back. He put down his fork for a moment and just watched her eat.

She’d made a special effort to get home on time. She praised his cooking even though he’d overcooked the chicken. She hadn’t even asked about his hasty departure from breakfast that morning. She was clearly making a special effort to give him some space and let him work out whatever he was working out. He realized, with a sudden upwelling of affection, that he really loved this woman.

That made what he was about to do all the harder.

“Sorry I can’t do your dinner justice,” she said. “It deserves to be lingered over. But I’ve got to rush out again.”

“New developments?”

“Not really. The ligature specialist wants to brief us on the knots. Probably just a way of covering his ass—he hasn’t been much help.”

“No?”

“He thinks the knots are Asiatic, maybe Chinese, but that isn’t narrowing it down very much.”

D’Agosta took a deep breath. “Have you looked into the possibility I mentioned at the diner? That Pendergast’s brother might be behind these murders?”

Hayward paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “There’s so little evidence to support that theory that it verges on crank. You know I’m a professional. You have to trust me to conduct this case in the best way possible. I’ll look into it when I have time.”

There was nothing D’Agosta could say to this. They ate for a moment in silence.

“Vinnie,” she said, and something in her tone made him look up at her again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s all right.”

She was smiling again, and her dark eyes shone in the artificial light. “Because the fact is, I’m really happy you’re back on the job.”

D’Agosta swallowed. “Thanks.”

“This crazy posthumous case of Pendergast’s has just been a distraction for you at the worst possible time. He may have been a productive agent, but he wasn’t—well, normal. I know you were a friend of his, but I think—” She paused. “I think he had an unhealthy influence on you. And then, this request from beyond the grave, all this stuff about his brother . . . I have to tell you, I resent that.”

Despite everything, D’Agosta felt a stab of irritation. “I know you never liked the guy. But he got results.”

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t criticize the dead. Sorry.”

The irritation was swept away by a sudden flood of guilt. D’Agosta said nothing.

“Anyway, all that’s past. The Dangler case is high-profile, a great starter case. You’re going to shine, Vinnie, I know you are. It’ll be just like old times.”

D’Agosta cut into a chicken thigh, then dropped his knife on the plate with a clatter. This was agony. He couldn’t put it off any longer.

“Laura,” he began. “There’s no easy way to say this.”

“Say what?”

He took a deep breath. “I’m moving out.”

She froze, as if uncomprehending. Then a look slowly crept over her face: a look of disbelief and pain, like a child who had just been unexpectedly struck by a beloved parent. Seeing that expression, D’Agosta felt just about as bad as he’d ever felt in his life.

“Vinnie?” she asked, dazed.

D’Agosta lowered his eyes. There was a long, excruciating silence.

“Why?”

He didn’t know what to say. He knew only that the one thing he could not do was tell her the truth. Laura, honey, I may be in danger. You’re not a target, but I definitely am. And by staying here, I could put you in danger, as well.

“Is it something I’ve done? Something I haven’t done?”

“No,” he said immediately. He had to make up something, and with Laura Hayward, that something had better be good.

“No,” he said again, more slowly. “You’ve been great. It has nothing to do with you. I really care about you. It has to do with me. Our relationship . . . maybe we started off just a little too fast.”

Hayward did not reply.

D’Agosta felt like he was walking himself off a cliff. There was nothing he wanted more right now than to stay with this woman—this beautiful, caring, supportive woman. He’d rather hurt himself than her. And yet he was hurting her, hurting her deeply, with every word. It was an awful thing to do, but he had no choice. Vincent, you must take every precaution possible. D’Agosta knew that the only way to save this relationship—and, perhaps, Laura Hayward’s life—was by interrupting it.

“I just need a little space, that’s all,” he went on. “To think things through. Get some perspective on my life.” The platitudes sounded hollow, and rather than continue, he stopped short.

He sat there, waiting for Hayward to blow up, curse him out, order him to leave. Yet there was only another long, awful silence. Finally, he looked up. Laura was sitting there, hands in her lap, dinner growing cold, her face pale and her eyes cast downward. Her beautiful blue-black hair had fallen forward, covering one eye. This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. This surprise, this hurt, was even worse than anger.

At last, she sniffed, rubbed a finger beneath her nose, pushed away her plate. Then she rose.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” she said, so quietly D’Agosta barely heard her. He sat motionless as she brushed her hair away from her face. Then she turned and walked quickly toward the door. It wasn’t until her hand was on the doorknob that she stopped, realizing she’d forgotten her coat and her briefcase. She turned, walked slowly to the closet, shrugged into her coat, picked up the case. And then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

She did not look back.

D’Agosta sat at the dinner table for a long time, listening to the tick of the clock, to the faint street noises filtering up from below. Finally, he stood, brought the dishes into the little kitchen, threw the half-eaten dinners into the garbage, and washed up.

Then he turned and—feeling very old—headed for the bedroom to pack.

Twenty

AT THREE O’CLOCK in the morning, the boarded-up Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside Drive looked asleep, perhaps even dead. But deep below the shuttered windows and double-locked doors, activity flickered in one of the basement tunnels cut into the Manhattan bedrock beneath the old house. The longest tunnel—actually a series of connected basement rooms—lay in a line due west, drilling beneath Riverside Drive and Riverside Park toward the Hudson River. At the end, a crude staircase spiraled down a natural cavity to a stone quay, where a watery tunnel led out past a small, weed-draped opening onto the river itself. More than two centuries before, the river pirate who owned the mansion’s earlier incarnation had used this secret passage on nocturnal errands of mischief. Today, only a handful of people knew of the hidden entrance.

In this isolated spot, the soft lapping of oars could be heard. There was a faint plash as the green veil of weeds was lifted aside, exposing an underwater passage. It was a foggy, moonless night, and only the palest glint of light outlined a skiff as it entered the tunnel. Noiselessly, it slid forward beneath a low, rocky ceiling, easing up at last to the stone quay.

Pendergast stepped out of the skiff, tethered it to a cleat, and looked around, eyes glinting in the darkness. He remained still for several minutes, listening. Then he pulled a flashlight from his pocket, snapped it on, and headed up the staircase. At the top, he stepped out into a large room filled with wooden cases displaying weapons and armor, some modern, others dating back two thousand years. He passed through the room and into an old laboratory, beakers and retorts gleaming on long black-topped tables.

In one corner of the laboratory stood a silent, shadowy figure.

Pendergast came forward cautiously, one hand stealing toward his weapon. “Proctor?”

“Sir?”

Pendergast relaxed. “I got the signal from Constance.”

“And I, in turn, got your message to meet here. But I must say I’m surprised to see you in person, sir.”

“I had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. But as it happens, there’s a message that I, in turn, must deliver to Constance, and it’s one I felt had to be delivered in person.”

Proctor nodded. “I understand, sir.”

“From now on, it is vital that you keep a close eye on her. You know Constance, how fragile her mental condition is. How she appears on the surface is no indication at all of her true emotional state. You also know that she’s been through what no other human being has. I fear that, if she is not treated with exceptional care and caution . . .”

His voice trailed off. After a moment, Proctor nodded again.

“This all couldn’t have come at a worse time. I’m going to tell her that she needs to be ready at all times to return to that place . . . where she first hid from us. Where nobody, nobody, could ever find her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You found the breach?”

“It has been found and sealed.”

“Where was it?”

“It seems that a nineteenth-century sewer tunnel runs under Broadway, just beyond the basement fruit cellars. It has not been used for fifty years. He was able to penetrate the fruit cellars from that tunnel, knocking a hole in the pipe.”

Pendergast looked at him sharply. “He didn’t find the staircase leading to this sub-basement?”

“No. It seems he was in the house for only a few moments. He was there just long enough to take the item from a first-floor cabinet and leave.”

Pendergast continued to look fixedly at Proctor. “You must make sure the mansion is perfectly sealed. This cannot be allowed to happen again. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Good. Then let’s go speak with her.”

They passed out of the laboratory and through a series of chambers filled with glass-fronted cabinets and tall cases full of seemingly endless and impossibly eclectic collections: stuffed migratory birds, Amazonian insects, rare minerals, bottled chemicals.

At last, in a room full of butterflies, they stopped. Pendergast licked the flashlight over the ranks of display cases. Then he spoke quietly into the darkness.

“Constance?”

Only silence answered.

“Constance?” he said again, just a trifle louder.

There was a faint rustle of linen; then a woman of about twenty appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She wore a long, old-fashioned white dress with lace ruffling around the throat. Her delicate skin was very pale in the light of the flashlight.

“Aloysius,” she said, embracing him. “Thank God.”

For a moment, Pendergast simply held her close. Then he gently detached himself and turned away for a minute, twisting a small brass knob set into one wall. The chamber filled with faint light.

“Aloysius, what’s the matter?” Her eyes—strangely wise for a face so young—grew anxious.

“I’ll tell you in a moment.” Pendergast placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Tell me about the message.”

“It arrived late this evening.”

“Method of delivery?”

“It was slipped into a crack beneath the front door.”

“You took the necessary precautions?”

Constance nodded. Then she reached into one of her sleeves and drew out a small ivory business card, carefully sealed inside a glassine envelope.

Pendergast took the card, turned it over. Diogenes Pendergast was engraved in fine copperplate on the card’s face: below that, in rose-colored ink, had been written: The Five of Swords is Smithback.

He stared at the card for a long moment. Then he slipped it into his coat pocket.

“What does it mean?” Constance asked.

“I hesitate to tell you more. Your nerves have been strained enough already.”

Constance smiled faintly. “I must say, when you walked into the library, I was sure I was seeing a—a revenant.”

“You know my brother’s plans, how he intends to destroy me.”

“Yes.” Constance went even paler and for a moment seemed to stagger slightly. Pendergast placed his hand on her shoulder.

She mastered herself with effort. “I’m fine, thank you. Do go on.”

“He has already begun. Over the last several days, three of my closest friends have been killed.” Pendergast touched his jacket pocket. “This note from Diogenes puts me on notice that William Smithback is the next target.”

“William Smithback?”

“He’s a reporter for the New York Times.” Pendergast hesitated again.

“And?” Constance asked. “There’s something else troubling you—I can see it in your face.”

“Yes. The first three who died were all very close to me. But that isn’t the case with Bill Smithback. I’ve known him for several years. He was involved in three cases of mine, a very effective journalist. And despite an impulsive and somewhat careerist exterior, he is a good man. What troubles me, however, is that he’s more an acquaintance than a friend. Diogenes is casting his net wider than I thought. It isn’t just close friends who are at risk. And that makes the situation even more difficult than I thought.”

“How can I help?” Constance asked in a low tone.

“By keeping yourself absolutely safe.”

“You think—?”

“That you’re a possible target? Yes. And there’s something more. The third man to die was Michael Decker, an old FBI associate of mine. I found Mike’s body yesterday, in his Washington house. He had been killed with an old bayonet. The modus operandi was a nod to a distant ancestor of mine, who died in a very similar fashion as an officer in Napoleon’s army, during the Russian campaign of 1812.”

Constance shivered.

“What concerned me was the weapon itself. Constance, that bayonet came from the collections of this very house.”

She froze for a moment as the implications of this sank home. “The chasepot or the lebel?” she asked faintly, almost robotically.

“The chasepot. It had the initials P.S.P. engraved onto the quillon. Quite unmistakable.”

But Constance did not reply. Her alert, intelligent eyes had sharpened, deepened, with fear.

“Diogenes has found entrance to this house. No doubt that was the message he intended to deliver to me with that particular bayonet.”

“I understand.”

“You’re still safer within this house than without, and for now you are not in Diogenes’s sights. Proctor here has found and sealed the weak point through which Diogenes entered, and as you know, this mansion has been hardened against intruders in many ways. Proctor will be ceaselessly vigilant, and he is more formidable than he looks. Still, you must be on constant guard. This is a very old and vast house. It has a great many secrets. You know those secrets better than anyone. Follow your instincts. If they tell you something is not right, melt into those recesses of the house that only you know. Be ready at a moment’s notice. And until we can once again feel safe from this threat, I want you to sleep in that secret space where you first hid from me and from Wren.”

At this, Constance’s eyes went wide and wild. She clutched at Pendergast. “No!” she cried passionately. “No, I don’t ever want to go back there again!”

Pendergast immediately put his arms around her. “Constance—”

“You know how it reminds me of that time! The dark spaces, the terrible things . . . I don’t wish to be reminded, ever again!”

“Constance, listen to me. You’ll be safe there. And I can’t do what needs to be done without knowing you’re safe.”

Constance did not respond, and Pendergast pressed her more tightly. “Will you promise me that?”

She laid her forehead against his chest.

“Aloysius,” she said, her voice breaking. “It was just a few months ago we sat in the library, upstairs. You read to me from the newspapers. Do you remember?”

Pendergast nodded.

“I was beginning to comprehend. I felt like a swimmer, coming to the surface after being so long underwater. I want that again. I don’t want to go . . . to go down again. You do understand, don’t you, Aloysius?”

Pendergast caressed her brown hair gently. “Yes, I understand. And everything will be as you want it, Constance. You will get better, I promise. But we must get through this first. Will you help me do that?”

She nodded.

Slowly, Pendergast lowered his arms. Then he took her forehead between his hands and, bringing her close, kissed it gently. “I must go.”

And he turned, darted back into the waiting darkness, and was gone.

Twenty-one

IT WAS QUARTER TO EIGHT when Smithback emerged from his apartment building, glanced up West End Avenue, and stretched out his hand for a taxi. A beat-up yellow cab that had been idling at the far end of the block pulled forward obediently, and Smithback got in with a sigh of regret.

“Forty-fourth and Seventh,” he said. The driver—a thin, olive-skinned man with black hair and a bad complexion—muttered a few words in some unknown tongue and screeched away from the curb.

Smithback settled back, glancing out at the passing cityscape. By rights, he should still be in bed, arms around his new wife, deliciously asleep. But the image of Harriman, sitting in their editor’s office with that insufferably smug look on his face, had spurred him into rising early to flog the story some more.

You’ll both share information and leads, Davies had said. Hell with that. Smithback knew Harriman wasn’t planning to share jack shit, and for that matter neither was he. He’d check in at the office, make sure nothing disagreeable had happened overnight, and then hit the pavement. The article he’d turned in the night before had been weak, and he had to get something better. He had to, even if it meant buying a damn apartment in Duchamp’s building. Now, there was an idea: calling a real estate agent and posing as a prospective buyer . . .

The driver turned sharply left onto 72nd. “Hey, watch it,” Smithback said. “I’m nursing a war wound back here.” For once, the driver had closed the shield of Plexiglas that separated the front from the back. The cab stank of garlic, onions, and cumin, and Smithback opened the rear window. As usual, the damn thing only went down about a third of the way. Smithback’s mood, already low, fell lower.

It was probably just as well he’d left the apartment ninety minutes early. Nora had been in a foul mood for several days now, getting hardly any sleep and working at the museum until well past midnight. That, plus the frosty exchange between her and Margo Green the other night at the Bones, was weighing on him heavily. Margo was an old friend and it pained him the two didn’t get along. They’re too much alike, he thought. Strong-willed and smart.

Ahead lay the West Side Highway and the Hudson River. Instead of turning south onto the highway and heading toward Midtown, the driver gunned the cab up the merge ramp onto the northbound lanes.

“What the hell?” Smithback said. “Hey, you’re going the wrong way!”

In response, the driver jammed down harder on the accelerator, veering past blaring horns and into the far left lane.

Shit, the guy’s English is worse than I thought. Smithback pounded on the heavy shield of scratched Plexiglas. “You’re going the wrong way. Okay? The—wrong—way. I said 44th Street. Get off at 95th and turn around!”

The driver didn’t respond. Instead, he continued to accelerate, weaving in and out of lanes as he passed car after car. The 95th Street exit came and went in a flash.

Smithback’s mouth went dry. Jesus, am I being kidnapped or something? He grabbed for the door lock, but as with most cabs the outer knob had been removed and the pull itself was engaged, sunk beneath the level of the window frame.

He renewed his frantic tattoo against the Plexiglas shield. “Stop the car!” he yelled as the cab squealed around a bend. “Let me out!”

When there was no answer, Smithback reached into his pocket and plucked out his cell phone to dial 911.

“Put that thing away, Mr. Smithback,” came the voice from the front seat. “You’re in good hands, I assure you.”

Smithback froze in the act of dialing. He knew that voice: knew it well. But it certainly didn’t belong to the Mediterranean-looking man in the front seat.

“Pendergast?” he said incredulously.

The man nodded. He was looking in the rearview mirror, scanning the cars behind them.

The fear abated—slowly, slowly—to be replaced by surprise. Pendergast, Smithback thought. Oh, God. Why do I get a sinking feeling every time I run into him?

“So the rumors were wrong,” he said.

“Of my death? Most certainly.”

Smithback guessed they were going at least a hundred miles an hour. Cars were flashing past, vague shapes and blurs of color.

“You mind telling me what’s going on? Or why you’re in disguise? You look like a fugitive from a Turkish prison—if you don’t mind my saying so,” he added hastily.

Pendergast glanced again in the rearview mirror. “I’m taking you to a place of safety.”

This didn’t immediately register. “You’re taking me where?”

“You’re a marked man. There’s a dangerous killer after you. The nature of the threat forces me to take unusual measures.”

Smithback opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. Alarm, incredulity, astonishment, mingled in equal measures within him. The 125th Street exit passed in a heartbeat.

Smithback found his voice. “A killer after me? What for?”

“The more you know, the more dangerous it will be for you.”

“How do you know I’m in danger? I haven’t pissed off anybody—not lately, anyway.”

To the left, the North River Control Plant shot by. Glancing uneasily to his right, Smithback thought he caught the briefest glimpse of 891 Riverside Drive—ancient, shadow-haunted—rising above the greenery of Riverside Park.

The car was moving so fast now the tires barely seemed to touch the road. Smithback looked around for a seat belt, but the cab had none. Cars flashed past as if stationary. What the hell kind of an engine does this thing have? He swallowed. “I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s going on. I’m a married man now.”

“Nora will be fine. She’ll be told you’re on assignment for the Times and will be incommunicado for a while. I’ll see to that myself.”

“Yeah, and what about the Times? I’m in the middle of an important assignment.”

“They will hear from a doctor of your sudden, serious illness.”

“Oh, no. No way. The Times is a dog-eat-dog place. It doesn’t matter if I’m sick or dying, I’ll lose the assignment.”

“There will be other assignments.”

“Not like this one. Look, Mr. Pendergast, the answer is—shit!”

Smithback braced himself as the cab whipped around a cluster of cars, weaving across three lanes, swerving at the last moment to avoid rear-ending a lumbering truck and shooting back into the fast lane. Smithback gripped the seat, silenced by terror.

Pendergast glanced once again in the rearview mirror. Looking around, Smithback could see—four or five cars back—a black Mercedes, weaving in and out of the traffic, pacing them.

Smithback faced forward again, feeling a rush of panic. Ahead on the shoulder, an NYPD cruiser had pulled over a van and the officer was out writing a ticket. As they flew past, Smithback saw the cop whirl around in disbelief, then run back to his cruiser.

“For God’s sake, slow down,” he choked out, but if Pendergast heard him, he gave no response.

Smithback glanced back again. Despite the awful speed, the black Mercedes wasn’t falling behind. If anything, it seemed to be gaining. It had heavily tinted windows, and he could not make out the driver.

Ahead were signs for Interstate 95 and the George Washington Bridge. “Brace yourself, Mr. Smithback,” Pendergast said over the roar of the engine and the screaming of wind.

Smithback seized a door handle, planted his feet on the plastic floor mats. He was so frightened he could hardly think.

Traffic had begun to thicken as the two-lane exit approached, one stream of cars heading for the bridge and New Jersey, the other heading eastward toward the Bronx. Pendergast slowed, alternately watching the traffic ahead and the Mercedes in the rearview mirror. Then, seizing an opportunity, he sheared across all four lanes of traffic onto the right shoulder. A squeal of brakes and a torrent of angry horns erupted, Doppler-shifting lower as Pendergast jammed on the accelerator again, blasting up the narrow shoulder, sending loose trash and hubcaps flying behind them.

“Holy shit!” Smithback yelled.

Ahead, the shoulder narrowed, the curb of the median angling in from the right. But instead of slowing, Pendergast pushed the car relentlessly forward. The tires on the passenger side reared up onto the curb and the vehicle charged ahead at an unwieldy angle, rocking crazily back and forth, tires squealing, the stone wall of the exit perilously close at hand.

From behind came the faint wail of a siren.

Pendergast braked abruptly, then turned into a brutal, four-wheel power slide, just merging into a hole in the traffic converging on the Trans-Manhattan Expressway. He changed lanes once—so fast Smithback was thrown sideways on the seat—twice, a third time, darting back and forth, all the while accelerating. The car blasted along beneath the hulking apartments like a bullet through the barrel of a gun.

A quarter mile ahead, a sea of red lights winked back out of the gloom as traffic bunched up in the inevitable gridlock of the Cross Bronx Expressway. The right-hand lane was blocked off by orange cones, signs announcing a highway repair project that—typically—was empty and unmanned. Pendergast veered into the lane, scattering cones left and right.

Smithback glanced back. The black Mercedes was still there, no more than six cars back, pacing them despite all Pendergast could do. Much farther behind now were two police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

Suddenly, Smithback was thrown to one side. Pendergast had abruptly veered onto the off-ramp for the Harlem River Drive. Instead of slowing, he maintained a speed close to a hundred miles an hour. With a shriek of stressed rubber, the car drifted sideways, its flank contacting the stone retaining wall that encircled the ramp. There was a scream of ripping steel, and an explosion of sparks flew backward.

“Son of a bitch! You’re going to kill—!”

Smithback’s voice was cut off as Pendergast braked violently once again. With a bucking motion, the car shot over a divider onto the opposing entrance helix to a small bridge spanning the Harlem River. The vehicle fishtailed wildly before Pendergast regained control. Then he accelerated yet again as they shot over the river and into a tangle of narrow streets leading toward the South Bronx.

Heart in mouth, Smithback glanced once again over his shoulder. Impossibly, the Mercedes was still there, farther back now but gaining once again. Even as he watched, the driver’s window of the Mercedes opened and there was a sudden puff of smoke, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

With a thunk!, the passenger side mirror vanished in a spray of glass and plastic, annihilated by a high-caliber bullet.

“Shit!” Smithback screamed.

“Get down,” Pendergast said, but Smithback was already on the floor, hands over his head.

From this position, the nightmare was even worse: unable to see anything, Smithback could only imagine the chaos of the chase, the violent changes of direction, the screeching of tires, the roar of the engine, the blaring of horns, snatches of cursing in English and Spanish. And above it all, the ever-growing wail of police sirens. Again and again, he was thrown forward against the undersupports of the front seat as Pendergast braked violently; again and again, he was thrown back as the agent accelerated.

After a few endless minutes, Pendergast spoke again. “I need you to get up, Mr. Smithback. Do so carefully.”

Smithback rose, gripping the seat. The car was racing along a wide avenue through an impoverished barrio of the Bronx, darting from left to right. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder. In the distance, he could see the Mercedes still pacing them, swerving back and forth among slow-moving delivery vans and lowriders. Farther back were strung out at least half a dozen police cars.

“We’re going to be stopping in a moment,” Pendergast said. “It is imperative that you follow me out of the car as quickly as possible.”

“Follow—?” Smithback was so terrorized his mind had stopped working.

“Just do as I say, please. Stay right behind me. Right behind me. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Smithback croaked.

Ahead, the road ended in a vast fence of barbed wire and metal pipe, interrupted only by a heavy gate directly before them. The fence enclosed at least five acres of cars, SUVs, and vans, squeezed impossibly close to one another, extending from one end of the fence to the other, a sea of vehicles, all makes and models and vintages. They were all packed so tightly not even a scooter could get between them. Atop the gate was a battered sign that read Division of Motor Vehicles—Mott Haven Impound Facility.

Pendergast plucked a small remote control from one pocket and punched a code onto its keypad. Slowly, the gate began to open. When Pendergast did not reduce speed, Smithback clasped the door handle again and clenched his teeth.

The car blew past the gate with an inch to spare and, with a shuddering squeal of brakes, spun sideways and stopped at the wall of cars. Without bothering to turn off the engine, Pendergast leaped out and took off, with a brusque wave for Smithback to follow. The reporter tumbled out of the backseat and dashed after Pendergast, who was already running through the maze of cars. They made directly for the rear of the facility, running and dodging through the sea of parked vehicles. Smithback could barely keep up with the agent flying along in front of him.

It was close to a half-mile sprint to the rear wall of the impound facility. At last, Pendergast stopped at the final row of vehicles, which were parked a few dozen yards in from the rear of the yard, blocked by the same heavy steel pipe fence. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a battered Chevy van parked in the last row and gestured for Smithback to get in the back. Pendergast leaped behind the wheel, turned the key, and the van roared to life.

“Hold on,” he said. Then he put the van in gear and shot forward, accelerating directly toward the pipe fence.

“Wait,” Smithback said. “You’ll never bash through that fence. We’ll be—oh, shit!” He turned away, shielding his face from the inevitable catastrophic impact.

There was a loud clang; a brief jolt; but the van was still accelerating forward. Smithback raised his head and lowered his arms, heart pounding, and looked back. He saw that a section of the fence had been knocked away, leaving a clean rectangular hole in its place.

“The metal pipes had already been cut, then spot-welded back into place,” Pendergast said by way of explanation, driving more slowly now, making a number of turns through a warren of side streets while removing his wig and wiping the stage makeup from his face with a silk handkerchief. The black Mercedes and the police cars were gone. “Help me with this.”

Smithback climbed into the front seat and helped Pendergast pull off the cheap, stained brown polyester top, revealing a dress shirt and tie underneath.

“Hand me my jacket back there, if you’d be so kind.”

Smithback pulled a beautifully pressed suit coat off a rack hanging behind the front seat. Pendergast slid into it quickly.

“You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?” Smithback said.

Pendergast turned onto East 138th Street. “This is a case where advance preparation meant the difference between life and death.”

All at once, Smithback understood the plan. “That guy who was after us—you lured him into the one place he couldn’t follow. There’s no way around that impound facility.”

“There is a way around, yes, involving three miles of driving through congested side streets.” Pendergast turned north, heading for the Sheridan Expressway.

“So who the hell was that? The man you say is trying to kill me?”

“As I said, the less you know, the better. Although I must say that the high-speed chase and the use of firearms were uncharacteristically crude of him. Perhaps he saw his opportunity evaporating and became desperate.” He looked over at Smithback with a laconic expression. “Well, Mr. Smithback? Convinced?”

Smithback nodded slowly. “But why me? What’d I do?”

“That is, unfortunately, the very question I can’t answer.”

Smithback’s heart was only now slowing down, and he felt as wrung out and limp as a dishrag. He’d been in tight spots with Pendergast before. Deep down, he knew the man wouldn’t do something like this unless it was absolutely necessary. All of a sudden, his career at the Times seemed a lot less important.

“Hand me your cell phone and wallet, please.”

Smithback did as requested. Pendergast shoved them in the glove compartment and handed him an expensive leather billfold.

“What’s this?”

“Your new identity.”

Smithback opened it. There was no money, only a Social Security card and a New York driver’s license.

“Edward Murdhouse Jones?” he read off.

“Correct.”

“Yes, but Jones? Come on, what a cliché.”

“That’s precisely why you’ll have no trouble remembering it . . . Edward.”

Smithback shoved the wallet in his back pocket. “How long is this going to last?”

“Not long, I hope.”

“What do you mean not long? A day or two?”

No answer.

“Where the hell are you taking me, anyway?”

“River Oaks.”

“River Oaks? The millionaire funny farm?”

“You are now the troubled son of a Wall Street investment banker, in need of rest, relaxation, a bit of undemanding therapy, and isolation from the hectic world.”

“Hold on, I’m not checking into any mental hospital—”

“You’ll find River Oaks to be quite luxurious. You’ll have a private room, gourmet food, and elegant surroundings. The grounds are beautiful—pity they are buried in two feet of snow at the moment. There’s a spa, library, game room, and every imaginable comfort. It’s housed in a former Vanderbilt mansion in Ulster County. The director is a very sympathetic man. He’ll be most solicitous, I assure you. Most important, it is utterly secure from the killer who is determined to end your life. I am sorry I can’t tell you more, I really am.”

Smithback sighed. “This director, he’ll know all about me, right?”

“He’s got all the information he could possibly need. You will be well treated. Indeed, you are guaranteed special treatment.”

“No force-fed meds? Straitjackets? Shock therapy?”

Pendergast smiled faintly. “Nothing like that, trust me. You’ll be waited on hand and foot. An hour of counseling a day, that’s all. The director is fully informed, he has all the necessary documents. I’ve purchased some clothes that I think will fit you.”

Smithback was silent a moment. “Gourmet food, you say?”

“As much as you could wish.”

Smithback sat forward. “But Nora. She’ll worry about me.”

“As I mentioned, she’ll be led to understand you are on a special assignment for the Times. Given the work she’s doing for the opening, she’ll hardly have time to think about you at all.”

“If they’re after me, she’ll be in danger. I need to be there to protect her.”

“I can tell you that Nora is in absolutely no danger at present. However, she will be in danger if you remain near her. Because you are the target. It is for her sake as much as yours that you must go into hiding. The farther away you are, the safer she’ll be.”

Smithback groaned. “This is going to be a disaster for my career.”

“Your career will suffer more from your untimely death.”

Smithback could feel the lump of the wallet in his back pocket. Edward Murdhouse Jones. “I’m sorry, but I don’t like this at all.”

“Like it or not, I’m saving your life.”

Smithback did not reply.

“Are we clear on that, Mr. Smithback?”

“Yes,” Smithback said, with a dreadful sinking feeling.

Twenty-two

NORA KELLY TRIED to shut out the din of the exhibition hall and focus her attention on the box of sand in front of her. On one side, she had laid out the objects to be arranged: a skeleton in plasticine, along with a suite of grave goods—priceless objects in gold, jade, polychrome ceramics, bone, and carved shell. On the other side of the large box, she had set up a photograph of a real tomb, a photo taken only moments after its astonishing discovery. It was the grave of a ninth-century Mayan princess named Chac Xel, and Nora’s job was to re-create it—in painstaking detail—for the Sacred Images exhibition.

As she contemplated the work, she could hear, over her shoulder, the heavy breathing from one very annoyed guard, upset at being pulled from his usual duty manning the sleepy Hall of Pelagic Birds and thrust into a manic hive of activity at the very center of the Sacred Images show. She heard the guard shift his enormous bulk and sigh theatrically as if to hurry her along.

But Nora wouldn’t allow herself to be rushed. This was one of the most important exhibits in the entire exhibition. The artifacts to be arranged were extraordinarily delicate and demanded the utmost attention and care. Once again, she tried to shut out the uproar of construction, the growl of drills and the whine of Skilsaws, the shoutings back and forth, the furious comings and goings of curators, designers, and assistants. And on top of that, with the museum’s security system being beefed up for the umpteenth time in preparation for the new opening, they had to drop everything and leave the exhibition now and then as sensors were installed and software tested. It was pure bedlam.

Nora refocused her attention on the sandbox in front of her. She began by arranging the bones, laying them in the sand after their original placement in the photograph. The princess had not been laid out flat, Western style; rather, her body had been bound into a mummy bundle, knees drawn up to the face, arms folded in front, the whole wrapped up like a package in beautiful woven blankets. The rotting of the bundle had caused the skeleton to fall open, spilling the bones in a crazy pattern on the floor of the tomb, which Nora carefully replicated.

Next came the placement of the objects found in the tomb. Unlike the bones, these were the real thing—and virtually priceless. She slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and lifted the largest object, a heavy pectoral in beaten electrum depicting a jaguar surrounded by glyphs. She held it up, momentarily spellbound by the dazzle of light off its golden curves. She laid it with care on the skeleton’s chest. Next came a gold necklace, which she placed around the cervical vertebrae. Half a dozen gold rings were slipped onto the bony fingers. A solid-gold tiara set with jades and turquoises went atop the skull. She carefully arranged pots in a semicircle, filled with offerings of polished jade, turquoises, and glossy pieces of black obsidian. Next came a ceremonial obsidian knife, almost a foot long with many barbs, still sharp enough to make a nasty cut if not handled just so.

She paused. The last thing was the jade mask, worth millions, carved from a single flawless block of deep green nephrite jade, with rubies and white quartz set in the eyes, and turquoise teeth.

“Lady,” said the guard, interrupting her reverie, “I’ve got a break in fifteen.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Nora dryly.

She was about to reach for the mask when she heard the voice of Hugo Menzies at some distance, not loud but somehow riding above the din. “Wonderful work!” he was saying. “Marvelous!”

Nora looked up to see the bushy-haired figure picking his way down the hall, stepping fastidiously across a floor strewn with electrical cables, sawdust, pieces of Bubble Wrap, and other construction detritus. The omnipresent canvas fishing bag he used instead of a briefcase was slung over one shoulder. He was shaking hands, nodding in approval, encouraging as he went along, knowing everyone’s name, from the carpenters to the curators. Everyone got a nod, a smile, a word of encouragement. How different from Ashton, chief curator of this exhibition, who felt it beneath him to talk to anybody lacking a doctoral degree.

After the meeting, Nora had been furious with Menzies for coming down on Margo Green’s side. But it was impossible to stay angry with a man like Menzies: he so clearly believed in what he was doing, and she’d personally witnessed so many other ways, large and small, in which he’d supported the department. No, you couldn’t stay mad at Hugo Menzies.

It was a different story, though, with Margo Green.

Menzies approached. “Hello, Frank,” he said to the guard, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Nice to see you here.”

“You, too, sir,” the guard said, straightening up and wiping the scowl off his face.

“Ahh,” said Menzies, turning to Nora. “That High Classic jade mask is one of my favorite objects in the entire museum. You know how they made it so thin? Polished it down by hand with blades of grass. But I expect you already knew that.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

Menzies laughed. “Of course. What am I thinking? Excellent work, Nora. This is going to be a highlight of the show. May I watch while you place the mask?”

“Of course.”

She reached down and picked it up with her white-gloved hands, not without trepidation. Carefully, she placed it in the sand above the head of the body, where it had been found, adjusting it and making sure it was secure.

“A trifle to the left, Nora.”

She moved it slightly.

“Perfect. I’m glad I was in time to see that.” He smiled, winked, and moved on through the chaos, leaving in his wake people who were working all the harder, if such a thing were possible. Nora had to admire his people skills.

The case was complete, but she wanted to check it one more time. She ran through the list of items, matching them to the photograph. She had only one shot to get this right: once the case was sealed under bulletproof, shatterproof glass, it wouldn’t be opened until the end of the show, four months later.

As she ran the final check, for some reason her mind wandered to Bill. He’d run off to Atlantic City covering some casino story and wouldn’t be back for—she realized she wasn’t sure when he’d be back. He’d been so vague. And it had all happened so suddenly. Was this what it was like to be married to a reporter? What had happened to the murder he was covering? And wasn’t he on the city desk? She supposed that a casino story in New Jersey might qualify for the city desk, but still . . . He’d sounded so strange on the telephone, so breathless, so tense.

She sighed, shook her head. It was probably for the better, given that she’d hardly been able to see him with all the craziness surrounding the opening. Everything was, as usual, behind schedule, and Ashton was on the warpath. She could hear the chief curator’s voice, pitched high in querulous complaint in some far corner of the hall.

The guard issued another ostentatious sigh behind her, breaking her reverie.

“Just a minute,” she said over her shoulder. “As soon as we get this sealed.” She glanced at her watch. Three-thirty already. And she’d been going since six. She was going to be working at least until midnight, and every minute she wasted now was a minute of sleep lost at the end of the day.

Nora turned to the foreman, who had been nearby, waiting for this moment. “Ready to seal the case.”

Soon a group of exhibition assistants, under the foreman’s direction, began fitting the monstrously heavy sheet of glass over the tomb, accompanied by grunts and curses.

“Nora?”

She turned. It was Margo Green. Bad timing, as usual.

“Hello, Margo,” she said.

“Wow. Beautiful exhibit.”

Nora saw out of the corner of her eye the scowling face of the guard, the gaggle of laborers sealing up the tomb.

“Thanks. We’re really under the gun here, as you can see.”

“I can.” She hesitated. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time than I have to.”

Then don’t, thought Nora, trying to maintain her fake smile. She had four other cases to mount and seal. She couldn’t help but watch as the workers struggled to seat the glass. If they dropped it . . .

Margo stepped closer, lowered her voice. “I wanted to apologize for my snarky comment in the meeting.”

Nora straightened. This was unexpected.

“It was uncalled-for. Your points were all well taken and totally within professional bounds. I was the one who acted unprofessionally. It’s just . . .” Margo hesitated.

“Just what?”

“You’re so damned . . . competent. And articulate. I was intimidated.”

Nora didn’t quite know how to answer this. She looked closely at Margo, who was reddening from the effort to apologize. “You’re not exactly a pushover yourself,” she finally said.

“I know. We’re both kind of stubborn. But stubborn is good—especially if you’re a woman.”

Nora couldn’t help but smile, this time for real. “Let’s not call it stubbornness. Let’s call it the courage of our convictions.”

Margo smiled in turn. “That sounds better. Although a lot of people might call it plain old bitchiness.”

“Hey,” said Nora. “Bitchy is good, too.”

Margo laughed. “Anyway, Nora, I just wanted to say I was sorry.”

“I appreciate the apology. I really do. Thank you, Margo.”

“See you around.”

Nora paused, the case temporarily forgotten in her surprise, as she watched Margo’s slender form make its way back through the barely controlled chaos of the exhibition.

Twenty-three

CAPTAIN LAURA HAYWARD sat in a plastic chair in the trace evidence lab on the twelfth floor of One Police Plaza, making a conscious effort not to glance at her watch. Archibald Quince, chief scientist of the fiber analysis unit, was holding forth: walking back and forth before a crowded evidence table, hands clasped behind the white lab coat one minute, then gesticulating the next. It was a rambling, repetitious tale, full of sound and fury, and yet it all came down to one easily grasped point: the man didn’t have shit.

Quince paused in midstep, then turned toward her, his tall, bony frame all angles and elbows. “Allow me to summarize.”

Thank God, Hayward thought. At least there was light at the end of the tunnel.

“Only a handful of fibers were recovered that were foreign to the site. A few were stuck to the ropes used to bind the victim; another was found on the couch where the victim was placed, peri-mortem. We can thus reasonably assume a fiber exchange between the murderer and the murder scene. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Since all fibers were the same—length, composition, spinning method, and so forth—we can also assume they are primary rather than secondary fiber transfers. In other words, they’re fibers from the killer’s clothes rather than fibers that happened to be on the killer’s clothes.”

Hayward nodded, forcing herself to pay attention. All day, as she’d gone about her work, she’d felt the strangest sensation: as if she were floating, detached, just outside her own body. She didn’t know if it was due to weariness or to the shock of Vincent D’Agosta’s abrupt, unexpected departure. She wished she could get mad about it, but somehow anger wouldn’t come—just grief. She wondered where he was, what he was doing now. And, more urgently, she wondered how in his mind such a good thing could have suddenly gone so wrong.

“Captain?”

Hayward realized there was a question hanging in the air, unanswered. She looked up quickly. “Excuse me?”

“I said would you like to see a sample?”

Hayward rose. “Sure.”

“It’s an extremely fine animal fiber, one I’ve never seen before. We’ve identified it as an exceptionally rare kind of cashmere, blended with a small percentage of merino. Very, very expensive. As you’ll notice, both fiber types were dyed black prior to being spun together. But take a look for yourself.” Stepping back, Quince gestured toward the stereoscopic microscope that stood beside the lab table.

Hayward came forward and glanced through the oculars. Half a dozen slender black threads were displayed against a light background, sleek and glossy and very even.

Very, very expensive. Though she was still waiting for Psych to deliver the profile, a few things about the perp were already obvious. He—or perhaps she—was very sophisticated, highly intelligent, and had access to funds.

“The dye has also proven elusive to identification. It’s made from a natural vegetative pigmentation, not synthetic chemicals, but we haven’t yet been able to track down the coloring agent. It’s not in any database we’ve checked. The closest we’ve come is a certain rare berry grown on the mountain slopes of Tibet, used by local tribesmen and Sherpas.”

Hayward stepped back from the scope. As she listened, she felt a faint frisson of recognition. She had excellent instincts, and normally that little tingle meant two pieces of a puzzle coming together. But at the moment, she couldn’t imagine what those pieces might be. She was probably even more tired than she thought. She would go home, have an early dinner, then try to get some sleep.

“Despite their fineness, the fibers are very tightly woven,” Quince said. “Do you know what that means?”

“An extremely soft and comfy garment?”

“Yes. But that’s not the point. Such a garment doesn’t shed easily. It isn’t usually a donor garment. Hence the small number of fibers.”

“And, perhaps, evidence of a struggle.”

“My thought as well.” Quince frowned. “Normally, the fact that the fabric is uncommon is important to a fiber examiner. It’s helpful in identifying the suspect. But here the fabric is so uncommon it’s actually proving to be the opposite. There’s nothing exactly like it in any of the textile fiber databases. Then there’s another odd thing: the age of the fiber.”

“Which is?”

“Our tests have indicated the fabric was spun at least twenty years ago. Yet there is no evidence the clothing itself is old. The fibers aren’t worn. There isn’t the kind of fading or damage you’d expect from years of usage and dry cleaning. It’s as if the fabric came off the store rack yesterday.”

At last, Quince shut up. He stretched out his arms, palms up, as if in supplication.

“And?” Hayward asked.

“That’s it. As I said, all our searches have come up empty. We’ve checked with textile mills, clothing manufacturers, everything. Foreign and domestic. It’s the same as with the rope. This fabric seems to have been made on the moon, for all we can learn.”

For all we can learn? “I’m sorry, but that’s just not good enough.” Fatigue and impatience gave her tone a sudden edge. “We have only a handful of evidence in this case, Dr. Quince, and these fibers are some of the most important of that evidence. You said yourself the fabric is extremely rare. If you’ve already checked with the mills and the manufacturers, then you should be checking with individual tailors.”

Quince shrank back at this scolding. His large, moist, houndlike eyes blinked back at her, full of hurt. “But, Captain Hayward, with all the tailors in the world, that would be like looking for a needle in—”

“If the fabric’s as fine as you say it is, then you’d need to contact only the most exclusive and expensive tailors. And in only three cities: New York, London, and Hong Kong.”

Hayward realized she was breathing heavily and that her voice had risen. Calm down, she told herself.

In the uncomfortable silence that settled over the lab, Hayward heard a throat being tactfully cleared. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Captain Singleton standing in the doorway.

“Glen,” she said, wondering how long he’d been standing there.

“Laura.” Singleton nodded. “Mind if we have a word?”

“Of course.” Hayward turned back to Quince. “Give me a follow-up report tomorrow, please.” Then she followed Singleton out into the corridor.

“What’s up?” she asked as they paused in the bustling hallway. “It’s almost time for Rocker’s state-of-the-force meeting.”

Singleton waited a moment before answering. He was dressed in a dapper chalk-stripe suit, and despite its being late afternoon, his white shirt was still as crisp as if he’d just put it on.

“I got a call from Special Agent in Charge Carlton of the New York field office,” he said, motioning her to step to one side, out of the traffic. “He was following up on a request from Quantico.”

“What request is that?”

“Have you heard the name Michael Decker?”

Hayward thought a moment, shook her head.

“He was a top FBI honcho, lived in a classy D.C. neighborhood. The man was murdered yesterday. Speared through the mouth with a bayonet. Nasty piece of business, and, as you can imagine, the FBI are on the case hammer and tongs. They’re following up with Decker’s colleagues, trying to find out if there might be any bad guys in the man’s past who had a score to settle.” Singleton shrugged. “It seems one of Decker’s colleagues, and closest friends, was a man named Pendergast.”

Hayward glanced at him abruptly. “Agent Pendergast?”

“That’s right. You worked with him on the Cutforth murder, right?”

“He’s been involved in a few priors of mine.”

Singleton nodded. “Since Agent Pendergast is missing and presumed dead, Carlton asked me to check with any associates of his in the NYPD. See if he ever talked about Decker, maybe mentioned enemies the man might have had. I figured you might know something.”

Hayward thought a moment. “No, Pendergast never spoke of Decker to me.” She hesitated. “You might talk to Lieutenant D’Agosta, who worked with him on at least three cases going back seven years.”

“That so?”

Hayward nodded, hoping that her expression remained professionally neutral.

Singleton shook his head. “The thing is, I can’t find D’Agosta. He hasn’t reported in since lunch, and nobody else working his case has seen him. And for some reason, we can’t raise him on his radio. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?” As Singleton spoke, he kept his voice studiously neutral, his eyes fixed on the people walking past them.

In that moment, Hayward realized he knew about her and D’Agosta. She felt a sudden, consuming embarrassment. So it’s not the big secret we thought it was. She wondered how soon Singleton would learn D’Agosta had moved out.

She licked her lips. “Sorry. I’ve no idea where Lieutenant D’Agosta might be.”

He hesitated. “Pendergast never mentioned Decker to you?”

“Never. He was the kind of guy who really kept his cards close, never talked about anyone, least of all himself. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“Like I said, it was a long shot. Let the FBI take care of their own.” Now, at last, he looked directly at her. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? We’ve got a few minutes before that meeting.”

“No, thanks. I need to make a couple of quick phone calls first.”

Singleton nodded, shook her hand, then turned away.

Hayward watched his receding form, thinking. Then, slowly, she turned the other way, preparing to head back to her office. As she did so, everything else suddenly fell away: the murmur of conversations, the people walking past; even the fresh and painful ache in her heart.

She had made the connection.

Twenty-four

WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR. paced around his sumptuous third-floor room at River Oaks. He had to admit that Pendergast was right: the place was gorgeous. His room was luxuriously furnished, albeit in a style that went out with the Victorians: dark crushed-velvet wallpaper, oversize bed with canopy, hulking mahogany furniture. Paintings in gilt frames hung on all four walls: a still life of fruit in a bowl; sunset over the ocean; a pastoral countryside of cows and hayricks. They were real oils, too, not reproductions. While nothing had been actually screwed to the floors or walls, Smithback had noticed an absence of sharp implements, and he’d had the indignity of having his belt and tie taken away upon entrance. There was also a marked absence of telephones.

He strolled thoughtfully over to the large window and stared out. It was snowing, the fat flakes ticking against the glass. Outside, in the dying light, he could see a vast lawn deep in snow, bordered with hedges and gardens—all lumps and mounds of white—and dotted with icicled statuary. The garden was surrounded by a high stone wall, beyond which stood forest and a winding road that led down the mountain to the nearest town, six miles away. There were no bars on the window, but the small, thick leaded panes looked like they’d be very difficult to break.

Just for the hell of it, he tried to push the window open. Although there was no visible lock, it refused to budge. Smithback tried a little harder. Nothing. He turned away with a shrug.

River Oaks was a huge and rambling structure, perched atop one of the lower peaks of the Catskills: the country retreat of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt in the days before Newport, now converted to a mental hospital for the ultra-privileged. The orderlies and nurses wore discreet black uniforms instead of the usual white, and were ready to attend to every need of the “guests.” Aside from light work duty and the daily hour of therapy, he had no set schedule. And the food was fantastic: Smithback, whose work duty was in the kitchen, had learned the head chef was a Cordon Bleu graduate.

But still, Smithback felt miserable. In the few hours he’d been here, he had tried to convince himself to take it easy, that this was for his own good, that he should wallow in luxury. It was a kind of lifestyle that, under other circumstances, he’d almost welcome. He’d told himself to treat it as drama, one he could maybe turn into a book someday. It seemed incredible someone was out to kill him.

But already this personal pep talk was growing stale. At the time of his admittance, he’d still been dazed from the high-speed chase, struck dumb by the suddenness with which his life had been turned around. But now he’d had time to think. Plenty of time. And the questions—and dark speculations—just kept coming.

He told himself that at least there was no need to worry about Nora. On the drive up the New York Thruway, he’d called her himself using Pendergast’s phone, making up a story about how the Times was sending him on an undercover assignment to Atlantic City to cover a casino scandal, rendering him incommunicado for a while. He had Pendergast’s assurance Nora would be safe, and he had never known Pendergast to be wrong. He felt guilty about lying to her, but, after all, he had done it for her sake, and he could explain it all later.

It was his job that preyed most on his mind. Sure, they’d accept he was sick, and no doubt Pendergast would make it convincing. But in the meantime, Harriman would have free reign. Smithback knew that, when he finally got back after his “convalescence,” he’d be lucky to get assigned even the Dangler story.

The worst of it was, he didn’t even know how long he’d have to stay here.

He turned, pacing again, half mad with worry.

There came a soft knock at the door.

“What is it?” Smithback said irritably.

An elderly nurse stuck her gaunt head inside the room, raven hair pulled back in a severe bun. “Dinner is served, Mr. Jones.”

“I’ll be right down, thanks.”

Edward Jones, troubled son of a Wall Street investment banker, in need of rest, relaxation, and a bit of isolation from the hectic world. It seemed very strange indeed to be playing Edward Jones, to be living in a place where everybody thought you were somebody else. Especially somebody not quite right in the head. Only Pendergast’s acquaintance, the director of River Oaks—a Dr. Tisander—knew the truth. And Smithback had seen him only in passing while Pendergast was dealing with the admittance paperwork; they hadn’t yet had a chance to speak privately.

Exiting his room and closing the door behind him—there were no locks on any of the guests’ doors, it seemed—Smithback walked down the long hallway. His footfalls made no noise on the thick rose-colored carpeting. The corridor was of polished, figured mahogany, dark with carved moldings. More oils lined the walls. The only sound was the faint moan of the wind outside. The huge mansion seemed cloaked in a preternatural silence.

Ahead, the corridor opened onto a large landing, framing a grand staircase. From around the corner, he heard low voices. Immediately, with a reporter’s instinctive curiosity, he slowed his walk.

“. . . don’t know how much longer I can take working in this loony bin,” came a gruff male voice.

“Ah, quit complaining,” came a second, higher voice. “The work’s easy, the pay’s good. The food’s great. The crazies are nice and quiet. What the hell’s wrong with that?”

It was two orderlies. Smithback, unable to help himself, stopped short, listening.

“It’s being stuck out here in the middle of frigging nowhere. On top of a mountain in the dead of winter, nothing around except miles of woods. It messes with your mind.”

“Maybe you should come back as a guest.” The second orderly guffawed loudly.

“This is serious,” came the aggrieved reply. “You know Miss Havisham?”

“Nutcase Nellie? What about her?”

“How she always claims to be seeing people who aren’t there?”

“Everyone in this joint sees people who aren’t there.”

“Well, she’s got me seeing things, too. It was early this afternoon. I was heading back up to the fifth floor when I happened to look out the staircase window. There was someone out there, I could swear it. Out there in the snow.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m telling you, I saw it. A dark form, moving fast in the trees. But when I looked back, it was gone.”

“Yeah. And how much J.D. had you had before this?”

“None. It’s like I told you, this place is—”

Smithback, who’d been edging closer and closer to the edge of the corridor, overbalanced and stumbled forward into the landing. The two men—orderlies in somber black uniforms—abruptly drew apart, their expressions dissolving into emotionless masks.

“May we help you, Mr.—Mr. Jones?” one of them said.

“No, thanks. Just on my way down to the dining room.” Smithback made his way down the broad staircase with as much dignity as he could muster.

The dining room was a grand space on the second floor that reminded Smithback of a Park Avenue men’s club. There were at least thirty tables within, but the room was so big it could have held dozens more comfortably. Each was covered with a crisp linen tablecloth and arrayed with gleaming—and extremely dull—silverware. Brilliant chandeliers hung from a Wedgwood-blue ceiling. Despite the elegant room, it seemed barbaric to eat dinner at 5 P.M. Guests were already seated at some of the tables, eating methodically, chatting quietly, or staring moodily at nothing. Others were shuffling slowly to their seats.

Oh, God, Smithback thought. The dinner of the living dead. He looked around.

“Mr. Jones?” An orderly came over, as obsequious as any maître d’, with the same smirk of superiority behind the mask of servility. “Where would you care to sit?”

“I’ll try that table,” he said, pointing to one currently occupied by only one young man, who was buttering a dinner roll. He was flawlessly attired—expensive suit, snowy white shirt, gleaming shoes—and he looked the most normal of the bunch. He nodded to Smithback as the journalist sat down.

“Roger Throckmorton,” the man said, rising. “Delighted to meet you.”

“Edward Jones,” Smithback replied, gratified at the cordial reception. He accepted the menu from the waiter and, despite himself, grew quickly absorbed in the long list of offerings. He finally settled on not one, but two main courses—plaice à la Mornay and rack of spring lamb—along with an arugula salad and plover eggs in aspic. He marked his choices on the card beside his place setting, handed the card and the menu to the waiter, then turned once again toward Mr. Throckmorton. He was about Smithback’s age, strikingly good-looking, with blond hair carefully parted, and smelling faintly of expensive aftershave. Something about him reminded Smithback of Bryce Harriman; he had that same air of old money and entitlement.

Bryce Harriman . . .

With a mighty effort, Smithback drove the image from his mind. He caught the eye of the man across the table. “So,” he said, “what brings you here?” He realized only after asking the question how inappropriate it was.

But the man didn’t seem to take it amiss. “Probably the same as you. I’m crazy.” And then he chuckled to show he was kidding. “Seriously, I got in a bit of a scrape, and my father sent me up here for a short, ah, rest. Nothing serious.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Couple of months. And what brings you here?”

“Same. Rest.” Smithback cast around for a way to redirect the conversation. What do lunatics talk about, anyway? He reminded himself the extreme nutcases were kept in the quiet ward, located in another wing. Guests here, in the main section of the mansion, were simply “troubled.”

Throckmorton placed his dinner roll on a plate, dabbed primly at his mouth with a napkin. “You just arrived today, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

The waiter brought their drinks—tea for Throckmorton, a tomato juice for Smithback, who was annoyed he couldn’t get his usual single-malt Scotch. His eye stole once again around the room. Everybody in the place moved so sluggishly, spoke so softly: it all seemed like a banquet in slow motion. Jesus, I don’t think I can take much more of this. He tried to remind himself of what Pendergast had said—how he was the target of a murderer, how being here not only kept him safe, but Nora as well—yet already, even after a single day, it was getting hard to bear. Why would a dangerous killer be after him? It made no sense. For all he knew, that Mercedes, that bullet, had been meant for Pendergast, not him. Besides, Smithback knew how to handle himself. He’d been in rough situations before—some of them really rough . . .

Once again, he forced his thoughts back to his dinner companion.

“So what do you . . . think of the place?” he asked a little lamely.

“Oh, not a bad old pile, actually.” There was an amused gleam in the man’s eye as he spoke that made Smithback think he might have found an ally.

“You don’t get tired of all this? Of not getting out?”

“It was much nicer in the fall, of course. The grounds are spectacular. The snow is a bit confining, I’ll admit, but what’s there to ‘get out’ to, anyway?”

Smithback digested this a moment.

“So what do you do, Edward?” Throckmorton asked. “For a living.”

Smithback mentally reviewed Pendergast’s briefing. “My father’s an investment banker. Wall Street. I work for his firm.”

“My family’s on Wall Street, too.”

A lightbulb went on in Smithback’s head. “You’re not that Throckmorton, are you?”

The man across the table smiled. “I’m afraid so. At least, one of them. We’re a rather large family.”

The waiter returned with their entrées—brook trout for Throckmorton, the twin dishes of plaice and lamb for Smithback. Throckmorton looked over at Smithback’s heaping portions. “I hate to see a man with no appetite,” he said.

Smithback laughed. This fellow wasn’t crazy at all. “I never pass up a free meal.”

He raised his knife and fork and tucked into the plaice. He began to feel ever so slightly better. The food was superb. And this Roger Throckmorton seemed a decent enough guy. River Oaks might just be bearable for another day or two if he had somebody to talk to. Of course, he’d have to be careful not to blow his cover.

“What do people here do all day?” he mumbled through a mouthful of fish.

“I’m sorry?”

Smithback swallowed. “How do you pass the time?”

Throckmorton chuckled. “I keep a journal and write poetry. I try to keep up with the market, in a desultory kind of way. In good weather, I like to stroll the grounds.”

Smithback nodded, speared another piece of fish. “And the evenings?”

“Well, they have billiard tables in the first-floor salon, and games of bridge and whist in the library. And there’s chess—that’s fun when I can find a partner. But a lot of the time I just read. Recently, I’ve been reading a lot of poetry. Last night, for example, I began The Canterbury Tales.”

Smithback nodded his approval. “My favorite bit is ‘The Miller’s Tale.’”

“I think mine is the General Prologue. It’s full of so much hope for renewal, for rebirth.” Throckmorton sat back in his chair and quoted the opening lines. “Whan that April with his showres soote / The droughte of March hath perced to the roote.”

Smithback cast his memory back over the prologue, managed to dredge up a few lines. “Or how about this: Bifel that in that seson on a day, / In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay—”

“Fishing, with the arid plain behind me.”

It took Smithback, who had turned his attention to the lamb, a moment to register this change. “Wait a minute. That’s not Chaucer, that’s—”

“Out, out, brief candle!” Throckmorton sat up very stiff, almost as if at attention.

Smithback paused in the midst of forking up a piece of lamb, the smile freezing on his face. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you hear something just now?” Throckmorton had paused as if listening, head cocked to one side.

“Ah . . . no.”

Throckmorton cocked his head again. “Yes, I’ll take care of it right away.”

“Take care of what?”

Throckmorton fixed him with an annoyed eye. “I wasn’t speaking to you.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Throckmorton rose from the table, dabbed primly at his lips, carefully folded his napkin. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Edward, but I have a business appointment.”

“Right,” said Smithback, aware that the smile was still frozen on his lips.

“Yes.” Throckmorton leaned over and said, in a conspiratorial whisper: “And it’s a dreadful responsibility, I don’t mind telling you. But when He comes calling, who are we to refuse?”

“He?”

“The Lord our God.” Throckmorton straightened up, shook Smithback’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure. I hope we’ll meet again soon.”

And he walked with a jaunty step out of the room.

Twenty-five

D’AGOSTA WALKED SLOWLY through the cavernous open space of the Homicide Division, feeling self-conscious. Even though he was a lieutenant in the NYPD, and had more or less carte blanche to wander the halls of One Police Plaza as he chose, he nonetheless felt as if he were a spy within enemy territory.

I must know more, Pendergast had said. Even the smallest, least significant detail could be critical. It was crystal clear what he meant: he needed the file on Charles Duchamp. And it was just as clear he expected D’Agosta to get it for him.

Only it hadn’t been as easy as D’Agosta initially anticipated. He’d been back on the job just two days, and he’d been forced to spend more time than expected catching up on the Dangler case. The wack-job seemed to be getting more brazen with each crime: already he’d robbed three more ATMs in the two days D’Agosta was away. And now, with the Duchamp murder, there was less manpower available for stakeouts. Coordinating the two-man teams, talking with the branch managers at the affected banks, had eaten up a lot of time. The fact was, he’d been allocating more of the work than he should have, and he was way behind on interviewing potential eyewitnesses. But always, he remembered the urgency in Pendergast’s voice. There was a message in that urgency: We have to work fast, Vincent. Before he kills again.

And yet, though he’d wasted precious work hours poring through online records of the Duchamp murder, there was little in the wide-access database he didn’t already know—or that Pendergast himself didn’t have access to with his laptop. There was nothing else for it: he’d have to go get the case file.

In his left hand, he carried a small sheaf of papers: yesterday’s interviews with a possible Dangler eyewitness, brought along merely as camouflage, something to hold. He glanced at his watch as he walked. Ten minutes to six. The huge room was still buzzing with activity—police officers talking together in small groups, on the phone, or, more commonly, typing at computers. Divisional offices always had 24/7 coverage, and in any precinct house, you were guaranteed to find—at any hour of the day or night—somebody at their desk, doing paperwork. Most of a cop’s life was spent doing paperwork, it seemed, and nowhere was there more paperwork than in Homicide.

But D’Agosta didn’t mind all the activity. In fact, he welcomed it. If anything, it helped him blend in. The important thing was that Laura Hayward would be away from her office. It was Thursday, and Commissioner Rocker would be holding one of his state-of-the-force meetings. Thanks to the Duchamp case, she was sure to be there.

He glanced a little guiltily toward the far end of the room. Her office was there, door wide open, desk covered with paperwork. At the sight of the desk, an electric current ran briefly through his loins. It wasn’t many months ago that Laura’s desk had been used for something quite different from paperwork. He sighed. But, of course, her office then had been on the floor above. And a hell of a lot had happened since—most of it bad.

He pulled his gaze away and glanced around. To his right was a series of empty desks, nameplates at their fronts and computer terminals to one side. Ahead and along the left wall were at least a dozen horizontal file cabinets, stacked from floor to ceiling. These held the files of all active homicide cases.

The good news was that Duchamp was an active case. All closed cases were kept in storage, which meant signing in and out and a host of related security problems. The bad news was that, because it was an active case, he had to examine the evidence right here, in front of the entire Homicide Division.

He glanced around again, still feeling ridiculously exposed. Hesitation is what’s going to do you in here, pal, he told himself. Forcing himself to move as slowly and casually as possible, he approached the cabinets. Unlike other divisions, which sorted their cases by case number, Homicide sorted active files by victim’s last name. He slowed further, eyeing the labels covertly: DA-DE. DE-DO. DO-EB.

Here we go. D’Agosta stopped at the appropriate cabinet, pulled out the drawer. Dozens of green hanging folders met his eye. My God, how many active homicides are they investigating here?

Now was the time to move quickly. Turning away from the rows of desks, he began flipping the files from left to right, pushing the name tabs with an index finger. Donatelli, Donato, Donazzi . . . what, was it Mafia Week here in Homicide? Dowson. Dubliawitz.

Duggins.

Oh, shit.

D’Agosta paused, finger on the case file of a Randall Duggins. The one thing he hadn’t wanted to consider was the possibility that the Duchamp case file wouldn’t be in the cabinet.

Could Laura have it? Would she have left it on her desk when she went to meet with Rocker? Or was it perhaps with one of her detectives?

Whatever the case, he was screwed. He’d have to come back again, some other time—some other shift, so as not to arouse suspicion with the same group. But when else could he come back and still be sure Laura wouldn’t be here? She was a workaholic; she could be here at almost any hour. Especially now, when she didn’t have a reason to be home.

D’Agosta felt his shoulders sag. He fetched a sigh, then dropped his hand from the file to the cabinet, preparing to close it.

As he did so, he got a glimpse of the file behind Randall Duggins’s. It was labeled Charles Duchamp.

Now, there’s a break. Somebody in a hurry must have misfiled it.

D’Agosta plucked it from the cabinet and began leafing through it. The case file was much heavier than he expected. Laura had complained about the paucity of evidence. But there had to be a dozen thick documents here: fingerprint analyses and comparisons, reports of investigation, debriefing reports, interview summaries, evidence acquisition reports, toxicology and lab reports. Leave it to Hayward to somehow document even a shitty case well.

He’d been hoping to give everything a quick once-over, return the case file, then find Pendergast and give him an oral report. But there was way too much here for that. No choice: he’d have to photocopy everything, and fast.

Once again moving as casually as possible, he slid the cabinet closed, looking left and right as he did so. A large photocopier stood in the middle of the room, but it was surrounded by desks, and, as he watched, an officer went over to use it. Taking the case file off the floor and copying it elsewhere was out of the question: too risky. But large divisions like Homicide usually had several copiers. There had to be another one close by. Where the hell was it?

There. On the far wall, close to Hayward’s office, a copier sat between a bulletin board and a watercooler.

Quickly, D’Agosta approached. It was working, and it didn’t require an access code to use: his luck, such as it was, still held. But he’d have to hurry: it was getting close to six, and Rocker’s meeting wouldn’t last much longer.

He dumped the case file on the edge of the copier, placed the Dangler paperwork on top. Just in case he was interrupted, he decided to start with the most important—the case officer’s report—and work his way from there. He pulled the report from the folder and started copying.

The minutes crawled slowly by. Maybe it was the fact he had a tall stack of papers, or maybe it was because this machine was far from the desks of the homicide squad, but nobody else came up to use the machine. He made his way through the lab results, toxicology reports, fingerprint analyses, and interviews, working as fast as he could, stuffing each completed sheet beneath the Dangler paperwork.

He glanced again at his watch. It was past 6:15 now, almost 6:20. He had to get the hell out: Laura could come back at any time . . .

At that moment, a homicide lieutenant—somebody D’Agosta recognized as one of Hayward’s most trusted associates—appeared at the far end of the division. That was it: his cue to leave. Finishing up the last interview report, he rearranged the files, stacked the photocopies into a crisp pile, and returned the hanging folder to the file cabinet. He hadn’t copied everything, but he’d gotten the most important documents. This, along with what evidence Pendergast had obtained from New Orleans, should be a huge help. Closing the cabinet, he began making his way to the exit, once again careful to maintain an air of casualness.

The walk seemed to take forever, and at any moment he expected to see Laura appear in the doorway ahead. But at last, he gained the relative safety of the central corridor. Now it was just a question of gaining the elevator that lay directly ahead.

The corridor was relatively empty, and nobody was waiting at the elevator bank. He stepped forward, pressed the down button. Within moments, a descending elevator chimed, and he walked toward it just as the doors opened.

The elevator compartment beyond was empty except for one person: Glen Singleton.

For a moment, D’Agosta stood motionless, rooted in place with surprise. This had to be a nightmare, he decided: this kind of thing just didn’t happen in real life.

Singleton gazed back at him, cool and level. “You’re holding up the elevator, Vincent,” he said.

Quickly, D’Agosta stepped in. Singleton punched a button and the doors whispered closed.

Singleton waited until the elevator was descending again before speaking. “I’m just coming from Rocker’s state-of-the-force meeting,” he said.

D’Agosta silently cursed himself. He should have known Singleton might have attended the meeting; he wasn’t thinking straight.

Singleton glanced toward D’Agosta again. He didn’t say anything further; he didn’t need to. And just what are you doing here yourself? the gaze clearly said.

D’Agosta thought fast. He’d spent the last two days doing his best to avoid Singleton and this very question. Whatever he said, it had to sound believable.

“I’d heard a homicide detective might have been an inadvertent witness, post-fact, to the most recent Dangler job,” he said. “I thought I’d take a minute to check it out.” And he raised his sheaf of Dangler paperwork as if to underscore the point.

Singleton nodded slowly. It sounded credible, yet was just amorphous enough to allow D’Agosta some wiggle room.

“What was the detective’s name again?” Singleton asked in his mild voice.

D’Agosta held his expression, careful not to betray any surprise or doubt. He thought back to the rows of empty desks he’d just passed, tried to recall the names on the nameplates. “Detective Conte,” he said. “Michael Conte.”

Singleton nodded again.

“He wasn’t around,” D’Agosta said. “Next time I’ll just call.”

There was a moment of silence as the elevator descended.

“You haven’t heard of an FBI agent named Decker, have you?” Singleton asked.

Once again, D’Agosta had to work to keep the surprise from showing on his face. “Decker? I don’t think so. Why?”

“The man was killed in his house in D.C. the other day. Seems he was good friends with Special Agent Pendergast, who I know you worked with before his disappearance. Did Pendergast ever mention Decker—any enemies he might have had, for example?”

D’Agosta pretended to think. “No, I don’t think he ever did.”

Another brief silence.

“I’m glad to see you’re at work,” Singleton went on. “Because I’ve been getting a few reports of items left unattended these last two days. Tasks half done, or not done at all. Jobs delegated unnecessarily.”

“Sir,” D’Agosta said. This was all true, but he tried to let a little righteous indignation trickle into his voice. “I’m playing catch-up as quickly as I can. There’s a lot to do.”

“I’ve also heard that, instead of working the angles on the Dangler case, you’ve been asking a lot of questions about the Duchamp murder.”

“Duchamp?” D’Agosta repeated. “It’s an unusual case, Captain. I guess I’m as curious as the next man.”

Singleton nodded again, more slowly. He had a unique way of letting his expression telegraph his thoughts for him, and right now that expression was saying, You mean a lot more curious than the next man. But once again, he changed tack. “Something wrong with your radio, Lieutenant?”

Hell. D’Agosta had intentionally left it off that afternoon, in hopes of avoiding just such a cross-examination. He should have known this would excite even more suspicion.

“As a matter of fact, it seems to be acting kind of wonky today,” he said, patting his jacket pocket.

“Better have it checked out. Or get yourself issued a new one.”

“Right away.”

“Is there something the matter, Lieutenant?”

The question was asked so quickly on the heels of the last one that D’Agosta was momentarily taken aback. “Sir?”

“I mean, with your mother. Is everything all right?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. The prognosis is better than I’d hoped. Thank you for asking.”

“And you’re okay with being back on the job?”

“Completely okay, Captain.”

The elevator slowed, but Singleton still held D’Agosta’s gaze. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s good to hear. Because the truth is, Vincent, I’d rather have somebody not here at all than have him only half here. You know what I mean?”

D’Agosta nodded. “Yes, I do.”

Singleton smiled faintly as the doors opened. Then he extended one hand. “After you, Lieutenant.”

Twenty-six

MARGO HESITATED at the door to Menzies’s office, took a deep breath, and knocked. The door was answered by Menzies himself; he’d done away with the prerogative of a secretary years before, complaining it distracted him. He smiled, nodded, and stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter.

She knew the office well. During her first stint at the museum as a graduate student, it had been the office of Menzies’s predecessor, her old thesis adviser, Dr. Frock. Back then it had been stuffed with Victorian furniture, fossils, and curiosities. With Menzies, it seemed more spacious and pleasant, the dusty fossil plaques replaced by tasteful prints, the heavy old furniture retired in favor of comfortable leather chairs. A new flat-panel iMac sat in a corner. The last rays of the setting sun came through one of the west-facing windows, cutting a parallelogram of red across the wall behind Menzies’s mahogany desk.

Menzies steered Margo to an armchair, then took his own seat behind the desk. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “Thank you for coming at such short notice, Margo.”

“No problem.”

“Working late, I see?”

“I’ve got to put Museology to bed this evening.”

“Of course.” He unclasped his hands and leaned back into the sun, his unruly white hair suddenly haloed in gold. “As you may have guessed, I asked you here because I received an answer from the board of trustees in relation to the Tano masks.”

Margo adjusted herself in the armchair, tried to look confident and assertive.

He issued a long sigh. “I won’t beat around the bush. We lost. The board voted to keep the masks.”

Margo felt herself go rigid. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that.”

“I’m sorry, too. Lord knows I gave it my best shot. Collopy was not unsympathetic, but the issue hit a wall with the trustees. Most of them are lawyers and bankers who have as much knowledge of anthropology as I have of writs or currency futures. Unfortunately, the world is such that they can presume to tell us what to do, and not vice versa. Frankly, I don’t find the outcome surprising in the least.”

Margo could see that the usually even-tempered curator was nettled. She had been hoping that the trustees, despite all indications to the contrary, would do the right thing. It seemed so obvious to her. But then again, it wasn’t even obvious to other members of her department, so how could she expect a bunch of Wall Street lawyers to understand?

Menzies leaned on the table, looking at her intently. “This puts you rather more in the hot seat than before.”

“I realize that.”

“There’s going to be a lot of pressure on you not to publish this editorial. They’ll say the decision’s been made, it’s done—why stir up trouble?”

“I’m publishing, anyway.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say. Margo, I want you to know that I’m behind you one hundred percent. But you must be realistic and expect some fallout.”

“I’m ready. Museology’s been an independent voice in museum affairs for more than a century, and I’m not about to knuckle under—not with my first issue.”

Menzies smiled. “I admire your spirit. But there’s another complication I must share with you.”

“And what’s that?”

“The Tanos are planning a cross-country protest caravan, due to arrive at the museum the night of the opening. It isn’t just to call attention to their demands, but ostensibly to ‘call back the lost souls of the masks’ or something along those lines. They’re going to stage an all-night religious ceremony and dances on Museum Drive, directly outside the museum. The trustees received notice earlier today.”

Margo frowned. “The press is going to eat it up.”

“Indeed.”

“The administration’s going to be embarrassed.”

“Undoubtably.”

“The opening’s going to be total chaos.”

“Without question.”

“God, what a mess.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

There was a long pause. Finally, Menzies spoke. “You do what you have to do. Academic freedom is a critical issue in these parlous times. May I venture a piece of advice?”

“Please.”

“Don’t speak to the press—at all. When they come calling, politely refer them to the editorial you wrote and tell them that’s all you have to say on the matter. The museum can’t fire you over the editorial, but you can bet they’ll be looking for another reason. Lie low, keep your mouth shut, and don’t give it to them.”

Margo rose. “Dr. Menzies, I thank you more than I can say.”

The man smoothed down his unruly mane and rose as well, taking Margo’s hand. “You’re a brave woman,” he said with a smile of admiration.

Twenty-seven

A LIGHT RAP SOUNDED on the glass of the office door. Laura Hayward, who’d been peering intently at her computer screen, sat up in surprise. For a ridiculous moment, she thought it might be D’Agosta, suitcase in hand, offering to take her home. But it was just the Guatemalan cleaning lady, armed with mop and pail, smiling and nodding her head.

“Is okay I clean?” she asked.

“Sure.” Hayward wheeled away from her desk to allow the woman access to her wastebasket. She glanced up at the clock: almost 2:30 in the morning. So much for getting to bed early. But all of a sudden, she found she had a lot to do—anything to avoid going back to her empty apartment.

She waited until the woman had gone, then wheeled back to the terminal, scrolling through the federal database once again. But it was really just a perfunctory check: she had what she needed, for now.

After a few more moments, she turned to her desk. Messy on the best of days, it was now awash in computer printouts, manila folders, SOC photographs, CD-ROMs, faxes, and index cards—the results of her search of recent unsolved homicides meeting certain criteria. The papers formed a vague sort of pile. On a far corner of the desk, neater and very much smaller, sat another pile containing only three folders. Each had been labeled with a name: Duchamp. Decker. Hamilton. All acquaintances of Pendergast. And now all dead.

Duchamp and Decker: one a friend of Pendergast, the other a colleague. Was it really a coincidence they were murdered within days of each other?

Pendergast had disappeared in Italy—under strange and almost unbelievable circumstances, as related by D’Agosta. There were no witnesses to his death, no body, no proof. Seven weeks later, three acquaintances of his were brutally murdered, one after the other. She glanced at the pile. For all she knew, there might be other victims whose connections to Pendergast she had not yet uncovered. Three was troubling enough.

What the hell was going on here?

She sat for a moment, tapping the small pile of folders restlessly. Then she pulled out the one marked Hamilton, opened it, reached for her phone, and dialed a long-distance number.

The phone rang seven, eight, nine times. At last, someone picked up. There was a silence so long Hayward thought she’d been disconnected. Then, heavy breathing and a slurred, sleep-heavy voice came on.

“Somebody’d better be dying.”

“Lieutenant Casson? I’m Captain Hayward of the NYPD.”

“I don’t care if you’re Captain Kangaroo. You know what time it is in New Orleans?”

“It’s an hour later in New York, sir. I apologize for the late call, but it’s important. I need to ask you a few questions about one of your cases.”

“Damn it all, can’t it wait until morning?”

“It’s the Hamilton murder. Torrance Hamilton, the professor.”

There was a long, exasperated sigh. “What about it?”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“No.”

“Any leads?”

“No.”

“Evidence?”

“Precious little.”

“What, exactly?”

“We have the poison that killed him.”

Hayward sat up. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s as nasty as they come—a neurotoxin similar to what you find in certain spiders. Only this stuff was synthetic and highly concentrated. A designer poison. It gave our chemists quite a thrill.”

Hayward tucked the phone under her chin and began to type. “And the effects?”

“Leads to brain hemorrhaging, encephalitic shock, sudden dementia, psychosis, grand mal seizures, and death. I’ve had a medical education from this case you wouldn’t believe. Happened right in front of his class at Louisiana State University.”

“Must’ve been quite a scene.”

“You’re not kidding.”

“How’d you isolate the poison?”

“We didn’t need to. The killer thoughtfully left us a sample. On Hamilton’s desk.”

Hayward stopped typing. “What?”

“Seems he walked, bold as brass, into Hamilton’s temporary office and left it on the desk. Right while the old guy was delivering the last lecture of his life. He’d spiked Hamilton’s coffee with it half an hour earlier, which means he’d been on the premises for a while. The perp left it there in plain sight, like he was sending some kind of message. Or maybe it was just a taunt to the police.”

“Any suspects?”

“None. Nobody noticed anybody going in or out of Hamilton’s office that morning.”

“Is this information public? About the poison, I mean.”

“That it was poison, yes. As to what kind, no.”

“Any other evidence? Latents, footprints, anything?”

“You know how it is, the SOC team picks up a shitload of crap that has to be analyzed, hardly any of it relevant. With one possible exception: a recently shed human hair with root, enough to get a DNA reading. Doesn’t match Hamilton’s DNA, or his secretary’s, or anyone else’s who frequented the office. Kind of an unusual color—secretary said she couldn’t recall any recent visitors with that hair color.”

“Which was?”

“Light blond. Ultra-light blond.”

Hayward felt her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” said Hayward. “Can you fax me the evidence list and the DNA data?”

“Sure can.”

“I’ll call your office first thing, leave my fax number.”

“No problem.”

“One other thing. I assume you’re investigating Hamilton’s past, his acquaintances, that sort of business.”

“Naturally.”

“Run across the name Pendergast?”

“Can’t say I have. Is this a lead?”

“Take it for what you will.”

“All right, then. But do me a favor—next time, call me during the day. I’m a lot more charming awake.”

“You were charming enough, Lieutenant.”

“I’m from the South—I suppose it’s genetic.”

Hayward replaced the phone in its cradle. For a long time, perhaps ten minutes, she remained motionless, staring at it. Then, slowly and deliberately, she replaced the file marked Hamilton, picked up the one marked Decker, lifted the phone again, and began to dial.

Twenty-eight

A NURSE—TALL, SLENDER, wizened, dressed in black with white shoes and stockings, a real Addams Family creation—stuck her head out from behind a mahogany door. “The director will see you now, Mr. Jones.”

Smithback, who’d been cooling his heels in a long hallway on the second floor of River Oaks, jumped so fast he sent the antimacassar flying. “Thanks,” he said hastily as he patted it back on the chair.

“This way.” And ushering Smithback through the doorway, she began leading him down another one of the mansion’s dim, ornate, and seemingly endless corridors.

It had been surprisingly difficult to secure an audience with the director. It seemed “guests” often demanded to see Dr. Tisander, usually to announce that the walls were whispering to them in French or to demand that he stop beaming commands into their heads. The fact that Smithback had been unwilling to divulge the matter he wished to see the director about had made things even more difficult. But Smithback had insisted. Last night’s dinner with Throckmorton, and the stroll around the manor house that had followed—with sidelong glances at the shuffling, empty-eyed waxworks and glum-looking fossils inhabiting the library and the various parlors—had been the final straw. Pendergast’s concern was all very well, but he simply couldn’t face the thought of another day—or another night—in this creepy mausoleum.

Smithback had worked it all out. He’d get a hotel room in Jersey City, take the PATH train to work, stay well away from Nora until all this blew over. He could take care of himself. He’d explain it all to the director. They couldn’t very well keep him here against his will.

He followed the tiny figure of the nurse down the endless corridor, passing rows of closed doors bearing gold-leaf numbers. At some point, two burly orderlies had slipped into step behind him. At last, the corridor ended in a particularly grand door bearing the single word Director. The nurse knocked on it, then stepped aside, gesturing for Smithback to enter.

Smithback thanked her and stepped through. Beyond lay an elegant suite of rooms dressed in dark wood, illuminated by sconces. A fire flickered in an ornate marble fireplace. Sporting prints decorated the walls. The rear wall of the main room was dominated by a bow window, which afforded a view of the wintry landscape beyond. There were no bookshelves or anything else to suggest this was the office of a hospital director, although through one of the two side doors of the suite, Smithback made out what looked like a medical library.

In the center of the room was a huge desk, surfaced in glass, with heavy, eagle-claw feet. Behind the desk sat Dr. Tisander, writing busily with a fountain pen. He looked up briefly, gave Smithback a warm smile.

“How nice to see you, Edward. Have a seat.”

Smithback seated himself. For a minute or so, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire, the scratch of the pen. Then Tisander placed the pen back into its desk set, blotted the paper, and set it aside. He leaned back in his heavy leather chair and smiled confidentially, giving Smithback his utmost attention.

“There, that’s finished. Tell me what’s on your mind, Edward. How’s the adjustment to life at River Oaks?” His voice was low and mellifluous, and the kindly lines of his face were smoothed by age. He had a domed forehead, from which white hair arose in a gravity-defying leonine shock not unlike Einstein’s.

Smithback noticed that the two orderlies were standing against the wall behind him.

“Can I offer you any refreshment? Seltzer? Diet soda?”

“Nothing, thanks.” Smithback gestured at the orderlies. “Do they have to be here?”

Tisander gave a sympathetic smile. “One of the house rules, alas. Just because I’m the director of River Oaks doesn’t mean I’m above its rules.”

“Well, if you’re sure they can be trusted to keep quiet.”

“I have absolute confidence in them.” Tisander nodded encouragingly, gestured for Smithback to proceed.

Smithback leaned forward. “You know all about me, why I’m here, I assume.”

“Naturally.” A warm, concerned smile lit up the director’s wise features.

“I agreed to come here for protection, for my own safety. But I have to tell you, Dr. Tisander, that I’ve changed my mind. I don’t know how much you know about this killer who’s supposedly after me, but bottom line, I can take care of myself. I don’t need to be here any longer.”

“I see.”

“I’ve got to get back to my job in New York at the Times.”

“And why is that?”

Smithback was encouraged by Dr. Tisander’s receptiveness. “I was working on a very important story, and if I don’t get back there, I’ll lose it to another reporter. I can’t afford that. This is my career. A lot’s at stake here.”

“Tell me about this story you’re working on.”

“It’s about the Duchamp murder—you know it?”

“Tell me about it.”

“A killer hung an artist named Duchamp out of a high-rise window, dropped him through the glass roof of a restaurant. This is one of those sensational stories that don’t come along every day.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The bizarre mode of death, the prominence of the victim, the fact that the killer seems to have escaped all detection—it’s a super story. I can’t let it go.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“The details aren’t important. I need to get out of here.”

“The details are always important.”

Smithback’s feeling of encouragement began to evaporate. “It isn’t just my job. There’s my wife. Nora. She thinks I’m in Atlantic City undercover, working another story, but I’m sure she’s worried about me. If I could just get out and call her, let her know I’m all right. We’ve only been married a few months. Surely, you understand.”

“I certainly do.” The director was listening with utmost sympathy and attention.

Smithback, encouraged anew, went on. “This supposed killer who’s after me, I’m not concerned about him. I can look out for myself. I don’t need to hide up here any longer, pretending to be some nutcase.”

Dr. Tisander nodded again.

“So, anyway, that’s it. Even though I was placed in here with the best of intentions, the fact is, I can’t stay a moment longer.” He rose. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to call for a car? I’m sure that Agent Pendergast will cover the cost. Or I’ll be happy to send you a check once I get back to New York. He took away my wallet and credit cards on the way up here.” He remained standing.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then the director sat forward slowly, leaned his arms on the desk, and interlaced his fingers. “Now, Edward,” he began in his calm, kindly voice, “as you know—”

“And no more of this Edward business,” Smithback interrupted with a flare of irritation. “The name’s Smithback. William Smithback Jr.”

“Please allow me to continue.” A pause, another sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid I cannot accede to your request.”

“This isn’t a request: it’s a demand. I’m telling you, I’m leaving. You can’t keep me here against my will.”

Tisander cleared his throat patiently. “Your care has been entrusted to us. Your family has signed papers to that effect. You’ve been committed here for a period of observation and treatment. We’re here to help you, and to do that, we need time.”

Smithback stared incredulously. “Excuse me, Dr. Tisander, but do you think we could dispense with the cover?”

“What cover might that be, Edward?”

“I’m not Edward! Jesus. I know what you’ve been told, and there’s no need for this pretense any longer. I need to get back to my job, to my wife, to my life. I tell you, I’m not worried about any killer. I’m leaving here. Now.”

Dr. Tisander’s face retained its kindly, patient smile. “You are here, Edward, because you are ill. All this talk of a job with the New York Times, about a cover story, about being hunted by a killer—that’s what we’re here to help you with.”

“What?” Smithback spluttered again.

“As I said, we know a great deal about you. I have a file two feet thick. The only way for you to get better is to face the truth, to abandon these delusions and fantasies, this dreamworld you inhabit. You’ve never had a job at the Times or anyplace else. You’re not married. There’s no killer after you.”

Smithback slowly sank back into his chair, holding on to the arms for support. A terrible chill came over him. Pendergast’s words on the drive up from New York City returned to him, pregnant with ominous new meaning: The director knows all about you. He’s fully informed, he has all the necessary documents. Smithback realized that, despite what he’d assumed—despite what Pendergast implied—the director was not in on the deception. The “necessary documents” were probably legal papers of commitment. The full scope of Pendergast’s plan to protect him lay suddenly revealed. He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. And everything he said—all his protestations and denials and talk of a killer—only confirmed what the director had learned from reading his case files: that he was delusional. He swallowed, tried to sound as reasonable and sane as possible.

“Dr. Tisander, let me explain. The man who brought me up here, Special Agent Pendergast? He gave me a false identity, put me here in order to protect me from a killer. All those papers you have are forged. It’s all a ruse. If you don’t believe me, call the New York Times. Ask them to fax up a picture of me, a description. You’ll see that I’m William Smithback. Edward Jones doesn’t exist.”

He stopped, realizing how crazy it must all sound. Dr. Tisander was still listening to him, smiling, giving him his full attention—but now Smithback recognized the nuances of that expression. It was pity, mixed perhaps with a faint expression of that relief with which the sane view the insane. That same expression had no doubt been on his own face at dinner last night as he listened to Throckmorton talk about a business meeting with God.

“Look,” he began again. “Surely, you’ve heard of me, read my books. I’ve written three best-selling novels: Relic, Reliquary, and Thunderhead. If you have them in your library, you can see for yourself. My picture’s on the back of all three.”

“So now you’re a best-selling author as well?” Dr. Tisander allowed his smile to widen slightly. “We don’t stock our library with best sellers. They pander to the lowest common denominator of reader and—worse—tend to overexcite our guests.”

Smithback swallowed, tried to make himself sound the soul of sanity and reason. “Dr. Tisander, I understand that I must sound crazy to you. If you would please allow me to make one call with that phone on your desk—just one—I’ll show you otherwise. I’ll talk to my wife or my editor at the Times. Either one will immediately confirm I’m Bill Smithback. Just one call—that’s all I ask.”

“Thank you, Edward,” said Tisander, rising. “I can see you’ll have a lot to discuss with your therapist at your next session. I have to get back to work.”

“Damn you, make the call!” Smithback exploded, leaping to his feet and lunging for the phone. Tisander jumped back with amazing quickness, and Smithback felt his arms seized from behind by the two orderlies.

He struggled. “I’m not crazy! You cretin, can’t you tell I’m as sane as you are? Make the frigging call!”

“You’ll feel better once you’re back in your room, Edward,” the director said, settling back in his chair, composure returning. “We will speak again soon. Please don’t be discouraged; it’s often difficult to transition to a new situation. I want you to know that we’re here to help.”

“No!” Smithback cried. “This is ridiculous! This is a travesty! You can’t do this to me—”

Howling in protest, Smithback was gently—but firmly—escorted from the office.

Twenty-nine

WHILE MARGO was in the kitchen preparing dinner, Nora took a moment to look around the woman’s unexpectedly large and elegant apartment. An upright piano stood against one wall, with some Broadway show tunes propped up on the music stand; next to it hung a number of nineteenth-century zoological engravings of odd animals. A set of shelves against one wall was packed with books, and a second set of shelves contained an assortment of interesting objects: Roman coins, an Egyptian glass perfume bottle, a small collection of bird’s eggs, arrowheads, an Indian pot, a piece of gnarled driftwood, a fossilized crab, seashells, a couple of bird skulls, some mineral specimens, and a gold nugget—a miniature cabinet of curiosities. Hanging on the far wall was what Nora recognized as an exceptionally fine Eyedazzler Navajo rug.

It said something about Margo, Nora thought—that she was a more interesting person than she first appeared. And she had a lot more money than Nora had expected. This was no cheap apartment, and in a co-op building, no less.

Margo’s voice echoed out of the kitchen. “Sorry to abandon you, Nora. I’ll just be another minute.”

“Can’t I help?”

“No way, you relax. Red or white?”

“I’ll drink whatever you’re drinking.”

“White, then. We’re having fish.”

Nora had already been savoring the smell of salmon poaching in a delicate court bouillon wafting from the kitchen. A moment later, Margo came in carrying a platter with a beautiful piece of fish, garnished with dill and slices of lemon. She set it down, returned to the kitchen, and came back with a cool bottle of wine. She filled Nora’s glass and then her own, then sat down.

“This is quite a dinner,” said Nora, impressed not only with the cooking but with the trouble Margo had gone to.

“I just thought, with Bill away on assignment and the show coming up, maybe you needed a break.”

“I do, but I didn’t expect anything quite this nice.”

“I like to cook, but I rarely have the opportunity—just like I never seem to have time to meet guys.” She sat down with a wry smile, brushing her short brown hair from her face with a quick gesture. “So how’s the show going?”

“This is the first night in a week that I’ve gotten out of there before midnight.”

“Ouch.”

“We’re down to the wire. I don’t see how they’re going to make it, but everyone who’s been through this before swears they always pull through in the end.”

“I know how that goes. I have to get back to the museum tonight as it is.”

“Really?”

Margo nodded. “To put the next issue of Museology to bed.”

“My God, Margo. Then you shouldn’t be wasting time making me supper.”

“Are you kidding? I had to get out of that dusty old heap, even if only for a few hours. Believe me, this is a treat for me as well.” She cut a piece of salmon and served Nora, then served herself, adding some spears of perfectly cooked asparagus and some wild rice.

Nora watched her arrange the food, wondering how she could have been so wrong about a person. It was true Margo had come on rather strong in their first few encounters, brittle and defensive, but outside of the museum she seemed a different person, with a largeness of spirit that surprised Nora. Margo was trying hard to make up for her nasty comment in the staff meeting, going beyond the generous apology she had already made to treat Nora to a home-cooked dinner.

“By the way, I just wanted you to know that I’m going ahead with that editorial. It may be a lost cause, but it’s just something I feel I have to do.”

Nora felt a sense of admiration. Even with Menzies’s support, it was a gutsy move. She herself had gone up against the museum administration, and it was no cakewalk—some of them could be extremely vindictive.

“That’s awfully brave of you.”

“Well, I don’t know about bravery. It’s sheer stupidity, really. I said I was going to do it, and now I feel like I have to, even though the trustees have already ruled against me.”

“And your first issue, too.”

“First and perhaps last.”

“I meant what I said earlier. Even though I don’t agree with you, I support your right to publish. You can count on me. I think everyone in the department would agree, except maybe Ashton.”

Margo smiled. “I know. And I really appreciate that, Nora.”

Nora sipped the wine. She glanced at the label: a Vermentino, and a very good one. Bill, an inveterate wine snob, had taught her a lot over the last year or two.

“It’s tough being a woman in the museum,” she said. “While things are a lot better than they used to be, you still don’t see a lot of female deans or departmental heads. And if you look at the board of trustees, well, it’s basically made up of socially ambitious lawyers and investment bankers, two-thirds of them male, with little real interest in science or public education.”

“It’s discouraging that a top museum like this can’t do better.”

“It’s the way of the world.” Nora took a bite of the salmon. It was good, just about the best she’d tasted.

“So tell me, Nora, how did you and Bill meet? I knew him at the museum back when I was still a student. He didn’t seem like the marrying sort. I was fond of him, despite everything—though I’d never let him know that. He was quite a character.”

“Fond of him? When I first saw him, I thought he was the biggest jerk I’d ever met.” She smiled at the memory. “He was in a limo, signing books in the god-awful town of Page, Arizona.”

Margo laughed. “I can just see it. Funny, he tends to make a bad first impression, until you realize he’s got a heart of gold . . . and the courage of a lion to match.”

Nora nodded slowly, a little surprised at this insight. “It took me a while to figure that out, though, to cut through his ‘intrepid reporter’ pose. We’re very different, Bill and I, but I think that helps in a marriage. I couldn’t stand being married to someone like me—I’m way too bossy.”

“Me, too,” said Margo. “What were you doing in Page, Arizona?”

“That’s a story. I was leading an archaeological expedition into the canyon country of Utah, and Page was our rendezvous point.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“It was. Too fascinating, as it turned out. Afterwards I took a job at the Lloyd Museum.”

“No kidding! So you were there when it folded?”

“It more or less folded even before it opened. Palmer Lloyd supposedly went off the deep end. But by that point I’d burned my bridges, and the upshot was I was out of work again. So I landed a job here.”

“Well, the Lloyd Museum’s loss is our gain.”

“You mean, the diamond hall,” Nora said jokingly. When the plans to open the Lloyd Museum fell apart, the New York Museum of Natural History had swooped down and—with the help of a huge donation by a wealthy patron—purchased Palmer Lloyd’s world-renowned diamond collection for their own gem halls.

Margo laughed. “Don’t be silly. I’m talking about you.”

Nora took another sip of wine. “How about you, Margo? What’s your background?”

“I worked here as a graduate student in ethnopharmacology. That was during the time of the museum murders—the ones Bill wrote up in that first book of his. Did you read it?”

“Are you kidding? One of the prerequisites of dating Bill was reading all his books. He didn’t actually insist on it, but the hints came thick and fast.”

Margo laughed.

“From what I read,” Nora said, “you’ve had some pretty amazing adventures.”

“Yeah. Who says science is boring?”

“What brought you back to the museum?”

“After getting my doctorate, I went to work for the pharmaceutical conglomerate GeneDyne. I did it to please my mother, really: she’d desperately wanted me to go into the family business, which I absolutely refused to do. Working for GeneDyne, making lots of money in a corporate environment, was like throwing her a bone. Poor Mom. She liked to say she couldn’t fathom why I wanted to spend my life studying people with bones through their noses. Anyway, the money was great, but the corporate world just wasn’t to my liking. I guess I’m not a team player—or an ass-kisser. Then one day Hugo Menzies called. He knew of my earlier work at the museum, and he’d come across some of my GeneDyne research papers on traditional Khoisan medicine. He wondered if I’d ever consider coming back to the museum. The position at Museology had just opened up and he wanted me to apply. So I did, and here I am.” She pointed to Nora’s plate. “Seconds?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Margo placed another piece of salmon on her plate, took a little more for herself. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard about the Tano cross-country march,” she said, eyes on her plate.

Nora looked up sharply. “No. Nothing.”

“The museum is trying to keep it under wraps, hoping it won’t come off. But I think that since you’re one of the curators of the show, you should know about it. The Tanos have begun a sort of protest caravan from New Mexico to New York to ask for the return of those masks. They plan to set up in front of the museum the night of the opening, perform dances, sing songs, and hand out leaflets.”

“Oh, no,” Nora groaned.

“I managed to speak to the leader of the group, a religious elder. He was a very nice man, but he was also extremely firm about what they were doing and why. They believe there’s a spirit inside each mask, and the Tanos want to placate them—to let them know they haven’t been forgotten.”

“But on opening night? It’ll be a disaster.”

“They’re sincere,” Margo said gently.

Nora glanced at her, a retort already on her lips. Then she softened. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I really did try to talk them out of it. Anyway, I only mention this because I figured you might appreciate a heads-up.”

“Thanks.” Nora thought for a moment. “Ashton’s going to have a shit-fit.”

“How can you stand working with that man? What a dork.”

Nora burst out laughing, amazed at Margo’s directness. It was, of course, true. “You should see him these days, running around the exhibition, yelling at everyone, waving his hands, the wattle on his forearms flapping back and forth.”

“Stop! I don’t want to picture it.”

“And then Menzies comes through, and with a quiet word here and a nod there, he gets more accomplished in five minutes than Ashton does in a whole morning.”

“Now, there’s a lesson in management.” Margo pointed at Nora’s glass. “Another?”

“Please.”

She filled up both their glasses, then raised hers. “Too bad Menzies’s soft-spoken approach doesn’t yet work for us women. So here’s to you and me, Nora, kicking ass in that fossilized pile.”

Nora laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

And they clinked glasses.

Thirty

IT WAS EXACTLY TWO in the morning when Smithback cracked open the door of his room. Holding his breath, he glanced out through the narrow gap. The third-floor corridor was deserted and dark. Easing the door open still farther, he ventured a look in the other direction.

Deserted, as well.

Smithback closed the door again, leaned against it. His heart pounded in his chest, and he told himself it was because he’d been waiting so long for this moment. He had lain in bed for hours, feigning sleep, all the while putting the finishing touches on his plan. Earlier in the evening, there had been the occasional hushed footfall outside; around eleven, a nurse had looked in on him and—seeing him motionless in bed—left him to sleep. Since midnight, there had been no sound at all outside the door.

Smithback grasped the door handle again. It was time to put his plan into action.

After his outburst with the director, Smithback had been summoned to dinner that evening as usual. He was shown to a seat and given a menu as if nothing had happened—it seemed that delusional outbursts were par for the course at River Oaks. After dinner, he’d put in his requisite hour of work detail in the kitchen, returning perishable goods to the walk-in refrigerators of the rambling kitchen complex on the mansion’s first floor.

It was while on duty Smithback had managed to purloin a key to the basement.

Though he’d worked only two shifts, Smithback already had a pretty good sense of how the kitchen operated. Deliveries came in through a loading dock in the back of the mansion, and were then brought through the basement and up into the kitchen. Security at River Oaks was a joke: half the kitchen staff seemed to have keys to the basement, from the head chef on down to the dishwashers, and the door was always being unlocked, opened, and relocked during working hours. When the sous chef had gone down to get a piece of equipment, Smithback seized his chance and—when nobody was looking—pocketed the key that had been left in the lock. The chef had come back up, grunting under the weight of a vertical broiler, the key completely forgotten.

It had been that easy.

Now Smithback tensed, preparing to open his door again. He was wearing three shirts, a sweater, and two pairs of pants, and was sweating profusely. It was a necessary precaution: if everything went according to plan, he had a long, cold ride ahead of him.

While on duty in the kitchen, he’d learned that the first food service truck arrived at the loading dock at 5:30 A.M. If he could make his way through the basement, wait until the truck arrived, and then sneak into its rear compartment just before it departed, nobody would be the wiser. Two hours or more would pass until his absence was discovered—and by then he’d be well on his way back to New York, beyond the grasp of Dr. Tisander and his legion of creepy, black-uniformed nurses.

He cracked the door open again. Deathly silence. He opened it wider, then slipped out into the corridor and closed it noiselessly behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder, then began making his way cautiously down the corridor toward the landing, keeping close to the walls. He stood little chance of being spotted: the chandeliers were dimmed and their amber pools of light faint. The landscapes and portraits hanging on the walls were dark, indistinguishable rectangles. The soft carpeting was a river of maroon so deep it looked almost black.

It was the work of five minutes to reach the landing. Here the light was a little brighter and he hung back, listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairway. He took a step, then another, listening intently.

Nothing.

Gliding forward, hand on the banister, Smithback made his way down, ready to dart back up the stairs at the first sign of an encounter. Reaching the second-floor landing, he retreated to a dark corner, crouching behind a sideboard. Here he paused to reconnoiter. The landing widened into four corridors: one leading to the dining room, another to the library and west parlor, the others to treatment areas and administrative offices. This floor seemed as silent and deserted as the first, and Smithback, encouraged, began creeping out.

From down the administrative hallway came the sound of a closing door.

Quickly, he darted back to his hiding place, crouched down, and waited.

He heard a key turning in a lock. Then, for perhaps a minute, nothing more. Had somebody been locking himself inside an office? Or out?

He waited another minute. Still nothing.

Just as he was gathering himself to rise again, someone came into view from the darkness of the administrative corridor: an orderly, walking slowly, hands clasped behind him. The man was looking from left to right as he strolled, as if checking that all doors were properly closed.

Smithback shrank back farther into the darkness behind the sideboard, not moving, not even breathing, as the man walked across the far side of the landing and vanished down the corridor leading to the library.

Smithback waited, motionless, another five minutes. Then, keeping low, he made his way down the staircase to the first floor.

Here it seemed even gloomier. After making sure nobody was in sight, Smithback darted down the wide corridor that led to the kitchen.

It was the work of thirty seconds to reach the heavy double doors. Taking one last look over his shoulder, he pushed against the door, preparing to back into the kitchen.

The door didn’t budge.

Smithback turned to face it, pressed harder.

Locked.

Shit. This was something he hadn’t anticipated: a door that was never locked during the day.

He sounded his pocket for the basement key, hoping against hope it would open the kitchen door as well. No luck.

He glanced over his shoulder again, disappointment and a rising despair flooding over him. It had been such a good plan. And he’d been so close to getting out. To be thwarted like this . . .

Then he paused. There might—just might—still be a chance.

Cautiously, he made his way back to the landing. He peered up, straining for any sound, but the velvety darkness remained silent. Noiselessly, he crept up the stairway to the second floor, flitted across the landing, and entered the dining room.

The vast, ghostly space seemed sepulchral in its stillness. A few bars of pale moonlight slanted in through tall windows, bathing the room in an eerie, almost phosphorescent illumination. Smithback threaded his way quickly between the tables—already laid for breakfast—until he reached the rear. Here, a decorative partition ran parallel to the wall, concealing the service ports and waiters’ stations behind. Smithback ducked behind the partition and—now in deeper darkness—moved carefully toward his destination: the dumbwaiter, covered by a four-by-three-foot metal panel set into the back wall.

Slowly, careful to make no noise, Smithback grasped the metal panel and pulled it open. Inside was an empty shaft. A heavy rope, mounted to a pulley mechanism on the chute’s ceiling, vanished in inky depths below.

Smithback couldn’t help but smile.

During his kitchen duty, he’d seen gray tubs of silverware and dirty dishes come down from the dining room via this same dumbwaiter. Now, with any luck, it would carry a very different cargo.

There were a series of buttons beside the access panel, used to raise and lower the dumbwaiter. Smithback peered at them in the faint illumination, then reached out to press the up button. He’d bring the thing up from the kitchen, clamber in, and descend . . .

Then he froze. The motor would make a lot of noise in the stillness. And there was the faintest chance somebody might still be inside the kitchen: the last thing he wanted was to betray his presence.

Leaning forward, he grasped the heavy rope, gave one or two exploratory tugs, and then—with a grunt—began to haul upward with all his might.

It took ages to hoist the dumbwaiter from the kitchen below. By the time he was done, Smithback was gasping and puffing, his triple layer of shirts soaked in sweat. He paused to rest a moment and look around. Still nobody.

Returning his attention to the dumbwaiter, he clambered inside, squeezing his long limbs into its narrow confines. He pulled the access panel closed behind him.

Utter darkness.

Sitting inside the dumbwaiter, knees up around his ears, Smithback realized there was no easy way to lower the device. Then he discovered that, by placing his hands against the front wall of the chute and exerting upward pressure, he could force the dumbwaiter down, inch by inch. It was blind, sweaty, exhausting work, but in a few minutes he felt his hands brushing against the steel frame of another access panel. He’d reached the first floor—and the kitchen.

He paused a moment, despite the stifling, claustrophobic space, to listen. Hearing nothing, he pushed open the panel.

The kitchen was empty. The only light came from the emergency exit signs, which threw a faint crimson light over the sprawling space.

Smithback climbed out, worked the kinks out of his limbs, and looked around. There, set into a far wall, was the door to the basement.

He stiffened with excitement. Almost there. Nothing could stop him now. River Oaks might be able to incarcerate slack-jawed wackos like Roger Throckmorton, but it couldn’t hold the likes of William Smithback.

The kitchen was a strange mélange of old and new. The soot-blackened walk-in fireplace was flanked by professional stainless-steel mixers large enough to hold a family. Long bunches of braided garlic cloves, peppers, and fines herbes hung from the ceiling: the head chef was a native of Brittany. The granite countertops gleamed with ranks of cookware. Dozens of top-quality German carving knives sat behind locked frames of steel and meshed glass.

But Smithback had eyes for only one thing: the heavy wooden door set in the far wall. He quickly walked over to it, unlocked it. A stone stairway led down into a well of darkness.

Gingerly, Smithback stepped down, careful not to slip on the clammy stone. He closed and locked the door behind him, shutting out the pale red glow of the exit signs and plunging the stairwell into utter darkness. He made his way downward with exquisite care, counting steps as he went.

At the twenty-fourth step he reached bottom.

He stopped to look around. But there was nothing to see: the surrounding blackness was, if anything, even more complete. The air smelled of mold and damp. For the first time, it occurred to him that he should have nicked a flashlight, made some discreet inquiries about the layout of the basement and the route to the loading dock. Maybe he should put this escape attempt off for a day or two, go back to his room, and try again another night . . .

He pushed these thoughts away. It was too late to go back: he could never force the dumbwaiter back up to the dining room. Besides, his job was at stake. And he wanted, needed, to talk to Nora. He had three hours until the first delivery of the morning: that was more than enough time to find his way.

He took a deep, steadying breath, then another, suppressing a faint susurrus of fear. Then, arms stretched out before him, he began to move slowly forward, sliding one foot ahead, then the other. After about a dozen steps, he made contact with a brick wall running perpendicular to his position. He turned right and began moving again, a little more quickly now, one hand brushing the wall.

There was another sound, Smithback realized, in addition to his steps: the low pattering and squeaking of rats.

His foot came in sudden contact with something on the floor, squat and heavy and immovable. He pitched forward, saving himself at the last minute from sprawling. He rose, rubbed his shin with a curse, then felt forward with his hands. Some kind of a slop sink, bolted to the brick face, barred his way. He moved carefully around it, then continued forward. The squeaking of rats died away, as if the rodents were fleeing at his approach.

The wall to his left ended abruptly, leaving him once again marooned in the black.

This was crazy. He needed to think this out.

Mentally, he went over what he knew of the layout of the mansion. As he reviewed his twistings and turnings from the base of the stairs, it seemed to him the rear must lie to the left.

The moment he turned, he saw it: a pinpoint glimmer in the distance. It was the faintest smudge of light, a mere attenuation of black, but he made for it with the greediness of a drowning man for terra firma. As he walked, it seemed to recede before him, miragelike. The floor level rose, then fell again. At last, as he drew close, he could see that the illumination was set at eye level: a set of small green display panels fastened to an automatic thermostat of some kind. They threw a faint glow over a strange room: groined and vaulted in dressed limestone, it contained a half dozen steam boilers of polished brass and copper. They dated back to the mid-nineteenth century, at least, and had been retrofitted to the thermostat controls by bundles of colored wires. The giant boilers hissed and rumbled softly, almost as if snoring in rhythm to the sleeping mansion they warmed.

Over the sound of the boilers came again the scampering and squeaking of rats.

And then, quite distinctly, the clump of a boot on stone.

Smithback whirled around. “Who is it?” he blurted out, his voice echoing among the vaults and boilers.

No answer.

“Who’s there?” Smithback said a little louder. And, as he took a slow step backward, the only response was the thudding of his heart.

Thirty-one

MARGO MADE THE final correction to the last page of the bluelines for Museology and laid the proof aside. I’m probably the only editor in the country who still works with hard copy, she thought to herself. She settled back into her chair with a sigh and glanced at the clock: 2 A.M. exactly. She yawned, stretched, the old oaken chair creaking in protest, and rose.

The offices of Museology were located in a stuffy set of rooms half a flight up from the fifth floor, jammed under the eaves of the museum’s west wing. A dirty skylight provided illumination during the day, but now the skylight was a rectangle of black, and the only light came from a feeble Victorian lamp that sprouted from the ancient desk like an iron mushroom.

Margo slipped the corrected bluelines into a manila envelope and wrote a quick note to the journal’s production manager. She would drop them off at the museum’s printing office on her way out. The journal would be printed first thing in the morning, and by noon proof copies would be going out by hand to the museum’s president, the dean of science, Menzies, and the other department heads.

She shivered involuntarily, experiencing a moment of self-doubt. Was it really her duty to mount this crusade? She loved working again at the museum—she could see herself working here happily for the rest of her life. Why mess it up?

She shook her head. It was too late now, and besides, it was something she had to do. With Menzies behind her, it was doubtful they’d fire her.

She climbed down the metal stairs and entered the enormous fifth-floor corridor, stretching four city blocks, said to be the longest horizontal corridor in all of New York City. She walked along its length, heels clicking on the marble floor. At last, she stopped at the elevator, pressed the down button. A rumble sounded in the bowels of the building as the elevator rose. After about a minute, the doors opened.

She stepped in and pressed the button for the second floor, admiring as she did so the once-elegant elevator, with its nineteenth-century brass grille and fittings and its ancient bird’s-eye-maple paneling, much scarred by time and use. It creaked and groaned its way back down, then stopped with a jolt, the doors rumbling open again. She made her way through a succession of old, familiar museum halls—Africa, Asian Birds, Shells, the Trilobite Alcove. The lights in the cases had been turned off, which gave them a creepy aspect, the objects inside sunken in shadow.

She paused in the gloom. For a moment, memories of a terrible night seven years earlier threatened to return. She pushed them aside and quickened her step, arriving at the unmarked door to the printing division. She slipped the bluelines into the slot, turned, then made her way back through the echoing, deserted galleries.

At the top of the second-floor stairs, she paused. When she spoke to the Tano elder, he’d told her that, if the masks had to be displayed, they must be placed facing in the proper directions. Each of the four masks embodied the spirit of a cardinal direction: as a consequence, it was critical that each faced its respective direction. Any other arrangement would threaten the world with chaos—or so the Tanos believed. More likely, it would threaten the museum with even more controversy, and that was something Margo was most anxious to avoid. She had forwarded the information to Ashton, but Ashton was overworked and snappish, and she had little faith he’d carried it out.

Instead of descending the stairs to the employee security entrance, Margo turned left, heading for the Sacred Images entrance. In a few moments, she arrived. The door to the exhibition had been designed to look like the portal to an ancient Hindu tomb of the Khmer style, the carved stone lintels depicting gods and demons engaged in a titanic struggle. The figures were in violent motion: flying apsaras, dancing Shivas, gods with thirty-two arms, along with demons vomiting fire and cobras with human heads. It was unsettling enough that Margo stopped, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to call it a night and do this errand in the morning. But tomorrow the hall would be a madhouse again, and Ashton would be there, impeding her and—in the wake of her editorial—perhaps even denying her access.

She shook her head ruefully. She couldn’t just give in to the demons of the past. If she walked away now, her fears would have won.

She stepped forward and slid her magnetic card through the reader beside the entrance door; there was a soft click of well-oiled steel disengaging, and the security light went green. She pushed the door open and entered, carefully closing it behind her and making sure the security LED returned to red.

The hall was silent and empty, lit softly by exterior spots, the cases dark. Two o’clock was too late for even the most dedicated curator. The air smelled of fresh lumber, sawdust, and glue. Most of the exhibits were in place, with only a few remaining unmounted. Here and there a curatorial cart stood loaded with objects not yet in place. The floor was strewn with sawdust, lumber, pieces of Plexiglas, and electrical wires. Margo looked around, wondering how they could possibly open in three days. She shrugged, glad the opening was Ashton’s problem and not hers.

As she walked through the initial room of the exhibition, her curiosity rose despite the sense of unease. Last time, she’d been looking for Nora and hadn’t bothered to pay much attention to the surroundings. Even in its unfinished state, it was clear this was going to be an exceptionally dramatic exhibit. The room was a replica of the burial chamber of the ancient Egyptian queen Nefertari, located in the Valley of the Queens in Luxor. Instead of depicting the unlooted tomb, the designers had reconstructed what the tomb might have looked like just after being looted. The enormous granite sarcophagus had been broken into several pieces, the inner coffins all stolen. The mummy lay to one side, a gaping hole in its chest where the looters had cut it open to steal the gold and lapis scarab that lay next to the heart as a promise of eternal life. She paused to examine the mummy, carefully protected by glass: it was the real McCoy, the label identifying it as belonging to the actual queen herself, on loan from the Cairo Museum in Egypt.

She continued to read the label, her mission temporarily forgotten. It explained that the tomb had been robbed not long after the queen’s burial by the very priests who had been assigned to guard it. The thieves had been in mortal dread of the power of the dead queen and had tried to destroy that power by smashing all her grave goods in order to purge the objects of their sacred power. As a result, everything not stolen had been smashed and was lying about helter-skelter.

She ducked under a low stone archway, its dark surfaces busy with graven images, and found herself suddenly plunged underground into the early Christian catacombs beneath Rome. She was in a narrow passageway cut into the bedrock. Loculi and arcosolia radiated outward in several directions, niches in their sides packed with bones. Crude inscriptions in Latin graced some of the niches, along with carved crosses and other sacred Christian imagery. It was disturbingly naturalistic, down to the models of rats scampering around the bones.

Ashton had gone for the sensational, but Margo had to admit it was effective. This would definitely pack in the crowds.

She hastened on into a completely different space that depicted the Japanese tea ceremony. There was an orderly garden, the plantings and pebbled walkway in meticulous order. Beyond lay the sukiya, the tea room itself. It was a relief to enter this open, orderly space after the claustrophobia of the catacombs. The tea room was the living embodiment of purity and tranquillity, with its polished wood, paper screens, mother-of-pearl inlays, and tatamis, along with the simple accouterments of the ceremony: the iron kettle, the bamboo dipper, the linen napkin. Even so, the emptiness of it, the deep shadows and dark spaces, started to unnerve Margo again.

Time to wrap up this errand and get out.

She walked briskly through the tea room and wound her way deeper into the exhibition, passing an eclectic parade of exhibits including a dark Indian funerary lodge, a hogan filled with Navajo sand paintings, and a violent Chukchi shamanistic rite in which the shaman had to be physically chained to the ground to keep his soul from being stolen by demons.

She finally arrived at the four Kiva Society masks. They stood in a glass case in the center of the room, mounted on slender rods, each facing in a different direction. Around the circular walls had been painted a magnificent depiction of the New Mexico landscape, and each mask faced one of the four sacred mountains that surrounded Tanoland.

Margo gazed at them, awestruck anew by their power. They were amazingly evocative masks, severe, fierce, and yet at the same time overflowing with human expression. Although they were close to eight hundred years old, they looked modern in their formal abstraction. They were true masterpieces.

She glanced at her notes, then walked to the nearest wall map to orient herself. Then she moved around the central display, checking each mask—and was surprised to find that they were, in fact, facing the correct directions. Ashton, for all his bluster, had gotten it right. In fact, she grudgingly had to admit he’d put together an outstanding exhibition.

She stuffed the notes back in her purse. The silence, the dimness, was starting to get to her. She’d take in the rest of the show some other time, in broad daylight, when the halls were bustling with people.

She had just turned to retrace her steps when she heard a loud clatter, like a board falling, in the next room.

She jumped, heart suddenly pounding in her ears. A minute passed with no further sound.

Her heart slowing again, Margo advanced to the archway and peered into the dimness of the exhibit beyond. It was a depiction of the interior of Arizona’s haunting House of Hands Cave, painted by the Anasazi a thousand years ago. But the room was empty, and the quantity of cut lumber still lying around indicated that what she’d heard was just a propped-up board which had finally gotten around to falling.

She took a deep breath. The watchful stillness, the spookiness of the exhibition, had finally gotten to her. That was all. Don’t think about what happened before. The museum’s changed since then, changed utterly. She was probably in the safest place in New York City. The security had been upgraded half a dozen times since the debacle seven years ago. This latest system—still being finalized—was the best money could buy. Nobody could get into this hall without a magnetic key card, and the card reader recorded the identity of each person who passed through, as well as the time.

She turned again, preparing to walk back out of the exhibition, humming to herself as a defense against the silence. But before she had even crossed the exhibit, she was stopped again by the clatter of lumber—this time from the room ahead of her.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice unnaturally loud in the quiet hall. “Somebody there?”

There was no answer.

She decided it must be the guard making his rounds, tripping over loose boards. In the old days, the guards, having discovered the tanks of grain alcohol preservative stored in the Entomology Department, were sometimes found drunk at night. I guess some things never change.

Once again, she headed back in the direction of the entrance, wending her way through the dark exhibits, walking briskly, her heels making a reassuring click-click on the tiled floor.

With a sudden snap!, the exhibition was plunged into blackness.

An instant later, the emergency lights came to life, rows of fluorescent tubes set in the ceiling, popping and humming as they winked on, one by one.

Once again, she tried to calm her wildly beating heart. This was silly. It wasn’t the first time she’d been in the museum during a power failure; they happened all the time in the old building. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to worry about.

She had barely taken another step when she heard yet another clatter of lumber, this time from the room she had just passed through. It sounded almost deliberate—as if someone were deliberately trying to spook her.

“Who’s there?” she asked, whirling around, suddenly angry.

But the hall behind her—a crimson-painted crypt arrayed with the cruel trappings of a black mass—was empty.

“If this is some kind of joke, I don’t appreciate it.”

She waited, tense as a spring, but there was no sound.

She wondered if it was just a coincidence: another board falling on its own, the exhibition settling down after a hectic day. She reached into her handbag, feeling around for something she might use as a weapon. There was nothing. In years past, following the trauma of the museum killings and their aftermath, she had taken to keeping a pistol in her bag. But this was a habit she’d dropped when she left the museum and went to work for GeneDyne. Now she cursed herself for letting down her guard.

Then she spied a box cutter, sitting on a worktable on the far side of the exhibit. She ran to it, snatched it up, and—holding it out aggressively before her—resumed her walk toward the entrance.

Another clatter, this one louder than the others, as if someone had tossed something.

Now Margo was sure there was someone else with her in the exhibition: someone deliberately trying to scare her. Was it possible it was somebody who objected to her editorial and was now trying to intimidate her? She’d find out from security who else had been in the hall and report them immediately.

She broke into a trot. She passed through the Japanese tea room and had just entered the looted Egyptian tomb when there was another sharp snap! This time the emergency lights went out and the windowless hall was plunged into total blackness.

She halted, almost paralyzed by sudden fear and a chilling sense of déjà vu as she recalled a similar moment in another exhibition, years earlier, in this same museum.

“Who is it?” she cried.

“It’s just me,” a voice said.

Thirty-two

SMITHBACK FROZE, all senses on high alert. He looked left and right, eyes straining in the greenish dark. But there was no sound; no figure rushing toward him, black upon black.

Must be my imagination, he thought. The creepy place was enough to give anybody the heebie-jeebies.

Much as he hated to leave the faint light of the boiler room, he knew he had to move on. He needed to find the loading dock and—just as important—a good hiding place nearby. If the last ten minutes were any indication, it might take him a while.

He waited a good five minutes, listening, making sure the coast was clear. Then he crept back out of the vast room and, turning, began making his way toward what he thought must be the back of the mansion. The pale light faded away and he once again slowed his pace, putting his arms out in front of him, shuffling his feet gingerly so as not to bark his shins a second time.

He paused. Was that another sound? Was somebody down here with him?

Heart still hammering uncomfortably in his chest, he stopped to wait again. But he heard nothing but the faint squeak of mice and, after another minute, resumed his slow progress.

Suddenly, his hands encountered another wall: rough stone, slick with moisture. Following it to the right, he encountered a perpendicular wall, with what felt like a steel door bolted into it. His fingers probed along the jamb until they found the handle. He seized it, turned.

The handle refused to move.

Taking a deep breath, he yanked with all his might. No good: the thing wouldn’t budge.

With a curse, he went back along the wall in the other direction. After about twenty paces, the wall ended and his hands groped once again on open space. He turned the corner, then stopped, his heart in his throat.

There was a sudden glow of light ahead, framing a turn in the corridor. Someone had just turned on the lights up ahead. Or had they been on all this time?

Smithback paused, frozen with indecision. That was the way he had to go, he was sure of it, and the light was welcoming. But was anyone waiting up there for him?

He crept forward, keeping close to the wall, and peered around the corner.

The corridor ahead was lit by a string of dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling. They were few and far between, and the light they shed was feeble, but at least he’d be able to see where he was going. Best of all, the corridor was empty. Nobody had turned on the lights, Smithback decided—they’d been on all along. He just hadn’t noticed them at first. Or maybe he’d been too far away to catch their light.

He walked slowly down the stone corridor. On both sides, ancient doors lay open, yawning gulfs of barely penetrable murk. He paused to look into a few. A wine cellar, rows of bottles and heavy oaken kegs covered in dense cobwebs. An old storage room, wooden file cabinets bursting with yellowing documents. A billiard room, the felt of its table torn and curled. Just what you’d expect in a manor house that had been converted into an insane asylum for the rich.

Smithback walked on, confidence returning. It was a good plan. The basement couldn’t go on forever. He had to be getting near the loading dock. He had to . . .

There it was again: that nagging sensation he was being stalked; that someone was deliberately trying to conceal the sound of their footsteps with his own.

He stopped abruptly. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he’d heard the sound of an interrupted tread, as if someone in the darkness behind had frozen in the act of taking a step. He wheeled. The corridor, at least the lighted part, stretched empty behind him.

Smithback licked his lips. “Pendergast?” he tried to say, but his throat was thick and dry and his tongue didn’t want to work. Just as well, because he knew in his gut there was somebody back there, and it wasn’t Pendergast; oh, God, no, it wasn’t Pendergast . . .

He began walking forward again, heart pounding furiously. Suddenly, the pools of faint light were no longer a godsend. They were treacherous, revealing . . . And he was suddenly terribly certain somebody had turned on the lights, the better to see him with.

There is a killer after you. A supremely dangerous killer of almost supernatural ability . . .

He fought against the instinct to run. Panic wasn’t the answer here. He needed to think this through. He needed to find a dark corner, a place where he could hide. But first he had to be sure. Absolutely sure.

He passed quickly beneath another bulb and into the interval of darkness beyond. He slowed his pace, trying to get the timing right. Then, tensing, he turned abruptly.

Behind, a dark form—cloaked, strangely muffled—shrank back from the light into the dark oblivion of the basement.

At this sight, expected yet unutterably awful, Smithback’s failing nerves deserted him. He turned and ran like a frightened rabbit, tearing down the corridor, heedless of any hidden obstacles to his escape.

The sound of heavy boots closing in from behind spurred him on.

Lungs burning, Smithback tore down the corridor, beyond the last of the hanging bulbs and back into absolute, endless, protective darkness . . .

And then something cold and unyielding slammed up against him, stopping him dead. A savage pain tore through his head and chest; white light exploded in his skull; and, as consciousness fled away and he sank to the ground, his last impression was of a clawlike grasp, hard as steel, fastening onto his shoulder.

Thirty-three

WHO?” Margo almost shrieked, holding the box cutter toward the sound, swinging it back and forth. “Who is it?”

“Me.”

“Who is ‘me’ and what the hell do you want?”

“I’m looking for an honest man . . . or woman, as the case may be.” The voice was small and almost effeminate in its exactitude.

“Don’t you come near me,” she cried, brandishing the box cutter in the blackness. She tried to calm her pounding heart and focus. This was no joker: she sensed instinctively that this man was dangerous. The emergency lights would come back on shortly; they must—it was automatic. But as the seconds ticked by, she felt her terror continue to escalate. Had the man himself cut the emergency backup? It didn’t seem possible. What was going on?

Struggling to master herself, she inched forward as silently as possible, sliding her feet along the floor, stepping carefully over objects as she encountered them, poking the box cutter out in different directions. She had a vague idea of where the entrance was, and for now the man seemed to have shut up—perhaps as confounded by the darkness as she was. She reached the far wall and began feeling her way along it. Then her hands encountered the cool steel of the security door. With a flood of relief, she felt for the handle, found the card reader, pulled her card from her bag, and swiped it through.

Nothing.

As quickly as it had come, the relief ebbed away, replaced by a dull, pounding fear. Of course: the magnetic lock was electric and the power was off. She tried opening the door, rattling the knob and throwing her weight against it, but it didn’t budge.

“When the power goes off,” came the thin voice, “the security system locks everything down. You can’t get out.”

“Get close to me and I’ll cut you!” she cried, spinning around and putting her back to the door, brandishing the box cutter at the darkness.

“You wouldn’t want to do that. The sight of blood leaves me faint . . . faint with pleasure.”

In the clarity of her fear, Margo realized that she had to stop responding. She had to go on the offensive. She fought to control her breathing, control her fear. She had to do something unpredictable, surprise him, turn the tables. She took a noiseless step forward.

“What does the sight of blood do to you, Margo?” came the gentle whisper.

She inched toward the voice.

“Blood is such a strange substance, isn’t it? Such a perfect, exquisite color, and so teeming with life, packed with all those red and white cells and antibodies and hormones. It’s a living liquid. Even spilled on a dirty museum floor, it lives on—at least for a time.”

She took another step toward the voice. She was very close now. She braced herself. Then, in one desperate motion, she sprang forward and brought the box cutter around in a slashing arc; it contacted something and ripped through it. As she jumped back, she heard a stumbling noise, a muffled sound of surprise.

She waited, tensing in the blackness, hoping she’d opened up an artery.

“Brava, Margo,” came the whispery voice. “I’m impressed. Why, you’ve ruined my greatcoat.”

She began circling the voice again, intending to strike a second time. She had him on the defensive now. If she could wound him, preoccupy him, she’d buy herself enough time to run back into the exhibition. If she could do that, put half a dozen rooms between herself and this evil, disembodied voice, he’d never find her in the blackness. She could wait for the guards to make their next set of rounds.

There was a low, breathy chuckle. The person seemed to be circling her at the same time. “Margo, Margo, Margo. You didn’t really think you’d cut me?”

She lunged again, her arm sweeping only air.

“Good, good,” came the voice with another dry chuckle. The chuckle went on and on, hanging in the blackness, circling slowly.

“Leave me alone or I’ll kill you,” said Margo, surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

“What spunk!”

Instantly, Margo tossed her purse toward his voice, heard it strike, and followed up with a lightning-fast slash that met with just enough resistance to let her know she’d struck home.

“My, my, another good trick. You are far more formidable than I had supposed. And now you have cut me.”

As she turned to run, she felt, rather than heard, a sudden movement; she threw herself sideways, but the man seized her wrist and—with one terrible twist that cracked her bones—sent the box cutter flying. She cried out, struggling despite the unbearable pain shooting up her arm. He twisted again and she screamed, lashing out with her foot, landing a punch with her free hand, but the man pulled her up against him in a brusque, horrid movement that almost caused her to faint from the pain to her broken wrist. His hand was like a steel manacle around her arm, and his hot breath, smelling faintly of damp earth, washed over her.

“You cut me,” he whispered.

With a hard shove, he released her, stepping back. Margo fell to her knees, close to blacking out from shock and pain, holding her shattered wrist close against herself, trying to gather her wits, to determine where in the darkness the box cutter had fallen.

“Although I am a cruel man,” came the voice, “I will not let you suffer.”

There was another swift movement, like the rush of a giant bat above her. And then she felt a stunning, searing blow from behind that dropped her to the ground. And as she lay there, she realized, with a sense of strange disbelief, that he had driven a knife into her back; that she’d been given a mortal blow. Yet still she clawed the floor, trying to rise, the sheer force of her will bringing her to her knees. It was no use. Something warm was running down her arm now, running onto the floor, as a different kind of blackness rushed in on her from all sides. The last thing she heard, coming from a great distance as if in a dream, was a final astringent chuckle . . .

Thirty-four

LAURA HAYWARD WALKED quickly through the museum’s Great Hall, the early morning light casting parallel banners through its tall bronze windows. She strode through the bands of light with purpose, as if the physical act of walking would somehow prepare her for what was to come. Beside her, almost skipping to keep up, was Jack Manetti, head of museum security. Behind them followed a silent but swift phalanx of NYPD homicide detectives and museum personnel.

“Mr. Manetti, I’m assuming the exhibition has a security system. Correct?”

“State-of-the-art. We’re just completing a full overhaul.”

“Overhaul? Wasn’t the exhibit alarmed?”

“It was. We’ve got redundancies built into each zone. Strange thing is, no alarm went off.”

“Then how’d the perp get in?”

“At this point, we have no idea. We’ve compiled a list of everyone who had access to the exhibition space.”

“I’ll want to talk to them all.”

“Here’s the list.” Manetti pulled a printout from his jacket pocket.

“Good man.” Hayward took it, scanned it, handed it to one of the detectives behind her. “Tell me about the system.”

“It’s based on magnetic keys. The system keeps track of everyone coming and going after hours. I have a register of that, as well.” He handed her another document.

They rounded the corner of the Hall of Ocean Life. Hayward walked past the great blue whale, hanging ominously from the ceiling, without even a glance.

“Any key cards reported missing?”

“No.”

“Can they be duplicated?”

“I’m told it’s impossible.”

“Someone could have borrowed a card, perhaps?”

“That’s possible, although as of now all cards except the victim’s are accounted for. I’ll be looking into that specific question.”

“So will we. Of course, the perp might be a museum employee with prior access.”

“I doubt it.”

Hayward grunted. She doubted it herself, but you never knew—she’d seen more than her share of certifiable lunatics wandering around this old pile. As soon as she’d heard about this case, she’d asked to be assigned, despite still being busy with the Duchamp murder. She had a theory—no, call it more of a premonition—that the two were connected. And if she was right, it was going to be big. Very big.

They passed through the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians, then stopped before the oversize portal leading to the Sacred Images exhibition. The door itself was open but taped off, and beyond, Hayward could hear the murmurings of the SOC team working the scene. “You, you, and you”—she jabbed her finger at detectives in turn—“pass the tape with me. The rest wait here and keep back the curious. Mr. Manetti? You come, too.”

“When Dr. Collopy arrives—?”

“This is a crime scene. Keep him out. I’m sorry.”

Manetti didn’t even argue. His face was the color of putty and it was pretty clear he hadn’t even had time for his morning cup of coffee.

She ducked under the police tape, nodded to the waiting sergeant, signed his clipboard. Then she entered the foyer of the exhibition, moving slower now, far more deliberate. SOC and forensics would have already gone over ingress and egress, but it was always good to keep an eye open.

The truncated group wound its way through the first room, past almost completed exhibits, stepping over the odd piece of lumber, and then into the exhibition’s second room: the scene of the crime itself. Here a chalk outline delineated where the victim had fallen. There was quite a lot of blood. The SOC photographer had already documented the scene and was awaiting any special requests Hayward, as the investigating officer, might have. Two members of the SOC team were still on their hands and knees with tweezers.

She eyed the scene almost fiercely, her eye roving over the central pool of blood, across various splatters, bloody footprints, smears. She gestured to Hank Barris, the senior SOC officer. He rose, put away his tweezers, came over.

“What a damn mess,” she said.

“The paramedics worked on the victim for a while.”

“The murder weapon?”

“A knife. It went with the victim to the hospital. You know, you can’t pull it out—”

“I’m aware of that,” snapped Hayward. “Did you see the original scene?”

“No. The EMTs had already messed it up by the time I arrived.”

“ID on the victim?”

“Not that I know of, at least not yet. I could call the hospital.”

“Any witnesses to the original scene?”

Barris nodded. “One. A technician named Enderby. Larry Enderby.”

Hayward turned. “Bring him in.”

“In here?”

“That’s what I said.”

A silence ensued while Hayward looked around, body completely still, her dark eyes the only thing moving. She scrutinized the blood splatters, making rough estimates of trajectories, speed, and origin. Slowly, a general picture of the crime began to come together in her mind.

“Captain? Mr. Enderby is ready.”

Hayward turned to see a surprisingly young, pimply man with black hair and a ninety-eight-pound-weakling physique. A T-shirt, a Mets cap worn backward, and a pair of ratty jeans completed the picture.

At first, she thought his high-tops were dyed red, until she saw them closer.

A policeman ushered him forward.

“You were the first to find the victim?”

“Yes, ma’am . . . I mean . . . Officer.” He was already flustered.

“You may call me Captain,” she said gently. “What’s your position at the museum, Mr. Enderby?”

“I’m a systems technician, grade one.”

“What were you doing in the hall at three A.M.?”

The voice was high and quavery, ready to break. Always the timidest who find the deadest, Hayward remembered her former professor of forensic psychology at NYU joking. Hayward swallowed, tried to make her voice sympathetic. It wouldn’t do to have Enderby crack up.

“Checking the install of the new security system.”

“I see. Was security up and running in the hall?”

“Mostly. We’re running some updated software routines, and there was a glitch. My boss—”

“His name?”

“Walt Smith.”

“Proceed.”

“My boss sent me down to see if the power had been cut.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah. It was. Someone had cut a power cable.”

Hayward glanced at Barris.

“We know about it, Captain. It appears the perp cut the cable to kill the emergency lights, the better to ambush the victim.”

“So what is this new security system?” she asked, turning back to Enderby.

“Well, it’s multilayered and redundant. There are motion sensors, live video feeds, crisscrossing infrared laser beams, vibration sensors, and air pressure sensors.”

“Sounds impressive.”

“It is. For the past six months, the museum’s been upgrading the security in each hall, one after another, to the latest version of the system.”

“What does that involve?”

Enderby took a deep breath. “Interfacing with the security contractors, reconfiguring the monitoring software, running a test bed, that sort of thing. All on a rigid schedule calibrated to an atomic satellite clock. And it has to happen at night, when the museum’s closed.”

“I see. So you came down here to check the power failure and found the body.”

“That’s right.”

“If you can manage it, Mr. Enderby, could you look at the scene here and describe for me exactly how the victim was lying?”

“Well . . . the body . . . the body was lying just as it’s outlined, one arm thrown out like you see. There was an ivory-handled knife sticking out of the small of the back, buried to the hilt.”

“Did you touch or try to remove the knife?”

“No.”

Hayward nodded. “The victim’s right hand, was it open or closed?”

“Ah, it seems to me it was open.” Enderby swallowed painfully.

“Bear with me, Mr. Enderby. The victim was moved before the photographer arrived, so all we have is your memory.”

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“The left foot: turned in or out?”

“Out.”

“And the right?”

“In.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget. The body was kind of twisted a little.”

“How so?”

“Kind of lying facedown, but with the legs almost crossed.”

The act of talking seemed to be helping Enderby get a grip on himself. He was turning out to be a good witness.

“And the blood on your shoes? How’d that happen?”

Enderby stared at his shoes, eyes widening. “Oh. I . . . I rushed over and tried to help.”

Hayward’s respect for the young man went up a notch. “Describe your movements.”

“Let’s see . . . I was standing there when I saw the body. I stopped, ran over. I knelt, felt for a pulse, and I guess that’s when I . . . stepped in the blood. I got blood on my hands, too, but I washed that off.”

Hayward nodded, adding those facts to her mental reconstruction.

“Any pulse?”

“I don’t think so. I was hyperventilating, it was hard to tell. I don’t really know how to read a pulse too well. First I rang security—”

“On a house phone?”

“Yes, around the corner. Then I tried mouth-to-mouth, but within a minute, a guard arrived.”

“The guard’s name?”

“Roscoe Wall.”

Hayward nodded to one of the detectives to note this.

“Then the paramedics came. They basically pushed me away.”

Hayward nodded. “Mr. Enderby, if you could just step aside with Detective Hardcastle for a few minutes, I might have more questions.”

She returned to the first room of the exhibition, looked around, then walked slowly back. A thin scattering of sawdust on the floor, despite having been stirred up, retained traces of the struggle. She bent to examine the small sprays of blood. A mental splatter analysis helped finalize her general understanding of what had happened. The victim had been ambushed in the first exhibit room of the hall. Perhaps he’d even been followed from the opposite end of the exhibition—there was a rear door, she’d been told, although it had been found secured and locked. It looked like they had circled each other for a moment. Then the killer grabbed the victim, twisted him sideways; struck him with the knife while moving fast in a lateral motion . . .

She closed her eyes a moment, visualizing the choreography of murder.

Then she reopened them, zeroing in at a tiny spot, off to one side, that she’d noticed in passing on her initial circuit of the room. She walked over and stood looking down at it: a drop of blood about the size of a dime, a quiet little drop that appeared to have fallen vertically, from a stationary subject, from a height of about five feet.

She pointed at it. “Hank, I want this entire drop taken out, floorboard and all. Photograph it in situ first. I want DNA on it, yesterday. Run it against all the databases.”

“Sure thing, Captain.”

She looked around, her eyes traveling on a tangent from the chalk outline, through the lone drop of blood, to the far wall. There she saw a large dent in the new wooden floor molding. Her eyes sharply narrowed. “And Hank?”

He looked up.

“I think you might find the victim’s own weapon behind that exhibit case.”

The man rose, walked over, peered behind.

“I’ll be damned.”

“What is it?” Hayward asked.

“A box cutter.”

“Blood?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Bag it and run every test in the book. And run it against that spot you just took out. You’ll find a match, I’ll bet my last dollar.”

As she stood there, somehow unwilling to take her eyes off the scene, another thought occurred to her. “Bring Enderby back.”

A moment later, Detective Hardcastle returned, Enderby in tow.

“You said you gave the victim mouth-to-mouth?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“You recognized him, I assume.”

“Her, not him. Yes, I did.”

“Who was it?”

“Margo Green.”

Hayward stiffened, as if coming to attention. “Margo Green?”

“Yes. I understand she used to be a graduate student here. Anyway, she’d returned to be editor of . . .”

His voice faded into the background. Hayward was no longer listening. She was thinking back half a dozen years to the subway murders and the famous Central Park riot, when she was a lowly T.A. cop, and to the Margo Green she had met back then—the young, feisty, and deeply courageous woman who’d risked her life and helped crack open the case.

What a shitty world it was.

Thirty-five

SMITHBACK SAT GLUMLY in the same chair he had occupied the day before, feeling an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. The same fire seemed to be flickering in the ornate marble fireplace, lending a faint perfume of burning birchwood to the air; the same sporting prints decorated the walls; and the same snowy landscape presented itself through the bow windows.

Worse, the same director sat behind his gigantic desk with the same pitying, condescending smile on his well-shaven face. He was giving Smithback the reproachful-stare treatment. Smithback’s head still throbbed painfully from running full tilt into a cement wall in the dark, and he felt deeply humiliated for panicking at the footsteps of a mere orderly. And he also felt like a real jerk for thinking he could beat the security system in such a ham-handed way. All he had accomplished was to confirm the director’s opinion that he was a nutcase.

“Well, well, Edward,” said Dr. Tisander, clasping his veined hands together. “That was quite an escapade you had last night. I do apologize if orderly Montaney gave you a start. I trust you found the medical care at our infirmary satisfactory?”

Smithback ignored the patronizing question. “What I want to know is, why was he sneaking around after me like that in the first place? I could’ve been killed!”

“Running into a wall? I hardly think so.” Another genial smile. “Although you were lucky to avoid a concussion.”

Smithback didn’t respond. The dressing on the side of his head tightened uncomfortably whenever he moved his jaw.

“I am surprised at you, Edward. I thought I’d already explained it to you: just because we don’t appear to have security doesn’t mean we don’t have security. That’s the whole purpose of our facility. The security is unobtrusive, so that our guests don’t feel uncomfortable.”

Smithback felt irritated by the word guest. They were inmates, pure and simple.

“We followed your nocturnal perambulations via the infrared beams you interrupted and the motion sensors you moved past. It wasn’t until you actually penetrated the basement that orderly Montaney was dispatched to tail you unobtrusively. He followed protocol to the letter. I imagine you thought you’d escape on one of the food service trucks; that’s usually what they try first.”

Smithback felt like leaping up and wrapping his hands around the good doctor’s neck. They? I’m not crazy, you idiot! But he didn’t. He realized now what an exquisite catch-22 he was in: the more he insisted he was sane, the more excited he became, the more he validated the doctor’s opinion to the contrary.

“I just want to know how much longer I’m going to be here,” he said.

“That remains to be seen. I must say, this escape attempt does not lead me to think your departure will be any time soon. It shows resistance on your part to being helped. We can’t help you until we have your cooperation, Mr. Jones. And we can’t release you until we’ve helped you. As I am fond of saying, you are the most important person in your cure.”

Smithback balled his fists, making a supreme effort not to respond.

“I have to tell you, Edward, that another escape attempt will result in certain changes to your domestic arrangements that might not be to your liking. My advice is, accept your situation and work with us. Right from the beginning, I have sensed an unusual amount of passive-aggressive resistance on your part.”

That’s because I’m as sane as you are. Smithback swallowed, tried to muster an obsequious smile. He needed to be a lot more clever if he was going to escape, that much was clear.

“Yes, Dr. Tisander. I understand.”

“Good, good! Now we’re making progress.”

There had to be a way out. If the Count of Monte Cristo could escape the Château d’If, William Smithback could escape from River Oaks.

“Dr. Tisander, what do I have to do to get out of here?”

“Cooperate. Let us help you. Go to your sessions, devote all your energies to getting better, make a personal commitment to cooperate with the staff and orderlies. The only way anyone leaves here is carrying a document with my signature release on it.”

“The only way?”

“That’s correct. I make the final decision—based, of course, on expert medical and, if necessary, legal advice.”

Smithback looked at him. “Legal?”

“Psychiatry has two masters: medicine and law.”

“I don’t understand.”

Tisander was clearly getting into his favorite subject. His voice took on a pontifical ring. “Yes, Edward, we must deal with legal as well as medical issues. Take yourself, for instance. Your family, who love you and are concerned for your welfare, have committed you here. That’s a legal as well as a medical process. It is a grave step to deprive a person of his freedom, and due process must be followed with utter scrupulousness.”

“I’m sorry . . . did you say my family?”

“That’s right. Who else would commit you, Edward?”

“You know my family?”

“I’ve met your father, Jack Jones. A fine man indeed. We all want to do what’s right for you, Edward.”

“What’d he look like?”

A puzzled expression crossed Tisander’s face, and Smithback cursed himself for asking such an obviously crazy question. “I mean, when did you see him?”

“When you were brought here. He signed all the requisite papers.”

Pendergast, Smithback thought. Damn him.

Tisander rose, held out his hand. “And now, Edward, is there anything else?”

Smithback took it. The germ of an idea had seeded itself in his mind. “Yes, one thing.”

Tisander raised his eyebrows, the same condescending smile on his face.

“There’s a library here, isn’t there?”

“Of course. Beyond the billiard room.”

“Thank you.”

As he exited, Smithback caught a glimpse of Tisander settling back down at his enormous claw-footed desk, smoothing his tie, his face still wearing a self-satisfied smile.

Thirty-six

A WATERY WINTER LIGHT was fading over the river as D’Agosta reached the old door on Hudson Street. He paused for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. He’d followed Pendergast’s complicated instructions to the letter. The agent had moved yet again—he seemed determined to keep one step ahead of Diogenes—and D’Agosta wondered, with a dull curiosity, what disguise he had assumed now.

Finally, having composed himself and taken one last look around to make sure there was no one near, he tapped on the door seven times and waited. A moment later, it was opened by a man who, from all appearances, was a derelict in the last stages of addiction. Even though D’Agosta knew this was Pendergast, he was startled—once again—by the effectiveness of his appearance.

Without a word, Pendergast ushered him in, padlocked the door behind him, and led him down a dank stairwell to a noisome basement room filled by a large boiler and heating pipes. An oversize cardboard carton piled with soiled blankets, a plastic milk crate with a candle and some dishware, and a neat stack of tinned food completed the picture.

Pendergast swiped a rag from the floor, exposing an iMac G5 with a Bluetooth wireless Internet connection. Beside it lay a well-thumbed stack of papers: the photocopied case file that D’Agosta had purloined from headquarters, along with other reports that, D’Agosta assumed, were from the police dossier on the Hamilton poisoning. Clearly, Pendergast had been studying everything with great care.

“I . . .” D’Agosta didn’t quite know how to begin. He felt rage take hold once again. “That bastard. That son of a bitch. My God, to murder Margo—”

He fell silent. Words just couldn’t convey the shaking fury, turmoil, and disbelief he felt inside. He hadn’t known Margo was back in New York, let alone working at the museum, but he’d known her well in years past. They’d worked together on the museum and subway murders. She’d been a brave, resourceful, intelligent woman. She hadn’t deserved to go out like this: stalked and killed in a darkened exhibition hall.

Pendergast was silent as he rapped at the computer keyboard. But his face was bathed in sweat, and D’Agosta could see that was not part of the act. He was feeling it, too.

“Diogenes lied when he said Smithback would be the next victim,” D’Agosta said.

Without looking up, Pendergast reached into the crate and pulled out a ziplock bag with a tarot card and a note inside, handing it to D’Agosta.

He glanced at the tarot card. It depicted a tall, orange brick tower, being struck by multiple bolts of lightning. It was afire, and tiny figures were falling from its turrets toward the grass far beneath. He turned his attention to the note.

Ave, frater!

Since when did I ever tell you the truth? One would think after all these years you’d have learned by now I am a skillful liar. While you were busy hiding the braggart Smithback—and I commend you for your cleverness there, for I haven’t yet found him—I was free to plot the death of Margo Green. Who, by the way, put up a most spirited struggle.

Wasn’t it all so very clever of me?

I’ll tell you a secret, brother: I’m in a confessional mood. And so I will name my next victim: Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta.

Amusing, what? Am I telling the truth? Am I lying again? What a delicious conundrum for you, dear brother.

I bid you, not adieu, but au revoir.

Diogenes

D’Agosta handed the note back to Pendergast. He felt a strange sensation in his gut. It wasn’t fear—no, not fear at all—but a fresh groundswell of hatred. He was shaking with it.

“Bring the motherfucker on,” he said.

“Have a seat, Vincent. We have very little time.”

It was the first thing Pendergast had said, and D’Agosta was silenced by the deep seriousness in his voice. He eased himself down onto a crate.

“What’s with the tarot card?” he asked.

“It’s the Tower, from El Gran Tarot Esotérico variant of the deck. The card is said to indicate destruction, a time of sudden change.”

“No kidding.”

“I’ve spent all day compiling a list of potential victims and making arrangements for their protection. I’ve had to call in virtually every favor I’m owed, which will have the unfortunate collateral effect of blowing my cover. Those I have dealt with have promised to keep things to themselves, but it’s only a matter of time before the news will come out that I’m alive. Vincent, take a look at this list.”

D’Agosta leaned over and looked at the document on the screen. On it were a lot of names he recognized, along with many others he didn’t know.

“Is there anyone else you feel should be on here?”

D’Agosta stared at the list. “Hayward.” The thought of her sent a twinge through his gut.

“Hayward is the one person I know whom Diogenes will certainly not target. There are reasons for this that I cannot yet explain to you.”

“And what about . . .” D’Agosta hestitated. Pendergast was an extremely private person and he wondered how he would react to him mentioning her name. “Viola Maskelene?”

“I have thought a great deal about her,” he said in a low tone. He looked down at his white hands. “She’s still on the island of Capraia, which in many ways is a perfect fortress for her. It’s almost impossible to get to, involving several days’ travel. There’s only one small harbor, and a stranger—no matter how disguised—would be instantly noted. Diogenes is here in New York. He can’t reach her quickly, nor would he ever operate with a proxy. And finally”—his voice dropped—“Diogenes can know nothing of my—my interest in her. No one else in the world but you are aware of that. As far as Diogenes is concerned, she’s simply a person I interviewed once with regard to a violin. On the other hand, if I were to take steps to protect her, it might actually alert Diogenes to her existence.”

“I can see that.”

“So in her case I have opted to leave things as is.”

He unclasped his hands. “I have taken steps to protect the others, whether they like it or not. Which brings us to the most difficult question: what about you, Vincent?”

“I’m not going into hiding. As I said, bring him on. I’ll be the bait. I’d rather die than run like a dog from Margo’s killer.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. The risk you’re taking is enormous—you know that.”

“I certainly do. And I’m prepared for it.”

“I believe you are. Margo’s attack was patterned after the murder of a spinster aunt of mine, who was stabbed in the back with a pearl-handled letter opener by a disgruntled servant. It’s still possible that there’s evidence from the scene of the attack that can help lead us to Diogenes—I’ll need your help there. When word of my continuing existence reaches the police, there is going to be a serious problem.”

“How so?”

Pendergast shook his head. “When the time comes, you’ll understand. How long you choose to stay with me is, of course, up to you. At a certain point, I intend to take the law into my own hands. I would never entrust Diogenes to the criminal justice system.”

D’Agosta nodded brusquely. “I’m with you all the way.”

“The worst is yet to come. For me, and especially for you.”

“That bastard killed Margo. End of discussion.”

Pendergast placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Vincent. One of the best.”

D’Agosta did not respond. He was wondering at Pendergast’s enigmatic words.

“I’ve arranged for all who might be likely targets of Diogenes to go to ground. That is phase one. And this brings us to phase two: stopping Diogenes. My initial plan failed utterly. It has been said: ‘When you lose, don’t lose the lesson.’ The lesson here is that I cannot defeat my brother alone. I assumed that I knew him best, that I could predict his next move, that with enough evidence I could stop him myself. I’ve been proven wrong—devastatingly so. I need help.”

“You’ve got me.”

“Yes, and I’m grateful. But I was referring to another kind of help. Professional help.”

“Like what?”

“I’m too close to Diogenes. I’m not objective, and I’m not calm—especially now. I have learned the hard way that I don’t understand my brother and never have. What I need is an expert psychological profiler to create a forensic model of my brother. It will be an extraordinarily difficult task, as he is a psychologically unique individual.”

“I know of several excellent forensic profilers.”

“Not just any will do. I need one who is truly exceptional.” He turned and began scribbling a note. “Go to the Riverside Drive house and give this to my man Proctor, who will pass it on to Constance. If this individual exists, Constance will find him.”

D’Agosta took the note, folded it into his pocket.

“We’re almost out of time: two days until January 28.”

“Any idea yet what the date could mean?”

“None, except that it will be the climax of my brother’s crime.”

“How do you know he isn’t lying about the date, too?”

Pendergast paused. “I don’t. But instinct tells me it’s real. And at the moment, that’s all I have left: instinct.”

Thirty-seven

WHIT DEWINTER III hunched over his fifteen-pound calculus textbook in the bowels of the Class of 1945 Library at Phillips Exeter Academy. He was staring at a formula made entirely of Greek letters, trying to pound it into his muddy brain. The midterm was in less than an hour and he hadn’t even memorized half the formulas he’d need. He wished to hell he’d studied the night before instead of staying up so late, smoking weed with his girlfriend Jennifer. It had seemed like a good idea at the time . . . Stupid, so stupid. If he failed this test, his B in calculus would drop to a C, he’d have to go to UMass instead of Yale, and that would be it. He’d never get into medical school, he’d never have a decent job, he’d end up living out his miserable life in a split-level in Medford with some cow of a wife and a houseful of squalling brats . . .

He took a deep breath and dived once again into the tome, only to have his concentration broken by a raised voice from one of the nearby carrels. Whit straightened up. He recognized the voice: it was that sarcastic girl in his English lit class, the Goth with retro purple hair . . . Corrie. Corrie Swanson.

“What’s your problem? Can’t you see I’m studying here?” the voice echoed loudly across the sleek atrium of Academy Library.

Whit strained and failed to catch the calm, murmured answer.

“Australia? Are you nuts?” came the raised reply. “I’m in the middle of midterms! What’re you, some kind of pervert?”

A couple of shushes came from students studying nearby. Whit peered above the edge of his carrel, glad for the diversion. He could see a man in a dark suit leaning over a carrel a few dozen yards away.

“He told you that? Yeah, right, let’s see some ID.”

More murmuring.

“All right, hey, I believe you, and I’m all for a beach vacation. But right now? You’ve got to be kidding.”

More talk. More shushes.

“Okay, okay. All I can say is, if I fail biology, it’ll be Pendergast’s fault.”

He heard a chair scraping and saw Corrie Swanson rise from the carrel and follow the man in the suit. He looked like Secret Service, all buttoned down, square jaw, dark glasses. He wondered what kind of trouble Corrie was in now.

Whit watched her pass, her trim behind twitching invitingly in a slinky black dress with pieces of metal jingling from it, her purple hair falling in a thick cascade down her back, grading almost to black at the ends. Damn, she was cute, just as long as he didn’t try to take her home to Father. The old man would kill him for dating a girl like that.

Whit turned his throbbing eyeballs back to the formula for finding the radius of curvature for a function of two variables, but it remained all Greek to him. Literally. The damn formula had so many squiggly letters it could be the first line of the Iliad, for all he knew.

He groaned again. His life was about to end. And all because of Jennifer and her magic bong . . .

A light snow had fallen on the white clapboard house that stood on the corner of Church Street and Sycamore Terrace in the quiet Cleveland suburb of River Pointe. The whitened streets were broad and silent, the streetlights casting pools of yellow light across the nocturnal landscape. The distant whistle of a train added a melancholy note to the silent neighborhood.

A shadow moved behind a shuttered window in a second-story gable—a figure in a wheelchair—barely outlined in the soft blue light that emanated from the depths of the room. Back and forth the figure went in silent pantomime, busy at some unknown task. Inside the room, metal racks stood from floor to ceiling, packed with electronic equipment: monitors, CPUs, printers, terabytes of hard drives, units for the remote seizure of computer screen images, cellular telephone scanner-interceptors, wireless routers, NAS devices, and Internet port sniffers. The room smelled of hot electronics and menthol.

The figure rolled this way and that, a single withered hand tapping keyboards, pressing buttons, turning dials, and punching keypads. Slowly, one by one, the units were being powered down, shut off, closed out. One by one, the lights went off, LAN and broadband connections were cut, screens went dark, hard drives spun down, LEDs winked out. The man known in the underground hacking community by the single name of Mime was shutting himself off from the world.

The last light to go off—a large blue flat-panel LCD—plunged the room into darkness.

Mime rested when he was finished, breathing in the unaccustomed darkness. He was now completely cut off from the outside world. He knew that, blacked out like this, he could not be found. Still, the information that had reached him from the man known as Pendergast, one of only two people in the world he trusted implicitly, made him uneasy.

Mime had not been cut off in many years from the vast torrents of data that washed over his house like an invisible ocean. It was a cold, lonely feeling.

He sat brooding. In a minute, he would turn to an entirely new set of controls, and new lights would come on in the room: the lights from a battery of video camera monitors and security readouts from a surveillance system set up around and within his house. It was a protective measure that had been installed years before, but that had never been needed. Until now.

Mime breathed in the darkness, and—for the first time in his life—he was afraid.

Proctor carefully locked the door to the great shuttered mansion at 891 Riverside Drive, looked around, then slipped into the waiting Hummer. The building was shut up tightly, every potential breach or entry point carefully sealed. Constance was still within, hiding in the secret spaces that had shielded her in the past, spaces that not even he—not even Pendergast—knew about. She had supplies, an emergency cell phone, medication: everything she needed.

Proctor accelerated from the curb, easing the enormous armored vehicle around the corner, moving south on Riverside Drive. Out of habit, he glanced in his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. There was no evidence of it, but—as Proctor well knew—the lack of evidence of being followed was not evidence of a lack of being followed.

At the corner of 95th and Riverside, he slowed as he approached an overflowing public trash receptacle; as he passed, he tossed into it a sack of greasy, congealed McDonald’s french fries almost completely coated with solidified ketchup. Then he accelerated onto the on-ramp to the West Side Highway, where he headed north, keeping to the speed limit and checking his mirrors frequently. He continued up through Riverdale and Yonkers to the Saw Mill River Parkway, then the Taconic, then I-90, and then I-87 and the Northway. He would drive all night and much of the next morning, until he reached a certain small cabin on a certain small lake twenty-odd miles north of St. Amand l’Eglise, Quebec.

He glanced to his right, where an AR-15 lay on the seat, fully loaded with 5.56mm NATO rounds. Proctor almost hoped he was being followed. He’d like nothing more than to teach the fellow a lesson he’d never forget as long as he lived—which in any case would not be long, not long at all.

As the sky paled and a dirty dawn broke across the Hudson River, and a freezing wind whipped scraps of newspaper down the empty streets, a lone derelict, shuffling along Riverside Drive, paused at an overflowing garbage can and began rummaging about. With a grunt of satisfaction, he extracted a bag of half-frozen McDonald’s french fries. As he stuffed them greedily into his mouth, his left hand deftly pocketed a small piece of paper hidden in the bottom of the bag, a paper with a few lines written in a beautiful, old-fashioned script:

There is only one man in the world who meets your particular requirements:

Eli Glinn of Effective Engineering Solutions

Little West 12th Street, Greenwich Village, New York

Thirty-eight

A BRILLIANT MOON, huge and intensely white, seemed to gild the vast expanse of sea far, far below. Looking out her window, Viola Maskelene could see a long white wake like a pencil laid across the burnished water, at the head of which was an enormous ocean liner, looking like a toy boat from 33,000 feet. It was the Queen Mary, she thought, on its way to New York from Southampton.

She gazed at it, feeling the enchantment of it, imagining the thousands of people below on that great ship in the middle of the ocean, eating, drinking, dancing, making love—an entire world on a ship so small it seemed she could hold it in her hand. She watched until it vanished on the far horizon. Funny how she’d flown at least a thousand times and still it was such an exciting experience for her. She glanced at the man across the aisle, dozing over his copy of the Financial Times, having never once looked out the window. That was something she couldn’t understand.

She settled back in her seat, wondering how to amuse herself next. This was the second leg of her journey from Italy, having changed planes in London, and she’d already read her book and flipped through the trashy in-flight magazine. The first-class cabin was almost empty, and as it was almost 2 A.M. London time, what few passengers shared the cabin were asleep. She had the flight attendant to herself. She caught the woman’s eye.

“Can I be of assistance, Lady Maskelene?”

She winced at the use of her title. How in the world did they all seem to know? “Champagne. And if you don’t mind, please don’t call me Lady Maskelene. It makes me feel like an old bag. Call me Viola instead.”

“My apologies. I’ll bring the champagne right away.”

“Thanks ever so.”

While Viola waited, she rummaged in her purse and withdrew the letter she had received at her house on the Italian island of Capraia three days before. It already showed signs of being opened and closed one too many times, but she read it again, anyway.

My dear Viola,

This letter will no doubt come as a shock to you, and for that I’m sorry. I find myself in the same position as Mark Twain in having to announce that the reports of my death are much exaggerated. I am alive and well, but I was forced to go underground due to an exceptionally delicate case I have been working on. That, combined with certain recent events in Tuscany with which you are no doubt acquainted, created the unfortunate impression among my friends and colleagues that I was dead. For a time, it was useful for me not to correct that impression. But I am alive, Viola—though I experienced a situation that put me as close to death as a human being can get.

That terrible experience is the reason for this letter. I realized during those dreadful hours of near-death how short life is, how fragile, and how we must none of us let slip those rare opportunities for happiness. When we met by chance on Capraia scant hours before that experience began, I was taken by surprise—and so, if you’ll pardon my saying so, were you. Something happened between us. You made an indelible impression on me, and I entertain hopes that I made a not dissimilar impression on you. I would therefore like to invite you to stay with me in New York for ten days, so that we may get to know each other better. To see, in effect, if indeed that impression is as indelible, and as favorable, as I strongly believe it to be.

At this, Viola had to smile; the old-fashioned, somewhat awkward wording was so like Pendergast that she could almost hear his voice. But the fact was, this was an extraordinary letter, unlike any she had ever received. Viola had been approached by many different men in many different ways, but never quite like this. Something happened between us. It was true. Even so, most women would be surprised and even shocked to receive an invitation like this. Somehow, even on one meeting, Aloysius already knew her well enough to understand that such a letter would not displease her. On the contrary . . .

She returned her attention to the letter.

If you accept this admittedly unconventional invitation, please arrange to be on the January 27 British Airways Flight 822 from Gatwick to Kennedy. Do not tell anyone why you are coming. I will explain when you get here; suffice to say that, if word of your visit got out, it could even now endanger my life.

When you arrive at Kennedy, my dear brother, Diogenes, will meet you at the luggage carousel.

Diogenes. She found herself smiling, remembering how Aloysius had said on Capraia that eccentric names ran in his family. He wasn’t kidding—who would ever name their child Diogenes?

You will recognize him instantly because of his strong resemblance to me—except that he sports a neatly trimmed beard. What is most striking about him is that, due to a childhood accident, he has eyes of two different colors: one hazel, the other a milky blue. He will carry no sign and he, of course, does not know what you look like, so you will have to find him yourself. I wouldn’t trust you with anyone less than my brother, who is utterly discreet.

Diogenes will escort you to my cottage out on Long Island, in a little town on Gardiners Bay, where I will be waiting for you. This will allow us several days in each other’s company. The cottage is well equipped but rustic, with a splendid view of Shelter Island across the bay. You will naturally have your own chambers, and we will comport ourselves with propriety—unless, of course, circumstances dictate otherwise.

At this, Viola giggled out loud. He was so old-fashioned, and yet here he was, basically propositioning her in a way that wasn’t even subtle—but managing to do it tastefully, with the driest sense of humor.

In three days following your arrival, the case I’ve been involved in will conclude. We will then emerge and I will once again show myself to the living, with (I trust) you on my arm. We will proceed to enjoy a splendid week of theater, music, art, and culinary exploration in New York City before your return to Capraia.

Viola, I beg you again, tell no one of this. Please give me your answer by old-fashioned telegram to the following address:

A. Pendleton

15 Glover’s Box Road

The Springs, NY 10511
and sign it, “Anna Livia Plurabelle.”

You will make me very happy if you accept my invitation. I know I am not very clever with sentiment and flowery phraseology—that is not my way. I will save further demonstrations of affection for when we meet in person.

Sincerely,
Aloysius

Again, Viola had to smile. She could almost hear Pendergast, with his elegant but rather severe air, speaking the sentences. Anna Livia Plurabelle, indeed; nice to know that Pendergast wasn’t above tossing in a witty literary allusion, and an esoteric, highbrow one at that. How appealing he was; she fairly tingled with the thought of seeing him again. And the faint whiff of danger he alluded to in the letter simply added spice to the adventure. Once again, she couldn’t help but reflect on how odd it was she seemed to know him so well after spending only that one afternoon together. She had never before believed in that nonsense about soulmates, about love at first sight, about matches made in heaven. But somehow . . .

She folded up the letter and took out the second one. It was a telegram, and it read simply:

Delighted you are coming! Confirmed my brother will meet you. I know I can trust you to be discreet. Fondly, A.X.L.P.

She carefully put both letters back into her handbag and sipped the champagne, her mind drifting back to that meeting on Capraia. She remembered how she had been digging manure into her vineyard when she saw a man in a black suit approaching, picking his way gingerly among the clods, accompanied by an American policeman in mufti. It was such an odd sight it had almost made her laugh. They had called out to her, thinking she was a peasant laborer. And then they’d drawn closer and she had looked at Pendergast’s strange and beautiful face for the first time. Nothing like that sudden, queer feeling had happened to her before. She could read the same experience in his face, despite his efforts to conceal it. It had been a short visit—an hour’s talk over glasses of white wine on her terrace overlooking the sea—and yet her mind had returned again and again to that afternoon, as if something momentous had happened.

Then there was that second visit—by D’Agosta alone, his face wan and troubled, and his terrible news of Pendergast’s death. It wasn’t until that awful moment that she had realized just how much she’d looked forward to seeing Agent Pendergast again—and how certain she had somehow been that he would figure in the rest of her life.

How dreadful that day had been. And how joyful things had become, now that she’d received his letter.

She smiled, thinking about seeing him again. She loved intrigue. She had never shied away from anything life had thrown at her. Her impulsiveness had gotten her into trouble on occasion, but it had also given her a colorful and fascinating life she wouldn’t trade for anything. This mysterious invitation was like something out of the romance novels she used to devour in her early teen years. A weekend in a cottage hidden away on Long Island, with a man who fascinated her like no other, followed by a whirlwind week in New York City. How could she refuse? She certainly didn’t have to sleep with him—he was the very soul of a gentleman—although just the thought brought an electric tingle that caused her to blush . . .

She finished off the champagne, which was excellent, as it always was in first class. She sometimes felt guilty about flying first class—it seemed elitist—but on a transatlantic flight, it was so much more comfortable. Viola was used to discomfort from her many years digging up tombs in Egypt, but she had never seen any sense in being uncomfortable for its own sake.

She checked her watch. She’d be landing at Kennedy in just over four hours.

It would certainly be interesting to meet this brother of Pendergast’s—this Diogenes. You could tell a lot about a person by meeting his brother.

Thirty-nine

D’AGOSTA FOLLOWED Pendergast’s downtrodden form as the agent shambled around the corner of Ninth Avenue onto Little West 12th Street. It was nine o’clock in the evening and a bitter wind was blowing hard off the Hudson River. The old meatpacking district—sandwiched into a narrow corridor south of Chelsea and north of Greenwich Village—had changed in the years D’Agosta was away. Now hip restaurants, boutiques, and technology start-ups were sprinkled among the wholesale meat distributors and commercial butcheries. It seemed like a hell of a place for a forensic profiler to hang up his shingle.

Halfway down the block, Pendergast halted before a large twelve-story warehouse that had seen better days. The steel-mesh windows were opaque with age, and the lower stories were caked with soot. There was no sign of any kind, no name, nothing to announce the existence of any firm within beyond a weathered sign painted directly onto the old brick which read Price & Price Pork Packing Inc. Below that was an oversize entrance for truck deliveries, closed and barred, and a smaller door beside it with an unlabeled buzzer. Pendergast’s finger went up to it and gave it a jab.

“Yes?” a voice asked immediately from the adjoining speaker grille.

Pendergast murmured something and there was the sound of an electronic lock disengaging. The door opened into a small white space, empty save for a tiny camera mounted high on the rear wall. The door closed behind them with a faint click. They stood there, facing the camera, for thirty seconds. Then an almost invisible door in the rear wall slid back. Pendergast and D’Agosta walked down a white corridor, then stepped into a dim room—an amazing room.

The lower floors of the warehouse had been gutted, leaving a large, six-story shell. Ahead, the sprawling main floor was a maze of display tables, hulking scientific equipment, computer workstations, and intricate models and dioramas, all cloaked in shadow. D’Agosta’s attention was drawn to a gigantic table displaying what appeared to be a model of the ocean floor somewhere around Antarctica, cut away to show sub-seafloor geology, along with what looked like a strange volcano of some kind. There were other intricate models, including one of a ship packed with mysterious-looking ROVs, scientific equipment, and military hardware.

A voice sounded from the shadows. “Welcome.”

D’Agosta turned into the dimness and saw a figure in a wheelchair approaching between two rows of long tables: a man with closely cropped brown hair and thin lips set above a square jaw. He wore an unassuming but well-cut suit and controlled the wheelchair with a small joystick operated by a black-gloved hand. D’Agosta realized that one of the man’s eyes must be glass, because it conveyed none of the fierce gleam of its mate. A purple scar ran down the right side of his face, from hairline to jaw, giving the illusion of a dueling wound.

“I am Eli Glinn,” he said, his voice low, mild, and neutral. “You must be Lieutenant D’Agosta and Special Agent Pendergast.” He stopped the wheelchair and extended his hand. “Welcome to Effective Engineering Solutions.”

They followed him back between the tables and past a small greenhouse, its grow-lamps flickering eerily, then got into an elevator cage that took them up to a fourth-floor catwalk. As he followed the wheelchair down the catwalk, D’Agosta felt a twinge of doubt. Effective Engineering Solutions? Mr.—not Dr.—Eli Glinn? He wondered if, despite her vaunted research skills, Constance Greene had made a mistake. This didn’t look like any forensic profiling consultant he had ever seen before—and he had dealt with quite a few.

Glinn glanced back, ran his good eye over D’Agosta’s uniform. “You might as well turn off your radio and cell phone, Lieutenant. We block all wireless signals and radio frequencies in this building.”

He led the way into a small conference room decorated in polished wood, closed the door, then gestured for them to be seated. He wheeled himself to the far side of the lone table, where a gap between the charcoal-colored Herman Miller chairs was clearly reserved for him. A thin envelope lay on the table before him; otherwise, the spotless table was empty. Leaning back in the wheelchair, he fixed them both with a penetrating gaze.

“Yours is an unusual request,” he said.

“Mine is an unusual problem,” Pendergast replied.

Glinn eyed him up and down. “That is a rather effective disguise, Mr. Pendergast.”

“Indeed.”

Glinn folded his hands. “Tell me the nature of your problem.”

Pendergast glanced around. “Tell me the nature of your company. I ask because all this”—he gestured—“does not look like the office of a forensic profiler.”

A slow, mirthless smile stretched the features of the man’s face, distorting and inflaming the scar. “A fair question. Effective Engineering Solutions is in the business of solving unique engineering problems and performing failure analysis.”

“What kind of engineering problems?” Pendergast asked.

“How to neutralize an underground nuclear reactor in a certain rogue Middle Eastern state being used to produce weapons-grade fuel. The analysis of the mysterious and sudden loss of a billion-dollar classified satellite.” He twitched a finger, a small gesture that carried surprising weight, so motionless had the man been up to that point. “You’ll understand if I don’t go into details. You see, Mr. Pendergast, ‘failure analysis’ is the other side of the engineering coin: it is the art of understanding how things fail, and thus preventing failure before it happens. Or finding out why failure occurred after it happens. Sadly, the latter is more common than the former.”

D’Agosta spoke. “I still don’t get it. What does failure analysis have to do with forensic profiling?”

“I’m getting to that, Lieutenant. Failure analysis begins and ends with psychological profiling. EES realized long ago that the key to understanding failure was understanding exactly how human beings make mistakes. Which is the same as understanding how human beings make decisions in general. We needed predictive power—a way to predict how a given person would act in a given situation. We therefore developed a muscular proprietary system for psychological profiling. It currently runs on a grid-powered supercomputer of IBM eServer nodes. We do psychological profiling better than anyone else in the world. And I do not tell you this by way of salesmanship. It’s a simple fact.”

Pendergast inclined his head. “Most interesting. How is it I have never heard of you?”

“We do not generally wish to be known—beyond, that is, a small circle of clients.”

“Before we begin, I must be assured of discretion.”

“Mr. Pendergast, EES makes two guarantees. First, utter discretion. Second, guaranteed success. Now, please tell me your problem.”

“The target is a man named Diogenes Pendergast—my brother. He disappeared over two decades ago, after contriving to stage his own false death. He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth—at least officially. He’s not in any government databases, beyond a death certificate which I know to be forged. There are no adult records of him at all. No address, no photos, nothing.” He removed a thick manila folder from his coat and placed it on the table. “Everything I know is in here.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

“We had a curious encounter last summer. It’s in the report. That, and the fact he has turned into a serial killer.”

Glinn gave a slow nod.

“From a young age, Diogenes hated me, and he’s made it his life’s work to destroy me. On January 19 of this year, he finally put his plan into action. He has begun murdering my friends and associates, one by one, and taunting me with my inability to save them. He’s killed four so far. For the last two, he’s mocked me with notes ahead of time, naming the victim—the first time correctly, and the second time as a ruse to make me protect the wrong person. In short, I have utterly failed to stop him. He claims to be targeting Lieutenant D’Agosta here next. Again, the summaries of the homicides are in that folder.”

D’Agosta saw Glinn’s good eye gleam with new interest. “How intelligent is this Diogenes?”

“As a child, his I.Q. was tested at 210. That was, incidentally, after he had scarlet fever, which altered him permanently.”

Glinn raised an eyebrow. “Are we dealing with organic brain damage?”

“Not likely. He was strange before the fever. The illness seems to have focused it, brought it to the fore.”

“And this is why you need me. You need a complete psychological, criminal, and behavioral analysis of this man. Naturally, because you are his brother, you are too close to him—you cannot do it yourself.”

“Correct. Diogenes has had years to plan this. He’s been three steps ahead of me all the way. He leaves no clues at his crime scenes—none that are unintentional at least. The only way to stop him is to anticipate what he’ll do next. I must stress this is an emergency situation. Diogenes has threatened to complete his crime tomorrow, January 28. He named this day as the culmination of all his planning. There is no telling how many more lives are in jeopardy.”

Glinn opened the folder with his good hand and began leafing through it, scanning the pages. “I cannot produce a profile in twenty-four hours.”

“You must.”

“It’s impossible. The earliest I can do it—assuming I drop all other work and focus solely on this—is seventy-two hours from now. You have come to me too late, Mr. Pendergast. At least too late for the date your brother named. Not too late, perhaps, to take effective action afterwards.” He gave his head a curious tilt as he eyed Pendergast.

The agent was very still for a moment. “So be it, then,” he said in a low voice.

“Let’s not waste any more time.” Glinn put a hand on the folder before him and slid it across the table. “Here is our standard contract. My fee is one million dollars.”

D’Agosta rose from his chair. “A million bucks? Are you crazy!”

Pendergast stilled him with a wave of his hand. “Accepted.” He took the folder, opened it, scanned the contract rapidly.

“At the back,” said Glinn, “you’ll find our standard disclaimers and warranties. We offer an absolute, unconditional guarantee of success.”

“This is the second time you’ve mentioned that curious guarantee. How do you define ‘success,’ Mr. Glinn?”

Another ghostly smile lingered on Glinn’s face. “Naturally, we cannot guarantee that you will apprehend Diogenes. Nor can we guarantee to stop him from killing. That lies in your hands. Here’s what we do guarantee. First: we will give you a forensic profile of Diogenes Pendergast that will accurately elucidate his motive.”

“I already know his motive.”

Glinn ignored this. “Second: our forensic profile will have predictive power. It will tell you, within a limited range of options, what Diogenes Pendergast’s next actions will be. We offer follow-up services—if you have specific questions about the target’s future actions, we will run them through our system and provide you with reliable answers.”

“I question whether that’s possible with any human being, let alone someone like Diogenes.”

“I do not wish to bandy philosophical questions with you, Mr. Pendergast. Human beings are disgustingly predictable, and this is as true of psychopaths as it is of grandmothers. We shall do what we say.”

“Have you ever failed?”

“Never. There is one assignment that remains—shall we say—open.”

“The one involving the thermonuclear device?”

If Glinn was surprised by this question, he did not show it. “What thermonuclear device is that?”

“The one you are designing downstairs. I saw several equations on a whiteboard relating to the curve of binding energy. On a nearby table lay a paper with the design for machining a piece of H.E. that could only be used to compress a core.”

“I shall have to speak to my chief engineer about his carelessness with regard to our other project.”

“I also see you’re developing a genetically engineered plant mosaic virus. Does that also relate to that other project?”

“We offer the same guarantee of confidentiality to our other clients that we offer you. Shall we return to the subject of Diogenes? In particular, the question of his motive.”

“Not quite yet,” said Pendergast. “I do not speak frivolously. Your entire manner—your speech, your movements, your very intensity, Mr. Glinn—speaks of someone with an overriding obsession. I have also noted that, at least if the scar on your face is an indication, your injuries are recent. When I weigh that with what I saw downstairs, I find myself growing concerned.”

Glinn raised his eyebrows. “Concerned?”

“Concerned that a man such as you, wrestling with a problem far greater than my own, wouldn’t be able to devote his full attention to mine.”

Glinn remained very still, not answering. Pendergast looked across the table at him, equally motionless.

A minute went by, then two, without either man speaking. Watching, waiting, D’Agosta grew increasingly alarmed. It was as if the two men were fighting a duel, waging a battle of turn and counterturn, all without speaking or even moving.

Suddenly, without preamble, Glinn began to speak again in the same calm, neutral voice. “If you ever decide to leave the FBI, Mr. Pendergast, I believe I could find a place for you here. There is no obsession on my part, however—only the simple fulfillment of our guarantee of success. You see, we don’t make that guarantee just for our clients: we make it for ourselves. I intend to complete that other project successfully, although the original client is no longer in a condition to appreciate it. That project involves a severe seismic dislocation at a certain site in the South Atlantic that requires a, ah, nuclear adjustment. And that is more than you need to know. It is true that I am taking on your little problem chiefly because I find myself embarrassed for funds. However, I will devote all my energy to seeing your project through, because to fail would mean having to return your money and to suffer personal humiliation. And, as I said, EES does not fail. Clear enough?”

Pendergast nodded.

“And now, let us return to your brother’s motive—the fountainhead of his hatred. Something happened between you and him, and I must know what it is.”

“It’s all described in that folder. He always hated me. The final straw was when I burned my brother’s journals.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I was fourteen, and he was twelve. We had never gotten along. He was always cruel and strange—much more so after the scarlet fever.”

“When was that?”

“When he was seven.”

“Are there any medical records?”

“None. He was treated by the private family physician.”

“Proceed.”

“One day I came across his journals, which were filled with the most vile things ever put on paper—abominations beyond the reach of any normal mind. He’d been keeping them for years. I burned them—and that was the precipitant. Some years later, our home burned, and our parents died in the fire. I was away at school, but Diogenes saw it all, heard their cries for help. That drove him over the edge.”

A cold smile played at the corners of Glinn’s lips. “I think not.”

“You think not?”

“I have no doubt that he was jealous of you and that the destruction of his journals infuriated him. But that happened far too late to produce such a deep, pathological, obsessive hatred. Nor can a mere bout with scarlet fever create hatred out of thin air. No, Mr. Pendergast: this hatred stems from something else that happened between you and your brother at a much earlier age. That is the information we lack. And you are the only person who can supply it.”

“Everything of relevance that happened between me and my brother is in that file, including our recent encounter in Italy. I can assure you there is no single incident, no smoking gun, which explains his hatred.”

Glinn picked up the file, leafed through it. Three minutes passed, then five. Then Glinn put the folder down. “You’re right. There is no smoking gun here.”

“Just as I said.”

“It’s quite possible you’ve repressed it.”

“I repress nothing. I have an exceptional memory going back to before my first birthday.”

“Then you are deliberately withholding something.”

Pendergast went very still. D’Agosta watched the two men, surprised. He had never seen anyone challenge Pendergast in quite this way before.

As he eyed Pendergast, Glinn had become, if possible, even more expressionless. “We can’t proceed without this information. I need it, and I need it now.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m going to call in several of my trusted associates. They’ll be here within the hour. Mr. Pendergast, there’s a small room with a bed behind that door in the back; please make yourself comfortable and await further instructions. Lieutenant, your presence here is no longer required.”

D’Agosta looked at Pendergast. For the first time in his memory, the agent’s face wore a look of something like apprehension.

“I’m not going anywhere,” D’Agosta said immediately, irritated at Glinn’s arrogance.

Pendergast smiled thinly, shook his head. “It’s all right, Vincent—much as I loathe the idea of rummaging around in my past for something that probably doesn’t exist, I see the necessity for doing so. I will meet you back at our prearranged place.”

“Are you sure?”

Pendergast nodded. “And never forget: you are the one named next by Diogenes. January 28 is less than three hours away. Vincent: be transcendentally cautious.”

Forty

LAURA HAYWARD PACED the small room like a caged lioness, glancing frequently at the ugly clock behind her desk. She felt that, if she didn’t work off her nervous energy, she would explode. And since she couldn’t leave her office, she paced.

She had spent almost the entire evening organizing the evidence from the Duchamp and Green killings, and cross-comparing it to evidence she had cajoled, pried, and bludgeoned out of the New Orleans and D.C. police departments. She had cleared her cork wall of all other cases and had divided it into four cantons, one for each homicide: Professor Torrance Hamilton on January 19; Charles Duchamp on January 22; Special Agent Michael Decker on January 23; and Dr. Margo Green on January 26. There were micrographs of fibers and hair, photographs of knots and footprints, abstracts of the M.E. reports, blood splatter analyses, photographs of the murder scenes and weapons, fingerprint reports, diagrams showing ingress and egress where determined, along with an embarrassment of other evidence, relevant or not. Pushpins with colored strings drew red, yellow, green, and blue connections among the evidence. And there were a surprising number of connections: while the M.O.’s were all quite different, there was no doubt in Hayward’s mind the same person had committed all four homicides.

No doubt.

Sitting on the middle of her desk was a thin report, just in, from the top guy in the forensic profiling division. He had confirmed that the homicides were psychologically consistent and could have been committed by the same perp. What’s more, he had prepared a profile of the killer. It was startling, to say the least.

D.C. and New Orleans didn’t know it yet; the FBI didn’t know it yet; not even Singleton or Rocker knew it yet: but they were dealing with a serial killer. A meticulous, intelligent, methodical, cool, and utterly insane serial killer.

She spun, strode, spun again. As soon as she showed Rocker that she’d connected the cases, the shit would hit the fan. The FBI, already involved because of Decker’s murder, would descend like a ton of bricks. There would be an earthquake of publicity—serial killers always garnered big headlines. But a serial killer like this was totally unheard of. She could almost see the screaming 72-point headline in the Post. The mayor would get involved, maybe even the governor. It was going to be a mess. A god-awful mess.

But she couldn’t call Rocker until she had the last piece of evidence, the last piece of the puzzle. The smoking gun. She was going to get raked over the coals, no matter what. The political fallout would be terrible. It was important she had all her ducks in a row—that was the only thing that could save her ass.

A timid rap came on the door, and she halted midstride. “Come in,” she said.

A man holding a manila envelope poked his head in.

“Where’ve you been? I was supposed to have this report two hours ago!”

“I’m sorry,” the man stammered, taking a few tentative steps inside the office. “As I explained on the phone, we had to run the match three times because—”

“Never mind. Just give me the report, please.”

He held it out from a distance, almost as if fearful of being bitten.

“You got a DNA match?” she asked, taking the report.

“Yes. A pair of beautiful matches, blood from the box cutter and the spot on the floor. Both from the same individual, not the victim. But here’s the problem: the DNA wasn’t in any of the FBI criminal or juvenile databases, so we did like you asked and ran it against all the DNA databases. When we finally did get a match, it was in a federal database, and we had a major problem because of confidentiality issues and . . . well . . .” He hesitated.

“Go on,” Hayward said as gently as she could.

“The reason I had to run the program three times was to be absolutely sure about this match. This is explosive stuff, Captain. We can’t afford to be wrong.”

“And?” Hayward could hardly breathe.

“You aren’t going to believe this. The DNA matched one of the Bureau’s top agents.”

Hayward breathed out. “I believe it. God help us, I believe it.”

Forty-one

ElI GLINN WAITED in his small private office on the fourth floor of the Effective Engineering Solutions building. It was a sober room, containing only a table, several computers, a small bookshelf, and a clock. The walls were painted gray, and there was nothing of a personal nature in the office, save for a small photograph of a stately blonde woman wearing the uniform of a ship’s captain, waving from what appeared to be the bridge of a tanker. A line from a W. H. Auden poem was handwritten beneath.

The office lights had been turned off, and the only illumination came from a large flat-panel monitor, which carried a high-definition digital feed from an office in the basement of the EES building. The video feed showed two people: the subject, Pendergast, with EES’s psychological specialist, Rolf Krasner, who was preparing the subject for questioning.

Glinn observed the slender figure of Pendergast with interest. The man’s insight into Glinn’s own psychology, his extraordinary ability to pick out and interpret a few details scattered about a room which itself was a very morass of detail, had nearly unnerved Glinn—and, in a curious way, deeply impressed him.

While still watching the proceedings on the monitor, the audio turned off, he turned again to the folder Pendergast had given him. Although unimportant in the larger scheme of things, Pendergast’s case was not without its points. For example, there was the near mythical Cain and Abel relationship between these two extraordinary brothers. For Pendergast was extraordinary—Glinn had never before met a man whose intellect he could respect as equal to his own. Glinn had always felt somewhat alienated from the mass of humanity—and yet here was a man he could, in the revolting parlance of the present age, identify with. That Pendergast’s brother appeared to be even more intelligent, and yet utterly malevolent, Glinn found even more intriguing. This was a man so consumed by hatred that he had devoted his life to the object of his hatred, not unlike a man under the spell of obsessive love. Whatever lay at the bottom of that hatred was something perhaps unique in human experience.

Glinn glanced back at the monitor. The chitchat was over and Rolf Krasner was getting down to business. The EES psychologist combined a disarmingly friendly air with consummate professionalism. You could hardly believe that this cheerful, round-faced, unassuming man with the Viennese accent could be considered a threat. Indeed, at first glance, he seemed about the most unthreatening personality imaginable—until you saw him in action. Glinn knew just how effective that Jekyll and Hyde strategy could be with an unsuspecting subject.

On the other hand, Krasner had never had a subject like this one.

Glinn leaned over and switched on the audio feed.

“Mr. Pendergast,” Krasner was saying cheerily, “is there anything I can get you before we begin? Water? A soft drink? A double martini?” A chuckle.

“Nothing, thank you.”

Pendergast appeared ill at ease, as well he should. EES had developed three different modes of interrogation, each for a particular personality type, along with an experimental fourth mode to be used only on the most difficult, resistant—and intelligent—subjects. After they had read through Pendergast’s folder and discussed the situation, there was no argument over which mode would be used. Pendergast would be only the sixth person to undergo this fourth type of interrogation. It had never failed.

“We use some of the techniques of good, old-fashioned psychoanalysis,” Krasner said. “And one of them is that we ask you to lie down on a couch, out of view of the questioner. Would you please make yourself comfortable?”

The figure lay down on the richly brocaded couch and folded his white hands on his chest. Except for the ragged clothes, he looked alarmingly like the corpse at a wake. What a fascinating creature this man is, Glinn thought as he moved his wheelchair closer to the monitor.

“Perhaps you recognize the office we’re in, Mr. Pendergast?” Krasner said, bustling about, getting ready.

“I do. Number 19 Berggasse.”

“Exactly! Modeled after Freud’s own office in Vienna. We even managed to acquire some of his African carvings. And that Persian carpet in the center also belonged to him. Freud called his office gemütlich, which is an almost untranslatable German word meaning agreeable, comfortable, cozy, friendly—and that is the atmosphere we have strived to create. Do you speak German, Mr. Pendergast?”

“German is not one of my languages, much to my regret. I should have liked to read Goethe’s Faust in the original.”

“A marvelous work, vigorous and yet poetic.” Krasner took a seat on a wooden stool out of Pendergast’s view.

“Do you employ the free-association methods of psychoanalysis?” Pendergast asked dryly.

“Oh, no! We’ve developed a technique all our own. It’s very straightforward, actually—no tricks, no dream interpretations. The only thing Freudian about our technique is the office decor.” He chuckled again.

Glinn found himself smiling. The fourth interrogation mode used tricks—they all did—but, of course, the subject wasn’t supposed to see them. Indeed, this fourth mode seemed like pure simplicity itself . . . on the surface. Highly intelligent people could be fooled, but only with the greatest of care and subtlety.

“I’m going to help you through some simple visualization techniques, which will also involve questioning. It’s simple and there is no hypnosis involved. It’s just a way to induce a calm and focused mind, receptive to questioning. Does that suit you, Aloysius? May I call you by your first name?”

“You may, and I am at your disposal, Dr. Krasner. I am only concerned that I may not be able to give you the information you desire, because I do not believe it exists.”

“Do not concern yourself with that. Simply relax, follow my instructions, and answer the questions as best you can.”

Relax. Glinn knew this was about the last thing Pendergast would be able to do, once Krasner got started.

“Wonderful. Now I’m going to turn down the lights. I will also ask you to close your eyes.”

“As you wish.”

The lights dimmed to a faint diffuse glow.

“Now we will allow three minutes to pass in silence,” said Krasner.

The minutes crawled by.

“Let us begin.” Krasner’s voice had taken on a hushed, velvety tone. Another long silence, and then he resumed.

“Breathe in slowly. Hold it. Now let it out even more slowly. Again. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Relax. Very good. Now, I want you to imagine you are at your favorite place in all the world. The place where you feel most at home, most comfortable. Take a minute to place yourself there. Now turn around, examine your surroundings. Sample the air. Take in the scents, the sounds. Now, tell me: What do you see?”

A momentary silence. Glinn leaned still closer to the monitor.

“I am on a vast green lawn at the edge of an ancient beechwood forest. There is a summerhouse at the far end of the lawn. There are gardens and a millhouse to the west, where a brook flows. The lawn sweeps up to a stone mansion, shaded by elms.”

“What is this place?”

“Ravenscry. The estate of my Great-Aunt Cornelia.”

“And what is the year and season?”

“It is 1972, the ides of August.”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Inhale the air again. What scents can you smell?”

“Freshly cut grass, with a faint overlay of peonies from the garden.”

“What are the sounds?”

“A whip-poor-will. The rustle of beech leaves. The distant murmur of water.”

“Good. Very good. Now I want you to rise. Rise off the ground, let yourself float . . . Look down as you rise. Do you see the lawn, the house, from above?”

“Yes.”

“Now rise further. One hundred feet. Two hundred. Look down again. What do you see?”

“The great sprawling house, the carriage house, the gardens, lawns, millhouse, trout hatchery, arboretum, greenhouses, the beechwood forest, and the drive winding to the stone gates. The encircling wall.”

“And beyond that?”

“The road to Haddam.”

“Now. Make it night.”

“It is night.”

“Make it day.”

“It is day.”

“Do you understand that you are in control, that all this is in your head, that none of this is real?”

“Yes.”

“During this process, you must always keep that in mind. You are in control, and none of what is happening is real. It is all in your mind.”

“I understand that.”

“Below, on the lawn, put the members of your family. Who are they? Name them, please.”

“My father, Linnaeus. My mother, Isabella. My Great-Aunt Cornelia. Cyril, the gardener, working to one side . . .”

There was a long pause.

“Anyone else?”

“And my brother. Diogenes.”

“His age?”

“Ten.”

“What are they doing?”

“Standing around just where I put them.” The voice sounded dry and ironic. Glinn could see very well that Pendergast was maintaining an ironic detachment and would attempt to do so as long as possible.

“Put them in some kind of typical activity,” Krasner went on smoothly. “What are they doing now?”

“Finishing tea on a blanket spread out on the lawn.”

“Now I want you to drift down. Slowly. Join them.”

“I am there.”

“What are you doing, exactly?”

“Tea is over and Great-Aunt Cornelia is passing a plate of petits fours. She has them brought up from New Orleans.”

“Are they good?”

“Naturally. Great-Aunt Cornelia has the highest standards.” The tone of Pendergast’s voice was laden with irony, and Glinn wondered just who this Great-Aunt Cornelia was. He glanced down at an abstract attached to Pendergast’s file, flipped through it, and came to the answer of his question. A chill crept up his spine. He quickly shut the file—right now that was a distraction.

“What kind of tea did you take?” asked Krasner.

“Great-Aunt Cornelia will only drink T. G. Tips, which she has sent over from England.”

“Now look around the blanket. Look at everyone. Gaze around until your eyes come to rest on Diogenes.”

A long silence.

“What does Diogenes look like?”

“Tall for his age, pale, with very short hair, eyes of two different colors. He is very thin and his lips are overly red.”

“Those eyes, look into them. Is he looking at you?”

“No. He has turned his head away. He does not like to be stared at.”

“Keep staring at him. Stare hard.”

A longer silence. “I have averted my eyes.”

“No. Remember, you control the scene. Keep staring.”

“I don’t choose to.”

“Speak to your brother. Tell him to rise, that you wish to speak to him in private.”

Another, longer silence. “Done.”

“Tell him to come with you to the summerhouse.”

“He refuses.”

“He cannot refuse. You control him.”

Even through the monitor, Glinn could see that a small sheen of sweat had appeared on Pendergast’s brow. It’s beginning, he thought.

“Tell Diogenes that there is a man waiting for him in the summerhouse who wants to ask you both some questions. A Dr. Krasner. Tell him that.”

“Yes. He will come to see the doctor. He is curious that way.”

“Excuse yourselves and walk to the summerhouse. Where I am waiting.”

“All right.”

A brief silence. “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, what do you see?”

“We’re inside. My brother is standing here, you’re here, I’m here.”

“Good. We shall remain standing. Now, I will ask you and your brother some questions. You will relay your brother’s answers to my questions, since he cannot speak to me directly.”

“If you insist,” said Pendergast, a touch of irony returning to his voice.

“You control the situation, Aloysius. Diogenes cannot evade answering, because it is you who is really answering for him. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Tell Diogenes to look at you. To stare at you.”

“He won’t.”

“Make him. With your mind, make him do it.”

A silence. “All right.”

“Diogenes, I am now speaking to you. What is your first memory of your older brother, Aloysius?”

“He said he remembers me drawing a picture.”

“What is the picture?”

“Scribbles.”

“How old are you, Diogenes?”

“He says six months.”

“Ask Diogenes what he thinks of you.”

“He thinks of me as the next Jackson Pollock.”

That ironic tone again, thought Glinn. This was one very resistant client.

“That would not normally be the thought of a six-month-old baby.”

“Diogenes is answering as a ten-year-old, Dr. Krasner.”

“Fine. Ask Diogenes to keep looking at you. What does he see?”

“He says nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? He isn’t speaking?”

“He spoke. He said the word nothing.”

“What do you mean by the word nothing?”

“He says, ‘I see nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.’”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a quotation from Wallace Stevens,” said Pendergast dryly. “Even at ten, Diogenes was partial to Stevens.”

“Diogenes, when you say ‘nothing,’ does that mean you feel your brother, Aloysius, is a nonentity?”

“He laughs and says the words are yours, not his.”

“Why?”

“He is laughing harder.”

“How long will you be at Ravenscry, Diogenes?”

“He says until he goes back to school.”

“And where is that?”

“St. Ignatius Loyola on Lafayette Street, New Orleans.”

“How do you like school, Diogenes?”

“He says he likes it as much as you would like being shut up in a room with twenty-five mental defectives and a middle-aged hysteric.”

“What is your favorite subject?”

“He says experimental biology . . . on the playground.”

“Now I want you, Aloysius, to ask Diogenes three questions, which he must answer. You must make him answer them. Remember, you are in control. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“What is your favorite food, Diogenes?”

“Wormwood and gall.”

“I want a straight answer.”

“That, Dr. Krasner, is the one thing you will never get from Diogenes,” said Pendergast.

“Remember, Aloysius, that it is you who are actually answering the questions.”

“And with great forbearance, I might add,” said Pendergast. “I am doing all I can to suspend my disbelief.”

Glinn leaned back in his wheelchair. This wasn’t quite working. Clients resisted, some with every fiber of their being, but not quite like this. Irony was the ultimate resistance—he had never before seen it so skillfully employed. And yet Glinn felt a shiver of self-recognition: Pendergast was a man who was hyperaware of himself, unable ever to step outside of himself, to let go, to lower, even for an instant, the elaborate defensive mask he had created to place between himself and the world.

Glinn could understand a man like that.

“All right. Aloysius, you are still in the summerhouse with Diogenes. Imagine you have a loaded pistol in your hand.”

“Fine.”

Glinn sat up, a little startled. Krasner was already moving to what they termed phase two—and very abruptly. Clearly, he, too, realized this session needed to be jump-started.

“What kind of pistol is it?”

“It’s a gun from my collection, a Signature Grade 1911 .45 ACP by Hilton Yam.”

“Give it to him.”

“It would be most unwise to give a pistol to a ten-year-old, don’t you think?” Again, that ironic, amused tone.

“Nevertheless, do it.”

“Done.”

“Tell him to point the gun at you and pull the trigger.”

“Done.”

“What happened?”

“He’s laughing uproariously. He didn’t pull the trigger.”

“Why not?”

“He says it’s too soon.”

“Does he intend to kill you?”

“Naturally. But he wants . . .” His voice trailed off.

Krasner pounced. “What does he want?”

“To play with me for a while.”

“What kind of play?”

“He says he wants to pull off my wings and watch what happens. I am his ultimate insect.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ask him.”

“He’s laughing.”

“Grab him and demand an answer.”

“I would prefer not to touch him.”

“Grab him. Get physical. Force him to answer.”

“He’s still laughing.”

“Hit him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hit him.”

“I won’t carry on with this charade.”

“Take the gun away from him.”

“He’s dropped the gun, but—”

“Pick it up.”

“All right.”

“Shoot him. Kill him.”

“This is utterly absurd—”

“Kill him. Do it. You’ve killed before; you know how to do it. You can and you must do it.”

A long silence.

“Did you do it?”

“This is an asinine exercise, Dr. Krasner.”

“But you did imagine it. Didn’t you? You imagined killing him.”

“I imagined no such thing.”

“Yes, you did. You killed him. You imagined it. And now you are imagining his dead body on the ground. You see it because you cannot help but see it.”

“This is . . .” Pendergast’s voice trailed of.

“You see it, you can’t help but see it. Because I am telling you to, you are seeing it . . . But wait—he’s not yet dead . . . He moves, he still lives . . . He wants to say something. With his last dying strength, he beckons you closer, says something to you. What did he just say?”

A long silence. Then Pendergast answered dryly, “Qualis artifex pereo.”

Glinn winced. He recognized the quotation but could see that Krasner did not. What should have been a breaking point for Pendergast had suddenly turned into an intellectual game.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s Latin.”

“I repeat: what does it mean?”

“It means ‘O, what an artist dies with me!’”

“Why did he say that?”

“Those were Nero’s last words. I believe Diogenes was speaking facetiously.”

“You have killed your brother, Aloysius, and now look on his body.”

An irritated sigh.

“This is the second time you have done it.”

“The second time?”

“You killed him once before, years ago.”

“Pardon me?”

“Yes, you did. You killed whatever goodness was in him; you left him a hollow shell filled with malice and hatred. You did something to him that murdered his very soul!”

Despite himself, Glinn found he was holding his breath. The gentle, soothing tones were long gone: Dr. Krasner had slipped into phase three, once again with unusual swiftness.

“I did no such thing. He was born that way, empty and cruel.”

“No. You killed his goodness! There is no other possible answer. Don’t you see, Aloysius? The hatred Diogenes feels for you is mythological in its immensity. It cannot have sprung from nothing; energy can neither be created nor destroyed. You created that hatred, you did something to him that struck out his heart. All these years, you have repressed this terrible deed. And now you have killed him again, literally as well as figuratively. What you must face, Aloysius, is that you are the author of your own fate. You are at fault. You did it.”

Another long silence. Pendergast lay on the couch, unmoving, his skin gray, waxlike.

“Now Diogenes is rising. He is looking at you again. I want you to ask him something.”

“What?”

“Ask Diogenes what you did to him to make him hate you so.”

“Done.”

“His answer?”

“Another laugh. He said, ‘I hate you because you are you.’”

“Ask again.”

“He says that is reason enough, that his hatred has nothing to do with anything I did, it simply exists, like the sun, moon, and stars.”

“No, no, no. What is it that you did, Aloysius?” Krasner’s voice was once again gentle, but it had great urgency. “Unburden yourself of it. How terrible it must be to carry that weight on your shoulders. Unburden yourself.”

Slowly, Pendergast arose from the couch, swinging his legs over the side. For a moment, he sat motionless. Then he passed a hand across his forehead, looked at his watch. “It is midnight. It is now January 28, and I am out of time. I can’t be bothered with this exercise anymore.”

He stood and turned to Dr. Krasner. “I commend you on your valiant effort, Doctor. Trust me, there’s nothing in my past that would justify Diogenes’s conduct. In the course of my career studying the criminal mind, I have come to realize a simple truth: some people are born monsters. You can elucidate their motives and reconstruct their crimes—but you cannot explain the evil within them.”

Krasner looked at him, great sadness in his face. “There’s where you’re wrong, my friend. Nobody is born evil.”

Pendergast held out his hand. “We shall differ, then.” Then his eyes turned directly toward the hidden camera, startling Glinn. How could Pendergast know where it was?

“Mr. Glinn? I thank you, too, for your effort. You should have plenty in that folder to complete the job at hand. I can help you no further. Something terrible will happen today, and I must do everything in my power to stop it.”

And he turned and walked briskly from the room.

Forty-two

THE MANSION AT 891 Riverside Drive lay above one of the most complex geological areas of Manhattan. Here, beneath the litter-strewn streets, the bedrock of Hartland schist yielded to a different formation, the Cambrian Manhattan. The gneiss of the Manhattan Formation was particularly faulted and contorted, and riddled with weak areas, cracks, and natural tunnels. One such weak area, several centuries ago, had been enlarged to form the passage from the mansion’s sub-basement to the weed-choked shore of the Hudson River. But there were other tunnels, older and more secret, that burrowed beneath the mansion into dark and unknown depths.

Unknown to all, that is, but one.

Constance Greene moved slowly through one of these tunnels, descending with practiced ease into the blackness. Though she held a torch in one slim hand, it was not lit: she knew these deep and hidden spaces so well that light was not necessary. The passage was frequently narrow enough to allow her to follow both walls with her outstretched hands. Though the tunnel was of natural rock, the ceiling was tall and quite regular, and the floor was even enough to appear almost like steps fashioned by man.

But only Constance had ever walked this way before.

Until a few days ago, she had hoped never to come here again. It was a reminder of the old times—the bad times—when she had seen things no living being should ever have to witness. When he had come, with violence and murder, and had taken from her the only human being she had known, a man who was like a father to her. The murderer had upended the ordered world she had grown so used to. She had fled here then, into the chill recesses of the earth. For a time, it seemed, sanity itself also fled, under the shock.

But her mind had been too carefully trained, over too many years, to ever become fully lost. Slowly, slowly, she came back. Once again, she grew interested in the ways of the waking, the living; once again, she began creeping back up to her old home, her world, the mansion at 891 Riverside. That was when she began watching the man named Wren and—finally—revealed herself to the kindly old gentleman.

Who, in turn, had brought her to Pendergast.

Pendergast. He had reintroduced her to the world, helped her move out of a shadowy past into a brighter present.

But the work was not yet done. All too well, she was aware of that tenuous line still separating her from instability. And now this had happened . . .

As she walked, Constance bit her lip to keep back a sob.

But it shall be all right, she tried to tell herself. It shall be all right. Aloysius had promised her so. And he could do anything, it seemed; even rise from the dead.

She had made a promise to him as well, and she would keep it: to spend her nights here, where not even Diogenes Pendergast could ever find her. She would keep her promise, despite the dreadful weight this place, and its memories, placed on her heart.

Ahead, the passage narrowed, then split into two. To the right, the tunnel kept corkscrewing down into darkness. To the left, a narrower way led off horizontally. Constance chose this passage, following its twists and turns for a hundred yards. Then she stopped and, at last, turned on the lamp.

Its yellow light revealed that the passage widened abruptly, dead-ending in a small, snug chamber, perhaps ten feet by six. Its floor was covered by an expensive Persian carpet, taken from one of the basement storage rooms of the mansion above. The lines of the bare rock walls were softened by reproductions of Renaissance paintings: Parmigianino’s Madonna with the Long Neck, Giorgione’s Tempest, half a dozen others. A cot was set into the rear of the niche, and a small table lay at one side. Works by Thackeray, Trollope, and George Eliot were stacked neatly beside Plato’s Republic and St. Augustine’s Confessions.

It was much warmer here, belowground. The air smelled, not unpleasantly, of rock and earth. Yet the relative warmth, the small attempts at domesticity, afforded Constance little comfort.

She set the lamp upon the table, sat down before it, and glanced to one side. There was a recess in the rock face here, perhaps three feet above the level of the floor. She pulled a leather-bound book from it: the most recent volume of a diary she had kept in the old days, when she had been the ward of Pendergast’s ancestor.

She opened the diary and turned its pages over slowly, thoughtfully, until she reached the final entry. It was dated July of the previous year.

Constance read the entry once, then again, brushing away a stray tear as she did so. Then, with a quiet sigh, she replaced the diary into the recess, beside its mates.

Forty-two other volumes, identical in size and shape, stood there. While the closer volumes looked quite new, the ones farther along the recess grew increasingly cracked and worn with age.

Constance sat there, looking at them, her hand resting pensively on the edge of the niche. The movement had pulled back the material of her sleeve, exposing a long row of small, healed scars on her forearm: twenty or thirty identical marks, lined up precisely in parallel with one another.

With another sigh, she turned away. Then she extinguished the light and—saying a brief prayer to the close and watchful darkness—she stole toward the cot, turned her face to the wall, and lay down, eyes open, preparing herself as best she could for the nightmares that would inevitably come.

Forty-three

VIOLA MASKELENE PICKED UP her luggage at the international arrivals carousel at Kennedy Airport, engaged a luggage porter to load it onto a cart, and followed it through customs. It was after midnight, and the wait was brief; the bored official asked her a few desultory questions, stamped her U.K. passport, and ushered her through.

A small crowd of people was waiting at the arrivals area. She paused, scanning the crowd, until she noticed a tall man in a gray flannel suit standing at the fringe. She recognized him instantly, so uncanny was the resemblance to his brother, with his high smooth forehead, aquiline nose, and aristocratic bearing. Just seeing a person with such a close resemblance to Pendergast made her heart accelerate. But there were differences, too. He was taller and less wiry, a little more heavily built perhaps; but his face was sharper, the cheekbones and bony ridges around the eyes more pronounced, all of which, taken together, gave his face a curiously asymmetrical feeling. His hair was ginger-colored and he sported a thick, neatly trimmed beard. But the most startling difference was in his eyes: one was a rich hazel green, the other a glaucous blue. She wondered if he was blind in the pale eye—it looked dead.

She smiled, gave him a quick wave.

He, too, broke into a smile and came walking over with a languid step, his hands outstretched. He grasped her hand in both of his, hands cool and soft. “Lady Maskelene?”

“Call me Viola.”

“Viola. I’m charmed.” His voice had much of his brother’s buttery southern tones, yet although his manner of speech was almost as languorous as his walk, his words were very precisely enunciated, as if bitten off at the ends. It was an unusual, almost strange combination.

“A pleasure to meet you, Diogenes.”

“My brother has been quite mysterious about you, but I know he’s anxious to see you. Is this your luggage?” He snapped his fingers and a porter came rushing over. “See that this lady’s luggage is brought to the black Lincoln parked just outside,” Diogenes told him. “The trunk is open.” A twenty appeared in his hand as if by magic, but the man was so captivated by Viola that he barely saw it.

Diogenes turned back to Viola. “And how was your trip?”

“Bloody awful.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t suggest a more convenient flight. It’s been rather a hectic time for my brother, as you know, and the logistics of arranging the meeting were a bit daunting.”

“No matter. The important thing is that I’m here.”

“Indeed it is. Shall we go?” He offered her his arm and she took it. It was surprisingly strong, the muscles hard as steel cables, very different from the soft, languid impression his movements gave.

“There’d be no mistaking you for anyone but Aloysius’s brother,” she said as they walked out of the baggage claim area.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They went through the revolving doors into a blast of cold air. A dusting of fresh snow glittered on the sidewalks beyond the covered walkway.

“Brrr!” Viola said, recoiling. “When I left Capraia, it was a balmy twenty degrees. This is barbaric!”

“That would be twenty degrees Celsius, of course,” said Diogenes with a wink. “How I envy you, able to live there year-round. My car.” He opened the door for her, then went around, waited for the skycap to close the trunk, then slipped in the other side.

“I don’t actually live there year-round. Normally at this time of year, I’m in Luxor, working on a dig in the Valley of the Nobles. But this year, with the blasted state of the Middle East, I ran into some permit problems.”

Diogenes accelerated smoothly from the curb and merged into the traffic headed for the airport exit. “An Egyptologist,” he said. “How fascinating. I myself spent some time in Egypt, a junior member of the von Hertsgaard expedition.”

“Not the one that went into Somalia looking for the diamond mines of Queen Hatshepsut? The one where Hertsgaard was found decapitated?”

“The very one.”

“How exciting! I’d love to hear about it.”

“ ‘Exciting’ is certainly one way to describe it.”

“Is it true that Hertsgaard may have found the Hatshepsut mines just before he was murdered?”

Diogenes laughed quietly. “I sincerely doubt it. You know how these rumors get started. What I find more interesting than those mythical mines is the very real Queen Hatshepsut herself—the only female pharaoh—but, of course, you know all about her, I’m sure.”

“Fascinating woman.”

“She claimed legitimacy by saying that her mother slept with the god Amon and that she was the issue. How does that famous inscription go? Amon found the queen sleeping in her room. When the pleasant odors that proceeded from him announced his presence she awoke. He showed himself in his godlike splendor, and when he approached the queen she wept for joy at his strength and beauty and gave herself to him.”

Viola was intrigued: Diogenes seemed to be as much of a polymath as his brother.

“So tell me, Viola. What kind of work are you doing in the Valley of the Nobles?”

“We’ve been excavating the tombs of several royal scribes.”

“Find any treasures—gold or, even better, jewels?”

“Nothing like that. They were all robbed in antiquity. We’re after inscriptions.”

“What a marvelous profession, Egyptology. It seems my brother appreciates interesting women.”

“I hardly know your brother, to tell you the truth.”

“That will change this week, I have little doubt.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “Actually, I still can’t believe I’m here. This whole trip is such a . . . a caprice. So mysterious. I love mysteries.”

“So does Aloysius. It seems you two are made for each other.”

Viola felt herself coloring. She quickly changed the subject. “Do you know anything about this case he’s been working on?”

“It’s been one of the most difficult of his career. Fortunately, it’s almost over. Today, in fact, will come the denouement—and then he’ll be free. The case involves a serial killer, a truly insane individual, who for various obscure reasons has conceived a deep hatred for Aloysius. He’s been killing people and taunting my brother with his inability to catch him.”

“How terrible.”

“Yes. My brother was forced to go underground so abruptly in order to conduct his investigation that it gave everyone the impression he’d been killed.”

“I thought he was dead. Lieutenant D’Agosta told me as much.”

“Only I knew the truth. I helped him after that Italian ordeal, nursed him back to health. I saved his life, if I may be allowed a moment of self-congratulation.”

“I’m so glad he has a brother like you.”

“Aloysius has few real friends. He’s very old-fashioned, somewhat forbidding, a bit standoffish. And so I’ve tried to be his friend as well as his brother. I’m so glad he found you. I was so worried about him after that dreadful accident with his wife in Tanzania.”

Wife? Tanzania? Suddenly, Viola found herself wanting very much to ask what had happened. She resisted: Aloysius would tell her in good time, and she had always had the English abhorrence of prying into someone else’s personal life.

“He hasn’t really found me yet. We’re just the most casual of new friends, you know.”

Diogenes turned his strange, bicolored eyes to her and smiled. “I believe my brother is already in love with you.”

This time Viola colored violently, feeling a sudden mixture of excitement, embarrassment, and foolishness. Stuff, she thought. How could he be in love with me after one meeting?

“And I have reason to believe you are in love with him.”

Viola managed a careless laugh, but she was tingling all over with the strangest sensation. The car hurtled through the frosty night. “This is all far too premature,” she finally managed to say.

“While Aloysius and I are much alike, I do differ from him in terms of directness. Forgive me if I’ve embarrassed you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

The Long Island Expressway stretched ahead, a snowy alley of darkness. It was almost one o’clock in the morning and there were few cars on the road. Flakes of snow were drifting down, whipping up and over the windshield of the car as they hurtled along.

“Aloysius was always the indirect one. I could never tell what he was thinking, even when he was a boy.”

“He does seem a bit inscrutable, I suppose.”

“Very inscrutable. Rarely does he ever reveal his real motivations for doing things. For example, I’ve always believed he devoted himself to public service to make up for some of the black sheep in the Pendergast line.”

“Really?” Viola’s curiosity was piqued again.

An easy laugh. “Yes. Take Great-Aunt Cornelia, for example. Lives not far from here, at the Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

Curiosity was replaced by surprise. “Criminally insane?”

“That’s right. Every family has its black sheep, I suppose.”

Viola thought of her own great-grandfather. “Yes, that’s true.”

“Some families more than others.”

She nodded, glanced over, found Diogenes looking at her, quickly lowered her eyes.

“I think it adds interest, spice, to a family lineage. Much better to have a murderer for a great-grandfather than a shopkeeper.”

“A rather unique point of view.” Diogenes might be a little odder than first impressions indicated, but he was certainly amusing.

“Any interesting criminals in your ancestry?” Diogenes asked. “If you don’t mind me prying.”

“Not at all. No criminals, exactly, but I did have an ancestor who was one of the great violin virtuosi of the nineteenth century. He went insane, froze to death in a shepherd’s hut in the Dolomites.”

“Exactly my point! I felt sure you would have some interesting ancestors. No dull accountants or traveling salesmen in your lineage, eh?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Actually, we did have a traveling salesman in our own ancestry—contributed greatly to the Pendergast fortune, in fact.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. He concocted a quack medicine by the name of Hezekiah’s Compound Elixir and Glandular Restorative. Started by selling it from the back of a wagon.”

Viola laughed. “What a funny name for a medicine.”

“Hilarious. Except it consisted of a deadly combination of cocaine, acetanilid, and some rather nasty alkaloid botanicals. It caused uncounted numbers of addictions and thousands of deaths, including that of his own wife.”

The laughter died in Viola’s throat. She felt a twinge of uneasiness. “I see.”

“Of course, nobody knew back then of the dangers of drugs like cocaine. You can’t fault Great-Great-Grandfather Hezekiah for that.”

“No, of course not.”

They fell silent. The light snow continued to fall, the flakes drifting out of the dark sky, a glitter flashing through the headlights—and then were gone.

“Do you think there’s such a thing as a criminal gene?” asked Diogenes.

“No,” said Viola. “I think that’s rubbish.”

“Sometimes I wonder. There have been so many in our own family. There was Uncle Antoine, for example, one of the truly great mass murderers of the nineteenth century. Killed and mutilated almost a hundred workhouse girls and boys.”

“How awful,” murmured Viola.

The feeling of uneasiness grew stronger.

Diogenes gave an easy laugh. “The English transported their criminals to the colonies—Georgia and then Australia. They figured it would purge the Anglo-Saxon race of the criminal classes, but the more criminals they transported, the higher the crime rate became.”

“Crime obviously had a lot more to do with economic conditions than genetics,” said Viola.

“You think so? True: I would not have wanted to be poor in nineteenth-century England. In my view, the real criminals back then were the titled classes. Less than one percent of the people owned more than ninety-five percent of the land. And with the enclosure laws, the English lords could evict their tenant farmers, who flocked to the cities and either starved or turned to crime.”

“True,” Viola murmured. It seemed Diogenes had forgotten that she came from those titled classes.

“But here in America, it was different. How would you explain the fact that criminals run in some families like blue eyes or blond hair? In every generation, the Pendergast family seems to have produced a killer. After Antoine, let’s see . . . There was Comstock Pendergast, famed mesmerist, magician, and mentor of Harry Houdini. He killed his business partner and the man’s poor family, and then committed suicide. Cut his own throat twice. Then . . .”

“Pardon?” Viola realized that she was unconsciously gripping the door handle.

“Oh, yes. Twice. The first time he didn’t quite get it deep enough, you see. I guess he didn’t relish the thought of bleeding slowly to death. Myself, I wouldn’t mind dying a slow death by exsanguination—I hear it’s rather like going to sleep. I would have plenty of time to admire the blood, which has such an exquisite color. Do you like the color of blood, Viola?”

“Excuse me?” Viola felt panic well up within her.

“Blood. The color of a fine ruby. Or vice versa. I personally find it to be the most compelling color there is. Some might call me eccentric, but there it is.”

Viola tried to quell her feelings of fear and uncertainty. They were now far from the city, and the dark night rushed by, only a few lights on in the darkened neighborhoods they passed, barely visible from the highway.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To a little place called the Springs. A charming cottage on the shore. It’s about two more hours.”

“And Aloysius is there?”

“Of course. Dying to see you.”

This whole trip was a colossal mistake, she could see that now. Another foolish, impulsive decision. She’d been caught up in the heady romance of it, in the relief of learning Pendergast was still alive. But the truth was, she hardly knew the man. And this brother of his . . .

Suddenly, the thought of spending two more hours in a car with him was unthinkable.

“Viola,” came the soft voice, “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

“You look worried.”

She took a deep breath. “To tell you the truth, Diogenes, I’d prefer to stay in New York tonight. I’m more tired than I realized. I’ll see Aloysius when he comes to town.”

“Oh, no! He’ll be crushed.”

“I can’t help that. If you would, please turn the car around? Really, I’m terribly sorry for the sudden change of mind, but this will be best. You’ve been very kind. Please take me back to New York.”

“If that’s what you want. I’ll have to get off at the next exit to reverse direction.”

She felt a wave of relief. “Thank you. I’m really awfully sorry for putting you to all this trouble.”

The exit soon came: Hempstead. The car slowed, exited. It approached the stop sign at the top of the exit ramp and cruised to a stop. There were no cars in sight and Viola sat back, hand still unconsciously clutching the door handle, and waited for Diogenes to proceed.

But he didn’t proceed. And then, suddenly, she smelled the queerest chemical odor.

She turned quickly. “What is—?”

A hand holding a bunched cloth clamped itself over her mouth while an arm lashed around her neck with lightning speed and wrenched her brutally down to the seat. She was pinned, the stinking cloth jammed mercilessly over her nose and mouth. She struggled, trying to breathe, but it was as if a door of darkness had just opened before her: against her will, she leaned forward, falling and falling into darkness, and then the world went blank.

Forty-four

THE WINTRY SCENE could not have been more bleak: a thin snow had fallen on the cemetery the night before, and now a bitter wind blew through the bare trees, rattling the branches and sending wisps of snow whipping across the frozen ground. The grave itself looked like a black wound in the earth, surrounded by bright green Astroturf laid on the snow, with a second Astroturf carpet laid over the pile of dirt. The coffin rested beside the hideous hole, strapped to a machine that would lower it into the grave. Huge bouquets of fresh flowers stood about, jittering in the wind, adding a surreal fecundity to the frozen scene.

Nora could not take her gaze from the coffin. Wherever she turned, she always seemed drawn back to it. It was a highly polished affair, with brass handles and trim. Nora couldn’t accept that her friend, her new friend, lay inside. Dead. How terrible to think that, just a few days before, she and Margo had been enjoying dinner together in Margo’s apartment, chatting about the museum.

That same night she had been murdered.

And then, yesterday, the very disturbing, very urgent call from Pendergast . . .

She shivered uncontrollably, took a few deep breaths. Her fingers were freezing even through her gloves, and her nose felt like it had lost all sensation. She was so cold that she thought the tears might freeze on her face.

The minister, dressed in a long black down coat, was reading Rite One of the Burial of the Dead from the Book of Common Prayer, his voice sonorous in the freezing air. A large crowd had turned out—amazingly large when you considered the weather. An enormous quantity of people had come from the museum. Margo had clearly made a large impression even during her short tenure there: but then, she had also been a graduate student there years before. Standing near the front was the museum’s director, Collopy, with a stunningly beautiful wife even younger than Nora. Most of the Anthropology Department had showed up, except for those who were supervising the desperate last-minute work on the Sacred Images show: the opening gala was this evening. She herself should have stayed at the show, but she would never have forgiven herself if she’d missed Margo’s funeral. There was Prine, bundled up like an Eskimo and dabbing at his bright red nose with a cotton handkerchief; the security director, Manetti, looking genuinely stricken, probably feeling that Margo’s death had been a personal failure. Her eye roamed the crowd. A quietly weeping woman stood at the front, supported on either side by ushers: no doubt Margo’s mother. She had Margo’s light brown hair, her same fine features and slim build. She seemed to be the only member of Margo’s family—and Nora remembered Margo saying at dinner that she was an only child.

A particularly strong gust of wind rattled through the cemetery, temporarily overwhelming the minister’s voice. Then it returned: “Into thy hands, O Lord, we commend thy servant Margo, our dear sister, as into the hands of a faithful Creator and most merciful Savior, beseeching thee that she may be precious in thy sight . . .”

Nora bent against the bitter wind and drew her coat tighter as she listened to the sad, soothing words. She wished with all her heart that Bill was there with her. The bizarre telephone call from Pendergast—and it was Pendergast, she had no doubt—had left her shaken. Bill’s life threatened, and he in hiding? And now her own life in danger? It all seemed incredible, frightening, as if a dark cloud had descended on her world. And yet the evidence was directly in front of her. Margo was dead.

A humming noise broke her black reverie. The machine was lowering Margo’s coffin into the grave with a grinding of gears and the whirring of a motor. The minister’s voice raised slightly as the coffin descended. Making the sign of the cross with an upraised hand, he read the last words of the service. With a faint thump, the coffin came to rest, and then the minister invited Margo’s mother to throw in a clod of dirt. She did so, and some others followed, the frozen clods making a disturbingly hollow sound as they struck the coffin lid.

Nora felt as if her heart would break. Her friendship with Margo, which had gotten off to such a bad start, had just begun to blossom. Her death was a tragedy in the truest sense of the word—she was so brave, so full of conviction.

The service over, the crowd began to drift back toward the narrow cemetery lane where their cars waited, frosty breath rising in the air. Nora checked her watch: ten o’clock. She had to get back to the museum immediately, to work on the final preparations for the opening.

As she turned to leave, she saw a man dressed in black approach obliquely; a few more moments and he had fallen into step beside her. He looked haggard with grief, and she wondered if Margo didn’t have other close relatives, after all.

“Nora?” came the low voice.

Nora was startled. She paused.

“Keep walking, please.”

She kept walking, feeling mounting alarm. “Who are you?”

“Agent Pendergast. Why are you out in the open after my warning?”

“I have to live my life.”

“You can’t live a life if you’ve lost it.”

Nora sighed. “I want to know what’s happened to Bill.”

“Bill is safe, as I explained. It is you I’m worried about. You’re a prime target.”

“Target of what?”

“I can’t tell you that. What I can tell you is that you must take steps to protect yourself. You should be afraid.”

“Agent Pendergast, I am afraid. Your call scared me half to death. But you can’t expect me to drop everything. As I told you, I’ve got an opening I’ve got to prepare for tonight.”

A sharp, exasperated exhalation. “He’s killing everyone around me. He will kill you, too. And then you’ll miss not only your opening but the rest of your life.”

The voice, far from the honeyed drawl she remembered, was tense and urgent.

“I have to take the risk. I’ll be in the museum the rest of the day, under high security in the exhibit. And then I’ll be at the opening tonight, surrounded by thousands.”

“High security did not stop him before.”

“Who is this him?”

“As I’ve said, to tell you more would only put you at greater risk. Oh, Nora, what must I do to protect you?”

She faltered, shocked at the near despair in his voice. “I’m sorry. Look, it’s just not in my nature to run and hide. I’ve worked too long for this opening. People are counting on me. Okay? Tomorrow—let’s take this up again tomorrow. Just not today.”

“So be it.” The anonymous figure turned away—strange how little he looked like the Pendergast Nora remembered—melted into the dark clusters of people walking toward their cars, and was gone.

Forty-five

D’AGOSTA PAUSED at the door of Hayward’s office, feeling almost afraid to knock. The painful memory of their first encounter in her office came into his mind unbidden, and he forced it away with great effort, rapping more loudly than he intended.

“Come in.” The very sound of her voice caused his heart to pause. He grasped the handle, pushed open the door.

The office looked very different. Gone were the various piles of paper, the pleasant, controlled untidiness. Now it was severe in its organization—and it was clear Hayward was working, living, and breathing a single case.

And there she was, standing behind her desk, her short, slim figure in a neat gray suit with captain’s bars on the shoulder, looking directly at him. The look was so intense D’Agosta found himself almost pushed back by it.

“Have a seat.” The voice was coldly neutral.

“Listen, Laura, before we begin, I just want to say—”

“Lieutenant,” came the crisp response. “You’ve been summoned here on police business, and anything you might have to say of a personal nature is inappropriate.”

D’Agosta looked at her. This was unfair. “Laura, please . . .”

Her face softened, but only for a moment, and she spoke in a low vice. “Vincent, don’t do this to me or to yourself. Especially not now. I have something very, very difficult to show you.”

This stopped D’Agosta.

“Please take a seat.”

“I’ll stand.”

Brief silence while she stared at him. Then she spoke again. “Pendergast is alive.”

D’Agosta felt himself go cold. He hadn’t known why she’d summoned him, hadn’t even dared to guess—but this was the last thing he’d expected. “How did you find out?” he blurted.

Her face tightened with anger. “So you did know.”

Another tense silence. Then she reached down and picked up a piece of paper, drew it in front of her. D’Agosta could see it was a list of handwritten notes. What was this about? He had never seen Laura so wound up.

“On January 19, Professor Torrance Hamilton was poisoned in front of a lecture hall of two hundred students in his class at Louisiana State University and died about an hour later. The only useful evidence uncovered from the crime scene, some black fibers found in his office, is analyzed in this report.” She dropped a slim folder on her desk.

D’Agosta glanced at it but did not pick it up.

“The report states that the fibers were from a very costly cashmere-merino blended-wool fabric made for only a few years in the 1950s in a factory outside Prato, Italy. The only place it was sold in America—the only place—was a small shop on Rue Lespinard in New Orleans. A shop patronized by the Pendergast family.”

D’Agosta felt a sudden hope. Was it possible, after all, that she believed him? That she’d checked into Diogenes? “Laura, I—”

“Lieutenant, let me finish. My forensic team searched Pendergast’s apartment in the Dakota—at least the rooms we could get into—and took fiber samples. In addition, we found two dozen identical black suits in a closet. The suits and the fibers all came from the same source: those bolts of cashmere-merino wool, dyed black. This is a virtually unique fiber. There can be no mistake.”

D’Agosta felt a very strange sensation crawl up his spine. He suddenly had a premonition of where this might be going.

“On January 22, Charles Duchamp was hung from his apartment building on 65th and Broadway. Again, the crime scene was unusually clean. However, our forensic team did recover a few more of the same black fibers that were found at the Torrance homicide. In addition, the rope used to hang Duchamp was woven of a rare type of gray silk. We ultimately learned it is a special type of rope used in Buddhist religious ceremonies in Bhutan. The monks tie these silk ropes into incredibly complex knots for meditative and contemplative purposes. These are unique knots, found nowhere else in the world.”

She paused, laid down a photograph of the rope that hung Duchamp, showing the knot, smeared with blood. “That particular knot is known as Ran t’ankha durdag, ‘the tangled path to hell.’ It has come to my attention that Special Agent Pendergast spent time in Bhutan studying with the very monks who make these knots.”

“There’s a simple answer—”

“Vincent, if you interrupt me one more time, I’ll have you muzzled.”

D’Agosta fell silent.

“The next day, on January 23, FBI Special Agent Michael Decker was murdered in his house in Washington, D.C., stabbed through the mouth with an antique Civil War bayonet. This crime scene was equally clean. The forensic team recovered fibers from the same bolt of cashmere-merino wool found at the Hamilton poisoning.” She laid another report before D’Agosta.

“At around two o’clock in the morning of January 26, Margo Green was fatally stabbed in the New York Museum of Natural History. I’ve gone over the museum’s personnel lists, and she was the last person to enter the exhibition hall. But she also checked out of the hall—the murderer must have used her card to leave. This crime scene wasn’t nearly as clean as the others. Green was a formidable opponent, and she put up a struggle. She defended herself with a box cutter and wounded her assailant. Blood not belonging to the victim was recovered from the scene, both on the box cutter—which had been imperfectly wiped clean—and from a single spot on the floor.” She paused. “The DNA tests came back late last night.”

She picked up a piece of paper and, with a snap, dropped it, too, in front of D’Agosta. “Those are the results.”

D’Agosta couldn’t bring himself to look. He knew the answer already.

“That’s right. Special Agent Pendergast.”

D’Agosta knew better than to say anything.

“Which brings me to motive. All these people had something in common—they were close acquaintances of Pendergast. Hamilton was Pendergast’s language tutor in high school. Duchamp was Pendergast’s closest—and perhaps only—childhood friend. Michael Decker was Pendergast’s mentor at the FBI. He’s one of the main reasons Pendergast has even survived in the FBI, after all the trouble his unorthodox methods got him into. And finally—as you well know—Margo Green was a close friend of Pendergast’s from two cases dating back several years, the museum murders and the subway killings.

“All this evidence, all these tests, have been checked and rechecked. There can be no mistake. Special Agent Pendergast is a psychopathic killer.”

D’Agosta had gone cold. He realized now why Diogenes had saved Pendergast the way he did, why he’d helped nurse him back to life after what had happened in the Castel Fosco. It wasn’t enough just to murder his brother’s friends. No—he would also frame him for the crimes.

“And now this,” Hayward said. She showed him another report. It was bound in plastic, and the title was visible:

Psychological Profile

Hamilton/Duchamp/Decker/Green Killer

Behavioral Science Unit

Federal Bureau of Investigation, Quantico

“I didn’t tell them that I suspected one of their own. I just told them we thought the crimes might be connected and asked them to draw up a profile. Because of the Decker killing, I got it back in twenty-four. Go ahead and read it if you want, but here’s the short version. The killer is a highly educated male with at least four years of postgraduate education. He’s an expert chemist. He’s thoroughly familiar with forensic and police procedure and he probably once worked, or still works, in law enforcement. He has a broad knowledge across a range of subjects in science, literature, math, history, music, and art—in short, he is a Renaissance man. His I.Q. lies in the 180 to 200 range. His age is probably between thirty and fifty. He is well traveled and probably multilingual. He is likely ex-military. He is a person of considerable financial means. He is very adept at disguises.”

She looked D’Agosta in the eye. “This remind you of anyone, Vincent?”

D’Agosta didn’t reply.

“Those are the outward details. Now comes the psych analysis.” She paused, finding the place in the report. “The killer is a self-controlled and controlling person. He’s extremely well organized, neat, and places a high premium on logic. He represses any outward show of emotion and rarely, if ever, confides in anyone. He has few, if any, real friends and has difficulty forming relationships with the opposite sex. This individual probably suffered a difficult childhood, with a cold, controlling mother and a distant or absent father. His family relationships were not close. There will probably be a history of mental illness or crime in the family. As a young boy, he suffered a crippling emotional trauma involving a close family member—mother, father, or sibling—that he has spent the rest of his life compensating for. He is deeply suspicious of authority, considers himself intellectually and morally superior to others—”

“What a load of psychobabble!” D’Agosta exploded. “It’s all twisted up. This isn’t the way he is at all!”

He stopped abruptly. Hayward was looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“So you do recognize this person.”

“Of course I recognize him! But this is a twisting of who he really is. Pendergast didn’t murder those people. He was framed. The evidence, the blood, was planted. His brother, Diogenes, is the killer.”

Another long silence. “Go on,” she said, her tone neutral.

“After Pendergast’s ordeal in Italy, when we all thought he was dead, Diogenes took him to a clinic to recover. He was sick, drugged. It must have allowed Diogenes plenty of opportunity to harvest all the forensic evidence he needed to frame Pendergast—hair, fibers, blood. It’s Diogenes. Don’t you see? He’s hated Pendergast all his life, he’s been planning this for years. He sent Pendergast a taunting letter saying he was going to commit the perfect crime and naming the date—today.”

“You’re not going to lay this crazy theory on me again, Vincent—”

“It’s my turn to talk. Diogenes wanted to commit a crime even more horrible than killing his brother. He wanted to kill everyone his brother loves but leave his brother alive. Now it seems he’s also framing his brother for those same crimes—”

D’Agosta stopped. She was looking at him with an expression of pity bordering almost on pain.

“Vinnie, you remember how you told me to look into Diogenes? Well, I did. I had a hell of a time tracing him, but here’s what I found.” She opened a folder, took out yet another document, and slid it in front of him. It was stamped and embossed and notarized.

“What is it?”

“A death certificate. Of Diogenes Dagrepont Bernoulli Pendergast. He was killed twenty years ago in a car accident in the U.K.”

“A forgery. I saw a letter from him. I know he’s alive.”

“What makes you think Pendergast didn’t write the letter?”

D’Agosta stared at her. “Because I saw Diogenes. With my own eyes.”

“Is that so? Where?”

“Outside Fosco’s castle. When we were being chased. He had eyes of two different colors, just like Cornelia Pendergast told us.”

“And how do you know it was Diogenes?”

D’Agosta hesitated. “Pendergast told me.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No. But I saw a picture of him as a child, just recently. It was the same face.”

A long silence followed. Hayward reached down and picked up the forensic profile again. “There’s something else in here. Read it.” She pushed a piece of paper over to him.

The target subject may manifest symptoms of a rare form of multiple personality disorder, a variant of Munchausen syndrome by proxy, in which the subject acts out two separate, diametrically opposite roles: that of killer and of investigator. In this unusual condition, the killer may also be a law enforcement officer assigned to the case or an investigator connected to the case. In another variant of this pathology, the killer is a private citizen who initiates his own investigation into the killings, often making apparently brilliant discoveries of evidence that law enforcement has overlooked. In both variants, the killer personality leaves minute clues for the investigator personality to discover, such discoveries often made apparently through extraordinary powers of observation and/or deduction. The killer personality and investigator personality are not aware of each other’s existence on a conscious level, although much cooperation is noted on the subconscious, pathological level.

“Bullshit. Munchausen by proxy is about somebody wanting attention. Pendergast goes out of his way to avoid the limelight. This doesn’t describe Pendergast. You know the guy, you’ve worked with him. What does your gut tell you?”

“You don’t want to know what my gut tells me.” Her dark eyes were scrutinizing him. “Vinnie, you know why I’m sharing this information with you?”

“Why?”

“For one thing, because I think you’re in terrible danger. Pendergast is a crazy son of a bitch and he’s going to kill you next. I know he will.”

“He won’t kill me because he isn’t the killer.”

“The Pendergast you know isn’t even aware he’s the killer. He believes in this Diogenes. He genuinely thinks his brother is still alive and that you two are going to find him. It’s all part of the pathology mentioned here.” She slapped the report. “There’s the other personality of his . . . Diogenes. Who exists within the same body. That personality you haven’t met yet. But you will . . . when he kills you.”

D’Agosta couldn’t even find the words to respond.

“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you all this.” Her voice hardened. “You don’t have a right to know any of this after how royally you’ve screwed up. I went out on a ten-mile limb for you, got you a great position on the force—and you betrayed my trust, you rejected my . . .” She paused, breathing hard, recovering her composure.

Now D’Agosta felt a flash of real anger. “I betrayed you? Listen, Laura: I tried to talk with you about this. I tried to explain. But you pushed me away, saying I was obsessing over someone’s death. How do you think that felt? Or how do you think I feel now, listening to you say how naive I am, how gullible, trusting Pendergast like this? You’ve seen my casework in the past, you know what I’m capable of. Why do you think I’m so wrong now?”

The question hung in the air.

“This isn’t the time or place for that discussion,” Hayward replied after a moment. Her tone had grown quiet and businesslike. “And we’re straying from the point.”

“And what, exactly, is the point?”

“I want you to bring Pendergast in.”

D’Agosta stood rooted in place, thunderstruck. He should have seen it coming.

“Bring him in. Save yourself. Save your career. If he’s innocent, let him have his day in court.”

“But the evidence against him is overwhelming—”

“That’s right. It’s damning as hell. And you didn’t even see the half of it. But that’s the way our system works: bring him in and let him face a jury of his peers.”

“Bring him in? How?”

“I’ve got it all worked out. You’re the only man he trusts.”

“You’re asking me to betray him?”

“Betray? My God, Vinnie, the man’s a serial killer. Four innocent people are dead. And there’s another thing you seem to be overlooking. Your actions to date—keeping Pendergast’s existence secret, lying to me, lying to Captain Singleton—border on obstruction of justice. Now that you know Pendergast is a fugitive—that’s right, a warrant for his arrest has already been sworn out—any further actions on your part to protect him will amount to criminal obstruction and accessory after the fact. You’re already in deep shit, and this is the only way you’re going to get out of it. You bring him in, or you go to jail. It’s that simple.”

For a long moment, D’Agosta said nothing. When he spoke, his voice sounded dead, wooden, even in his own ears. “Give me a day to think it over.”

“A day?” She looked at him incredulously. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

Forty-six

VIOLA WOKE WITH a splitting headache. For a moment, she stared blankly, uncomprehendingly, at the frilled top of a canopied bed rising above her. And then it all came back: the drive along the dark highway, the increasingly bizarre comments by Pendergast’s brother, the sudden attack . . .

She fought down a rising wave of panic, lying still, concentrating only on her breathing, trying not to think of anything at all.

Finally—when she felt she was master of herself—she sat up slowly. Her head reeled, and dark spots danced across her vision. She closed her eyes. When at last the throbbing had subsided a little, she opened her eyes once again and looked around the room.

It was a small bedroom with rose-patterned wallpaper, some old Victorian furniture, and a single barred window. Moving carefully—for the sake of both her headache and silence—she swung her legs over the bed and stood unsteadily on the floor. Quietly, she reached for the door handle and gave it a turn, but, as she expected, it was locked. A second twinge of panic was suppressed more quickly than the first.

She went to the window and looked out. The house was set a few hundred yards back from a marshy bay. Beyond a line of scraggly dunes, she could see a pounding line of surf and a dark ocean flecked with whitecaps. The sky was a metal gray and, with the instinct of somebody who had spent many nights under the open sky, she sensed it was morning. On both the right and the left, she could just make out a pair of ramshackle beach houses, their windows boarded up for the season. The beach was empty.

She reached through the bars and tapped on the glass. It seemed to be unusually blue and thick—perhaps unbreakable. And soundproofed, too—at least, she could not hear the surf.

Still moving slowly, and making every effort to be silent, she walked into a small adjoining bathroom. Like the bedroom, it was old-fashioned and neat, with a sink, a claw-footed tub, and another small window, also barred and paned in the same oddly thick glass. She turned on the tap and out came a gush of water, which quickly went from cold to piping hot. Shutting it off, she returned to the bedroom.

She sat back down on the bed, thinking. It was all so unreal, so utterly bizarre, it was impossible to comprehend. That the person who had picked her up was Pendergast’s brother, she had absolutely no doubt—in many ways, he was practically a twin of the man. But why had he kidnapped her like this? What were his intentions? And, most important: what on earth was Pendergast’s role in it? How could she have been so wrong about him?

But then, when she thought back to their brief meeting on the island of Capraia last fall, she realized how strange it all was. Perhaps word of his tragic death that made her romanticize their lone encounter and made it seem more than it really was. And then that letter, with its news that Pendergast was still alive, and its romantic, impulsive request . . .

Impulsive. That was the word. Once, again she had allowed her impulsiveness to get her into trouble—and this time it looked like deadly serious trouble.

Was it possible that D’Agosta was in on it, too? That the entire story of Pendergast’s death had been a sham, part of some complex plot to lure her here? Was this some kind of sophisticated kidnapping network? Or were they holding her for ransom? The more she thought about this complete and utter dog’s breakfast, the more she felt fear giving way to anger and outrage. But even that emotion she repressed. Better to direct her energies toward escape.

She went back into the bathroom and made a quick inventory: plastic comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, water glass, clean towels, washcloth, shampoo. She reached down and picked up the glass. It was heavy and cold, real glass.

She turned it over thoughtfully in her hands. A sharp piece would make a weapon, but it could also double as a tool. Escape through the windows was out of the question, and no doubt the door would be reinforced and secure. But this was an old house, and the walls would probably be plaster and lath beneath the wallpaper.

She took a towel, wrapped it tightly around the glass, and gave it several sharp taps on the edge of the sink until it broke. She unwrapped the towel: as she’d hoped, the glass had broken into several large pieces. She took the sharpest, walked back into the bedroom, and approached the opposite wall. Careful to minimize noise, she stuck the pointed edge into the wallpaper and gave an exploratory thrust.

It immediately slipped, taking with it a piece of the wallpaper. She saw, to her dismay, the glint of metal underneath. With her fingernails, she caught the cut edge of wallpaper and peeled it back, revealing a smooth, cold expanse of steel.

A chill went up her spine. And in that moment, a knock came at the door.

She started, then quickly climbed back into the bed, pretending to be asleep.

The knock came again, and a third time, and then she heard the scrape of a key in the lock. The door creaked open. She lay there, eyes closed, shard of glass concealed beside her body.

“Dear Viola. I know you have been up and about.”

Still she lay there.

“I see you have already discovered I’ve decorated your room in metal. Now, please sit up and stop this tiresome charade. I have something important to tell you.”

Viola sat up, anger returning. A man stood in the doorway whom she did not recognize, although the voice was unmistakably that of Diogenes.

“Forgive my unusual appearance; I am dressed for the city. To which I am headed in a few minutes.”

“In disguise, it seems. You fancy yourself a right Sherlock Holmes.”

The man bowed his head.

“What do you want, Diogenes?”

“I have what I want—you.”

“Whatever for?”

The strange man gave a broad smile. “What do I want with you? Frankly, I could care less about you, except for one thing: you aroused the interest of my brother. I heard your name pass his lips just once, no more. It piqued my curiosity. Luckily, your name is unique, your family is prominent, and I was able to find out a great deal—a great deal—about you. I suspected tender feelings on your part for my brother. When you responded to my letter, I knew my hunch was right, and that I had landed a prize beyond compare.”

“You’re an ass. You don’t know anything about me.”

“My dear Viola, rather than worrying about what I know, you should be worrying about two things you don’t know—and should. First, you need to know that you cannot get out of this room. The walls, floor, ceiling, and door are made of riveted ship’s hull steel. The windows are two layers of unbreakable, soundproof, bulletproof glass. The glass is one-way, which means that you can see out but those outside—and there will not be any—cannot see in. I tell you this only to save you trouble. There are books in the bookcase, drinking water from the tap, and some hard candies in the bottom drawer of the bureau for you to suck on.”

“My, you’ve gone to a lot of trouble and expense. Boiled sweets, even.”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed.” She mocked his courtly drawl. “You said you had two things to tell me. What’s the second?”

“That you must die. If you believe in a supreme being, be sure to resolve any unfinished business you have with Him. Your death will take place tomorrow morning, at the traditional time: dawn.”

Almost without intent, Viola laughed: an angry, bitter laugh. “If you could only hear what a pompous ass you sound! You will die at dawn. How histrionic.”

Diogenes took a step back, a frown passing fleetingly over his face before neutrality returned. “What a sprightly vixen you are.”

“What have I done to you, you bloody nutter?”

“Nothing. It is what you did to my brother.”

“I did nothing to your brother! Is this some kind of sick joke?”

A dry chuckle. “It is indeed a sick joke, a very sick joke.”

Anger and frustration burned away her fear. Viola slowly tightened her grip on the shard of glass. “For such a revolting man, you seem insufferably pleased with yourself.”

The dry chuckle died off. “My, my. We certainly have a sharp tongue this morning.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I have no doubt that, by the standards of society, I am clinically insane.”

Viola’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re a follower of the Scottish psychiatrist R. D. Laing.”

“I follow nobody.”

“So you believe, in your ignorance. Laing said, ‘Mental illness is the sane response to an insane world.’”

“I commend the gentleman—whoever he is—for his insight. But my dear Viola, I don’t have all day to exchange pleasantries—”

“My dear Diogenes—if only you knew just how boorish you sound.” She put on a deadly accurate imitation of his languid accent. “How dreadfully sorry I am that we can’t continue this charming conversation. You and your feeble attempts at breeding.”

There was a silence. Diogenes had lost his smile, but if other thoughts were going through his head, they did not express themselves on his face. Viola was amazed at the depth and clarity of her own anger. She was breathing fast, and her heart was going like mad in her chest.

Diogenes finally sighed. “You are as chattery as a monkey and almost as smart. If I were you, I’d be a little less garrulous and face your end with dignity, as befits your station.”

“My station? Oh my God, don’t tell me you’re another of those American poons who get their willy up meeting some red-nosed baronet or doddering old viscount. I should have known.”

“Viola, please. You’re getting overexcited.”

“Wouldn’t you be a little overexcited if you had been lured overseas, drugged and kidnapped, locked in a room, and threatened—”

“Viola, ça suffit! I will be back in the wee hours of the morning to carry out my promise. Specifically, I will cut your throat. Twice. In honor of our Uncle Comstock.”

She suddenly stopped. The fear had come back in full force. “Why?”

“Finally, a sensible question. I am an existentialist. I carve my own meaning out of the suppurating carcass of this rotting universe. Through no fault of your own, you have become part of that meaning. But I do not feel sorry for you. The world is abrim with pain and suffering. I simply choose to direct the festivities instead of offering myself up as another witless victim. I take no pleasure in the suffering of others—except one. That is my meaning. I live for my brother, Viola; he gives me strength, he gives me purpose, he gives me life. He is my salvation.”

“You and your brother can go to hell!”

“Ah, dear Viola. Didn’t you know? This is hell. Except that you are about to gain your release.”

Viola leaped off the bed and rushed at him, shard raised, but in the blur of an instant she found herself pinned to the floor. Somehow Diogenes now lay on top of her, his face inches from hers, his breath, sweetly smelling of cloves, in her face.

“Good-bye, my lively little monkey,” he murmured, and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

And then, in one swift, batlike movement, he rose and was gone, the door slamming behind him. She flung herself on it but it was too late: there was the sound of oiled steel sliding into steel, and the door felt as cold and unyielding as a bank vault.

Forty-seven

D’AGOSTA DIDN’T NEED a day to consider Hayward’s offer; he didn’t even need ten minutes. He walked straight out of the building, pulled out the cell phone Pendergast had given him, and asked for an emergency meeting.

A quarter of an hour later, as he stepped out of a cab at the corner of Broadway and 72nd, the memory of his encounter with Laura was still raw. But he told himself he couldn’t think about that right now. He had to bury his personal feelings until the crisis was over—assuming, that is, it would ever be over.

He walked east down 72nd. Ahead, in the distance, he could see Central Park, the brown trees skeletal in the January chill. At the next intersection, he stopped and pulled out the cell phone again. Call me again once you reach Columbus and 72nd, Pendergast had said. D’Agosta was only a block away from Pendergast’s apartment at the Dakota. Could he possibly be at home? It seemed outrageous, given the circumstances.

He flipped open the phone, dialed the number.

“Yes?” came the voice of Pendergast. In the background, D’Agosta could hear the tapping of keys.

“I’m at the corner,” he replied.

“Very good. Make your way unobserved to 24 West 72nd. The building is mixed residential and commercial. The entrance is locked during working hours, but the receptionist habitually buzzes in anyone who looks normal. Take the stairs to the basement and locate the door marked B-14. Make sure you are alone. Then knock slowly, seven times. Have you got that?”

“Got it.”

The line went dead.

Putting the phone away, D’Agosta crossed the street and continued toward the park. Up ahead, at the far corner, he could see the crenellated, sand-colored bulk of the Dakota. It looked like something out of a Charles Addams cartoon. At its base, beside a huge Gothic entrance, was a doorman’s sentry box. Two cops in uniform loitered nearby, and three squad cars were parked along Central Park West.

It seemed the cavalry was already in place.

D’Agosta slowed his pace, keeping as near as he could to the building fronts, a wary eye on the police.

Twenty-four West 72nd Street was a large brownstone structure halfway down the block. He glanced around again, saw nobody suspicious, rang the buzzer, gained admittance, and quickly ducked inside.

The lobby was small and dark, the walls covered with dingy-looking gray marble. D’Agosta nodded to the receptionist, then made his way down the staircase at the rear of the lobby. There was a single basement hallway, with metal doors set into the cinder-block walls at regular intervals. It was the work of sixty seconds to find the door marked B-14. He glanced around once again, then rapped on the door seven times, as instructed.

For a moment, silence. Then, from within, the sound of a bolt being slid back. The door opened and a man wearing the black and white uniform of a doorman appeared. He glanced up and down the hall, then nodded to D’Agosta and ushered him inside.

To his surprise, D’Agosta found himself, not in a room, but in a very narrow hallway—barely more than a crawl space—that ran on ahead into darkness. The doorman switched on a flashlight, then led the way along the corridor.

It seemed to go on forever. The walls changed from cinder block, to brick, to plaster, then back to brick again. At times, the corridor widened; at others, it grew so narrow it almost brushed against D’Agosta’s shoulders. It jogged left a few times, then right. At one point, they emerged into a tiny courtyard, little more than an air shaft, and D’Agosta could see a small patch of blue sky far above. It felt like being at the base of a chimney. Then they climbed a short stairway, the doorman opened another door with a large, old-fashioned key, and they entered yet another narrow corridor.

At length, the corridor dead-ended at a small service elevator. The doorman pulled back the brass grillwork, unlocked the elevator door with a different key, and motioned for D’Agosta to step in. The man stepped in behind D’Agosta, closed the grille and the elevator door, then grasped a large, circular handle in one wall. With a protesting chuff, the elevator creaked upward.

The ancient door was windowless, and D’Agosta had no idea how many floors they ascended: he guessed four or five. The elevator stopped of its own accord and the doorman opened its door. As the bronze grille was pulled back, D’Agosta saw a short passageway beyond, leading to a single door. The door was open, and Pendergast stood within it, once again clad in his habitual black suit.

D’Agosta paused, staring at him. Ever since his surprise reappearance, the man had appeared in some disguise or other—his face or clothing, or more usually both, dramatically altered—and it gave D’Agosta a strange chill to see his old friend as he really was.

“Vincent,” Pendergast said. “Do come in.” And he led the way into a small, almost featureless room. There was an oaken dresser and a leather sofa along one wall, and a worktable along another. Four iMac laptops were lined up on the worktable, along with some NAS devices and what looked to D’Agosta like a network hub. There were two doors in the rear of the room; one was closed, and the other opened onto a small bathroom.

“This is your Dakota apartment?” D’Agosta asked in disbelief.

A wan smile appeared on Pendergast’s face, then disappeared again. “Hardly,” he said, closing the door. “My apartment is on the floor above this one.”

“Then what’s this place?”

“Think of it as a bolt-hole. A rather high-tech bolt-hole. It was set up last year on the advice of an Ohio acquaintance of mine, in case his services were temporarily unavailable.”

“Well, you can’t stay here. The cops are crawling all over the entrance to the Dakota. I’ve just come from Laura Hayward’s office, and she’s got a red-hot suspect.”

“Me.”

“And how in hell did you learn that?”

“I’ve known it for some time.” Pendergast’s eyes darted from monitor to monitor as his hands flew over the keys. “When I came upon the murder scene of my friend Michael Decker, I found several strands of hair clutched in his hand. Blond hair. My brother’s hair is not blond: it’s a gingery red. Immediately, I realized that Diogenes’s plan was even more ‘interesting’ than I’d suspected. Not only did he plan to kill everyone close to me—he planned to frame me for their murders.”

“But what about the notes Diogenes wrote you? Don’t they indicate he’s alive?”

“No. Recall the odd handwriting, the handwriting I said was strangely familiar? That was my handwriting, but altered just enough so it would appear—to a handwriting expert, anyway—that I was trying to disguise it.”

D’Agosta took a moment to digest this. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I saw no reason to burden you with all this before it was necessary. When I saw those hairs, it was perfectly clear to me that Diogenes would have salted the other crime scenes with false evidence as well. I’m sure, during my convalescence in Italy, he stocked up on all the physical evidence he needed, taken from my person, including my blood. It was only a matter of time before they connected me to the killings. I had hoped I’d have a little more time than this. Hayward did a commendable job.”

“That’s not all. Laura asked me to set you up. I walked out on that one. They’ve sworn out a warrant on you. You can’t stay here.”

“On the contrary, Vincent, I must stay here. It’s the only place with the resources I need on short notice. And it is a bit like Poe’s purloined letter—the last place they expect to find me is at home. The police presence is a mere formality.”

D’Agosta stared at him. “So that’s how you knew Diogenes wouldn’t target Laura. She’s the one investigating Duchamp’s murder. He was banking on her suspecting you.”

“Precisely. Now, pull up a chair and let me show you what I’m doing.” Pendergast waved his hands toward the four laptops.

“These computers are tapped in parasitically to the city’s web of street corner surveillance cameras, along with a couple of major private systems—ATMs and banks, for example.” He pointed at one of the screens, which was currently subdivided into a dozen small windows: in each window, black-and-white video feeds of sidewalks, street intersections, and toll plazas were zipping by in accelerated reverse motion.

“Why?”

“I’m convinced Diogenes’s final crime is going to take place in or around Manhattan. And you cannot move around a city like New York these days without being photographed, taped, or otherwise surveyed dozens of times every hour.”

“But Diogenes is disguised.”

“To most, yes. Not to me. You can disguise your appearance, but you can’t disguise everything—your mannerisms, the way you walk, even the way you blink your eyes. Diogenes and I are very alike physically. I’ve videotaped myself, and now I’m running image-recognition and pattern-recognition algorithms against these video-in-various-states-of-motion feeds.” He waved at another of the laptops. “As you can see, I’m concentrating particularly on feeds near the Dakota and the intersections around the Riverside Drive mansion. We know Diogenes has been to the mansion, and he has probably been here as well. If I can locate him, acquire an image print, I can track him backwards and forwards visually from that point, try to find a pattern in his movements.”

“Wouldn’t that need more computing horsepower than you’d find at a small university?”

“Hence the wiring closet.” And Pendergast reached over and opened the closed door. Inside, stacked from floor to ceiling, were rack-mounted blade servers and RAID arrays.

D’Agosta whistled. “You understand all this shit?”

“No. But I know how to use it.”

Pendergast swiveled to look at him. Although his skin was paler than D’Agosta had ever seen it, the agent’s eyes glittered with a dangerous brightness. He had the manic energy, the deceptive second wind, of somebody who had not slept in several days.

“Diogenes is out there, Vincent. He’s lurking somewhere in this myriad of data streams. To commit his ultimate crime, he’s going to have to surface. And that’s my chance—my last, my only chance—to stop him. This room is the only place anymore where I have access to the technology that can accomplish that.” More clattering of keys. “The acquaintance I spoke of just now, the one in Ohio? He would be far better suited to this job than I. But he has been forced to make himself invisible for . . . for reasons of his own protection.”

“Laura isn’t the type to wait around. They’re probably already coming after you.”

“And no doubt you, too.”

D’Agosta said nothing.

“They’ve searched my apartment, they’ve probably searched the Riverside Drive house. As for this little warren . . . well, you saw yourself that I have a private exit from the Dakota. Even the doormen here don’t know about it. Only Martyn, who you just met.”

He paused in his typing. “Vincent, there is something you must do.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll go straight to Laura Hayward, say that you’ll cooperate in every way, but that I seem to have disappeared and that you’ve no idea where I am. There’s no need for you to damage your career any further over this.”

“I already told you, I’m with you all the way.”

“Vincent, I am demanding that you leave.”

“Hey, Aloysius?”

Pendergast looked at him.

“Up yours.”

He saw Pendergast’s eyes were upon him. “I won’t forget this, Vincent.”

“Never mind.”

The agent went back to his work. Ten minutes passed, twenty—and then Pendergast suddenly stiffened.

“A hit?”

“I believe so,” Pendergast said. He was staring intently at one of the computers, playing a grainy image over and over, forward and backward.

D’Agosta looked over his shoulder. “Is that him?”

“The computer believes so. And I do, as well. It’s odd, though—the image isn’t taken from outside the Dakota, as I’d expected. It’s about six blocks north, outside of—”

At that moment, a low chime sounded from a box on the table. Pendergast turned toward it quickly.

“What’s that?” D’Agosta asked.

“It’s Martyn. It seems there’s somebody to see me.”

D’Agosta tensed. “Police?”

Pendergast shook his head. He leaned toward the box, depressed a switch.

“A bicycle messenger, sir,” came the voice. “He has an envelope for you.”

“You’ve asked him to wait?”

“Yes.”

“And the police are unaware of his presence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring him up. Take the usual precautions.” Pendergast took his finger from the switch and straightened. “Let’s see what this is about.” His tone was casual, but his face looked drawn.

They walked down the short hallway to the elevator. A minute passed without a word being exchanged. Then, from below, the elevator gave a clank and began to rise. Shortly, the brass grille was drawn back and two figures emerged: the doorman D’Agosta had met earlier and the bicycle messenger, a slim Hispanic youth wearing a scarf and a heavy jacket. He held an oversize envelope in one hand.

Looking at the package, Pendergast’s pale face went gray. Wordlessly, he reached into a pocket of his black jacket, withdrew a pair of medical gloves, and drew them on. Then he took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and gave it to the messenger.

“Would you mind waiting here a few moments, please?” he asked.

“I guess,” the messenger said, looking suspiciously at the gloves.

Pendergast took the envelope, exchanged a private look with the doorman. Then, nodding to D’Agosta, he strode quickly back into the room.

“Is it from Diogenes?” D’Agosta asked, closing the door behind them.

Pendergast didn’t respond. Instead, he spread a sheet of white paper on the desk, laid the envelope on top of it, and examined it carefully. It was unsealed, the rear flap loosely fastened by twisted red thread. Pendergast gave the thread a brief, close scrutiny. Then he unwound it and carefully upended the envelope.

A small sheet of folded paper fell out, followed by a lock of glossy dark hair.

Pendergast drew in his breath sharply. In the room, it sounded explosively loud. Quickly, he knelt and opened the folded sheet.

The paper was a beautiful, hand-pressed linen, with an embossed coat of arms at its top: a lidless eye over two moons, with a lion couchant. Beneath, written in tobacco-colored ink with a fountain pen or quill, was a date: January 28.

D’Agosta realized it was identical to the note Pendergast had received a few months earlier, at the mansion on Riverside Drive. Unlike that note, however, this one had more written upon it than just a date. His eye fell to the words below:

She’s very spirited, brother. I can see why you like her.

Savor this token as earnest of my claim: a lock of her lovely hair. Savor it also as a memento of her passing. If you caress it you can almost smell the sweet air of Capraia.

Of course, I could be lying about everything. This lock could belong to someone else. Search your heart for the truth.

Frater, ave atque vale.

“Oh, my . . .” D’Agosta said. The words were cut off as his throat closed up involuntarily. He glanced over at the agent. He was sitting on the floor, gently stroking the lock of hair. The look on his face was so terrible D’Agosta had to turn away.

“It could be a lie,” he said. “Your brother’s lied before.”

Pendergast did not answer. There was a brief and awful silence.

“I’ll go question the messenger,” D’Agosta said, not daring to look back.

Exiting the room, he walked down the corridor to the elevator. The messenger was there, waiting, watched over by Martyn.

“NYPD,” he said, briefly showing his badge. Everything had slowed down, as in a nightmare. He felt curiously heavy, as if he could barely move his limbs. He wondered if this was what it was like to be in shock.

The youth nodded.

“Who gave you the package to deliver?”

“Somebody in a cab dropped it off at our service.”

“What did the passenger look like?”

“It was just the cabbie. There was no passenger.”

“What kind of vehicle, exactly?”

“Typical yellow cab. From the city.”

“Did you get a name or medallion number?” Even as he asked the question, D’Agosta knew it wouldn’t matter whether the kid had gotten one or not; no doubt Diogenes had covered his trail.

The messenger shook his head.

“How were you paid?”

“The driver paid fifty bucks. Said his instructions were to get a messenger to deliver the package to a Dr. Pendergast, 1 West 72nd Street. In person, if possible. And not to talk to anybody but Dr. Pendergast or the doorman.”

“Very well.” D’Agosta got the youth’s name and employer. Then he took Martyn aside, asking him to make sure the cops didn’t stop the messenger as he left the building. The strange feeling of heaviness had not left him. He walked back down the corridor to the small room.

Pendergast did not look up at his entrance. He was still sitting on the floor, hunched forward, the lock of hair placed before him. One hand rested on each knee, palm inward, each thumb forming a small circle with the middle finger. The bereft, grief-stricken expression on his face had disappeared, and in its place was utter impassivity. He did not move, did not blink, didn’t even seem to breathe. He looked to D’Agosta as if he were a million miles away.

Maybe he is, D’Agosta thought. Maybe he’s meditating or something. Or maybe he’s just trying to keep himself sane.

“The messenger knew nothing,” he said as gently as he could. “The trail’s too well covered.”

Pendergast did not acknowledge this. He remained motionless. His face had lost none of its pallor.

“How the hell did Diogenes find out about Viola?” D’Agosta burst out.

Pendergast spoke almost robotically. “For the first week, while in Diogenes’s care, I was raving. Delirious. It’s possible I mentioned her name. Nothing escapes Diogenes—nothing.”

D’Agosta sank into a nearby chair. Right now, he didn’t think he cared if Laura Hayward, a dozen FBI agents, and an army corps came storming into the apartment. They could lock him up and throw away the key. It wouldn’t make any difference. Life was shit.

The two sat in the room, motionless, silent, as half an hour ticked by.

Then, without warning, Pendergast leaped to his feet, so suddenly that D’Agosta’s heart turned over in his chest.

“She would have traveled under her own name!” he said, eyes glittering intently.

“What?” D’Agosta said, rising himself.

“She wouldn’t have come if he’d asked her to use a pseudonym or arranged for a false passport. And she must have just arrived; he wouldn’t delay the note—he wouldn’t have had time!”

He raced toward the nearest laptop and began typing furiously. Within twenty seconds, the typing stopped.

“Here she is!” he cried.

D’Agosta raced to look at Pendergast’s screen:

Folkestone DataCentre
SQL Engine 4.041.a

PROPRIETARY & CONFIDENTIAL

Passenger Manifest Lookup |
Results of inquiry follow |
One record(s) found: |
BA-0002359148 |
Maskelene, Lady Viola |
British Airways Flight 822 |
Departed: London Gatwick LGW, 27 January, 11:54 P.M.GMT
Arrived: Kennedy Intl JFK, 28 January, 12:10 A.M.EST
End of Inquiry |

Pendergast turned away from the screen. His entire being seemed to crackle with energy, and his eyes—before so empty and distant—were on fire.

“Come, Vincent—we’re off to JFK. Every minute we waste, the trail grows colder.” And without another word, he dashed out of the room and down the hall.

Forty-eight

IT WAS LIKE the old days, D’Agosta thought grimly: Pendergast in his black suit, racing along the streets of New York City in his Rolls. Except that, really, it wasn’t like the old days at all. Pendergast was a hunted man, and D’Agosta himself was in such deep shit he’d need a decompression chamber when he surfaced—assuming he ever surfaced at all.

The Rolls pulled up to the curb at Terminal 7 Arrivals. Pendergast leaped out, leaving the vehicle running. A Port Authority policeman was strolling along the curb, and Pendergast swooped down on him.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He passed his gold shield in front of the officer briefly, then closed it up and slid it back into his suit.

“What can I do for you, sir?” the officer responded, instantly intimidated.

“We’re here on an investigation of the utmost importance. Can I ask you to watch my vehicle, Officer?”

“Yes, sir.” The man practically saluted.

Pendergast strode into the terminal, black coat flapping behind him. D’Agosta followed him to baggage claim security. Within, a heavyset guard was listening patiently to a man in a suit shouting angrily about a stolen bag.

Again, Pendergast opened his badge, “Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. My associate, Vincent D’Agosta, NYPD.”

“Well, it’s about time!” the man cried angrily. “My wife’s extremely valuable jewelry—”

“Never put valuable jewelry in check-in luggage,” said Pendergast smoothly, linking his arm in the man’s and propelling him to the door and out, then stepping quickly back and shutting and locking it.

“You make it look so easy,” said the guard with a grin.

“Is there an Officer Carter on duty?” said Pendergast, his eye just flitting over the man’s identification badge.

“That’s me. Randall Carter. What can I do for you?”

“I was told you were the best man to handle my problem.”

“Really?” The man’s face lit up. “Who—?”

“We need to review some security videotapes from last night. Just after midnight. It’s a matter of great urgency.”

“Yes, sir, let me just call the director of security.”

Pendergast shook his head wonderingly. “Didn’t they tell you this was already cleared?”

“It is? I didn’t know. Funny they didn’t send down an S.C. . . .”

“Well,” Pendergast interrupted briskly, “I’m glad they at least had the sense to send me to you. You think for yourself; you’re not one of those bureaucratic types.” He suddenly leaned into the man’s face and grasped his shoulder. “Are you wearing body armor, Officer?”

“Body armor? We’re not required . . . Hey, but why—?”

“We’d better get going.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer needed no more persuasion. He hustled to the back of his office and unlocked a security door.

Down a beige corridor, past another locked door, and D’Agosta found himself in a large computer room festooned with monitors playing back live video feeds from all over the terminal. A few security guards were sitting around a cafeteria-style table drinking coffee, while a thin, irritated technician rapped away on a keyboard in one corner.

“These gentlemen need to see some video,” Carter said to the technician.

“Moment,” said the technician.

“No, now. This man’s FBI and it’s a matter of grave importance.”

The technician got up, expelling an irritated hiss. “Right. Let’s see the S.C.” He held out his hand.

“It’s been cleared. You got my okay on that.”

A roll of the eyes. “So what do you want?”

Pendergast stepped up. “British Airways Flight 822 arrived here from Gatwick just after midnight. I want the security videotapes of the carousel where that flight’s luggage arrived and, most important, I need to review the feed from the greeting area just beyond customs clearance.”

“Have a seat. This might take a while.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a while.”

“Give me a break. I’ll do what I can, but don’t hold your breath.”

Pendergast broke into a gentle smile. Seeing that smile, D’Agosta felt himself tense up instinctively.

“You’re Jonathan Murphy, are you not?” Pendergast asked in his honeyed voice.

“So you can read an ID card. Bravo.”

“I believe in the carrot-and-stick method of doing things, Jonathan,” Pendergast said, still pleasantly. “Get me those videotapes in five minutes and you will receive a ten-thousand-dollar reward from the FBI’s Public Incentive and Reward Program, also known as PIRP. No doubt you’ve heard of it. On the other hand, fail to get me that videotape and I’ll put a red security flag in your file, which will mean that you’ll never work at another airport, or any other secured site, in the country again. Now, which is it to be: carrot or stick?”

A silence. The security guards were nudging each other and grinning. Clearly, the technician wasn’t popular.

Murphy smirked. “I’ll take the ten grand.”

“Excellent.”

The technician sat down again and went to work with a vengeance, fingers hammering at the keys. D’Agosta watched as numbers scrolled frantically across the CRT.

“We don’t use videotapes anymore,” he said. “We have everything stored digitally, on-site. The ganged feeds use up an entire terabyte of our RAID-1 array every . . .”

Suddenly, he stopped bashing at the keyboard. “Okay. The flight arrived at ten minutes after midnight, gate 34. Let’s see . . . It takes about fifteen minutes, on average, to go through pre-customs and walk to the carousel . . . I’ll cue up to twelve-twenty, just to be safe.”

A video sprang to life on Murphy’s screen. Pendergast bent forward, scrutinizing it intently. D’Agosta peered over his shoulder. He could see the international baggage area, an empty carousel turning.

“I’ll nudge up the speed until people start arriving,” Murphy said.

Now the carousel turned much faster. The seconds spun by, in fast motion, at the bottom of the screen. Shortly, people began arriving at the carousel, looking for their luggage. Murphy tapped a set of keys, slowing the video down to normal speed.

“That’s her!” Pendergast whispered urgently, pointing at the screen.

D’Agosta made out the slender form of Viola Maskelene, carrying a small bag. She approached the carousel, pulled her ticket out of the bag, examined the baggage claim checks, then crossed her arms to wait.

For a minute, Pendergast just stared at the image. Then he spoke again. “Switch to the greeting area, please. Same time frame.”

The technician typed in some more commands. The image of the baggage area disappeared, replaced by the waiting area outside customs. It was sparsely populated, a few knots of people standing around restlessly, waiting to meet arrivals.

“There,” said Pendergast.

A man stood off to one side, tall, slender, dressed in a dark overcoat. He had gingery hair, and he was looking around the room rather languidly, peering into various corners. His eye turned and stopped, fixed on the security camera.

D’Agosta had to stop himself from taking an instinctual step back. The man was staring right at them. His face was tan and angular and he had a closely trimmed beard, one eye milky blue, the other hazel. D’Agosta recognized him instantly as the man he had seen on the slopes above Castel Fosco in Italy that fateful day not two months earlier.

The man nodded formally at the camera, raised his hand just a little, and tipped a wave. His lips moved as if in speech.

D’Agosta glanced at Pendergast. His face was white—with rage.

Pendergast turned to the technician. “Back that up and print it out, there—when the man waves.”

“Yes, sir.”

A moment later and the computer printer was humming. Pendergast ripped the color image out and stuffed it in his pocket.

“Fast-forward, please, until a lady comes out and greets him.”

Once again, the images on the screen scurried briefly in accelerated motion, slowing again when Viola emerged. Diogenes approached with two outstretched hands and a large smile. D’Agosta watched breathlessly as the two exchanged what appeared to be pleasantries; then Diogenes waved a bill and a skycap came rushing over. They turned and headed toward the door, the skycap following with Viola’s bags.

Pendergast pointed at the screen. “Who’s that skycap?”

Carter, the security officer, squinted at the screen. “Looks like Norm. Norman Saunders.”

“Is he still on?”

Carter shook his head. “Couldn’t say.”

“He goes off at eight,” one of the other guards said. “But sometimes he works overtime.”

The figures disappeared out the glass doors.

“Go to the curbside camera.”

“Right.”

More rapping of keys. The scene abruptly changed again. There was Diogenes striding toward a dark Lincoln. He grasped the door handle, opened the door for Viola, helped her in. He waited for the skycap to close the trunk; then he walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat.

The car pulled away, accelerating into the darkness beyond, and was gone.

“Back up,” said Pendergast, “and get me a print of the car. When the door is open, please: I want to see the interior. And another print when the car’s pulling away, so we can get a make on the plate.”

A moment later, the computer was spitting out the images, which Pendergast immediately thrust into his jacket. “Good. Now we’re going to find Saunders.”

“If he’s here, he’ll be at the east carousels,” Carter said.

“Thank you.” Pendergast turned to go.

“So,” said the technician, “how do I collect my ten grand?”

Pendergast paused. “Ten thousand dollars? Just for doing your job? A ridiculous idea.”

To much muffled laughter and shaking of heads, they left the room. “If Saunders is on, he’ll be over by baggage,” said Carter. “I’ll show you.”

Several flights had recently arrived, and streams of travelers were crowding into baggage claim. All carousels were running full-bore, packed with luggage, and skycaps were coming and going busily.

Carter stopped one of them. “Saunders take an extra shift?”

The man shook his head. “He’s off until midnight.”

Looking past the skycap, D’Agosta noticed four Port Authority cops on the landing above the baggage claim concourse, scanning the crowd. Immediately, he nudged Pendergast. “I don’t like that.”

“Neither do I.”

Carter’s radio went off and he grabbed it.

“We better get the hell out of here,” murmured D’Agosta.

They began walking briskly toward the exit.

“Hey!” came a distant shout. “Wait!”

D’Agosta glanced back to see the officers spilling into the crowd, pushing their way through. “You two! Wait!”

Pendergast broke into a run, darting through the throngs of people and heading back out to the curb. The P.A. cop was still beside the idling Rolls, talking on his radio. Pendergast shot past him, and D’Agosta half jumped, half tumbled into the passenger seat. The man’s protest was lost in the roar of the big engine and the tremendous screech of rubber as the Rolls shot away from the pickup area at high speed.

As they accelerated onto the JFK Expressway, Pendergast pulled the printouts from his suit coat.

“Boot up my laptop, there in the carrier, and do a make on a Lincoln Town Car, New York license 453A WQ6. Radio the milepost 11 toll plaza on the Van Wyck Expressway and talk someone into reviewing the security tapes for between twelve-thirty and one A.M., going both east and west.”

“What about us?”

“We’re going east.”

“East? You don’t think he took her into the city?”

“That’s exactly what I do think he did. But given that Diogenes seems to be able to anticipate what I think, I’m going east—to the far end of the island.”

“Right.”

“Another thing: we’re going to need to trade down.” And Pendergast abruptly pulled off the airport expressway into the returns lot of a Hertz office, steered the big car into an empty spot, and killed the engine.

D’Agosta looked up from the laptop. “What, rent something?”

“No. Steal something.”

Forty-nine

ONCE AGAIN, Smithback entered the gracious confines of Dr. Tisander’s office, a load of textbooks under one arm. It was eight o’clock, well past the barbaric 5:30 P.M. dinner hour of River Oaks. He found the psychiatrist seated behind his desk, but this evening the usual look of genteel condescension was marred by an irritated flash in the eyes.

“Edward,” Dr. Tisander said. “Although I am extremely busy, I am happy to give you five minutes of my undivided attention.”

Smithback seated himself without an invitation and thumped the load of books onto the man’s desk.

“I’ve been thinking about something you said in our conversation the day before yesterday,” he began. “You told me: ‘It is a grave step to deprive a person of his freedom, and due process must be followed with total scrupulosity.’”

“I may have said something like that, yes.”

“You said exactly that. It made me curious to know just what that process is.”

Tisander nodded condescendingly. “You seem to have found our library to your satisfaction.”

“Very much so. In fact, I found exactly what I was looking for.”

“How nice,” said Tisander, feigning interest while taking a surreptitious glance at his watch.

Smithback patted the top book. “The laws of New York State regarding the involuntary commitment of the mentally ill are among the strictest in the nation.”

“I am well aware of that. It’s one reason why we have so many homeless people on the street.”

“It isn’t enough for a family to sign the documents in order to commit someone against his will. There’s a whole process involved.”

Another sage nod from Tisander.

“Isn’t it true, for example, that a judge has to declare the person non compos mentis?”

“Yes.”

“And even a judge cannot make that declaration unless two conditions are met. Do you recall those two conditions, Dr. Tisander?”

This time the psychiatrist gave a genuine smile, delighted to show off his erudition. “I certainly do. The person is either a danger to himself—mentally or physically—or a danger to society.”

“Right. In the first case, suicide ideation or an actual attempt must usually be present, which must be attested to by a signed letter from a doctor. In the case of a person being a danger to society, it’s usually necessary for the person to have been arrested.”

“You have been busy, Edward,” said Tisander.

“And then, after the declaration of non compos mentis, there must be a psychiatric evaluation recommending involuntary commitment.”

“All standard procedure. Now, Edward, it’s after eight, and it isn’t long until lights-out, so if you’d—”

Smithback pulled one of the books from the pile. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

Tisander rose, squaring papers on his desk. “If you make it quick.” He nodded imperceptibly, and an orderly emerged from the shadows near the door.

Smithback hastily pulled a sheet of paper from the book and handed it over the desk. “I drew up a list of documents that must, by law, be in my file.”

Tisander took the list, scanned it with a frown. “A judge’s declaration. A suicide-attempt report—signed by a doctor—or an arrest record. A psychiatric evaluation.” He read them off. “I’ve no doubt they’re all there. Now, Edward, it’s time.”

The orderly advanced.

“One other thing,” Smithback said.

“Thank you, Edward.” A note of exasperation had crept into Tisander’s orotund voice.

“A question. That psychiatric evaluation that must be in the file—who administers it?”

“We do. Always. Surely, Edward, you remember the interview and tests you took on admittance.”

“There’s where you blew it, Tisander.” Smithback dropped the heavy tome back on the desk, for effect. “It says right in here—”

“Jonathan?”

The orderly appeared at Smithback’s elbow, a hulking presence. “This way, Mr. Jones.”

“—by law,” Smithback went on loudly, “the psychiatric evaluation can’t be done by anyone on the staff of the admitting institution.”

“Rubbish. Show Mr. Jones to his room, Jonathan.”

“It’s true!” Smithback cried as the orderly took his arm. “Back in the fifties, a young man was committed by his family in collusion with the asylum. They stole his inheritance. In the aftermath, a law was passed stating the evaluation had to be done by an independent psychiatrist. Check it out. Page 337, Romanski v. Reynauld State Hospital!”

“This way, Mr. Jones,” said the orderly, propelling him firmly across the Persian carpet.

Smithback dug in his heels. “Tisander, when I get out, I’m going to sue River Oaks and you personally. If you can’t produce that independent evaluation, you’ll lose the suit—and it’ll cost you dearly.”

“Good night, Edward.”

“I’ll make it my mission in life! I’ll dog you like the Furies dogged Orestes. I’ll take away everything you have, your job, your reputation, this whole pile. As you know, I’m as rich as Croesus. Check my file. I know for a fact you cut that corner! There’s no independent evaluation, and you know it!”

Smithback felt himself being dragged bodily toward the door.

“Shut the door on your way out, will you, Jonathan?” Dr. Tisander said.

“Tisander?” Smithback raised his voice. “Can you afford to make this mistake? You’ll lose the whole enchilada, you son of a—!”

Jonathan shut the door to the office. “Come on, Jones,” he said, giving Smithback a gentle push down the hall. “Give it a rest.”

“Get your hands off me!” Smithback cried, struggling.

“Hey, man, I’m just doing my job,” said the orderly calmly.

Smithback relaxed. “Right. Sorry. I imagine it’s about as much fun working here as it is being a ‘guest.’”

The orderly released him and Smithback dusted off his jacket. “All right, Jonathan,” he said, mustering a feeble smile. “Escort me back to my cage. I’ll work up a new angle tomorrow.”

Just as they were turning the corner, Tisander’s voice came echoing down the hall. “Jonathan? Bring Mr. Jones back.”

Jonathan paused. “Looks like you get another hearing.”

“Yeah, right.”

As they turned back toward Tisander’s office, Smithback heard the low voice of the orderly behind him. “Good luck.”

Smithback entered the office. Tisander was standing behind the desk, his figure rigid. Smithback saw his own file open on the director’s desk. Next to it was the book he’d indicated—opened to page 337.

“Sit down,” Tisander said tersely. He nodded at the orderly. “You can wait outside.”

Smithback took a seat.

“You think you’re a clever fellow,” Tisander said. All the phony good humor and condescension was gone. His face was now as hard and gray as a boiled potato.

“I was right,” Smithback murmured, more to himself than to Tisander.

“A sheer technicality. There isn’t a psychiatric hospital in the state that does independent evaluations. I don’t think anyone’s even aware of this ridiculous law. But under the circumstances, I can’t afford to keep you here.”

“You’re damn right you can’t afford it. I’ll sue your ass from here to Albany—”

Tisander closed his eyes and held up a hand. “Mr. Jones, please. Our intention was to help you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let some spoiled brat undo all the good I’ve built up over the years. Frankly, you’re not worth it.”

“So I’m free?”

“As soon as I write up the decommitment papers. Unfortunately, it’s almost lockdown. You won’t be able to leave until six A.M. tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Smithback echoed, almost afraid to believe his ears.

“Believe me, I’d love to get rid of you now. Jonathan?”

The orderly came back in.

“Mr. Jones is to be discharged in the morning. See to it he’s given every consideration until then.”

They exited the office, and as soon as the door closed, Smithback grinned. “Jonathan, I’m outta here.”

Jonathan high-fived him with a big smile. “Man, how’d you do it?”

Smithback shrugged. “Sheer brilliance.”

Fifty

NORA KELLY PAUSED on the corner of 77th Street and Museum Drive, looking northward. The great Romanesque entrance to the museum was lit up with spotlights, a five-story banner touting the opening hung on the facade. Below, the drive was packed with the usual New York chaos of limos and black Mercedes, disgorging patrons and celebrities in furs and black tie to successive waves of flashes. The inevitable red carpet had been rolled down the granite steps, which were roped off as if at a movie premiere, to keep back the press and the uninvited.

The whole spectacle made her sick.

Margo Green had been brutally murdered just two days ago and buried this very morning—yet it was as if the museum had already dismissed and forgotten her. Nora wondered what would happen if she just turned around and went back to her apartment; but she already knew the answer: she might as well kiss her career good-bye. She was supposedly one of the stars of this show, as George Ashton had made all too clear to her. The show must go on.

Taking a deep breath, and pulling her woolen coat more tightly about her shoulders, she started forward. As she drew closer, she noticed a commotion off to one side. A group of short, heavyset men dressed in buckskins and wrapped in decorated blankets was standing in a circle, beating drums and chanting—some waving bundles of smoking sagebrush. After a moment of incomprehension, she suddenly realized what it was all about: the Tano protesters had arrived. She could see Manetti, the security director, talking with them and gesturing, flanked by a couple of NYPD cops and some museum guards. It seemed the commotion had begun to attract the attention of the guests, and some of them were coming over to see what was happening.

“Excuse me!” Nora pushed her way through some gawkers, ducked under the velvet rope, stuck her museum badge in the face of a protesting guard, and approached the group of Indians. At that very moment, a beautiful young woman came sweeping up: a star or starlet of some kind, judging by the trail of paparazzi that followed in her wake.

“This is private property,” Manetti was saying to what Nora assumed was the leader of the Tanos. “We don’t object to your protesting, but you have to do it down there, on the sidewalk—”

“Sir,” the leader began in a quiet voice, “we are not protesting, we are praying—”

“Whatever. This is private property.”

The celebrity waded in. With a jolt, Nora recognized her as movie star Wanda Meursault, tall, exotic, and vaguely foreign, rumored to be in line for best actress at the upcoming Academy Awards.

“Hold on! Why shouldn’t these people have a right to pray?” she demanded to a dozen simultaneous flashes. A thicket of boomed mikes came swinging around to capture every deathless word that might drop from her lips, and TV lights fired up.

Instantly, Nora saw a P.R. disaster in the making.

“I’m not saying they can’t pray,” Manetti said, exasperation strong in his voice. “All I’m saying is that this is private property—”

“These Native Americans are praying.” Meursault turned and asked, as an afterthought: “Why are you praying?”

“We’re praying for our sacred masks, locked in a case in the museum,” the leader said.

“They’ve locked up your sacred masks?” The actress’s face bloomed in mock horror.

The cameras zeroed in.

Something had to be done—and fast. Nora shoved forward, pushing aside a policeman and jostling Manetti to one side.

“Hey, just a minute,” the security director began.

“Nora Kelly, assistant curator of the exhibition,” Nora explained to the cop, dangling her badge before every official face within reach. She turned to the security director. “I’ll handle this, Mr. Manetti.”

“Dr. Kelly, these people are trespassing on museum property—”

“I know that. I’ll handle it.”

Manetti fell silent. Amazing, Nora thought, how quickly a sharp tone and an air of authority—an authority she didn’t have—could turn the tables.

She turned to the Tano leader, startled to see he was old, at least seventy. The calmness and dignity in his face was remarkable. This wasn’t the young, angry activist she had imagined. The other men were equally aged, all somewhat rotund, wrapped in Pendleton wool blankets. The old VW bus they’d arrived in, a real junker, was parked illegally on Museum Drive and would no doubt soon be towed.

“Y’aah shas slil dz’in nitsa,” she said to the man.

The leader stared at her dumbfounded. “Y’aah shas,” he said hastily, as if remembering himself. “How—?”

“I spent some time at Tano Pueblo,” said Nora. “That’s all I know of your language, so please don’t try to reply!” She smiled and held out her hand. “Nora Kelly, one of the curators of the show. I believe I spoke to one of your colleagues.”

“You spoke to me.”

“Then you must be Mr. Wametowa.”

The old man nodded.

“How can I help you?” Nora asked.

“They want to pray!” Meursault shouted from the sidelines.

Nora ignored her, keeping her attention on Wametowa.

“We’re praying to the masks,” he said. “That’s all we’re asking, to speak to our masks.”

“Speak to the masks?”

“Yes. To reassure them that we’re here, that we care about them, that they haven’t been forgotten.”

Nora could see Manetti rolling his eyes.

“That’s so beautiful,” said Meursault, turning her head to better expose her profile to the cameras. Another dozen flashes went off.

“We believe the masks are alive, that they have a spirit. They’ve been alone and away from us for a long time. We’ve come to bless them, comfort them.”

Suddenly, Nora realized just what the solution was.

She pretended to think for a moment. She knew, from her brief week at Tano Pueblo back in her graduate student days, that they viewed any decision arrived at quickly as a poor decision. “This doesn’t seem like a good place to do that,” she said at last.

“That’s just what I was saying—” Manetti began.

Nora paid no attention. “I wonder if there might be a better place . . .”

“There is,” Manetti said. “Down there on the sidewalk.”

Nora flashed a look at Manetti.

“We would like to be closer to our masks, not further,” said Wametowa.

“Why don’t you come in, then?” Nora asked.

“They won’t let us.”

“Come in as my guests. I’ll take you to the masks right now, so you can speak to them in private—before the unveiling of the hall.”

“Dr. Kelly, are you crazy?” Manetti protested.

The Tano elder stared at her a minute. Then his broad, ancient face broke into a radiant smile. He gave a dignified bow. “Eesha lat dzil. You are a human being, Miss Nora.”

“Bravo!” cried Meursault.

“I won’t permit this,” the security director said.

“Mr. Manetti, I’ll take full responsibility.”

“You can’t just bring these people into the hall before the ribbon cutting—that’s impossible!”

“Nothing’s impossible. In fact, this is the way it should be.” She turned to the Indians. “Would you gentlemen like to follow me?”

“We’d be happy to,” said the Tano.

Meursault linked her arm with the startled old Indian’s and they marched forward behind Nora, the crowd of press and onlookers surging behind. “Make way for the Tano elders!” Meursault cried. “Make way!” Her sequined dress shimmered under the lights, her face radiant at seizing so brilliantly the center of attention.

Like magic, the crowd parted as they mounted the red-carpeted steps. The Tanos began softly chanting and beating their drums again as they passed through the Rotunda and entered the Hall of the Heavens, and Nora found herself facing a line of gala partygoers who had fallen rapt at the sight of Native Americans marching toward the hall. No doubt they all thought the procession was part of the program. The mayor came forward, sensing, like Meursault, an opportunity.

Manetti followed behind, his face red but his mouth shut, obviously realizing it would be counterproductive to continue the argument in front of the whole city.

Now Collopy came rushing forward from the greeting line. “Nora! What in the world?”

She bent toward him and whispered quickly. “The Tanos would like to have a private moment with the masks alone, before the ribbon cutting.”

“Whatever for?”

“To pray for and bless the masks. That’s all.”

Collopy frowned. “Nora, this is not the time. Surely, this can wait!”

Nora looked straight into his eyes. “Dr. Collopy. Please trust me on this. I know the Indians of the Southwest well, I’ve lived and worked among them for years. They’re not here to cause you trouble or public embarrassment. They just want a little private time with their masks. By the time the ceremony’s over, they’ll be gone. And the whole situation will be defused. This is the very best way to handle things, and I know if you give it careful consideration, you’ll agree.” She dropped her voice even further. “It also happens to be a great public relations opportunity.”

Collopy looked at Nora, his patrician face wide with astonishment. Then he looked at Manetti. Finally, he turned toward the waiting Tanos. He cleared his throat and smoothed his hair, his brow wrinkled in thought.

And then suddenly, his face broke into a welcoming smile. He reached out his hand toward the Tano leader. “Welcome! Mr. . . . ?”

“Wametowa.”

“Of course! Welcome! The museum is delighted to receive you and your group as representatives of the Tano people. I understand you’ve come a long way to see the Great Kiva masks.”

“Two thousand miles.”

A murmur went up in the crowd. The cameras were whirring.

“We are so glad you could make it. This is a special honor for the museum and for me personally.”

The press was eating it up. Nora felt a huge relief: it was going to turn out all right.

“Our security director, Mr. Manetti, will take you into the hall to, ah, visit with the masks in private. Mr. Manetti? You can handle the security zones a tad ahead of schedule, I’m sure. And leave them alone while they pray.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will half an hour suffice?” Collopy asked the leader.

“Yes, thank you,” replied the Tano elder.

“Splendid! Afterwards, you’re all invited to join the festivities, Mr. Wem, ah, Wem . . .”

“Wametowa.”

“Excellent! Is there anything else we can do?”

“For now, this will suffice.” The Tanos nodded, looking around and nodding to one another. “To tell you the truth, we didn’t expect to be treated with this kind of respect.”

“Nonsense! We’re delighted to have you!” Collopy turned toward the cameras, having fully recovered his composure. “The museum thanks the Tano people for the privilege of being allowed to share these remarkable masks with the rest of the world.”

Meursault began the clapping and soon the hall was thundering with applause, the television cameras capturing every detail.

Nora watched Manetti lead the group of Indians down the corridor, speaking into a two-way radio as he did so. Then she turned, walked to the nearest chair she could find, and collapsed in it. She couldn’t believe she’d spoken to the museum director like that. Her knees felt like rubber.

In a detached, almost weary way, it occurred to her how fitting an elegy this was for Margo. It had been so important to her, this issue of the masks and the Tanos’ sovereignty over them. Seeing these Indians ushered into the exhibition with solicitousness and respect would have made her very happy.

Suddenly, a cold glass of champagne appeared before her. She looked up in surprise to see Hugo Menzies standing behind her, resplendent in a magnificent shawl-collared tuxedo, his flowing white hair combed back, face beaming.

He took Nora’s hand, placed the cold glass into it, patted her on the back, and sat down. “Did anyone ever tell you what a genius you are?” He chuckled. “That was the most dashing publicity coup it has been my privilege to witness.”

Nora shook her head. “It could have been a publicity disaster.”

“It would have been a disaster if you hadn’t been on the scene. But not only did you handle the Tanos, but you made the museum look downright benevolent. Brilliant, just brilliant.” He practically chortled with pleasure, his eyes sparkling. Nora had never seen him so animated.

She took a slug of champagne. It had been the week from hell, with Bill threatened and in hiding, Margo’s murder, the stress of the opening, the warnings from Pendergast . . . But right now she was too tired and exhausted to feel any fear. All she wanted to do was go home, double-lock the door, and crawl into bed. Instead, she had to endure hours of speechifying, mingling, and forced gaiety.

Menzies placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “When this is all over, I’d like you to take a week’s vacation. You deserve it.”

“Thanks. I wish I could begin now.”

“Three more hours.”

Nora held up her glass. “Three more hours,” she said, and took another gulp of champagne.

A string ensemble struck up Haydn’s Emperor Quartet as the crowd began to move toward the food tables. They were loaded with blini au caviar, prosciutto, rare French and Italian cheeses, mounds of crusty baguettes, crudités, fresh oysters on beds of crushed ice, cold lobster tails, smoked sturgeon—the works. Other tables groaned with wines and champagne, and every third person seemed to be a waiter rushing about with a silver tray loaded with drinks and food.

“Nora,” said Menzies, “you must circulate.”

She groaned. “God help me.”

“Come on. We’ll face the ravening hordes together.” He took her arm and they began making their way slowly through the crowd. Nora found that she was greeted at every turn by congratulators, peppered with questions from the press. Her stunt with the Tanos had apparently gone down exceptionally well, everyone assuming it had been long planned.

When at length she returned to their assigned table, she found that several other members of the department were there, including Ashton, the show’s chief curator. As the serious eating got under way, Collopy, flanked by his young wife, mounted the podium and gave a short, witty speech.

Then it was time for the cutting of the ribbon. Nora, Menzies, Ashton, and a few other curators lined up at the podium while Collopy, wielding the gigantic pair of scissors used for such occasions, went to the ribbon and made a hash of trying to cut it. When it was finally accomplished, a cheer went up and the huge doors leading to the Sacred Images exhibition swung open. Smiling and nodding, Menzies, Nora, and the rest of the Anthropology Department led the way, the partygoers following in an excited crush behind.

It took about half an hour to reach the far end of the hall, propelled along by the mass of people behind them. Nora felt a shudder as she passed through the room Margo had been murdered in, but, of course, all trace of the crime scene had been removed and nobody but her even seemed aware of it. As she moved farther and farther beyond the scene of the murder, Nora felt the horror replaced by a quiet sense of pride. She could hardly believe they’d managed to pull it off.

Menzies stayed close beside her, occasionally murmuring compliments on the cases she had curated or arranged. The Tanos had come and gone, leaving some bits of turquoise, pollen, and cornmeal on the top of the mask case, which everybody took care to leave in place. At last, when they reached the final hall, Menzies turned to Nora and bowed.

“I do believe we have done our duty.” He smiled, face twinkling. “And now you may beat a discreet retreat home. I, unfortunately, have some work to do upstairs in my office. Let’s talk next week about that vacation I owe you.”

He bowed again and Nora, with relief, turned to make her way to the nearest exit—and home.

Fifty-one

FOR PERHAPS THE FIFTIETH time in the last two days, Larry Enderby had made up his mind to quit, get the hell out of the museum.

It wasn’t enough that he worked in a windowless basement room in the Museum of Natural History, the spookiest damn place in all of New York City. He couldn’t get the horror of what he’d found two days ago out of his head. They hadn’t even given him a frigging day off, offered him counseling, or even thanked him. It was like he didn’t count. It was like she didn’t count, the way they just moved right ahead with the exhibition as if nothing had happened.

Margo Green. He didn’t know her well, but she’d gone out of her way to be nice to him the few times they’d met. Which was more than he could say for most of the curators and all the administrators. It was just the way the museum treated everybody below a certain level: hired help.

But, if he could admit it to himself, Enderby was mainly disgruntled because the museum had chosen this exact time—during the biggest party in five years—to switch over yet another museum hall to the new security system. So, instead of scarfing down caviar and champagne with the beautiful people two flights up, they were down there in the basement once again, toiling over software subroutines. Sure, they’d been invited to the party, like everyone else in the museum. That just added insult to injury.

He rolled back from the computer console with an exaggerated sigh.

“Holding up?” Walt Smith, project manager for the museum’s security upgrade, asked from behind a nearby monitoring screen.

Smitty had been unusually gentle since Enderby’s discovery, two days before. Everyone was tiptoeing around him, like somebody had died in his family.

“How about a short break to check out the party?” Enderby asked him. “I wouldn’t mind a few of those cocktail shrimp.”

Smitty shook his head. He held a BlackBerry in one hand and a cell phone in the other. “I don’t think that’s going to be possible, Larry. Sorry.”

“Come on, Smitty,” Jim Choi, the software engineer, said from the far side of the diagnostic display unit. “Just give us half an hour. You’d be surprised how many shrimp I can ingest in half an hour. The party’s almost over, they’ll run out of food soon.”

“You know we can’t alter the schedule. The Astor Hall’s just like any other, one more on the list. What, we’re going to sneak the hands of the atomic clock back five minutes, maybe nobody will notice?” Smitty laughed at his own miserable joke.

Choi rolled his eyes. Smitty was not known for his rapier-like wit.

Enderby watched the goatee on Smith’s chin waggle up and down as he laughed. It was a straggly little thing, seemingly attached by only a few hairs, and Enderby half hoped it might fall off one of these days. Despite Enderby’s general irritation, he had to admit Smitty wasn’t a bad guy to work for. He’d worked his way up through the ranks and, despite being only thirty-five, was as Old Museum as they came. A real stickler, relatively humorless, but as long as you were a conscientious worker and did your job, he looked out for you. It wasn’t Smitty’s fault the museum bigwigs were demanding that the new security system be fully installed and operational, yesterday.

Smitty stood up and walked across the room, past racks of computer workstations and servers, to a bank of six dozen small CCTV monitors mounted in the far wall. Most of the monitors showed black-and-white still lifes of empty museum hallways and display cases. Half a dozen in the lower right corner, however—the video feeds from the Hall of the Heavens, where the opening party was going on—were a riot of movement. From his terminal, Enderby watched the little images dance and jitter their way across the screen with a heavy heart. Upstairs, the museum’s slope-shouldered, mouth-breathing curators were rubbing elbows with starlets and nymphets; and here he was, toiling in this cave like some troglodyte. True, it could be worse—he could be working in the “Pit,” the museum’s Central Security Office, which was twice as large but unpleasantly hot and crammed full of even more screens and keyboards than this Advanced Technology Center. Worse, but not much worse.

Smitty was squinting at his BlackBerry. “Okay, set to initialize the final test?”

Nobody replied.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He turned back to his console, tapped briefly on the keyboard. “Astor Hall,” he intoned, “final fail-safe test of the security upgrade, January 28, 8:28 P.M.”

Jeez, he always makes it sound like it’s Mission Control in here, Enderby thought. He glanced over at Jim Choi, who once again rolled his eyes.

“Larry, what’s the status of the legacy system?” Smitty asked.

“Looks good.”

“Jim, give me an update on the laser grid in the Astor Hall.”

A brief tapping of keys. “Ready to go,” Choi said.

“Then let’s run the low-level diagnostics.”

There was a brief silence as both Smitty and Choi ran independent tests. Enderby, whose job was to monitor the behavior of the preexisting security system as the updated laser security system was brought online, stared at his monitor. This was probably the fortieth hall they’d converted to the new system. And for each conversion, there were a hundred steps to perform: on-site analysis, system architecture, coding, installation . . . He could be making three times his salary in some slick start-up in Palo Alto, with stock options to boot. And he probably wouldn’t stumble over any bodies in the middle of the night, either.

Smitty looked up from his keyboard. “Jim, what’s your checksum?”

“It’s 780E4F3 hex.”

“I concur. Let’s proceed.” Smitty picked up a phone, dialed.

Enderby watched without interest. He knew Smitty was calling the boys in the Pit, giving them a heads-up that the switchover was about to happen, just a reminder in case some newbie went apeshit when he saw the hiccup on their screens. It was always the same. The old system would be disabled; there would be a ninety-second period in which the new system was initialized and the “handshake” performed; then a final twenty-minute test of the new system would follow, to ensure the installation was correct and that it had been brought online successfully. Twenty minutes in which they had nothing to do but twiddle their thumbs. Then, at last, the new system would become fully operational and the old system put in backup mode. He fetched a huge yawn. As he did so, his stomach grumbled unhappily.

“Central Security?” Smitty was saying into the phone. “Who is this, Carlos? Hey, it’s Walt Smith in ATC. We’re activating the lasers in the Astor Hall. We’ll be initializing in about five minutes. Right. I’ll call back once the handshake’s complete.”

He put the phone down, then looked back at Enderby. “Hey, Larry,” he said gently.

“What?”

“Just how much time did Choi there say he needed to consume that trawler-load of shrimp?”

“I told you,” Choi piped up. “Thirty minutes.”

Smitty leaned forward, resting his arm on the console. “Tell you what. If we can get this initialization done and the twenty-minute test phase started, I’ll give you fifteen. Including the time it’ll take us to get there and back again.”

Enderby sat up. “On the level?”

Smitty nodded.

Choi grinned widely. “You just purchased yourself a boy.”

“Good. Then let’s see how fast we can get through this checklist.” And Smitty turned back to his terminal.

Fifty-two

HUGO MENZIES INSERTED his key into the staff elevator and rode it from the second to the fifth floor. Exiting the elevator, he strolled meditatively down the long, polished corridor. The curatorial offices lay on either side: old oaken doors with panels of frosted glass, each bearing the name of a curator in old-fashioned gold-leaf lettering, even those most recently appointed. Menzies smiled, already feeling a nostalgia for the old pile and its quaint traditions.

He paused before his own office door, opened it, and entered just long enough to pick up the canvas satchel that accompanied him almost everywhere. Then he closed and locked the door and continued his stroll to the farthest end of the hall, where there was an unmarked door. He unlocked it, stepped into the stairwell beyond, descended two flights, and exited into a dark, deserted hall—the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians. It was one of the oldest halls in the museum, a true gem of late-nineteenth-century museology, and it smelled of old cedar and smoke. Transformation masks, totem poles, slate bowls gleamed in the dark recesses. Menzies paused to inhale the air with delight. Then he walked briskly through the deserted hall and several others, finally arriving at a large metal door bearing the legend The Astor Hall of Diamonds.

His eye dwelled lovingly on the door in all its brushed-steel splendor, taking special note of the two video cameras on either side, staring down at him like beady black eyes—except, as he knew, they were currently not functioning. He smiled again, then removed a large round watch from his vest pocket and gazed at it. Although in shape it resembled a pocket watch, it was, in fact, a modern digital stopwatch. On its face, numbers were counting down with enormous rapidity, at an accuracy to the thousandths of a second.

The watch was reading time signals from the same satellite that the museum’s security system used.

He waited until the watch signaled a certain point in time with a soft beep. Menzies immediately put the watch away, stepped rapidly to the door, placed his ear against it, and then quickly swiped a magnetic card through the reader. The door did not open; instead, a small eye-level window shot open, revealing a retinal optical scanner.

Menzies bowed his head, popped two soft contact lenses out from his eyes and into a waiting plastic container, then stepped up to the optical reader. A quick bar of light passed across his face; there was a moment’s stillness, and then a soft click announced the disengagement of the lock. He stepped through the door into the hall beyond, the door automatically closing behind him.

With a rapidity of movement marvelous for his advanced age, Menzies knelt, opened his satchel, and got to work. First he reached up and, with a sharp tug, removed his leonine thatch of white hair, shoved the wig into the satchel, then reached into his mouth and pulled out five molded rubber cheek and chin pieces. This act alone caused an astonishing transformation in the shape and apparent age of his face. Another pair of quick tugs took off the bushy eyebrows and a few small blemishes, liver spots, a mole.

Next, still kneeling, the man removed more than a dozen small dental mirrors from the satchel, mounted on bizarre little stands in a variety of odd shapes and sizes, all made of beautifully hand-machined brass. Next came an array of black objects wired together, a stack of thin Mylar sheets, several small cutting tools, exotic-looking metal instruments, and a flat of sticky pads, each the size and shape of a lentil.

When these had been arranged on the floor with military precision, the man waited, still crouching, unmoving, stopwatch again in his hands. He raised his head once to look at the hall in front of him. It was dark—utterly dark—without even the slightest gleam announcing its extraordinary contents. The darkness was part of the security, because the only electromagnetic radiation in the hall after closing was invisible infrared and far-infrared wavelengths. Even the myriad laser beams crisscrossing the hall were infrared, undetectable to the naked eye. But he did not need light: he had rehearsed this many hundreds of times, in an exact duplicate of this room which he had constructed himself.

The watch gave another soft beep, and the man exploded into movement. With the speed of a ferret, he darted about the room, placing the dental mirrors in precisely fixed and calibrated locations, each mirror turned to the precise angle.

In two minutes, he was done and back in his place by the door, breathing slowly and regularly, watch in hand.

Another soft beep indicated the laser beams had gone back on—each one now redirected to a different path, running around the outer walls instead of crisscrossing the hall itself. This rotating series of laser grids was one of the features of the new security system. No doubt the technicians in the basement were congratulating themselves on another successful test.

Again, the man waited, looking at his watch. Another soft beep and he was up again, this time carrying the Mylar sheets, which he stuck over the video camera lenses which had been placed in numerous strategic locations. The Mylar sheets, clear to the naked eye, were actually etched with holographs which responded strongly to infrared light, and which reproduced the precise scene that the infrared video cameras were pointed at—minus, of course, the man. When the video cameras came back on, they would see the same boring scene they had seen before. Only it would not be real.

Again, like a cat, the man retreated to his safe corner. Again, he waited until the stopwatch beeped another soft warning.

This time he scurried around the perimeter of the hall, setting a sleek black box in each corner, connected by wires to a small power pack. These were powerful radar guns of the type used by state police, modified to jam the museum’s new infrared Doppler radar system, said to be so sensitive it could detect the motion of a cockroach across the carpeting.

Once the radar jammers were in place and active, the man straightened up, dusted his knees, and gave a low, dry chuckle. Movements now almost languid, he removed a flashlight from the satchel, turned it on, and played the dull green beam about the hall—a precise wavelength of green light chosen because none of the sophisticated electromagnetic sensors in the hall could see it.

The man strolled casually to the center of the hall where a square, four-foot pillar had been constructed, on top of which was set a thick Plexiglas box. He bent down and looked in the box. Resting inside on thick satin was the dark form of a heart-cut diamond of extraordinary, almost incredible size: Lucifer’s Heart, the museum’s prize gem, which had been called the most valuable diamond in the world. It was certainly the most beautiful.

A fine place to start.

With a small cutting tool, the man opened a hole in the Plexiglas. Then, with a series of slender tools machined precisely for this purpose and some of the tiny, sticky pads, he reached in and removed the diamond, being careful to prevent the trigger pin under the diamond from rising. Another deft movement placed a large glass marble on the same stand, which would keep the pin depressed.

The man held the diamond in his hand, shining the flashlight up through it for a moment. In the green light it looked black and dead, without color, almost like a piece of coal. But the man was not perturbed: he knew that a red diamond under green light always looked black. And this diamond was red—or more precisely, a rich cinnamon, but without a trace of brown. It was the only diamond of its color in the world. Blue diamonds were created by boron or hydrogen trapped in the crystal matrix, green diamonds by natural radiation, yellow and brown diamonds by nitrogen, and pink diamonds by the presence of microscopic lamellae. But this color? Nobody knew.

He held it up and peered through it to the flashlight below. He could see his own eyes reflected and multiplied by the diamond’s facets, creating a surreal kaleidoscope of eyes and more eyes, hundreds of them, staring every which way inside the gem. He moved the gem back and forth, from eye to eye, enjoying the spectacle.

And the strangest thing of all was that the eyes were of different colors: one hazel, the other a milky, whitish blue.

Fifty-three

LARRY ENDERBY SAT at his console in the Advanced Technology Center, puffing slightly. The hollowness in his stomach had gone, replaced with an uncomfortable bloated feeling. He felt like a frigging suckling pig, to tell the truth. He belched, let out his belt a notch. All that was missing was the shiny red apple for his mouth.

He glanced over at his co-workers, Walt Smith and Jim Choi. Smitty—who, true to his nature, had acted with restraint—was staring at a bank of monitors, no worse for wear. The same couldn’t be said for Choi, who was slumped at his terminal, a glazed expression on his face. During the fifteen minutes Smitty had allotted, Choi had indeed shown a remarkable ability to bolt down jumbo shrimp and glasses of champagne. Enderby had given up counting shrimp at sixty-two.

He eased up another bolus of air, then patted his stomach gingerly. They’d gotten to the food table just in time: the feeding frenzy was almost over. There was a dribble of caviar on his shirtfront, and he flicked it away with a fingernail. But that fourth glass of champagne he’d chugged at the last moment had probably been a mistake. He just hoped he could keep it together for the rest of his shift. He glanced up at the clock: only another hour. They’d verify that the Astor Hall’s upgraded security system was fully operational, then go through the procedure of mothballing the old system. No sweat: he’d done it dozens of times before, he could probably do it in his sleep.

A low chime sounded. “That’s it,” Smitty said. “Twenty minutes.” He glanced over at Choi. “What’s the status of the Astor Hall system?”

Choi blinked a little blearily at his screen. “Test completed without incident.” His eye swept the cluster of video feeds. “Hall looks fine.”

“Error logs?”

“None. The system’s nominal.”

“And the beam modulation?”

“Every five minutes, as programmed. No deviation.”

Smitty walked over to the wall of monitors. Enderby watched as he peered at the video feeds devoted to the Astor Hall of Diamonds. He could see case after case of the precious gems, gleaming faintly in the infrared light. There was no movement, of course: once the laser beams were activated after lockdown, not even guards were permitted in the high-security exhibition halls.

Smitty grunted his approval, then walked over to his monitoring station and picked up the internal phone. “Carlos? It’s Walt in the ATC. We’ve completed the twenty-minute shakedown of the Astor Hall laser grid. How’d it look from Central Security?” A pause. “Okay, good. We’ll get the standard scheduling online and mothball the prior.”

He hung up the phone and glanced over at Enderby. “The Pit says that everything’s five by five. Larry, put it to bed. I’ll help Jim finalize the automation routines for the laser grid.”

Larry nodded and pulled his chair closer to the console. Time to put the old security system in backup mode. He blinked, wiped the back of a hand across his mouth, then began typing in a series of commands.

Almost immediately, he sat back. “That’s strange.”

Smitty looked over. “What is?”

Enderby pointed at an LED screen sitting on the side of his workstation. A single red dot glowed in its upper left corner. “When I rolled back the first zone into standby mode, the system gave me a code red.”

Smitty frowned. A “code red” was the legacy system’s alarm setting. In the Astor Hall, this would have been activated only when a diamond was removed from its setting. “What zone was that?”

“Zone 1.”

“What’s it contain?”

Enderby turned to a separate console, accessed the accession and inventory database, typed in a SQL query. “Just a single diamond. Lucifer’s Heart.”

“That’s right in the center of the room.” Smitty walked over to the bank of video monitors, peered at one closely. “Looks fine to me. We’re dealing with some kind of software glitch here.”

He glanced back toward Enderby. “Roll back zone 2.”

Enderby typed a few more commands into his primary terminal. Immediately, a second red dot glowed into view on the LED screen. “That’s giving me a code red, too.”

Smitty walked over, a worried look coming onto his face.

Enderby stared at the screen. His mouth was dry, and the alcohol haze was dissipating fast.

“Do a global rollback,” Smitty said. “All zones in the hall.”

Enderby took a deep breath, then typed a short sequence on his keyboard. Immediately, he was flooded with dismay.

“Oh, no,” he breathed. “No.”

The little LED screen on Enderby’s desk had just blossomed into a Christmas tree of red.

For a moment, there was a shocked silence. Then Smitty waved his hand dismissively.

“Let’s not have a cow here. What we’ve got is a software glitch. Incompatibility between the new system and the old probably crashed the legacy system. Must’ve happened when we pulled it off-line. Nothing to get excited about. Larry, shut down the old system, one module at a time. Then reboot from the backup master.”

“Shouldn’t we report to Central?”

“What, and make ourselves look like idiots? We’ll report after we’ve solved the problem.”

“Okay. You’re the boss.” And Enderby began to type.

Smitty mustered a weak grin and gestured at the video screens of the empty hall, the diamonds glittering within their cases. “I mean, hey—take a look. Does the hall look robbed to you?”

Enderby had to chuckle. Maybe Smitty was acquiring a sense of humor, after all.

Fifty-four

D’AGOSTA MOVED THROUGH the channels on the portable police-band radio he’d pulled from the Rolls, searching for more official chatter about him and Pendergast. Their appearance at Kennedy had set off an APB across the entire length of Long Island, from Queens to Bridgehampton. The Rolls had been impounded at the rental lot, and in time the authorities had identified the Toyota Camry they’d stolen, and put out an advisory on that, as well. They’d managed to evade several roadblocks established on the Long Island Expressway by keeping to back roads and taking their cues from the radio advisories.

They were in a net, and the net was drawing tighter.

Still, Pendergast searched, stopping at one all-night service area after another, refusing to give up—and yet to D’Agosta it seemed a hopeless task, the kind of last-resort, brute-force police work that soaked up man-hours and rarely yielded results. It was a numbers game in which the numbers were just too damn big.

Pendergast screeched into an all-night service area at Yaphank, which looked just like the two dozen others they had already visited: glassed-in front, sickly green fluorescent lights beating back the bitter darkness. At some point, D’Agosta mused, they were going to get an attendant who had heard about the APB. And that would be it.

Yet again, Pendergast leaped out of the Camry like a cat. The man seemed to burn with a fierce, inextinguishable flame. They’d been at it more than twelve hours straight, and during all that time spent alternately searching and evading, he’d said few words not directly related to the game at hand. D’Agosta wondered how long the agent could keep it up.

Pendergast was into the little store and in the sleepy attendant’s face before the man could even rouse himself from his cozy chair behind the counter, where he’d apparently been watching a martial arts movie.

“Special Agent Pendergast, FBI,” he said in his usual cool voice, which somehow managed to convey menace without being offensive, as he passed his shield across the man’s field of view. At the same time, D’Agosta reached over and snapped off the television, creating a sudden, unnerving silence.

The man’s chair legs clunked down on the floor as he hastily righted himself. “FBI? Sure, yeah, right. What can I do for you?”

“When do you go on shift?” Pendergast asked.

“At midnight.”

“I want you to look at these.” He removed the prints he had collected at Kennedy, held one in front of the attendant. “Have you seen this man? He would have come in last night, sometime between one and three.”

The attendant took the photo, screwing up his face. D’Agosta watched carefully, relaxing slightly. Clearly, the guy knew nothing of the APB. He glanced out toward the dark highway. It was almost four in the morning. It was only a matter of time. They weren’t ever going to get a lead, this was needle-and-haystack stuff. The police would find them, and . . .

“Yeah,” the guy said. “I saw him.”

The air in the tiny store went electric.

“Look at this photo as well, please.” Pendergast passed the man a second image. “I want you to be sure.” He spoke quietly, but his body was tense as a coiled spring.

“That’s him again,” the man murmured. “I remember those funny eyes, kind of freaked me out.”

“Did you see this car?” Pendergast murmured, showing him a third image.

“Well, I can’t say I remember that. He did the self-serve, you know?”

Pendergast took back the photographs. “And your name is—?”

“Art Malek.”

“Mr. Malek, can you tell us if anyone was with him?”

“He came into the store alone. And like I said, I didn’t go out, so I really can’t say if there was anybody in the car. Sorry.”

“That’s all right.” Pendergast returned the photos to his jacket and drew still closer. “Now, tell me exactly what you remember from the time this man arrived to the time he left.”

“Well . . . it was last night, like you said, must have been close to three in the morning. There wasn’t anything unusual about it—he pulled up, filled the car himself, came in to pay.”

“Cash.”

“Right.”

“Did you notice anything else about him?”

“Not really. Had a funny accent, kind of like yours. No offense,” Malek added hastily. “In fact, he looked kind of like you.”

“What was he wearing?”

A labored effort to remember. “All I can remember is a dark overcoat. Long.”

“Did he do anything else but pay?”

“Seems to me he wandered about the aisles a bit. Didn’t buy anything, though.”

At this, Pendergast stiffened. “I assume you have security cameras in the back aisles?”

“Sure do.”

“I’d like to see the tapes from last night.”

The man hesitated. “The system recycles them on a thirty-hour loop, and it gets erased as—”

“Then please stop the security system now. I must see the tape.”

The man almost jumped to comply, hastening into a back office.

“Looks like we’ve finally got a lead,” said D’Agosta.

The pair of eyes Pendergast turned on him seemed almost dead. “On the contrary. Diogenes hoped we would find this place.”

“How do you know?”

Pendergast didn’t answer.

The man came huffing out of the back room with a videotape. Pendergast ejected the movie from the VCR and shoved in the security tape. A ceiling-level shot of the tiny store came into view, a time and date stamp in the bottom left corner. Pendergast punched the rewind button, stopped, rewound again. Within a minute, he’d located the 3 A.M. time stamp for January 28. Next, he cued it back another half hour to allow for a margin of error. Then they began watching the tape at accelerated speed.

The black-and-white picture quality was poor. The aisles of the convenience store glowed and flickered on the screen. Now and then a huddled shape raced through on fast-forward, like a pinball, bounced around grabbing things off shelves, then disappeared again.

Suddenly, Pendergast jabbed the play button, slowing it to a normal pace as yet another dark figure entered the screen. The figure strolled down the aisle, its eyes—differing shades of gray—seeking out and fixing on the security camera.

It was Diogenes. A smile spread over his face as he casually reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. He unfolded it and nonchalantly held it up to the camera.

BRAVO, FRATER! TOMORROW, CALL AT 466 AND ASK FOR VIOLA. THIS WILL BE OUR LAST COMMUNICATION. MAY OUR NEW LIVES BEGIN! VALEAS.

“Four six six?” said D’Agosta. “That’s not a legit emergency number . . .”

Then he stopped. It was not a telephone number, he realized, but an address. Four sixty-six First Avenue was the underground entrance at Bellevue that led to the New York City Morgue.

Pendergast rose, ejected the tape, and put it in his pocket.

“You can keep that,” said the attendant helpfully as they left.

Pendergast slipped behind the wheel, started the Camry, but did not move. His face was gray, his eyes half lidded.

There was a terrible silence. D’Agosta could think of nothing to say. He felt almost physically ill. This was even worse than at the Dakota—worse because, for the last twelve hours, they’d had hope. Slender, but hope nevertheless.

“I’ll check the police band,” he said stiffly. It was a pointless gesture, just something to keep himself busy. And even police chatter about the APB was preferable to the dreadful silence.

Pendergast didn’t respond as D’Agosta turned on the radio.

A burst of frantic, overlapping voices poured from the speaker.

Instinctively, D’Agosta glanced out the window. Had they been spotted? But the roads around the service area were deserted.

He leaned forward and changed the frequency. More frantic voices.

“What the hell?” D’Agosta punched the button, changed the frequency again and again. Almost half the available channels were taken up, and the talk wasn’t about them. Something big, it seemed, was going down in the city. As he listened, trying to figure out what it was, he became aware that Pendergast was listening, too, suddenly totally alert.

The talk on the current channel was about the Museum of Natural History, a theft of some kind. It seemed the Astor Hall of Diamonds had been hit.

“Go to the command-and-control channel,” Pendergast said.

D’Agosta dialed it in.

“Rocker wants you to sweat the techies,” a voice was saying. “This was an inside job, that much is clear.”

D’Agosta listened in disbelief. Rocker at four in the morning? This must be gigantic.

“They got ’em all? Including Lucifer’s Heart?”

“Yup. And see who knew the specs on the security system, get a list, move through it fast. Museum security, too.”

“Got that. Who’s the insurer?”

“Affiliated Transglobal.”

“Jeez, they’re going to shit bricks when they learn about this.”

D’Agosta, glancing at Pendergast, was shocked at the rapt expression on his face. Strange how, at this moment of ultimate crisis, he could become so fixated on something that had no bearing or the problem at hand.

“The museum’s president is on his way. And they’ve gotten the mayor out of bed. You know how he’ll crucify anybody who lets him get behind the curve on a major—”

“Someone knocked off the diamond hall,” said D’Agosta. “I guess that’s why we’ve been temporarily upstaged.”

Pendergast said nothing. D’Agosta was taken aback by the look on his face.

“Hey, Pendergast,” he said. “You okay?”

Pendergast turned his pale eyes toward him. “No,” he whispered.

“I don’t get it. What’s this got to do with anything? It’s a diamond heist—”

“Everything.” And then the FBI agent looked away, out into the winter darkness. “All these brutal killings, all these mocking notes and messages . . . nothing more than a smoke screen. A cruel, cold-blooded, sadistic smoke screen.”

He tore away from the curb and headed back into the neighborhood they had just passed through.

“Where are we going?”

Instead of answering, Pendergast jammed on the brakes, pulling up in front of a split-level house. He pointed to an F150 pickup parked in the driveway. For Sale was written on the windshield in soap.

“We need a new vehicle,” he said. “Get ready to move the radio and laptop into that truck.”

“Buy a car at four A.M.?”

“A stolen car is reported too quickly. We need more time.”

Pendergast got out of the car and strode up the short concrete walk. He rang the bell, rang it again. After a minute, the lights on the second floor came on. A window scraped open, and a voice shouted down: “What do you want?”

“The pickup—it’s operational?”

“Hell, pal, it’s four in the morning!”

“Will hard cash help get you out of bed?”

With a muttered curse, the window shut. A moment later, the porch light came on and a corpulent man in a bathrobe appeared at the door. “It’s three thousand. And it works good. Got a full tank of gas, too.”

Pendergast reached into his suit, removed a book of cash, peeled off thirty hundreds.

“What’s going on?” the man asked a little blearily.

Pendergast pulled out his badge. “I’m with the FBI.” He nodded at D’Agosta. “He’s NYPD.”

Balancing the radio and laptop under one arm, D’Agosta removed his shield.

“We’re working an undercover narcotics job. Be a good citizen and keep this to yourself, all right?”

“Sure thing.” The man accepted the cash.

“The keys?”

The man disappeared, came back a moment later with an envelope. “The title’s in there, too.”

Pendergast took the envelope. “An officer will be by shortly to take care of our previous vehicle. But don’t say anything about the car or about us, not even to another police officer. You know how it is with undercover cases.”

The man nodded vigorously. “Sure do. Hell, the only books I read are true crime.”

Pendergast thanked the man and turned away. A minute later, they were inside the truck, accelerating from the curb.

“That should buy us a few hours,” Pendergast said as he raced back in the direction of the Montauk Highway.

Fifty-five

DIOGENES PENDERGAST drove slowly, without hurry, through the bleak winter townscapes along the Old Stone Highway: Barnes Hole, Eastside, Springs. Ahead, a traffic light turned red, and he coasted to a stop at the intersection.

He eased his large head to the left, to the right. A wintry potato field stretched to one side, frozen and dusted with snow. At its edge stood a dark wood of bare trees, branches etched in white. The world was black and white and it had no depth: it was flat, like a nightmare confection of Edwin A. Abbott. Fie, fie how franticly I square my talk . . .

The light moved down, indicating it had turned green, and Diogenes slowly depressed the accelerator. The car nosed forward and swung right onto Springs Road as he turned the wheel, letting it slide through his hands as the car straightened out. He increased the pressure on the accelerator, easing off as the vehicle approached the speed limit. More gray potato fields passed on his right, beyond which stood several rows of gray houses, and beyond that, the Acabonack Marshes.

All gray, exquisite gray.

Diogenes reached to the dash and turned the heater vent several clicks to the right, increasing the flow of warmth into the glass, steel, and plastic compartment that enclosed his body. He felt neither triumph nor vindication, only a curious kind of emptiness: the sort that came with the achievement of a great thing, the completion of a long-planned work.

Diogenes lived in a world of gray. Color did not enter his world, except fleetingly, when he least expected it, coming in from the corner of his eye like a Zen koan. Koan. Ko. Koan ko. Ko ko rico, ko ko rico . . .

Long ago, his world had attenuated to shades of gray, a monochromatic universe of shape and shadow, where true color had vanished even from his waking dreams. No, not quite. Such a statement would be dissembling, melodrama. There was a final repository of color in his world, and it was there, in the leather satchel beside him.

The car moved down the empty road. No one was out.

He could tell, from a shifting of the monochromatic landscape around him, that night was relinquishing its hold on the world. Dawn was not far away. But Diogenes had little use for sunlight, just as he had little use for warmth or love or friendship or any of the countless things that nourished the rest of humanity.

As he drove, he played back, in meticulous detail, the events of the night before. He went over every last action, motion, statement, taking pleasure in satisfying himself that he had made no errors. At the same time, he thought of the days ahead, mentally ticking off the preparations he would have to make, the tasks he’d need to perform, the great journey he would make—and, aber natürlich, the journey’s end. He thought of Viola, of his brother, of his childhood, multithreaded multiplexing waking daydreams that seemed more real than the present. Unlike the other bags of meat and blood that made up his species, Diogenes mused, he could process several disparate trains of thought simultaneously in his head.

The Event which had robbed Diogenes of color had also stolen his ability to sleep. Full oblivion was denied him. Instead, he drifted, he lay on his bed in a world of waking dreams: memories of the past, conflagrations, conversations, conflations, certain animals poisoned and dying with exquisite restraint, racked bodies on splintered roods, a hair shirt fashioned from nerve ganglia, a mason jar of fresh blood—the disconnected images from his past played on the screen of his mind like a magic-lantern show. Diogenes never resisted them. Resistance would be futile, and futility itself was, of course, to be resisted. He let the scenes drift in and out as they would.

All this would change. The great wheel would come around, because he—after all—was about to break a butterfly upon a wheel. The thing that had preyed upon his mind would at long last be exorcised. His revenge on his brother was all but complete.

As he drove, Diogenes let his thoughts drift back almost thirty years. At first—after it had happened—he had lost himself in the inner maze of his mind, wandering as far from reality and sanity as it was possible to go, while even a small part of him remained prosaic, quotidian, able to interact with the outside world, whose true nature now—thanks to the Event—stood revealed to him.

But then—slowly, very slowly—insanity alone lost its power to shelter. It was no longer a comfort, even a bitter one. So he came back, but he was like a diver who had gone too deep, run out of air, and rushed to the surface only to be racked by the bends.

That was the worst moment of all.

And yet it was at this very moment, as he balanced on the cruel knife-edge of reality, that he comprehended there was a purpose waiting for him back in the real world. A double purpose: a reckoning and a reclamation. It would take decades of planning. It would be, in his own self-referential world, a work of art: the masterpiece of a lifetime.

Why then Ile fit you.

And so Diogenes did return to the world.

He knew now what kind of place it really was and what kind of creatures inhabited it. It was not a lovely world, no, not a lovely world at all. It was a world of pain and evil and cruelty, walked on by vile creatures of piss and excrement and bile. But his newfound purpose, the end toward which he had bent all his intellect, made such a world just bearable. He became a chameleon par excellence, hiding everything, everything, behind a fast-changing skin of disguise, prevarication, misdirection, irony, cool detachment.

At times, when his will threatened to crumble, he found that certain temporary pastimes were enough to divert him, to haul him up from the deeps. The emotion that sustained him some might call hatred, but for him it was the mead that nourished him, that gave him superhuman patience and a fanatic’s attention to detail. He found he could live not merely a double life or a triple life, but in fact could assume the very personalities and lives of half a dozen invented people, in several different countries, as the needs of his work of art required.

Some of the personalities he had assumed years, even decades before, as he laid the complex groundwork of his master plan.

Ahead, an intersection. Diogenes slowed, turned right.

Night was relinquishing its hold on the world, but Suffolk County still slept. It gave Diogenes comfort to know that his brother, Aloysius, was not one of those sunken in voluptuous or erotic stupefaction. Nor would Aloysius sleep well again: ever. Just now he would be growing fully conscious of the dimensions of what he, Diogenes, had done to him.

His plan had the power and functional perfection of a well-oiled bear trap. And now Aloysius was caught in its jaws, awaiting the arrival of the hunter and the merciful bullet to the brain. Only, Diogenes would show no such mercy.

His eyes strayed back to the satchel on the passenger seat. He had not opened it since filling it hours before. The transcendental moment, when he looked at—or rather into—the diamonds at leisure had almost arrived. The moment of freedom, of release, he had so long yearned for.

For only through the intense, brilliant, refracted light issued by a deeply colored diamond could Diogenes escape, if only for a moment, his black-and-white prison. Only then could he recapture that faintest and most sought-after of his memories—the essence of color. And of all the colors he most longed for, red was his overriding passion. Red in all its myriad manifestations.

Lucifer’s Heart. That was where he would begin and where he would end. The alpha and the omega of color.

Then there would be Viola to take care of.

The instruments had all been cleaned, polished, honed, and stropped to their sharpest edges. Viola would take some time. She was a grand cru wine that merited being taken up from the cellar, brought to room temperature, uncorked, and allowed to breathe—before being enjoyed, one exquisite sip after another, until nothing was left. She had to suffer—not for her sake, but for the marks it would leave on her body. And no one would be better able to interpret those marks than Aloysius. They would induce a suffering in him equal to, if not exceeding, the pain they caused the body’s owner.

Perhaps he would start with a re-creation, in the cottage’s damp stone basement, of the scene depicted in Judith and Holofernes. That had always been his favorite painting of Caravaggio’s. He’d stood in front of it for hours, at the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica in Rome, rapt in admiration: the lovely little furrow of determination on Judith’s brow as she did the knifework; the way she kept every part of her body, save her bare hands and arms, away from the messy work in progress; the bright strong cords of blood that slashed diagonally across the bedsheets. Yes, that would make a fine start. Perhaps he and Viola could even study the painting together, before he got to work. Judith and Holofernes. With the roles reversed, of course, and the addition of a pewter bleeding bowl so that none of the precious nectar would be lost . . .

Diogenes passed through the empty village of Gerard Park. Gardiners Bay appeared ahead of him, a dull cold sheet of zinc broken by the dark outlines of distant islands. The car eased right onto Gerard Drive, Acabonack Harbor on one side, the bay on his left. Less than a mile more now. As he drove, he smiled faintly.

“Vale, frater,” he murmured in Latin. “Vale.”

Viola had pulled the chair up to the barred window, and she watched the first streak of light creep over the black Atlantic—a smudge of dirty chalk—with a sense of surreal detachment. It was like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from, a dream as real and vivid as it was senseless. What scared her most of all was the realization of just how much trouble and expense Diogenes had gone to in creating this prison cell—riveted steel walls, floor, and ceiling, a steel door with a tumbler lock from a safe, not to mention the unbreakable windows, the special plumbing and wiring. It was as secure as a cell in the highest security prison—maybe more so.

Why? Was it really possible that, with dawn approaching, she had mere minutes to live?

Yet again, she forced this useless speculation from her mind.

She had long since concluded that escape was impossible. A great deal of thought had gone into constructing her prison, and her every effort to seek a way out had been anticipated and blocked. He had been gone all night—at least that’s what the utter silence seemed to tell her. From time to time, she had banged and screamed on the door, at one point striking a chair against it again and again until the chair had come apart in her hands. No one had come.

The smear of chalk took on a faintly bloody tinge: a lurid glow over the heaving Atlantic. A ferocious wind dotted the dark ocean with dim flecks of whitecaps. Wisps of frozen snow—or was it sand?—whipped along the ground.

Suddenly, she sat up, abruptly alert. She had heard the faint muffled sound of a door opening. She rushed to her own door, pressed an ear against it. The very faintest of sounds came from below: a footfall, the closing of a door.

He was back.

She felt a sudden surge of fear and glanced across the room toward the window. The limb of the sun was just now climbing above the gray Atlantic, and just as quickly rising into a black bar of storm cloud. He had made it a point to arrive just at dawn. In time for the execution.

Viola curled her lip. If he thought he was going to kill her without a struggle, he was sorely mistaken. She would fight him to the death . . .

She swallowed, realizing how foolish her bravado was, aimed against a man who would surely have a gun and know exactly how to use it.

She fought against a sudden, panicky hyperventilation. A strange set of conflicting feelings rose within her: on the one hand, an urgent, instinctive desire for survival at whatever the cost; on the other, an ingrained need to die—if death, in fact, was near—with dignity, not with screaming and struggling.

There were more sounds and, without thinking, she immediately lay down on the floor to listen at the tiny space between the door and the threshold. The sounds were still faint and muffled.

She rose and ran into the bathroom, tore the toilet paper from its receptacle, unraveled it with a fierce shake of her hand, and pulled the cardboard tube free. Then she ran back to the door frame, pressing one end of the tube to her ear and squeezing the other end up against the long crack of the jamb.

Now she could hear much better: the rustle of clothing, the setting down of several things, the sound of a latch being undone.

There was a sudden, sharp intake of breath. Next, a long, long silence. Five minutes passed.

Then came a strange and terrible sound: a low, agonized keening, almost like the warning moan of a cat. It rose and fell in singsong fashion before suddenly ascending in volume to become a shriek of pure, undistilled, absolute anguish. It was inhuman, it was the shriek of the living dead, it was the most horrifying sound she had ever heard—and it came from him.

Fifty-six

THE CAB PULLED UP in front of the Times Building. Smithback impatiently signed the credit card receipt—the fare was $425—paying with the card he’d picked up at his apartment. He handed the slip back to the cabbie, who took it with a frown.

“Where’s the tip?” the driver said.

“Are you kidding? I could’ve flown to Aruba for what I just paid you.”

“Look, pal, I got gas, insurance, expenses up the wazoo—”

Smithback slammed the door and ran into the building, sprinting for the elevator. He would just touch base with Davies, let his boss know he was back in town, make sure his job wasn’t on the line—and then head straight to the museum and Nora. It was quarter after nine: she hadn’t been at the apartment, and he assumed she’d already left for work.

He punched the button for the thirty-third floor and waited while the elevator rose with maddening slowness. At last, it arrived, and he exited the car and jogged down the hall, pausing outside Davies’s door just long enough to catch his breath and smooth down the unruly cowlick that always seemed to pop up at the worst possible time.

He took a deep breath, gave the door a polite rap.

“It’s open,” came the voice.

Smithback stepped forward into the doorway. Thank God: Harriman wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Davies glanced up from his desk. “Bill! They told me you were at St. Luke’s, practically at death’s door.”

“I made a quick recovery.”

Davies looked him over, his eyes veiled. “Glad to see you looking so fat and happy.” He paused. “I take it you’ll be providing us with a note from your doctor?”

“Of course, of course,” Smithback stammered. He assumed Pendergast could fix that, as he seemed able to fix everything else.

“You picked a convenient time to disappear.” Davies’s voice was laced with irony.

“I didn’t pick it. It picked me.”

“Have a seat.”

“Well, I was just on my way—”

“Oh, I beg your pardon—I didn’t realize you had a pressing engagement.”

On hearing the icy tone in the voice, Smithback decided to sit down. He was dying to see Nora, but it wouldn’t pay to piss off Davies any more than he already had.

“Bryce Harriman was able to take up the slack during your recent indisposition, both on the Duchamp killing and that other one up at the museum, since the police are now saying they’re linked—”

Smithback sat forward in the chair. “Excuse me. Did you say a murder up at the museum? What museum?”

“You really have been out of it. The New York Museum of Natural History. A curator was murdered there three days ago—”

“Who?”

“Nobody I’d heard of. Don’t worry about it, you’re long off that story—Harriman’s taken it over.” He snapped up a manila envelope. “Here’s what I’ve got for you, instead. It’s a big story, and I’ll be frank with you, Bill: I feel a certain trepidation entrusting it to someone in shaky health. I’d have considered passing it on to Harriman, too, only he’s got a lot on his plate as it is and he was already in the field when the news broke twenty minutes ago. There was a big robbery at the museum last night. Seems it’s a busy place these days. You’re the one with contacts there, you wrote that book on the place—so it’s your story, despite my feelings of concern.”

“But who—?”

He shoved the envelope at Smithback. “Somebody cleaned out the diamond hall last night while a big function was under way. There’s going to be a press conference at ten. Your credentials are in there.” He glanced at his watch. “That’s half an hour, you better get moving.”

“About the killing at the museum,” Smithback said again. “Who was it?”

“Like I said, nobody important. A new hire named Green. Margo Green.”

“What?” Smithback found himself gripping the seat, reeling. It was impossible. Impossible.

Davies gazed at Smithback with alarm. “Are you all right?”

Smithback rose on shaking legs. “Margo Green . . . murdered?”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes.” Smithback barely got the word out.

“Well, better that you’re not handling the story, then,” said Davies briskly. “Reporting on a subject too close to you, my old editor used to say, is like trying to be your own lawyer: you’ve got a fool for a lawyer and a fool for a—hey! Where’re you going?”

Fifty-seven

AS NORA TURNED the corner from Columbus Avenue onto West 77th Street, she immediately realized something big had happened at the museum. Museum Drive was packed with police vehicles, unmarked cars, and scene-of-crime vans, these in turn surrounded by television vans and a seething crowd of reporters.

She checked her watch—it was quarter to ten, usually a time when the museum was still waking up. Her heart quickened: had there been another killing?

She walked briskly down the service drive to the employee entrance. The police had already cleared a path for arriving museum employees and were pushing back an increasingly unruly crowd of rubberneckers. Apparently, whatever happened had already been reported on the morning news, as the crowds were swelling even as she watched. But because of the opening the night before, she’d overslept and hadn’t had time to listen to the radio.

“Museum employee?” one cop asked.

She nodded, pulling out her badge. “What’s going on?”

“Museum’s closed. Go over there.”

“But what—?”

The cop was already shouting at someone else, and she found herself propelled toward the security entrance, which seemed to be mobbed with museum security. Manetti, the security director, was there, gesturing frantically at a pair of hapless guards.

“All arriving staff to the roped area on the right!” one of the guards shouted. “Have your badges ready!”

Nora saw George Ashton in the milling crowd of arriving employees and grabbed his arm. “What’s happened?”

He stared at her. “You must be the only one in the city who doesn’t know.”

“I overslept,” she said testily.

“This way!” a policeman bawled. “Museum employees this way!”

The velvet ropes that had blocked off the gawkers and press from the gala the night before were now being put to a second use, this time to funnel museum staff to a holding area near the security entrance, where guards were checking IDs and calming irate employees.

“Someone hit the Astor Hall last night,” said Ashton breathlessly. “Cleaned it out. Right in the middle of the party.”

“Cleaned it out? Even Lucifer’s Heart?”

“Especially Lucifer’s Heart.”

“How?”

“Nobody knows.”

“I thought the Astor Hall was impregnable.”

“So they said.”

“Move back and stay to the right!” a cop yelled. “We’ll have you inside in a moment!”

Ashton grimaced. “Just what I need the morning after five glasses of champagne.”

More like ten, Nora thought wryly as she recalled Ashton’s slurred ramblings of the previous evening.

Police and museum guards were checking IDs, questioning each employee, then moving them to a second penned area just before the security entrance.

“Any suspects?” Nora asked.

“None. Except that they’re convinced the burglars had inside help.”

“IDs!” a cop bawled in her ear.

She fished in her purse again and showed her ID. Ashton did the same.

“Dr. Kelly?” The cop had a clipboard. Another pulled Ashton aside.

“May I ask a few quick questions?”

“Fire away,” Nora said.

“Were you at the museum last night?”

“Yes.”

He marked something down.

“What time did you leave?”

“About midnight.”

“That’s all. Step over there and, as soon as we can, we’ll open the museum and you can go to work. We’ll be in touch with you later to schedule an interview.”

Nora was shunted to the second holding area. She could hear Ashton’s raised voice behind her, demanding to know why he hadn’t been read his rights. The curators and staff waiting around her beat their hands in the cold, their breath filling the air. It was a gray day and the temperature hovered just below freezing. Voices were raised in complaint all around.

Nora heard a commotion from the street and looked. The press had suddenly surged forward, cameras juggling on shoulders, boom mikes swinging. Then she saw the reason: the museum doors had swung open. The museum’s director, Frederick Watson Collopy, appeared, flanked by Rocker, the police commissioner. A phalanx of uniformed policemen stood behind them.

Immediately, the press erupted in a clamor of shouted questions and waved hands. It was the start, it seemed, of a press conference.

At that same moment, she saw a frantic movement off to one side. She turned toward it. It was her husband, fighting through the crowd, shouting frantically and trying to reach her.

“Bill!” She rushed forward.

“Nora!” Smithback plowed through a milling crowd of hangers-on, sent a beefy museum security guard sprawling, hopped the velvet ropes, and muscled his way through the museum employees. “Nora!”

“Hey, where’s that guy going?” A policeman struggled to intercept him.

Smithback cut through the last of the crowd and almost ran into Nora, enveloping her in a bear hug and lifting her bodily off the ground.

“Nora! God, did I miss you!”

They hugged, kissed, hugged again.

“Bill, what happened to you? What’s that bruise on the side of your head?”

“Never mind about that,” Smithback replied. “I just heard about Margo. Was she really killed?”

Nora nodded. “I went to her funeral yesterday.”

“Oh my God. I can’t believe it’s true.” He wiped savagely at his face, and Nora saw that his eyes were leaking tears. “I can’t believe it.”

“Where were you, Bill? I was so worried!”

“It’s a long story. I was locked in an insane asylum.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. I’ve been worried about you, too. Pendergast thinks there’s a maniac killer wandering around, knocking off all his friends.”

“I know. He warned me. But it was right before the opening—there was nothing I could—”

“This man’s not supposed to be here,” a museum guard interrupted, stepping between them. “This is for museum employees only—”

Smithback swung around to respond, but they were interrupted by the shriek of feedback on an improvised P.A. system. A moment later, Commissioner Rocker stepped up to the mike and asked for silence—and, miraculously, got it.

“I’m with the Times,” said Smithback, scrounging some paper out of his pocket and fumbling for a pen.

“Here, use mine,” Nora said, her arm still around his waist.

The crowd was silent as the police commissioner began to speak.

“Last night,” Rocker began, “the Astor Hall of Diamonds was burglarized. At this point, the scene-of-crime teams are still on the site, along with some of the best forensic experts in the world. Everything that can be done is being done. It’s too early for leads or suspects, but I promise you, as new developments arise, we will keep the press informed. I’m sorry I can’t give you more, but it’s still very early in the investigation. I will say this: it was an extremely professional job, obviously planned long in advance, by technologically sophisticated thieves who appear to have been intimately familiar with the museum’s security system, and who used the distraction of last night’s opening gala to their advantage. It will take a while to analyze and understand how they penetrated the museum’s security. That’s about all I have to say for the present. Dr. Collopy?”

The museum’s director stepped forward, standing straight, trying to put the best face on things—and failing. When he spoke, a tremor underlay his words.

“I want to reiterate what Commissioner Rocker just said: all that can possibly be done is being done. The truth is, most of the diamonds stolen are unique and would be instantly recognizable to any gem dealer in the world. They cannot be fenced in their present form.”

A murmur of unease went up at the implication they might be recut.

“My fellow New Yorkers, I know what a great loss this is to the museum and to the city. Unfortunately, we just don’t know enough yet to be able to say who might have done it, or why, or what their intentions are.”

“What about Lucifer’s Heart?” someone shouted from among the press.

Collopy seemed to stagger. “We’re doing all we can, I promise you.”

“Was Lucifer’s Heart stolen?” another shouted.

“I’d like to turn the floor over to the museum’s public affairs director, Carla Rocco—”

A barrage of shouted questions followed and a woman stepped forward, holding up her hands. “I’ll take the questions when there’s silence,” she said.

The clamor subsided and she pointed. “Ms. Lilienthal of ABC, your question?”

“What about Lucifer’s Heart? Is it gone?”

“Yes, it was among the diamonds taken.”

A turbulent murmur followed this unsurprising revelation. Rocco held up her hands again. “Please!”

“The museum claimed their security was the best in the world!” a reporter shouted. “How did the thieves get through?”

“We’re analyzing it as we speak. Security is multilayered and redundant. The hall was under constant video surveillance. The thieves left behind a mass of technical equipment.”

“What kind of technical equipment?”

“It’ll take days, maybe weeks, to analyze.”

More shouted questions. Rocco pointed to another reporter. “Roger?”

“How much is the collection insured for?”

“One hundred million dollars.”

A murmur of awe.

“What’s it actually worth?” the reporter named Roger persisted.

“The museum never put a value on it. Next question to Mr. Werth from NBC.”

“What’s Lucifer’s Heart worth?”

“Again, you can’t put a value on it. But let me please emphasize that we expect to recover the gems, one way or another.”

Collopy stepped forward abruptly. “The museum’s collection consists mostly of ‘fancy’ diamonds—that is, colored ones—and most are unusual enough to be recognizable from color and grade alone. That’s especially true of a diamond like Lucifer’s Heart. There’s no other diamond in the world with its deep cinnamon color.”

Nora watched as Smithback stepped over the velvet cord and into the group of press, waving his hand.

Rocco pointed to him, squinted. “Smithback, from the Times?”

“Isn’t Lucifer’s Heart considered the finest diamond in the world?”

“The finest fancy diamond, yes. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

“So how are you going to explain this to the people of New York? How are you going to explain the loss of this unique gemstone?” His voice was suddenly shaking with emotion. It seemed to Nora that all the anger Smithback felt at Margo’s death, and at his enforced separation from her, was being channeled into his question. “How could the museum have allowed this to happen!”

“No one allowed this to happen,” said Rocco defensively. “The security in the Astor Hall is the most sophisticated in the world.”

“Apparently, not sophisticated enough.”

More chaos and shouting erupted. Rocco waved her hands. “Please! Let me speak!”

The roar died to an uneasy rumble.

“The museum deeply regrets the loss of Lucifer’s Heart. We understand its importance to the city and, indeed, to the country. We’re doing all we can to recover it. Please be patient and give the police time to do their work. Ms. Carlson of the Post?”

“This is for Dr. Collopy. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you were holding that diamond in trust for the people of New York, to whom it really belongs. How do you, personally, as the head of the museum, intend to bear responsibility for this?”

The rumble was rising again. But it suddenly died away as Collopy held up his hands. “The fact is,” he said, “any security system devised by man can be defeated by man.”

“That’s a rather fatalistic view,” Carlson continued. “In other words, you’re admitting the museum can’t ever guarantee the security of its collections.”

“We certainly do guarantee the security of our collections,” Collopy thundered.

“Next question!” Rocco called. But the reporters had latched onto something and weren’t going to let go.

“Can you explain what you mean by ‘guarantee’? The greatest diamond in the world has just been stolen and you tell us its security was guaranteed?”

“I can explain.” Collopy’s face swelled with anger.

“There’s a bit of cognitive dissonance floating around here!” Smithback shouted.

“I make that statement because Lucifer’s Heart was not among the diamonds stolen!” Collopy cried.

There was an astonished silence. Rocco turned and looked at Collopy in amazement, as did Rocker himself.

“Excuse me, sir,” Rocco began.

“Silence! I’m the only person in the museum privy to this information, but under the circumstances I don’t see any point in keeping the information back any longer. The stone on display was a replica, a real diamond artificially colored by radiation treatments. The true Lucifer’s Heart has always been safely locked in a vault at the museum’s insurance company. The gem was too valuable to put on display—our insurance company wouldn’t allow it.”

He raised his head, a glitter of triumph in his eyes. “The thieves, whoever they are, stole a fake.”

A roar of questions followed. But Collopy simply mopped his brow and retreated.

“This press conference is over!” shouted Rocco, to no effect. “No more questions!”

But it was clear, from the frantic hands and the shouts, that it was not over, and that there were many, many more questions to come.

Fifty-eight

HOURS PASSED AS THEY drove through one deserted beach town after another. Dawn had swelled into a dismal day, bitterly cold, with a knife-edged wind whipping out of a pewter sky. D’Agosta was still listening, moodily, to the police radio. He was growing increasingly concerned: the police chatter concerning them had abruptly dropped off—not just because of the gem heist, although that filled most of the channels, but because they’d probably switched to more secure channels that couldn’t be monitored from their portable police-band radio.

It was becoming obvious to him they had reached the end of the line. Hitting more convenience stores was hopeless—with a full tank of gas, Diogenes would have no further reason to stop. Their previous score in Yaphank had only confirmed what Diogenes wanted them to know—that he had gone east and that Viola would shortly be dead. Beyond that, nothing. D’Agosta felt sick for Pendergast: it was hopeless, and he knew it.

Still, they soldiered on, stopping at motels, marts, all-night diners, each time exposing themselves to the possibility of being spotted and arrested.

What few scraps D’Agosta had managed to glean from the radio had been disheartening. Bolstered by a new and strong federal presence, the police were rapidly closing in. New roadblocks had been erected, and local authorities were on full alert. Inevitably, they’d learn about the purchase of the pickup truck. Unless Pendergast had something truly clever up his sleeve, their free-range hours were numbered.

The pickup swerved abruptly and D’Agosta clutched the roof handle as Pendergast screeched into a small parking lot, coming to a halt in front of a twenty-four-hour Starbucks. Beyond lay a public parking lot and, beyond that, the gray, rolling Atlantic.

They sat for a moment while the police radio, still tuned to the museum theft, droned on. Some kind of press conference was in session, being broadcast over one of the public channels.

“No way they stopped here,” said D’Agosta.

“What I’m after is a wireless hot spot.” Pendergast opened the laptop, booted it up. “No doubt there’s one inside. I’ll use a sniffer to find an open port, tap into the Net that way. I left my pattern-recognition software running at the Dakota. Perhaps it has something more to tell us.”

D’Agosta watched morosely as Pendergast tapped on the keyboard. “Would you be so kind as to order us some coffee, Vincent?” he asked without looking up.

D’Agosta got out of the truck and entered the Starbucks. When he returned a few minutes later with a couple of lattes, Pendergast had moved into the passenger seat and was no longer typing.

“Anything?”

Pendergast shook his head. Slowly, he sat back, closed his eyes.

D’Agosta eased himself into the driver’s seat with a sigh. As he did so, he noticed a police cruiser turning into the parking lot. It slowed as it passed them, then halted at the far end of the lot.

“Shit. That cop’s running our plates.”

Pendergast didn’t respond. He sat motionless, eyes closed.

“That’s it. We’re screwed.”

Now the cruiser eased into a three-point turn at the end of the lot and headed back toward them.

Pendergast opened his eyes. “I’ll hold the drinks. See what you can do about getting him off our tail.”

Instantly, D’Agosta slammed the truck into drive and peeled out, fishtailing past the cruiser and onto the road paralleling the boardwalk. The cruiser snapped on its lights and siren, accelerating behind them.

They tore along the dune road. Moments later, D’Agosta heard another siren, this one coming from somewhere ahead.

“The beach,” said Pendergast, gingerly balancing the lattes.

“Right.” D’Agosta shifted into 4WD, spun the wheel, and bashed through the railing onto the boardwalk. The truck rumbled across the uneven wooden planks, hit the railing on the far side, and was briefly airborne as it made the two-foot drop to the sand.

In a moment, they were racing along the beach, just beyond the surf. D’Agosta glanced back to see the squad cars in the sand, still following.

They were going to have to do better.

He accelerated further, tires spinning up jets of damp sand. Ahead, he could see an area of dunes, one of the many preserves along the South Shore. He swerved into it, broke down another wooden fence, and hit the scrubby dunes at forty. It was clearly a large preserve, and he had no idea where he was going, so he angled the truck into the roughest-looking section, where the brush was heaviest and the dunes highest, covered with a scattering of scrubby pines. No way the cruisers could follow them in here.

Suddenly, Pendergast sat up, like the snapping of a steel spring.

D’Agosta bashed through some more heavy brush, then glanced into the rearview mirror. Nothing. The cruisers had been stopped, but D’Agosta knew their respite was only temporary. All the police stations along the South Shore had beach patrol buggies—he knew, he used to drive one, in another life just a few months back. They were still in deep shit and he’d have to find some other way to—

“Stop the truck!” Pendergast said abruptly.

“No way, I’ve got to—”

“Stop!”

Something in the tone caused D’Agosta to jam on the brakes. They swerved wildly, stopping beneath the shadow of an overhanging dune. He killed the lights and the engine at the same time. This was crazy. They’d left a set of tracks any idiot could follow.

The radio was still on the press conference, and Pendergast was listening intently.

“. . . always been safely locked in a vault at the museum’s insurance company. The gem was too valuable to put on display—our insurance company wouldn’t allow it.”

Pendergast turned to D’Agosta, a look of astonishment and sudden, fierce hope lighting up his face.

“That’s it!”

“What?”

“Diogenes finally made a mistake. This is the opening we need.” He had his cell phone out.

“I wish to hell I knew what you were talking about.”

“I’m going to make some calls. As of now, you have but one vital task, Vincent: get us back to Manhattan.”

The faint sound of a siren came up from behind the screen of dunes.

Fifty-nine

SMITHBACK SLOWLY SHUT his cell phone, stunned by the bizarre call he had just received. He found Nora looking at him curiously. They had finally opened the museum’s staff entrance and employees were streaming past them, rushing to gain the warmth of indoors.

“What is it, Bill?” she asked. “Who was that?”

“Special Agent Pendergast. He managed to track me down on this loaner cell phone I picked up at the Times.”

“What’d he want?”

“I’m sorry?” He felt dazed.

“I said, what did he want? You look shell-shocked.”

“I’ve just had a most, um, extraordinary proposal put to me.”

“Proposal? What are you talking about?”

Smithback roused himself and grasped Nora’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you about it later. Look, are you going to be okay here? I’m worried about your safety, with Margo dead and all these warnings of Pendergast’s.”

“The safest place in New York City is inside that museum right now. There must be a thousand cops in there.”

Smithback nodded slowly, thinking. “True.”

“Listen, I do have to go to work.”

“I’m coming in with you. I’ve got to talk to Dr. Collopy.”

“Collopy? Good luck.”

Smithback could already see a large, angry crowd of reporters being kept from the museum by a string of policemen and guards. No one was getting in but employees. And Smithback was well known—all too well known—to the guards.

He felt Nora put an arm around his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ve got to get inside.”

Nora frowned. “Does this have to do with that call of Pendergast’s?”

“It sure does.” He looked into her green eyes, his gaze wandering over her copper hair and freckled nose. “You know what I’d really like to do . . .”

“Don’t tempt me. I have a ton of work to do. Today’s the public opening of the exhibition—assuming we ever open again.”

Smithback gave her a kiss and a hug. He started to break away but found that Nora wouldn’t release him.

“Bill,” she murmured in his ear, “thank God you’re back.”

They held each other a few moments more, then Nora slowly let her arms fall away. She smiled, winked, then turned and walked into the museum.

Smithback watched her disappearing form. Then he shouldered his way into the crowd of employees lined up outside the door, bypassing the thicket of reporters who had been shunted off to one side. All the employees had their IDs out, and the crowd was thick. Police and museum guards were checking everybody’s identification: it was going to be a bitch getting in. Smithback thought a moment, then pulled out his business card and scribbled a short note on the back.

When his turn came to pass through the security barrier, a guard barred his way. “ID?”

“I’m Smithback of the Times.”

“You’re in the wrong place, pal. Press is over there.”

“Listen to me. I have a very urgent and private message for Dr. Collopy. It must be delivered to him immediately, or heads will roll. I’m not kidding. Yours, too”—Smithback glanced at the guard’s nameplate—“Mr. Primus, if you don’t deliver it.”

The guard wavered, a look of fear in his eyes. The museum administration had not made life easy in recent years for those on the bottom, fostering a climate of fear more than family. Smithback had used this fact before, to good effect, and he hoped it would work again.

“What’s it about?” the guard named Primus asked.

“The diamond theft. I have private information.”

The guard seemed to waver. “I don’t know . . .”

“I’m not asking you to let me in. I’m asking you to deliver this note directly to the director. Not to his secretary, not to anyone else—just to him. Look, I’m not some schmuck, okay? Here are my credentials.”

The guard took the press pass, looking at it doubtfully.

Smithback pressed the message into his hand. “Don’t read it. Put it in an envelope and deliver it personally. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.”

The guard hesitated a moment. Then he took the card and retreated to the security office, reappearing a few moments later with an envelope. “I sealed it in here, never looked at it.”

“Good man.” Smithback scribbled on the envelope: “For Dr. Collopy, extremely important, to be opened immediately. From William Smithback Jr. of the New York Times.”

The guard nodded. “I’ll see it’s delivered.”

Smithback leaned forward. “You don’t understand. I want you to deliver it personally.” He glanced around. “I don’t trust any of these other bozos.”

The guard flushed, nodded. “All right.” Envelope in hand, he disappeared down the hall.

Smithback waited, cell phone in hand. Five minutes passed. Ten.

Fifteen.

Smithback paced in frustration. This was not looking good.

Then his phone gave a shrill ring. He opened it quickly.

“This is Collopy,” came the patrician voice. “Is this Smithback?”

“Yes, it is.”

“One of the guards will escort you to my office immediately.”

A scene of controlled chaos greeted Smithback as he approached the grand, carved oaken doors of the director’s office. Outside was a confabulation of New York City police, detectives, and museum officials. The door was shut, but as soon as Smithback’s escort announced him, he was shown inside.

Collopy stood pacing before a great row of curved windows, hands clasped behind his back. Beyond the windows lay the wintry fastness of Central Park. Smithback recognized the security director, Manetti, along with several other museum officials standing before Collopy’s desk.

The museum director noticed him, stopped pacing. “Mr. Smithback?”

“That’s me.”

Collopy turned to Manetti and the other officials. “Five minutes.”

He watched them leave, then turned to Smithback. He was gripping the card in one hand, his face slightly flushed. “Who’s behind this outrageous rumor, Mr. Smithback?”

Smithback swallowed. He had to make this sound good. “It’s not exactly a rumor, sir. It came from a confidential source which I can’t reveal. But I made a few calls, checked it out. It seems there might be something to it.”

“This is intolerable. I’ve got enough to worry about without this. It’s just some crank speculation, best ignored.”

“I’m not sure that would be wise.”

“Why? You’re not going to publish unsubstantiated calumnies like this in the Times, are you? My assertion that the diamond is safe at our insurance company ought to be enough.”

“It’s true the Times doesn’t publish rumors. But as I said, I’ve got a reliable source that claims it’s true. I can’t ignore that.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Let me pose a question to you,” Smithback said, keeping his voice the soul of reasonableness. “When was the last time you personally saw Lucifer’s Heart?”

Collopy shot him a glance. “It would have been four years ago, when we renewed the policy.”

“Did a certified gemologist examine it at the time?”

“No. Why, it’s an unmistakable gemstone . . .” Collopy’s voice trailed off as he realized the weakness of his remark.

“How do you know it was the genuine article, Dr. Collopy?”

“I made a perfectly reasonable assumption.”

“That’s the crux of it, isn’t it, Dr. Collopy? The truth is,” Smithback continued gently, “you don’t know for a fact that Lucifer’s Heart is still in the insurance company vault. Or, if a gemstone is there, whether it’s the real one.”

“This is an absurd spinning of a conspiracy theory!” The director set off pacing again, hands balled up behind his back. “I don’t have time for this!”

“You wouldn’t want to let a story like this get out of control. You know how these things tend to assume a life of their own. And I do have to file my article by this evening.”

“Your article? What article?”

“About the allegations.”

“You publish that and my lawyers will eat you for breakfast!”

“Take on the Times? I don’t think so.” Smithback spoke mildly and waited, giving Collopy plenty of time to think things out to the inevitable, preordained conclusion.

“Damn it!” Collopy said, spinning on his heel. “I suppose we’ll just have to bring it out and have it certified.”

“An interesting suggestion,” said Smithback.

Collopy paced. “It’ll need to be done publicly, but under tight security, of course. We can’t just invite every Tom, Dick, and Harry in to watch.”

“May I suggest that all you really need is the Times? The others will follow our lead. They always do. We’re the paper of record.”

Another turn. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Another pace across the room, another turn. “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to get a gemologist to certify that the stone held by our insurance company is, in fact, Lucifer’s Heart. We’ll do it right there, at Affiliated Transglobal Insurance headquarters, under the tightest security. You’ll be the only journalist there and, damn it, you’d better write an article that will scotch those rumors once and for all.”

“If it’s genuine.”

“It’ll be genuine or the museum will end up owning Affiliated Transglobal Insurance, so help me God.”

“What about the gemologist? He’d have to be independent, for credibility.”

Collopy paused. “It’s true we can’t use one of our own curators.”

“And his reputation will obviously need to be unimpeachable.”

“I’ll contact the American Council of Gemologists. They could send one of their experts.” Collopy walked to the desk, picked up the phone, and made several calls in rapid succession. Then he turned back to Smithback.

“It’s all arranged. We’ll meet at the Affiliated Transglobal headquarters, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, forty-second floor, at one o’clock precisely.”

“And the gemologist?”

“A fellow named George Kaplan. Said to be one of the best.” He glanced at Smithback. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot to do. See you at one.” He hesitated. “And thank you for your discretion.”

“Thank you, Dr. Collopy.”

Sixty

D’AGOSTA LISTENED to the sirens coming across the dunes. They grew louder, receded, then grew louder again. From his days with the Southampton P.D., he recognized the tinny sound as coming from the cheap units mounted on the dune patrol buggies.

They’d sat here in the shadow of a sand dune, hiding, assessing the situation, at least five minutes. If he remained on the beach, there was no way their truck was going to escape dune buggies. And yet if he went back on the street, he’d be nabbed immediately, now that they knew his approximate location, vehicle, and license plate.

They were now near Southampton, D’Agosta’s old stomping ground, and he knew the lay of the land, at least in general terms. There had to be a way out. He would just have to find it.

He started the truck, popped the emergency brake.

“Hold on to your seat,” he said.

Pendergast, who had apparently finished making a string of cell phone calls, glanced over. “I am in your hands.”

D’Agosta took a deep breath. Then he gunned the engine, the pickup digging out of the hollow and climbing the side of a dune, shooting huge jets of sand behind them. They plunged into another depression, wound around several dunes, then climbed diagonally up the flank of an especially large one that separated them from the mainland. As they topped it, D’Agosta got a backward glimpse of several patrol buggies scooting along the hard sand a quarter mile back, with at least two others in the dunes themselves, no doubt following their tracks.

Shit. They were closer than he’d expected.

D’Agosta jammed the pedal to the floor as the pickup topped the dune. For a moment, they were airborne. Then they landed on the far side, bottoming out in the loose sand, churning and grinding their way through a patch of dense brush. The preserve ended, and the path ahead was blocked by several grand Hampton estates. As he fought with the wheel, D’Agosta quickly arranged the local topography in his head. If they could just get past the estates, he knew, Scuttlehole marsh lay beyond.

The dunes leveled out and he bashed the truck through a slat fence, emerging onto a narrow road. On the far side was a high boxwood hedge, surrounding one of the great estates. He tore alongside the hedge, and where the road curved up ahead, he saw what he was looking for—a sclerotic patch in the foliage—and he veered off, aiming directly for it. The pickup truck hit it at forty, bashed through the hedge, tearing off both mirrors in the process, and then they were accelerating across a ten-acre lawn, a huge Georgian mansion on the left, a gazebo and covered pool on the right, the way beyond blocked by an Italian rose garden.

He flashed past the pool at speed, ripped through the rose garden, nicked the arm off a sculpture of some naked woman, and crashed through a raised vegetable bed that lay beyond. Up ahead, like a green wall, stood another unbroken line of hedge.

Pendergast looked back through the rear window of the pickup truck, a pained expression on his face. “Vincent, you’re cutting quite a swath,” he said.

“They can add nude statue molestation to my growing list of crimes. For now, though, you’d better brace yourself.” And he accelerated toward the hedge.

They hit it with a shuddering crash that nearly stopped the vehicle dead. The engine coughed and sputtered, and for a moment D’Agosta feared it would die. But they fought their way out the far side of the hedge, still running. Across another narrow road, he could see a split-rail fence and, beyond that, the marshes surrounding Scuttlehole Pond.

For the past couple of weeks it had been cold—very cold. Now D’Agosta was going to find out if it had been cold enough.

He tore along the road until he found a break in the fence, then pointed the truck through it and went off-road again. He was forced to slow down as he wound through the sparse jack-pine forest that surrounded the marsh. He could still hear the sirens coming faintly from behind. If he had gained ground cutting through the estate, it was precious little.

The stunted pines gradually gave way to marsh grass and sandy flats. Ahead, he could see the dead stalks of cattail and yellow marsh grass. The pond itself seemed lost in the gray light.

“Vincent?” Pendergast said calmly. “You’re aware there’s a body of water ahead?”

“I know.”

The pickup accelerated over the frozen verge of the marsh, the wheels sending shards of crackling ice skittering away on either side like a wake. The speedometer edged back up to thirty, then thirty-five, then forty. For what he was about to do, he was going to need all the speed he could get.

With a final slapping sound, the cattails scattering in their wake, the pickup truck was on the ice.

Pendergast gripped the door handle, the lattes forgotten. “Vincent—?”

The truck was moving fast across the ice, breaking it as they went with a machine-gun chatter. D’Agosta could see in his rearview mirror that the ice was cracking and shattering behind them, some pieces even flung up and skittering away, black water slopping up. The sound of fracturing ice boomed across the lake like the reports of cannon.

“The idea is they won’t be able to follow us,” said D’Agosta through clenched teeth.

Pendergast didn’t answer.

The far shore, lined with stately homes, steadily approached. The truck felt almost like it was floating now, rising up and down like a powerboat on the continuously breaking crust of ice.

D’Agosta could feel he was losing momentum. He applied just a little more gas, being careful to ease down slowly on the accelerator. The truck roared, wheels spinning, the crackle and snap of ice growing louder.

Two hundred yards. He gave it more gas, but it just spun the wheels faster.

The amount of power being transferred from the wheels to the slick surface was steadily decreasing. The truck jerked, bounced, slowed, and began to slew sideways as the craquelure of failing ice spread out from them in all directions.

This is no time for half measures. D’Agosta jammed the pedal to the floor once again as he spun the wheel. The engine screamed, the truck accelerating, but not quite enough to stay ahead of the horrible disintegration of ice.

One hundred yards.

The engine was now screaming like a turbine, the truck still yawing sideways, moving now on inertia alone.

The far shore was close, but the truck was slowing with every passing second. Pendergast had scooped up the laptop and police radio under his arm, and seemed to be preparing to open his door.

“Not yet!” D’Agosta gave the wheel a sharp check, just enough to straighten out the truck. The nose, the heavier part, was still up, and as long as it stayed that way . . .

With a horrible sinking sensation, the front of the truck began to settle. There was a moment of breathless suspension. And then it nosed down sharply and slammed into the forward edge of ice, stopping the truck cold.

D’Agosta flung open the door and launched himself into the freezing water, clutching at the breaking edge of ice, gripping it, hauling himself up onto a jagged floe. He scrambled away crablike onto solid ice as the bed of the pickup truck swung upward vertically, the back wheels still spinning off watery slush—and then as he watched, the truck plunged straight down with a rush of forced air, slopping him with a wave of icy water, cakes of broken ice dancing and churning in its wake.

After the truck had vanished, there, on the far side of the gaping hole, stood Pendergast, standing on the ice as if he’d merely stepped out of the truck, computer and radio tucked under one arm, black coat dry and unruffled.

D’Agosta rose unsteadily to his feet on the groaning ice. They were a mere dozen yards from shore. He glanced back but the dune buggies had not yet appeared on the shore of the pond.

“Let’s go.”

In a moment, they reached the shore and hid themselves behind a raised dock. The buggies were just arriving, their yellow headlights piercing the bitter gray air. The story that met their eyes was evident enough: a long, broken path of heaving ice that led most of the way across the lake to a gaping hole, littered with broken chunks of ice. A slick of gasoline was slowly rising and spreading in rainbow patterns.

Pendergast peered across the lake from between the slats of the dock. “That, Vincent, was a most ingenious maneuver.”

“Thanks,” D’Agosta said through chattering teeth.

“It will take them a while to determine that we’re still alive. Meanwhile, shall we see what the neighborhood has to offer in the way of transportation?”

D’Agosta nodded. He had never been so cold in his life. His hair and clothes were freezing, and his hands burned with the cold.

They crept up along the hedges of one of the great houses—all summer “cottages,” currently shut up for the winter. The driveway was empty, and they moved around the side of the house and looked in the garage window.

There sat a vintage Jaguar on blocks, the wheels stacked in the gloom of one corner.

“That should do,” Pendergast murmured.

“Garage’s alarmed,” D’Agosta managed to say.

“Naturally.” Pendergast glanced around, found a wire tucked behind a drainpipe, followed it to the garage door, and in a few minutes had found the alarm plate coupling.

“Very crude,” he said, jamming a stray nail behind the plate and prying it loose, being careful not to cut the connection. Then he picked the lock on the garage door, raised it a foot, and they slid underneath.

The garage was heated.

“Warm yourself, Vincent, while I get to work.”

“How in hell did you avoid going in the water?” D’Agosta said, standing directly on top of the heating vent.

“Perhaps my timing was better.” Taking off his coat and jacket and rolling up his crisp white sleeves, Pendergast set the four tires in place, jacked up one end of the car, slipped the tire on and bolted it, then followed the same procedure for the other three wheels.

“Feeling warmer?” he asked as he worked.

“Sort of.”

“Then if you don’t mind, Vincent, open the hood and connect the battery.” Pendergast nodded toward a toolbox that sat in one corner.

D’Agosta pulled out a wrench, opened the hood, connected the battery, checked the fluid levels, and examined the engine. “Looks good.”

Pendergast kicked away the final block and jacked down the last wheel. “Excellent.”

“No one to call the cops about a stolen car.”

“We shall see. Although the area seems deserted for the winter, there’s always the danger of a nosy neighbor. This 1954 Mark VII saloon is not an inconspicuous vehicle. Now for the moment of truth. Please get in and help me start her.”

D’Agosta clambered into the driver’s seat and waited for instructions.

“Foot on the accelerator. Choke out. Gear in neutral.”

“Check,” D’Agosta said.

“When you hear the engine turn, give it a bit of gas.”

D’Agosta complied. A moment later, the car roared to life.

“Ease off the choke,” Pendergast said. He walked over to the alarm box, glanced around, picked up a long wire, attached it to both metal plates in the alarm, then opened the door. “Take her out.”

D’Agosta eased the Jag out. Pendergast shut the garage door and got into the rear of the vehicle.

“Let’s get the heat on in this baby,” said D’Agosta, fiddling with the unfamiliar controls as he drove onto the street.

“You do that. Pull over and let it run for a few minutes. I am going to lie down, and . . . ho, what’s this?” He held up a loud sports jacket checkered in various shades of light green. “A stroke of luck, Vincent! Now you look the part.”

D’Agosta drew off his sodden coat and tossed it on the floor, putting on the sports jacket instead.

“How becoming.”

“Yeah, right.”

At that moment, Pendergast’s cell phone rang. D’Agosta watched as the agent plucked it from his pocket.

“Yes,” Pendergast said. “I understand. Yes, excellent. Thank you.” And he hung up.

“We have three hours to get to Manhattan,” he said, checking his watch. “Do you think you can manage it?”

“You bet.” D’Agosta hesitated. “Now, you want to tell me who that was and what the heck you’ve been up to?”

“That was William Smithback.”

“The journalist?”

“Yes. You see, Vincent, at last—at long, long last—we might have been given a break.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Diogenes was the person who robbed the Astor Hall last night.”

D’Agosta turned to stare at him. “Diogenes? You sure?”

“Undoubtedly. He’s always had an obsession with diamonds. All these murders were just a horrible distraction to keep me busy while he planned his real crime: the robbing of the diamond hall. And he chose to take Viola last, to ensure my maximal distraction during the robbery itself. Vincent, it was a ‘perfect’ crime, after all, in a spectacular, public sense—not one aimed simply at myself.”

“So what makes this a break for us?”

“What Diogenes didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that the finest gem of all, no doubt the one he most wanted, wasn’t on display. He didn’t steal Lucifer’s Heart: he stole a fake.”

“So?”

“So I’m going to steal the real Lucifer’s Heart for him and make a trade. Is the motor warmed up? Let’s get back to New York—there’s no time to waste.”

D’Agosta eased the car away from the curb. “I’ve seen you pull a few rabbits out of your hat, but how in the hell are you going to steal the world’s greatest diamond on the spur of the moment? You don’t know where it is, you don’t know anything about its security.”

“Perhaps. But as it happens, Vincent, my plans are already in motion.” And Pendergast patted the pocket where his cell phone was.

D’Agosta kept his eyes on the road. “There’s a problem,” he said in a quiet voice.

“What’s that?”

“We’re assuming that Diogenes still has something to trade.”

There was a brief silence before Pendergast spoke. “We can only pray that he does.”

Sixty-one

LAURA HAYWARD WALKED briskly up the steps of the Lower Manhattan Federal Building, Captain Singleton at her heels. Singleton was, as usual, dressed nattily: camel’s-hair topcoat, Burberry scarf, thin black leather gloves. He hadn’t said much on the ride downtown, but that was okay: Hayward hadn’t felt much like talking.

It had been barely twenty-four hours since D’Agosta walked out of her office and away from her ultimatum, but it might as well have been a year. Hayward had always been an exceptionally levelheaded person, but as she walked into the Federal Building, she had an almost overpowering sense of unreality. Maybe none of this was happening, maybe she wasn’t on her way to an urgent FBI briefing, maybe Pendergast wasn’t the most wanted criminal in New York and D’Agosta his accomplice. Maybe she’d just wake up and it would be January 21 again, and her apartment would still smell of Vinnie’s overcooked lasagna.

At the security checkpoint, Hayward showed her shield, checked her weapon, signed the clipboard. There wasn’t going to be a happy ending. Because if D’Agosta wasn’t Pendergast’s accomplice, he would be Pendergast’s victim.

The conference room was large, paneled in dark wood. Flags of New York and the United States drooped from brass flagpoles on both sides of the entryway, and color photos of various government types lined the walls. A huge oval table dominated the room, surrounded with leather chairs. The coffee urn and the table heaped with donuts and crullers, a staple of NYPD departmental meetings, was absent. Instead, a pint bottle of spring water had been placed before each chair.

Unfamiliar men and women in dark suits were standing around in knots, talking quietly among themselves. As Hayward and Singleton entered, the groups began making their way quickly toward the chairs. Hayward chose the nearest seat and Singleton sat down beside her, removing his gloves and scarf. There was no place to hang their stuff, and as a result they were the only two people in the room wearing coats.

At that moment, a tall, stocky man walked into the conference room. Two shorter men followed on his heels, like obedient hounds. Each of the two carried a brick of red folders under his arm. The tall man stopped for a moment, glancing around the table. Unlike the rest of the faces in the room, pallid from the New York winter, his was sunburned. It wasn’t the even, artificial tan you got from a salon: this man had spent long hours working someplace sunny and hot. His eyes were small, narrow, and pissed-off.

He walked to the head of the table, where three seats had been left empty, and took the middle one. His two retainers sat to his right and his left.

“Good morning,” the man said in an abrasive Long Island accent at odds with the sunburn. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Spencer Coffey, and with me are Special Agents Brooks and Rabiner. With their assistance, I’ll be leading the search for Special Agent Pendergast.”

The man seemed to spit out the final word, and as he said it, the anger spread from his eyes to his entire face.

“The facts as we know them so far are these: Pendergast is a primary suspect in four homicides, one in New Orleans, one in D.C., and two here in New York. We have DNA and fiber evidence from all four sites, and we’re cooperating with local authorities in an effort to gather more.”

Singleton shot Hayward a meaningful look. Coffey’s idea of “cooperation” had been a phalanx of FBI agents swooping down on her office, grilling her men, and taking whatever evidence struck their fancy. Ironic how her own request for the Quantico profile had aroused Coffey’s interest in the first place.

“Clearly, we’re dealing with a mentally unbalanced individual—the psych profile confirms it. There is a high probability he is planning additional homicides. He was last spotted yesterday afternoon at Kennedy Airport, where he eluded security guards and police officers, stole a rental car, and drove away. He abandoned his own vehicle at the rental lot—a Rolls-Royce.”

A low murmur went around the room at this, punctuated by several scoffs and dark looks. Pendergast must have made more than his share of enemies during his tenure with the FBI.

“There have been unconfirmed sightings of Pendergast at several convenience stores and gas stations in Nassau and Suffolk counties, last night and this morning. We’re following up on those now. Pendergast is traveling with another man, believed to be NYPD lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta. And I’ve just had news of a high-speed chase in the vicinity of Southampton. Preliminary eyewitness accounts from the officers involved would seem to ID Pendergast and D’Agosta.”

Hayward shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Singleton stared straight ahead.

“We have teams searching Pendergast’s 72nd Street apartment and his New Orleans town house as we speak. Any information we discover that might shed light on his future movements will be passed down the line to you. We’re setting up a command-and-control structure that will allow for quick dissemination of new information. This is going to be a very fluid situation, and we have to be ready to revise our strategy accordingly.”

Coffey nodded to his retainers, and they stood up and began walking around the table, passing out the red folders. Hayward noticed that neither she nor Singleton received one. She’d assumed this was to be a working meeting, but it appeared that Special Agent in Charge Coffey already had his own ideas about how to handle the case and neither needed nor wanted input from anybody else.

“You’ll find your initial instructions and assignments in these folders. You will be working in teams, and each team will be assigned six field agents. Our immediate priority is to determine Pendergast’s movements over the last twenty-four hours, look for patterns, set up checkpoints, and draw in the net until we have him. We don’t know why he’s running around Long Island, stopping at convenience stores and gas stations: those we’ve interviewed indicate he’s been looking for someone. I’ll be expecting hourly verbal reports from each team, made either to me directly or to Special Agents Brooks and Rabiner.”

Coffey stood up heavily, sweeping the table with his angry gaze. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. Pendergast is one of our own. He knows all the tricks of the trade. Even though it seems we’ve got him pinned down on eastern Long Island, he could still elude us. That’s why we’re throwing the entire resources of the Bureau into this. We need to nail this bastard, and quickly. The reputation of the Bureau’s at stake.”

He surveyed the table again. “Any questions?”

“Yes,” Hayward said.

All eyes turned toward her. She hadn’t intended to speak, but the word had just tumbled out involuntarily.

Coffey glanced at her, small eyes narrowing to pinpricks of white. “Captain, ah, Hayward, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Go ahead, please.”

“You haven’t mentioned the role of the NYPD in the search.”

Coffey’s eyebrows shot up. “Role?”

“That’s right. I’ve heard a lot about what the FBI’s going to do, but nothing about the cooperation with the NYPD you mentioned earlier.”

“Lieutenant Hayward, our latest information, if you’ve been listening, has Pendergast in Suffolk County. There’s not a great deal you can do for us out there.”

“True. But we’ve got dozens of detectives here in Manhattan who are familiar with the case, we’ve developed virtually all the evidence—”

“Lieutenant,” Coffey interrupted, “no one is more grateful for the NYPD’s assistance in furthering this investigation than I am.” But he didn’t look grateful—if anything, he looked more pissed-off than before. “At the moment, however, the matter is outside your jurisdiction.”

“Our immediate jurisdiction, yes. But he could always return to the city. And given that Agent Pendergast is wanted in two murders I’m in charge of investigating, I want to make sure that, once he’s apprehended, we’ve got access for interrogation—”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Coffey snapped. “The man’s still at large. Any other questions?”

The room was silent.

“Good. There’s just one last thing.” Coffey’s voice went down a few notches. “I don’t want anybody taking any chances. Pendergast is armed, desperate, and extremely dangerous. In the event of a confrontation, a maximal armed response will be appropriate. In other words, shoot the son of a bitch. Shoot to kill.”

Sixty-two

GEORGE KAPLAN EXITED his Gramercy Park brownstone, paused for a moment at the top of the steps to check his cashmere coat, flicked off a speck of dust, pinched his perfectly knotted cravat, patted his pockets, inhaled the crisp January air, and descended. His was a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood, his brownstone facing the park itself, and even in the cold winter weather there were mothers with their children walking the winding lanes, their cheerful voices rising among the bare branches.

Kaplan fairly tingled with anticipation. The call he had received was as unexpected as it was welcome. Most gemologists lived their entire lives without ever having the opportunity to gaze into the depths of a gemstone one-millionth as rare or famous as Lucifer’s Heart. He had, of course, seen it at the museum behind a thick piece of glass, under execrable lighting, but until now he hadn’t known just why the lighting was so bad: had it been lit properly, at least a few gemologists—himself included—would have recognized it as a fake. A very good fake, to be sure: a real diamond, irradiated to give it that incredible cinnamon color, no doubt enhanced by colored fiber-optic light skillfully delivered from beneath the gem. Kaplan had seen it all in his forty years as a gemologist, every rip-off, cheat, and con game in the business. He chided himself for not realizing that a diamond like Lucifer’s Heart couldn’t be put on display. No company would insure a stone which was always in full public view, its location known to the world.

Lucifer’s Heart. And what was it worth? The last red diamond of any quality that had come up for sale was the Red Dragon, a five-carat stone that had gone for sixteen million dollars. And this one was nine times as large, a better grade and color, without a doubt the finest fancy color diamond in existence.

Value? Name your price.

After receiving the call, Kaplan had spent a few moments in his library, refreshing himself on the history of the diamond. With diamonds, it was usually the case that the less color the better, but that was true only up to a point. When a diamond had a deep, intense color, it suddenly leaped in value; it became the rarest of the rare—and of all the colors a diamond could possess, red was by far the rarest. He knew that, in all the crude production from all the De Beers mines, a red diamond of quality surfaced only about once every two years. Lucifer’s Heart made the word unique sound hackneyed. At forty-five carats, it was huge, a heart-cut stone with a GIA grade of VVS1 Fancy Vivid. No other stone in the world even came close. And then there was the color: it wasn’t ruby red or garnet-colored, either of which was exceedingly rare in its own right. Rather, it was an intensely rich reddish orange, a color so unusual that it defied naming. Some called it cinnamon, and while Kaplan thought it more reddish than true cinnamon, he himself could not find a better word to describe it. The closest analogy he could think of was blood in bright sunlight, but if anything, it was even richer than blood. No other object in the wide world possessed its color—nothing. Its color was a scientific mystery. To find out what gave Lucifer’s Heart its unique color, scientists would have to destroy a piece of the diamond—and that, of course, would never happen.

The diamond had a short, bloody history. The raw stone, a monster of some 104 carats, had been found by an alluvial digger in the Congo in the early 1930s. Not realizing, because of its color, that it was even a diamond, he used it to pay a long-running bar tab. When the man later learned what it was, he tried to get it back from the barman, only to be rebuffed. So one night he broke into the barman’s home, killed the man, his wife, and their three children, and then spent the rest of the night trying to hide his crime by cutting up the corpses and throwing them off the back porch to the crocodiles in the Buyimai River. He was caught, and during the gathering of evidence for the murder trial, part of which involved killing and examining the stomach contents of a dozen river crocodiles, a police inspector was killed by an enraged reptile and a second drowned trying to save him.

The gemstone, still uncut, made its way through the black market (and several other rumored killings) before it resurfaced in Belgium as the property of a notorious black market dealer. The man badly botched the cleaving of the stone, leaving a nasty crack in it, and subsequently committed suicide. The now damaged rough stone bounced around the diamond demimonde for a while, ultimately ending up in the hands of an Israeli diamond cutter named Arens, one of the best in the world. In what was later called the most brilliant cutting ever done, Arens was able to produce a heart-shaped gem from the cracked rock in just such a way as to remove the flaw without fracturing the stone or losing too much material. It took Arens eight years to complete the cut. The process had since passed into legend. He spent three years looking at the stone; then another three practicing the cutting and polishing on no fewer than two hundred plastic models of the original, experimenting in ways to optimize the size, cut, and design while removing the exceedingly dangerous flaw. He succeeded, in much the same way Michelangelo was able to sculpt the David out of a badly cracked block of marble other sculptors had rejected as unworkable.

When Arens was done, he had produced an extraordinary, heart-cut stone along with another dozen or so smaller stones, all from the same rough. He named the biggest stone Lucifer’s Heart after its grim history, commenting to the press that it was “the very devil to cut.”

And then, in an act of extraordinary generosity, Arens willed the stone to the New York Museum of Natural History, which he had visited as a child and whose Hall of Diamonds had determined what his life’s work would be. He sold the dozen or so much smaller stones cut from the same rough for what was rumored to be an astonishing sum, but, strangely enough, none of the stones had ever resurfaced on the market. Kaplan assumed they had been made into a single, spectacular piece of jewelry, which remained with the original owner, who wished to keep her identity secret.

Kaplan swung around the corner of Gramercy Park and walked west, toward Park Avenue, where he had the best shot of catching a cab headed uptown. He had half an hour, but you could never predict midtown traffic at lunchtime, and this was one appointment he did not want to be late to.

As he stopped at the corner of Lex to wait for the light to change, he was startled to see a black car roll up beside him, window down. Inside sat a man in a green sports jacket.

“Mr. George Kaplan?”

“Yes?”

The man leaned over, presented the badge of a New York City police lieutenant, and opened the door. “Get in, please.”

“I have an important appointment, Officer. What’s this all about?”

“I know. Affiliated Transglobal Insurance. I’m your escort.”

Kaplan peered closely at the badge: Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta. It was a genuine shield—Kaplan was well versed in such things—and the man behind the wheel really couldn’t be anything other than a cop, despite the unusual choice of apparel. Who else would know about his appointment?

“That’s kind of you.” Kaplan climbed in, the door shut, the locks shot down, and the car eased away from the curb.

“Security’s going to be high,” said the policeman. Then he nodded at a gray plastic box on the seat between them. “I’ll have to ask you to surrender your cell phone, your wallet with all your identification, any weapons you might have, and all your tools. Put them in that box next to you. I’ll pass them to my colleague, and they’ll all be returned to you at the vault after they’ve been thoroughly vetted.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“Absolutely. And I’m sure you can understand why.”

Kaplan, not very surprised under the circumstances, removed the requested items and placed them in the box. At the next light, at Park Avenue, a vintage Jaguar that had been following them pulled up alongside; the windows of both vehicles went down; and the policeman handed the box through the window. Glancing into the other car, Kaplan saw that the driver had carefully groomed pale blond hair and was wearing a nicely tailored black suit.

“Your colleague drives a most unusual car for a policeman.”

“He’s a most unusual man.”

When the light changed to green, the Jaguar turned right and headed for Midtown, while the policeman driving Kaplan turned south.

“I beg your pardon, Officer, but we should be heading north,” Kaplan said. “Affiliated Transglobal Insurance is headquartered at 1271 Avenue of the Americas.”

The car accelerated southward and the policeman looked over unsmilingly. “Sorry to inform you, Mr. Kaplan, but this is one appointment you won’t be keeping.”

Sixty-three

THEY GATHERED in the sitting room of Harrison Grainger, CEO of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance. The executive suite was perched high in the Affiliated Transglobal Tower, looking north up the great canyon of Avenue of the Americas to its terminus, a half dozen blocks north, at the dark rectangle of Central Park. At one o’clock precisely, Grainger himself emerged from his office, a florid man with cauliflower ears and a narrow head, expansive, balding, and cheerful.

“Well, are we all here?” He looked around.

Smithback glanced about. His mouth felt like paste and he was sweating. He wondered why in the world he had agreed to this insane scheme. What had sounded like a fabulous escapade earlier that day, a chance at a one-of-a-kind scoop, now appeared mad in the harsh light of reality: Smithback was about to participate in a very serious crime—not to mention compromising all his ethics as a journalist.

Grainger looked around, smiling. “Sam, you make the introductions.”

Samuel Beck, the security chief, stepped forward with a nod. Despite his nervousness, Smithback couldn’t help noticing the man had feet as small as a ballerina’s.

“Mr. George Kaplan,” the security chief began. “Senior associate of the American Council of Gemologists.”

Kaplan, a neat man dressed in black, sporting a trimmed goatee and rimless glasses, had the elegant look of a man of the last century. He gave a short, sharp bow.

“Frederick Watson Collopy, director of the New York Museum of Natural History.”

Collopy shook hands all around. He didn’t look especially pleased to be here.

“William Smithback of the New York Times.”

Smithback managed a round of handshakes, his hand as damp as a dishrag.

“Harrison Grainger, chief executive officer, Affiliated Transglobal Insurance Group Holding.”

This set off another series of murmured greetings.

“Rand Marconi, CFO, Affiliated Transglobal Group.”

Oh, God, thought Smithback. Were all these people coming?

“Foster Lord, secretary, Affiliated Transglobal Group.”

More handshakes, nods.

“Skip McGuigan, treasurer, Affiliated Transglobal Group.”

Yet again, Smithback plucked weakly at his collar.

“Jason McTeague, security officer, Affiliated Transglobal Group.”

It was like announcing the nobility arriving at a formal ball. A heavily armed security guard shifted on his feet, nodded, didn’t offer his hand.

“And I am Samuel Beck, director of security, Affiliated Transglobal Group. Suffice to say, we’ve all been checked, vetted, and cleared.” He gave a quick smile at his own witticism, which was reinforced by a hearty laugh from Grainger.

“All right, then, let’s proceed,” said the CEO, holding out his hand toward the elevators.

They headed deep into the bowels of the building, descending first one elevator, then a second, then a third, at last winding through long and unnamed cinder-block corridors before arriving at the largest, most polished, most gleaming vault door Smithback had ever seen. Staring at the door, his heart sank still further.

Beck busied himself with a keypad, a series of locks, and a retinal scanner while they all waited.

At last, Beck turned. “Gentlemen, we now have to wait five minutes for the timed locks to disengage. This vault,” he continued proudly, “contains all our original, executed policies: every single one. An insurance policy is a contract, and the only valid copies of our contracts are here—representing almost half a trillion dollars of coverage. It’s protected by the latest security systems devised by man. This vault is designed to withstand an earthquake of 9 on the Richter scale, an F-5 tornado, and the detonation of a hundred-kiloton nuclear bomb.”

Smithback tried to take notes, but he was still sweating heavily, the pen slippery in his hands. Think of the story. Think of the story.

There was a soft chiming sound.

“And that, gentlemen, is the signal that the vault’s locks have disengaged.” Beck pulled a lever and the faint humming of a motor sounded, the door slowly swinging outward. It was staggeringly massive, six feet of solid stainless steel.

They moved forward, the well-armed security guard bringing up the rear, and passed through two other massive doors before entering what was evidently the main vault, a huge steel space with metal cages enclosing drawer upon metal drawer, rising from floor to ceiling.

Now the CEO stepped forward, clearly relishing his role. “The inner vault, gentlemen. But even here the diamond is not kept unprotected, where it might tempt one of our trusted employees. It is kept in a special vault-within-a-vault, and no fewer than four Affiliated Transglobal executives are needed to open this vault: myself, Rand Marconi, Skip McGuigan, and Foster Lord.”

The three men, dressed in identical gray suits, bald, and looking enough alike as to be mistaken for brothers, all smiled at this. Clearly, they didn’t get many chances to strut their stuff.

The interior vault stood at the far end of the chamber, another steel door in the wall. Four keyholes were arrayed in a line across its face. Above them, a small light glowed red.

“And now we wait for the outer vault doors to be locked before we open the inner vault.”

Smithback waited, listening to the series of motorized hummings, clickings, and deep rumbles.

“Now we are locked in. And as long as the inner safe is unlocked, the outer vault doors will remain locked. Even if one of us wanted to steal the diamond, we couldn’t leave with it!” Grainger chuckled. “Gentlemen, take out your keys.”

The men all removed small keys from their pockets.

“We’ve set up a small table for Mr. Kaplan,” said the CEO, indicating an elegant table nearby.

Kaplan eyed it narrowly, pursing his lips with tight disapproval.

“Is everything in order?” the CEO asked.

“Bring out the diamond,” Kaplan said tersely.

Grainger nodded. “Gentlemen?”

Each of the men inserted his key into one of the four keyholes. Glances were exchanged; then the keys were turned simultaneously. The small red light turned green and the safe clicked open. Inside was a simple metal cabinet with eight drawers. Each one was labeled with a number.

“Drawer number 2,” said the CEO.

The drawer was opened; Grainger leaned in and removed a small gray metal box, which he carried over to the table and placed before Kaplan with reverence. The gemologist sat down and began fussily laying out a small collection of tools and lenses, adjusting them with precision on the tabletop. He took out a rolled pad of plush black velvet and laid it out, forming a neat square in the middle of the table. Everyone watched him work, the people forming a semicircle around the table—with the exception of the security guard, who stood slightly back, arms crossed.

As a last step, Kaplan pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. “I am ready. Hand me the key.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kaplan, but rules require me to open the box,” said the security director.

Kaplan waved a hand irritably. “So be it. Don’t drop it, sir. Diamonds may be hard but they shatter as easily as glass.”

Beck leaned over the box, inserted the key, and raised the lid. All eyes were riveted on the box.

“Don’t touch it with your naked, sweaty hands,” said Kaplan sharply.

The security director withdrew. Kaplan reached into the box and plucked out the gem as nonchalantly as if it were a golf ball, laying it on the velvet in front of him. He opened a loupe and leaned over the stone.

Suddenly, he straightened up and spoke in a sharp, high, querulous voice. “I beg your pardon, but really, I can’t work being crowded around like this, especially from behind. I beg you, please!”

“Of course, of course,” said Grainger. “Let’s all step back and give Mr. Kaplan some room.”

They shuffled back. Once again, Kaplan bent to examine the gem. He picked it up with a four-pronged holder, turned it over. He laid down the loupe.

“Hand me my Chealsea filter,” he said sharply, to no one in particular.

“Ah, which is that?” Beck asked.

“The white oblong object, over there.”

The security director picked it up and handed it over. Kaplan took it, opened it, and examined the gem again, muttering something unintelligible.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Kaplan?” asked Grainger solicitously

“No,” he said simply.

The tension in the vault went up a notch.

“Do you have enough light?” the CEO asked.

A freezing silence.

“Hand me the DiamondNite. No, not that. That.”

Beck handed him a strange device with a pointed end. Ever so gently, Kaplan touched the stone with it. There was a small beep and a green light.

“Hmph. At least we know it’s not moissanite,” the gemologist said crisply, handing the device back to Beck, who did not look pleased to be cast in the role of assistant.

More mutterings. “The polariscope, if you please.”

After a few false starts, Beck handed it to him.

A long look, a snort.

Kaplan stood up and looked around, eyeing everyone in the room. “As far as I can tell, which isn’t much, given the horrendous lighting in here, it’s probably a fake. A superb fake, but a fake nonetheless.”

A shocked silence. Smithback stole a glance at Collopy. The museum director’s face had gone deathly white.

“You’re not sure?” the CEO asked.

“How can I possibly be sure? How can you expect an expert like me to examine a fancy color diamond under fluorescent lighting?”

A silence. “But shouldn’t you have brought your own light?” ventured Grainger.

“My own light?” Kaplan cried. “Sir, forgive me, but your ignorance is shocking. This is a fancy color diamond, graded Vivid, and you cannot simply bring in any old light to look at it with. I need real light to be sure. Natural light. Nothing else will do. No one said anything about having to examine the finest diamond in the world under fluorescent lighting. This is an insult to my profession.”

“You should have mentioned this when we made the arrangements,” said Beck.

“I assumed I was dealing with a sophisticated insurance company, knowledgeable on the subject of gemstones! I had no idea I would be forced to examine a diamond in a stuffy basement vault. Not to mention with half a dozen people breathing down my neck as if I’m some kind of zoo monkey. My report will be that it is a possible fake, but that final determination will await reexamination under natural light.” Kaplan crossed his arms and stared fiercely at the CEO.

Smithback swallowed painfully. “Well,” he said, taking what he hoped were intelligible notes, “I guess that’s it. There’s my story.”

“What’s your story?” Collopy said, turning on him. “There’s no story. This is inconclusive.”

“I should certainly say so,” said Grainger, his voice shaky. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Smithback shrugged. “My original source tells me that diamond’s a fake. Now Mr. Kaplan says it may be a fake.”

“The operative word here is may,” Grainger said.

“Just a moment!” Collopy turned to Kaplan. “You need natural light to tell for sure?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

Collopy turned to the CEO. “Isn’t there someplace he can view the stone under natural light?”

There was a moment of silence.

Collopy drew himself up. “Grainger,” he said in a sharp voice, “the safekeeping of this stone was your responsibility.”

“We can bring the stone up to the executive boardroom,” Grainger said. “On the eighth floor. There’s plenty of light up there.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Grainger,” said Beck, “but the policy is quite firm: the diamond can’t leave the vault.”

“You heard what the man said. He needs better light.”

“With all due respect, sir, I have my instructions, and not even you can alter them.”

The CEO waved his hand. “Nonsense! This is a matter of critical importance. Surely we can get a waiver.”

“Only with the written, notarized permission of the insured.”

“Well, then! We’ve got the museum’s director right here. And Lord’s a notary public, aren’t you, Foster?”

Lord nodded.

“Dr. Collopy, you’ll give the necessary written permission?”

“Absolutely. This has got to be resolved now.” His face was gray, almost cadaverous.

“Foster, draw up the document.”

“As director of security, I strongly recommend against this,” said Beck quietly.

“Mr. Beck,” said Grainger, “I appreciate your concern. But I don’t think you fully comprehend the situation. We have a hundred-million-dollar limit on our policy at the museum, but Lucifer’s Heart is covered in a special rider, and one of the conditions of the stone being kept here for safekeeping is that there’s no limitation of liability. Whatever the GIA independently determines the stone’s value to be, we must pay. We’ve got to have an answer to the question of whether this stone is real, and we’ve got to have it now.”

“Nevertheless,” said Beck, “for the record, I still oppose taking the gem out of the vault.”

“Duly noted. Foster? Draw up the document and Dr. Collopy will sign it.”

The secretary took a piece of blank paper from his suit jacket, wrote some lines. Collopy, Grainger, and McGuigan signed it, then Lord notarized it with his signature.

“Let’s go,” said the CEO.

“I’m calling a security escort,” said Beck darkly. At the same time, Smithback watched as the security chief slid a gun out of his waistband, checked it, flicked off the safety, and slid it back.

Kaplan picked up the stone with the four-prong.

“I’ll do that, Mr. Kaplan,” said Beck quietly. He took the handle of the four-prong and gently laid the stone in its velvet box. Then he shut the lid and locked it, pocketing the key and placing the box under his arm.

They waited while Kaplan packed up his supplies; then they shut the inner door and waited for the outer one to open. They proceeded back through the succession of massive doors, where they were met by a brace of security guards. The guards escorted them to a waiting elevator bank, and within five minutes Smithback found himself being ushered into a small but extremely elegant boardroom, done up in exotic wood. Light flooded in through a dozen broad windows.

Beck stationed the two extra security guards outside the doors, then shut and locked them.

“Everyone please stand back,” he said. “Mr. Kaplan, will this do?”

“Splendid,” said Kaplan with a broad smile, his whole mood seeming to change.

“Where do you want to sit?”

Kaplan pointed to a seat in a corner, between two windows. “That would be perfect.”

“Set yourself up.”

The jeweler busied himself laying out all his tools again, spreading the velvet. Then he looked up. “The stone, please?”

Beck laid the box next to him, unlocked it with the key, and raised the lid. The gemstone lay inside, nestled in its velvet.

Kaplan reached in, plucked it out with the four-prong, and called for a Grobet double lens. Using this device, he peered at the diamond, first looking at it through one lens, then the other, then both at once. As he held it, light struck the gemstone, and the walls of the room were suddenly freckled with dots of intense cinnamon color.

Several minutes passed in absolute silence. Smithback realized he was holding his breath. At length, Kaplan slowly laid the diamond down on the velvet, swiveled the Grobet lenses from his eyes, and bestowed a beaming smile on the waiting audience.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “how wonderful it is. Natural light makes all the difference in the world. This is it, gentlemen. Without the slightest doubt, this is Lucifer’s Heart.” He placed it back down on the velvet pad.

There was a relieved exhalation, as if everybody else in the room had been holding their breaths along with Smithback.

Kaplan waved his hand. “Mr. Beck? You may put it away. With the four-prong, if you please.”

“Thank the Lord,” said the CEO, turning to Collopy and grasping his hand.

“Thank the Lord is right,” Collopy replied, shaking the hand while dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. “I had a bad moment back there.”

Meanwhile, Beck, his face unreadable but still dark, had reached over with the four-prong to pick up the gem. At the same time, Kaplan rose from his chair and bumped into him. “I beg your pardon!”

It happened so fast that Smithback realized what he’d seen only after the fact. Suddenly, Kaplan had the gem in one hand and Beck’s gun in the other, pointed at Beck. He fired it almost in Beck’s face, just turning the barrel enough so the bullets went past and buried themselves in the wall. He fired three times in rapid succession, the incredibly loud reports plunging the room into terror and confusion as everyone dropped to the floor, Beck included.

And then he was gone, out the supposedly locked door.

Beck was up in a flash. “Get him! Stop him!”

As he picked himself up from the floor, ears ringing, Smithback could see through the double doors the two security guards sprawled on the floor scrambling back to their feet and taking off down the hall, fumbling with their guns.

“He’s got the gem!” Collopy cried, struggling to his feet. “He’s got Lucifer’s Heart! My God, get him! Do something!”

Beck had his radio out. “Security Command? This is Samuel Beck. Lock down the building! Lock it down! I don’t want anyone going out—anything going out—no garbage, no mail, no people, nothing! You hear me? Shut off the elevators, lock the stairwells. I want a full security alert and all security personnel to search for a George Kaplan. Get an image of his face from the security checkpoint video cam. Nobody leaves the building until we’ve got a security cordon in place. No, to hell with fire regulations! That’s a direct order! And I want an X-ray machine suitable for detecting a swallowed or concealed gemstone, along with a fully staffed technical team to man it, at the Sixth Avenue entrance, on the double.”

He turned to the rest of them. “And none of you, none of you, are to leave this room without my permission.”

Two exhausting and trying hours later, Smithback found himself in a line with what seemed like a thousand employees of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance. The line snaked interminably around the interior lobby of the building, coiling three times about the elevator banks. On the far side of the lobby, he could see employees trundling carts piled with mail and packages, running them all through X-ray machines of the kind found in airports. Kaplan had not been found—and, privately, Smithback knew he wouldn’t be.

As Smithback approached the head of the line, he could hear a hubbub of voices raised in argument, from a large group of people shunted to one side who had refused to allow themselves to be X-rayed. Outside were fire trucks, their lights flashing; police cars; and the inevitable gaggle of press. As each person in line was thoroughly searched and then put through the X-ray machine, finally emerging into the gray January afternoon, there would be scattered applause and a burst of camera flashes.

Smithback tried to control his sweating. As the minutes crawled by, his nervousness had only grown worse. For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for agreeing to this. He had already been searched twice, including a revolting body-cavity search. At least the others in the executive boardroom had been subjected to the same kind of search, Collopy insisting on it for himself and the rest, including the officers of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance and even Beck. Meanwhile, Collopy—almost beside himself with agitation—had been doing all he could to convince Smithback to keep mum, not to publish anything. Oh, God, if they only knew . . .

Why, oh why, had he ever agreed to this?

Only ten more people in line ahead of him now. They were putting the people, one at a time, into what looked like a narrow telephone booth, with no fewer than four technicians examining various CRT screens affixed to it. Someone in front of him was listening to a transistor radio with everyone else crowding around—amazing how news got out—and it appeared the real Kaplan had been released unharmed in front of his brownstone a half hour ago and was now being questioned by the police. Nobody yet knew who the fake Kaplan was.

Just two more people to go. Smithback tried to swallow but found that he couldn’t. His stomach churned with fear. This was the worst part. The very worst of all.

And now it was his turn. Two technicians stood him on a mat with the usual yellow footprints and searched him yet again, just a little too thoroughly for comfort. They examined his temporary building pass and his press credentials. They had him open his mouth and searched it with a tongue depressor. Then they opened the door of the booth and put him inside.

“Don’t move. Keep your arms at your side. Look at the target on the wall . . .” The directions rolled out with rapid efficiency.

There was a short hum. Through the safety glass, Smithback could see the technicians poring over the results. Finally, one nodded.

A technician on the other side opened the door, placed a firm hand on Smithback’s arm, and drew him out. “You’re free to go,” he said, pointing to the building exit.

As he gestured, the technician brushed briefly against Smithback’s side.

Smithback turned and walked the ten feet to the revolving door—the longest ten feet of his life.

Outside, he zipped up his coat, ran the gauntlet of flashbulbs, ignored the shouted questions, pushed through the crowd, and walked stiffly up Avenue of the Americas. At 56th Street, he hailed a cab, slid into the back. He gave the driver the address of his apartment, waited until the cab had moved out into traffic, turned and glanced searchingly out the rear window for a full five minutes.

Only then did he dare settle into his seat, reach into his coat pocket. There, nestled safely in the bottom, he could feel the hard, cold outline of Lucifer’s Heart.

Sixty-four

D’AGOSTA AND PENDERGAST sat, without speaking, inside the Mark VII on a bleak stretch of Vermilyea Avenue in the Inwood section of Upper Manhattan. The sun was dropping slowly through layers of gray, setting with a final slash of blood-red light, which cast a momentary glow over the dusky tenements and bleak warehouses before it was extinguished in bitter night.

They were listening to 1010 WINS, New York’s all-news radio station. The station repeated its top stories on a twenty-two-minute cycle, and it had been continuously broadcasting news of the museum diamond heist, the announcer’s excited voice in contrast to the somber mood inside the vehicle. Just ten minutes earlier, a new story had broken, a related but even more spectacular item: the theft of the real Lucifer’s Heart from Affiliated Transglobal Insurance headquarters. D’Agosta had no doubt the police had tried desperately to keep a lid on that one, but there was no way something that explosive could be kept under wraps.

“. . . the most brazen diamond theft in history, taking place right under the noses of museum and insurance company executives, and following hard on the heels of the diamond heist at the museum. Sources close to the investigation say the same thief is suspected of both crimes . . .”

Pendergast was listening intently, his face as hard and pale as marble, his body motionless. His cell phone sat on the seat between them.

“Police are questioning George Kaplan, a well-known gemologist, who was on his way to identify Lucifer’s Heart for Affiliated Transglobal Insurance when he was abducted near his Manhattan town house. Sources close to the investigation say that the thief then assumed his identity in order to gain access to the diamond. Police believe he may still be hiding in the Affiliated Transglobal building, where a massive manhunt is still under way . . .”

Pendergast leaned over and shut off the radio.

“How do you know Diogenes will hear the news?” D’Agosta asked.

“He’ll hear it. For once, he’s at a loss. He didn’t get the diamond. He’ll be in agony, on edge—listening, waiting, thinking. And once he learns what’s happened, there will be only one course of action available to him.”

“You mean, he’ll know it was you who stole it.”

“Absolutely. What other conclusion could he come to?” Pendergast smiled mirthlessly. “He’ll know. And with no other way to send me a message, he’ll call.”

Sodium lights had come up, burning pale yellow along the length of the empty avenue. The temperature had dropped into single digits and a brutal wind swept up from the Hudson, blowing before it a few glittering flakes of snow.

The cell phone rang.

Pendergast hesitated just a second. Then he turned it over, punching the tiny speaker on the back into life. He said nothing.

“Ave, frater,” came the voice from the speaker.

A silence. D’Agosta glanced at Pendergast. In the reflected glow of the streetlights, his face was the color of alabaster. His lips moved, but no sound came.

“Is that any way to greet a long-lost brother? With disapproving silence?”

“I am here,” Pendergast said in a strained voice.

“You’re there! And how honored I am to be graced with your presence. It almost makes up for the vile experience of being forced to call you. But leave us not bandy civilities. I have but one question: did you steal Lucifer’s Heart?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

There was a silence at the other end of the phone, then a slow exhalation of breath. “Brother, brother, brother . . .”

“I am no brother of yours.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. We are brothers, whether we like it or not. And that relationship defines who we are. You know that, don’t you, Aloysius?”

“I know that you’re a sick man desperately in need of help.”

“True: I am sick. No one recovers from the disease of being born. There is no cure to that sickness, short of death. But when you get down to it, we’re all sick, you more than most. Yes, we are brothers—in sickness as well as in evil.”

Again, Pendergast had no response.

“But here we are, bandying civilities again! Shall we get down to business?”

No answer.

“Then I will lead the discussion. First, a big, fat bravo for pulling off in one afternoon what I took years to plan—and, ultimately, failed to accomplish.” D’Agosta could hear a slow patting of hands over the phone. “I assume this is all about making a little trade. A certain personage in exchange for the gemstone. Why else would you have gone to what was undoubtedly a bit of trouble?”

“You assume correctly. But first . . .” Pendergast’s voice faltered.

“You want to know if she’s still alive!”

This time it was Diogenes who let the silence draw out. D’Agosta stole a glance at Pendergast. He was motionless, save for the twitch of a small muscle below the right eye.

“Yes, she’s still alive—at present.”

“You hurt her in any way and I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

“Tut-tut. But while we’re on the subject of women, let’s talk a little bit about this young thing you’ve kept cloistered in the mansion of our late lamented ancestor. If indeed she is ‘young,’ which I’m beginning to doubt. I find myself most curious about her. Her in particular, in fact. I sense that what one sees on the surface is what one sees of an iceberg: the merest fraction. There are hidden facets to her, mirrors within mirrors. And at a fundamental level, I sense that something in her is broken.”

During this speech, Pendergast had stiffened visibly. “Listen to me, Diogenes. Keep away from her. You come close to her again, approach her in any way, and I’ll—”

“Do what? Kill me? Then my blood would be on your hands—more than it already is—as well as that of your four dear friends. Because you, frater, are responsible for all this. You know it. You made me what I am.”

“I made you nothing.”

“Well said! Well said!” A dry, almost desiccated laugh came over the tiny speaker. Listening, D’Agosta felt a chill of repulsion.

“Let’s get to it,” Pendergast managed to say.

“Get to it? Just when the conversation was becoming interesting? Don’t you want to talk about how utterly and completely responsible you are for all this? Ask any family shrink: they’ll tell you how important it is that we talk it out. Frater.”

Suddenly, D’Agosta could take it no longer. “Diogenes! Listen to me, you sick fuck: you want the diamond? Then you cut with the bullshit.”

“No diamond, no Viola.”

“If you hurt Viola, I’ll take a sledgehammer to the diamond and mail you the dust. If you think I’m kidding, keep talking.”

“Empty threats.”

D’Agosta brought his fist down on the dashboard, making a resounding crash.

“Careful! Easy!” The voice was suddenly high and panicked.

“So shut the hell up.”

“Stupidity is an elemental force, and I respect it.”

“You’re still talking.”

“We’ll do this on my terms,” said Diogenes briskly. “Do you hear me? My terms!”

“With two conditions,” Pendergast said quietly. “One: the exchange must take place on the island of Manhattan, and within six hours. Two: it must be set up in such a way that you can’t renege. You tell me your plan and I’ll be the judge. You have one chance to get it right.”

“That sounds like five conditions, not two. But of course, brother—of course! I have to say, though, this is a knotty little problem. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

“Make it five.”

“More conditions?” And the phone went dead.

There was a long silence. A sheen of moisture had appeared on Pendergast’s brow. He plucked a silk handkerchief from his suit jacket, dabbed his forehead, replaced it.

“Can we trust him?” D’Agosta asked.

“No. Never. But I don’t think he’ll have enough time to arrange an effective double cross within six hours. And he wants Lucifer’s Heart—wants it with a passion you and I cannot comprehend. I think we can trust that passion, if we can trust nothing else.”

The phone rang again, and Pendergast pressed the speaker button.

“Yes?”

“Okay, frater. Time for a pop quiz in urban geography. You know of a place called the Iron Clock?”

“The railroad turntable?”

“Excellent! And you know its location?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll do it there. You’ll no doubt want to bring your trusty sidekick, Vinnie.”

“I intend to.”

“Listen to me carefully. I’ll meet you there at . . . six minutes to midnight. Enter through tunnel VI and step slowly out into the light. Vinnie can hang back in the dark and cover you, if you wish. Have him bring his weapon of choice. That will keep me honest. Feel free to bring your own Les Baer or whatever fashion accessory you’re carrying these days. There’ll be no gunplay unless something goes wrong. And nothing’s going to go wrong. I want my diamond, and you want your Viola da Gamba. If you know the layout of the Iron Clock, you’ll realize it is the perfect venue for our, shall we say, transaction.”

“I understand.”

“So. Do I have your approval, brother? Satisfied that I can’t cheat you?”

Pendergast was silent for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then a presto.”

And the phone went dead.

“That bastard gives me the creeps,” said D’Agosta.

Pendergast sat in silence for a long time. Then he removed the handkerchief again, wiped his forehead, refolded the handkerchief.

D’Agosta noticed Pendergast’s hands were trembling slightly.

“You all right?” he asked.

Pendergast shook his head. “Let’s get this over with.” But rather than move, he remained still, as if in deep thought. Abruptly, he seemed to come to some decision. And then he turned and—to D’Agosta’s surprise—took his hand.

“There’s something I’m going to ask you to do,” Pendergast said. “I warn you in advance: it will go against all your instincts as a partner and as a friend. But you must believe me when I say it is the only way. There is no other solution. Will you do it?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Unacceptable. I want your promise first.”

D’Agosta hesitated.

A look of concern settled over Pendergast’s face. “Vincent, please. It’s absolutely critical that I can rely on you in this moment of extremity.”

D’Agosta sighed. “Okay. I promise.”

Pendergast’s tired frame relaxed in obvious relief. “Good. Now, please listen carefully.”

Sixty-five

DIOGENES PENDERGAST STARED at the cell phone, lying on the pine table, for a long time. The only indication of the strong emotion running through him was a faint twitching of his left little finger. A mottled patch of gray had appeared on his left cheek, and—were he to look in a mirror, which he did only when applying a disguise—he knew he’d find his ojo sarco looking deader than usual.

Finally, his gaze strayed from the telephone to a small bottle topped by a rubber membrane and, lying next to it, a glass-and-steel hypodermic needle. He picked up the bottle, held it upside down while inserting the needle, drew out a small quantity, thought a moment, drew out more, then capped the needle with a plastic protector and placed it in his suit pocket.

His gaze then went to a deck of tarot cards, sitting on the edge of the table. It was the Albano-Waite deck—the one he preferred. Picking it up, he gave the deck an overhand shuffle, then laid three cards facedown before him in the spread known as the gypsy draw.

Putting the rest of the deck to one side, he turned over the first card: the High Priestess. Interesting.

He moved his hand to the second card, turned it over. It showed a tall, thin man in a black cloak, turned away, head bowed. At his feet were overturned golden goblets, spilling red liquid. In the background was a river, and beyond that, a forbidding-looking castle. The Five of Cups.

At this, Diogenes drew in his breath sharply.

More slowly now, his hand moved to the third and final card. He hesitated a moment, then turned it over.

This card was upside down. It portrayed a hand above a barren landscape, thrusting out of a dark cloud of smoke. It held a massive sword with a jeweled hilt. A golden crown was impaled on the end of its blade.

The Ace of Swords. Reversed.

Diogenes stared at the card for a moment, then slowly exhaled. He raised it in a shaking hand, then with one violent motion tore it in half, then in half again, and scattered the pieces.

Now his restless gaze moved to the black velvet cloth, laid out and rolled up at the edges, on which lay 488 diamonds, almost all of them deeply colored, scintillating underneath the bright gem light clamped to the table’s edge.

As he stared at the diamonds, his agitation began to ease.

Restraining an exquisite eagerness, his hand roved over the ocean of glittering trapped light before plucking one of the largest diamonds, a vivid blue stone of thirty-three carats, called the Queen of Narnia. He held it in his palm, observing the light catch and refract within its saturated deeps, and then with infinite care raised it to his good eye.

He stared at the world through the fractured depths of the stone. It was like kicking open a door just a crack and catching a glimpse of a magic world beyond, a world of color and life, a real world—so different from this false, flat world of gray mundanity.

His breathing became deeper and more even, and the trembling in his hand subsided as his mind loosened in its prison and began to ramble down long-forgotten alleys of memory.

Diamonds. It always started with diamonds. He was in his mother’s arms, diamonds glittering at her throat, dangling from her ears, winking from her fingers. Her voice was like a diamond, pure and cool, and she was singing a song to him in French. He was no more than two years old but nevertheless was crying, not from sorrow, but from the aching beauty of his mother’s voice. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song / betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong . . .

The scene faded.

Now he was wandering through the great house on Dauphine Street, down long corridors and past mysterious rooms, many of them, even then, having been shut up for ages. But when you opened a door, you would always find something exciting, something wondrous and strange: a huge draped bed, dark paintings of women in white and men with dead eyes; you would see exotic objects brought from faraway places—panpipes made of bone, a monkey’s paw edged in silver, a brass Spanish stirrup, a snarling jaguar head, the wrapped foot of an Egyptian mummy.

There was always his mother to flee to, with her warmth and her soft voice and her diamonds that glittered as she moved, catching the light in sudden bursts of rainbow. The diamonds were here, they were alive, they never changed, never faded, never died. They would remain, beautiful and immutable, for all time.

How different from the fickle vicissitudes of the flesh.

Diogenes understood the image of Nero watching Rome burn while gazing at the conflagration through a gemstone. Nero understood the transformative power of gems. He understood that to gaze at the world through such a stone was to transform both the world and oneself. Light was vibration; and there were special vibrations from a diamond that reached the deepest levels of his spirit. Most people couldn’t hear them; perhaps nobody else on earth could hear them. But he could. The gemstones spoke to him, they whispered to him, they gave him strength and wisdom.

Today the diamonds, not the cards, would provide divination.

Diogenes continued to gaze deeply into the blue diamond. Each gemstone had a different voice, and he had picked this stone for its particular wisdom. He waited, murmuring to the gemstone, beseeching it to speak.

And after a moment, it did. In response to his murmured question, a whispery answer came back like an echo of an echo, half heard in a waking dream.

It was a good answer.

Viola Maskelene listened to the strange murmuring, almost like a prayer or a chant, that came from below. The sound was so low she could make out nothing. This was followed by an unnerving half-hour silence. Then, at last, came the sound she’d been dreading: the scrape of a chair, the slow, careful footfall of the man climbing the staircase. All her senses went on high alert, her muscles trembling, ready to act.

A polite rap on the door.

She waited.

“Viola? I should like to come in. Please step round the bed to the far side of the room.”

She hesitated, then did as he requested.

He had said he was going to kill her at dawn. But he hadn’t. The sun had set already, night was coming on. Something had happened. His plans had changed. Or, more likely, had been changed, against his will.

The door opened and she saw Diogenes standing in it. He looked different—slightly disheveled. His face was mottled, his cravat askew, his ginger hair a little ruffled.

“What do you want?” she asked huskily.

Still, he gazed at her. “I’m beginning to see what my brother found so fascinating in you. You are, of course, beautiful and intelligent, as well as spirited. But there is one quality you possess that truly astonishes me. You have no fear.”

She did not dignify this with an answer.

“You should be afraid.”

“You’re mad.”

“Then I am like God, because if there is a God, He is Himself mad. I wonder why it is that you have no fear. Are you brave or stupid—or do you merely lack the imagination to picture your own death? You see, I can imagine it, have imagined it, so very clearly. When I look at you, I see a bag filled with blood, bones, viscera, and meat, held in by the most fragile and vulnerable covering, so easily punctured, so facilely ripped or torn. I have to admit, I was looking forward to it.”

He peered at her closely. “Ah! Do I finally detect a note of fear?”

“What do you want?” she repeated.

He raised his hand, opening it with a twist and displaying a dazzling gemstone between thumb and forefinger. The ceiling light struck it, casting glittering shards about the room.

“Ultima Thule.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is a diamond known as the Ultima Thule, named after a line in one of Virgil’s Georgics. That’s Latin for the ‘Uttermost Thule,’ the land of perpetual ice.”

“I read Latin in school, too,” said Viola sarcastically.

“Then you’ll understand why this diamond reminded me of you.”

With another flick of the wrist, he tossed it to her. Instinctively, she caught it.

“A little going-away gift.”

Something about the way he said “going away” gave her an ugly feeling. “I don’t want any gift from you.”

“Oh, but it’s so apt. Twenty-two carats, princess-cut, rated IF Flawless, with a color grading of D. Are you familiar with the grading of diamonds?”

“What rot you talk!”

“D is given to a diamond utterly without color. It is also called white. It is considered by those with no imagination to be a desirable trait. I look at you, Viola, and what do I see? A wealthy, titled, beautiful, brilliant, and successful woman. You have a splendid career as an Egyptologist, you have a charming house on the island of Capraia, you have a grand old family estate in England. No doubt you consider you are living life to the fullest. Not only that, but you’ve had relationships with a variety of interesting men, from an Oxford professor to a Hollywood actor to a famous pianist—even an Italian soccer player. How others must envy you!”

Shock burned through Viola at this invasion of her privacy. “You bloody—”

“And yet, not all is what it seems. None of your relationships have worked out. No doubt you’re telling yourself the fault lies with the men. When will it occur to you, Viola, that the fault lies in yourself? You are just like that diamond—flawless, brilliant, perfect, and utterly without color. All your sad attempts to appear exciting, unconventional, are just that—sad attempts.” He laughed harshly. “As if digging up mummies, rooting in your little plot of dirt by the Mediterranean, could confer character! That diamond, which all the world considers so perfect, is in reality dead common. Like you. You’re thirty-five years old and you’re unloved and unloving. Why, you’re so desperate for love that you fly halfway around the world in response to a letter from a man you met only once! Ultima Thule is yours, Viola. You’ve earned it.”

Viola staggered. His words felt like one physical blow after another, each one finding its mark. This time she had no answer.

“That’s right. No matter where you go, you’ll live in Ultima Thule, the land of perpetual ice. As someone once said: Wherever you go, there you are. There’s no love within you, and there’ll be no love for you. Barrenness is your fate.”

“You and your bit of glass can get knotted!” she cried, violently throwing the stone back at him.

He deftly caught it. “Glass, you say? Do you know what I did yesterday while you were here all alone?”

“My interest in your life would be undetectable even to the most powerful microscope.”

Diogenes removed a square of newsprint from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing the front page of that day’s New York Times.

She stared at it from across the room, squinting to make out the headlines.

“I robbed the Astor Hall of Diamonds at the Museum of Natural History. It is a crime I’ve been planning for many years. I created a new identity to pull it off. And you helped me do it. That’s why I wanted to give you that stone. But if you don’t want it . . .” He shrugged, slipped it into his pocket.

“My God.” Viola stared at him. And now, for the first time, she was truly afraid.

“You played an important role. The pivotal role. You see, your disappearance kept my brother racing all over Long Island, searching frantically for you, desperately worried about your safety, while I robbed the museum and transported the gems out here.”

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 was going 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—if you 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 must leave 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.

Sixty-eight

PENDERGAST REMAINED in the darkness of the tunnel, gun drawn, waiting. All was silent. A minute went by, then two, then three, then four.

Five minutes passed. No train came.

Six minutes. Seven.

Still Pendergast waited in the dark. He realized his brother, always cautious, would not show himself until the train had passed. Slowly, he stepped back out into the light.

“Aloysius! What are you still doing here?” The voice was suddenly panicked. “I said I’d kill anyone who showed themselves again!”

“Then do it.”

Once again, a gun fired, kicking up gravel inches from his toe.

“Your aim is off.”

A second round ricocheted off the stone arch above Pendergast’s head, spraying him with chips.

“You missed again.”

“The train’s coming through at any moment,” came the urgent voice. “I won’t have to kill you—the train will do it for me.”

Pendergast shook his head. Then he began strolling leisurely along the railroad turntable, heading toward the center of the vault.

“Get back!” Another shot.

“Your aim is poor today, Diogenes.”

He stopped at the center of the turntable.

“No!” came the voice. “Get away!”

Pendergast reached down and picked up the box, took out the diamond, weighed it in his palm.

“The train, you fool! Put the diamond down! It’s safe in that hole!”

“There is no train.”

“Yes, there is. It’s late, that’s all.”

“It’s not coming.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The midnight Acela was canceled. I called in a bomb threat at the Back Bay station.”

“You’re bluffing! How could you have called in such a threat? You couldn’t have known my plan.”

“No? Why meet us at six minutes to midnight, rather than midnight? And why here? There could be only one reason: it had to do with the railroad timetable. From there it was elementary.” He slipped the diamond into his pocket.

“Put that back—it’s mine! You liar! You lied to me!”

“I never lied to you. I merely followed your instructions. You, on the other hand, lied to me. Many times. You said you would kill Smithback. Instead, you targeted Margo Green.”

“I killed your friends. You know I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

“And that’s precisely what you’re going to have to do. You want to stop me? Then kill me.”

“Bastard! Mon semblable, mon frère—now, you die!”

Pendergast waited, motionless. A minute passed, then another.

“You see, you can’t kill me,” Pendergast said. “That’s why you did not properly aim your shots. You need me alive. You proved that when you rescued me from Castel Fosco. You need me, because without me—without your hatred of me—you would have nothing left.”

Diogenes did not respond. And yet a new sound had been introduced to the vault: the sound of running feet, barked commands, crackling radios.

The sounds were coming closer.

“What is it?” came Diogenes’s urgent voice.

“The police,” said Pendergast calmly.

“You called the police? You fool, they’ll get you, not me!”

“That’s the whole point. And your gunshots will bring them here all the faster.”

“What are you talking about? Idiot, you’re what—using yourself as bait? Sacrificing yourself?”

“Precisely. I’m exchanging my freedom for the safety of Viola, and for the recovery of Lucifer’s Heart. Self-sacrifice, Diogenes: the one end result you could not have predicted. Because it’s the one thing you would never, ever think to do yourself.”

“You—! Give me my diamond!”

“Come and get it. You might even have a minute to enjoy it before we’re both captured. Or you can run now, and maybe—just maybe—escape.”

“You can’t do this, you’re utterly mad!” The disembodied voice fell in another choking moan, so penetrating and inhuman that it sounded feral. And then it cut off abruptly, leaving only an echo.

A moment later, Hayward burst out of tunnel IV, a phalanx of cops behind her. Singleton followed, speaking excitedly into his radio. The officers quickly surrounded Pendergast, dropping to their knees in the three-point stance, weapons aimed at him.

“Police! Freeze! Raise your hands!”

Slowly, Pendergast raised his hands.

Hayward came forward, stepping through the ring of blue. “Are you armed, Agent Pendergast?”

Pendergast nodded. “And you will find Lucifer’s Heart in the left pocket of my jacket. Please treat it with great care. Hold it yourself, don’t entrust it to anyone.”

Hayward glanced back, motioned for one of the officers to frisk him. Another agent came up behind, grabbing Pendergast’s hands, pulling them behind his back and cuffing them.

“I suggest we move away from the railroad track,” Pendergast said. “For the sake of safety.”

“All in good time,” Hayward said. She reached cautiously into his jacket pocket, withdrew the diamond, glanced at it, tucked it into her own breast pocket. “Aloysius Pendergast, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”

But Pendergast was not listening. He was looking over Hayward’s shoulder, into the darkness of tunnel III. Two small points of light were barely visible there, seemingly mere reflections of the faint light of the vault. As he watched, the lights faded out a moment, then returned—as eyes would do when blinked. Then they dimmed, turned away, and vanished, leaving only blackness in their wake.

Sixty-nine

THE AMBULANCE CREW had already taken away Kaplan and Viola. D’Agosta remained behind, cuffed to a chair in the holding area of the NYPD’s Madison Square Garden substation, guarded by six cops. His head was down, eyes on the floor, trying to avoid eye contact with his former peers and subordinates as they stood around, making forced small talk. It turned out to be easy: everybody was assiduously avoiding looking at him. It was as if he no longer existed, as if he’d turned into some kind of vermin that didn’t even merit a glance.

He heard a burst of radio talk and saw, through the substation’s glassed-in partition, a large group of cops moving through the ticketing area of Penn Station. In the middle, still walking tall, was the slender, black-suited figure of Pendergast, hands cuffed behind his back, two burly cops on either side. Pendergast glanced neither to the left nor to the right, and his back was straight, his face untroubled. For the first time in many days, he looked—if it was possible, under the circumstances—almost like his old self. No doubt they were leading him to a waiting paddy wagon at the station’s Eighth Avenue entrance. As Pendergast passed, he glanced in D’Agosta’s direction. Even though the partition was made of mirrored glass, it seemed that Pendergast nevertheless looked directly at him, with what seemed to be a quick, grateful nod.

D’Agosta turned away. His whole world, everything he cared about, had been destroyed. Because of Pendergast’s insistence that he inform Hayward of their whereabouts, his friend was on his way to prison, probably for life. There was only one thing that could make him feel worse, and that would be if Hayward herself made an appearance.

As if on cue, there she was: walking with Singleton, approaching from the far side of the substation.

He dropped his head and waited. He heard footsteps approach. His face burned.

“Lieutenant?”

He looked up. It wasn’t Hayward, just Singleton. Laura had simply passed him by.

Singleton glanced around, exchanged greetings with the cops guarding D’Agosta. “Uncuff him, please.”

One of the cops uncuffed him from the chair.

“I’d like to have a private word with the lieutenant, if you fellows don’t mind.”

The cops evacuated the holding area with visible relief. When they were gone, Singleton put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re in deep shit, Vinnie,” he said, not unkindly.

D’Agosta nodded.

“Needless to say, they’ll be convening a board of inquiry, and a preliminary internal affairs hearing will be held as soon as possible, probably the day after tomorrow. Your future in law enforcement is a big question mark at this point, but, frankly, that’s the least of your worries. It looks like we’re dealing with four felony charges: kidnapping two, grand auto, reckless endangerment, accessory after.”

D’Agosta put his head in his hands.

Singleton squeezed his shoulder. “The thing is, Vinnie, despite all this, in the end you came through. You dropped a dime on Pendergast, and we nailed him. A few cars were wrecked, but nobody got hurt. We might even be able to argue that this was the plan all along—you know, you were working undercover, setting Pendergast up.”

D’Agosta didn’t respond. The sight of Pendergast being led off in cuffs was still working its way into his head. Pendergast, the untouchable.

“The point is, I’m going to see what I can do about these charges, maybe knock some of them down to misdemeanors before they get written up and filed, if you know what I mean. No promises.”

D’Agosta swallowed and managed to say, “Thanks.”

“There’s a bit of a twist here. The kidnap victim’s preliminary statement seems to indicate that this Diogenes Pendergast is alive—and maybe even responsible for the diamond heist at the museum. Seems we just missed him down there in the railroad tunnels. The fact that Pendergast had Lucifer’s Heart in his pocket is also damned puzzling. This sort of . . . well, opens up the case. We’re going to have to take a second look at some of our assumptions.”

D’Agosta looked up sharply. “I can explain everything.”

“Save it for the interrogation. Hayward already told me about your theory that Diogenes framed his brother for those killings. The fact is, we now know that Pendergast impersonated Kaplan and stole the diamond. Whatever the precise details are, he’s going to do hard time, no question about it. If I were you—and I’m speaking to you now as a friend, not as a supervisor—I’d worry about your own skin and quit interesting yourself in his. That FBI bastard’s caused you enough trouble.”

“Captain, I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t speak of Agent Pendergast in that way.”

“Loyal to the end, eh?” Singleton shook his head.

The sound of a loud, angry voice came echoing down the substation. A solid mass of federal agents, led by a tall, glowering, sunburned man, came into view outside the holding area. D’Agosta stared hard: the man at the front looked familiar, very familiar. He tried to clear his mind, cut through the fog. Coffey. Special Agent Coffey.

Spying Singleton, Coffey veered in the direction of the holding area.

“Captain Singleton?” His fleshy face was red even through the tan.

Captain Singleton looked up, his expression mild. “Yes, Agent Coffey?”

“What the hell’s gone down here? You made the collar without us?”

“That’s right.”

“You know this is our case.”

Singleton waited a minute before responding. When he did, his voice was calm and low, almost as if he were talking to a child. “The information came in fast and we had to act on it immediately. The perp slipped your Suffolk County dragnet and made his way back into the city. We couldn’t wait. I’m sure you’ll understand, given the circumstances, why we had to move without you.”

“You didn’t contact the Southern District of Manhattan Field Office at all. There were agents standing by in the city, ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

Another pause. “That was certainly an oversight, for which I take full responsibility. You know how easy it is, in the heat of action, to neglect to dot an i somewhere along the way. My apologies.”

Coffey stood in front of Singleton, breathing hard. A few NYPD officers snickered in the background.

“There was an unexpected bonus in collaring Pendergast,” Singleton added.

“And what the hell was that?”

“He had the diamond, Lucifer’s Heart, in his pocket.”

Singleton took advantage of Coffey’s momentary speechlessness to glance at his men. “We’re done here. Let’s head downtown.”

And, propelling D’Agosta gently to his feet, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Seventy

WEDNESDAY DAWNED brilliant and clear, the morning sun blazing in through the single window of the dining nook of the small apartment on West End Avenue. Nora Kelly heard the door to the bathroom slam. A few minutes later, Bill Smithback emerged in the hallway, dressed for work, his tie unknotted and his jacket slung over one shoulder. The expression on his face was dark.

“Come and have some breakfast,” she said.

His face brightened slightly as he saw her, and he came over and sat down at the table.

“What time did you get in last night?”

“Four.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss.

“You look like hell.”

“It isn’t for lack of sleep.”

Nora pushed the paper over to him. “Page one. Congratulations.”

Smithback glanced at it. His story of the theft of Lucifer’s Heart by an unknown assailant was front page, above the fold: the dream of every journalist. It was a stupendous scoop, and along with the arrest of Pendergast, it had pushed Harriman’s story of the Dangler capture to B3 of the Metro Section—an old woman had seen the Dangler exposing himself in front of an ATM and, righteously indignant, had whacked him into semiconsciousness with her cane. For the first time, Nora thought, Bill didn’t seem interested in Harriman’s misfortune.

He pushed the paper away. “Not going to work?”

“The museum’s told us all to stay home for the rest of this week—a kind of forced vacation. The place is in lockdown mode until they find out how the security system was breached.” She shook her head. “On top of that, Hugo Menzies seems to have disappeared. It seems they caught him on a security camera not far from the Astor Hall at the time of the heist. They’re worried he might have stumbled on the robbery and gotten himself killed.”

“Maybe he’s the thief.”

“Diogenes Pendergast is the thief. You of all people should know that.”

“Maybe Menzies is Diogenes.” Bill forced a brittle laugh.

“That’s not even funny.”

Smithback shrugged. “Sorry. Poor taste on my part.”

Nora filled his coffee cup, refilled her own. “There’s one thing I still don’t get from reading your story. How did Pendergast get Lucifer’s Heart out of the Affiliated Transglobal building? I mean, they immediately sealed the building, they X-rayed everyone leaving, they did a count of every single person who had come in and left. And they never found Pendergast. What’d he do, climb down the outside of the building? How’d he get the gem out?”

Smithback smoothed down an unruly cowlick, which popped back up as soon as his hand was gone. “That’s the best part of the story—if only I could write it.”

“Why can’t you?”

Smithback turned toward her and smiled a little grimly. “Because I was the one who walked the diamond out of the building.”

“You?” Nora stared at him, incredulous.

Smithback nodded.

“Oh, Bill!”

“Nora, I had to. It was the only way. And don’t worry—it’ll never be traced back to me. The diamond is back where it belongs. It was truly a brilliant plan.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You sure you want to know? That makes you an accessory after the fact.”

“I’m your wife, silly. Of course I want to know.”

Smithback sighed. “Pendergast worked it all out. He knew they’d seal the building and search everyone on their way out. So he posed as a technician manning the X-ray machine.”

“But if security was as tight as you say, wouldn’t they X-ray the security technicians, too? I mean, when they left the building?”

“Pendergast figured that out, too. After sending me through the X-ray machine, he pointed me toward the building exit. That’s when he slipped the diamond into my pocket. I walked it right out of the building.”

Nora could hardly believe it. “If you’d been caught, they would have put you away for twenty years.”

“Don’t think that wasn’t on my mind.” Smithback shrugged. “But a life depended on it. And I have faith in Pendergast—sometimes I feel like I’m the only one left in the world who does.”

At this, he rose, walked to the window, and stared out restlessly, hands on his hips.

“It’s not over, Nora,” he muttered. “Not by a long shot.”

He turned swiftly, eyes flashing with anger. “It’s a travesty of justice. An innocent man’s been framed as a horrendous serial killer. The real killer’s still loose. I’m a journalist. It’s my job to report the truth. There’s a hell of a lot of truth still missing in this story. I’m going to find out what it is.”

“Bill—for God’s sake, don’t go after Diogenes.”

“What about Margo? Are we going to let her killer go free? With Pendergast in jail and D’Agosta on modified duty or worse, there’s no one left who can do it but me.”

“Don’t. Please don’t. This is just another one of your impulsive—and stupid—decisions.”

He turned back to the window. “I concede that it’s impulsive. Maybe even stupid. So be it.”

Nora rose from her chair, feeling a surge of anger herself. “What about us? Our future? If you go after Diogenes, he’ll kill you. You’re no match for him!”

Smithback looked out the window, not answering immediately. Then he stirred. “Pendergast saved my life,” he said quietly. He turned again and looked at Nora. “Yours, too.”

She wheeled away, exasperated.

He came over and took her in his arms. “I won’t do it . . . if you tell me not to.”

“And that’s the one thing I’m not going to tell you. It’s your decision.”

Smithback stepped back, knotted his tie, drew on his jacket. “I’d better get to work.”

He kissed her. “I love you, Nora.”

She shook her head. “Be very, very careful.”

“I will, I promise. Have faith in me.”

And he vanished out the door.

Seventy-one

ONE DAY LATER, and fifty miles to the north, the sun shone dimly through the shuttered window of a small room in the intensive-care unit of a private clinic. A single patient lay under a sheet, hooked up to several large machines that beeped softly, almost comfortingly. Her eyes were closed.

A nurse came in, checked the machines, jotted down some of the vitals, and then paused to look at the patient.

“Good morning, Theresa,” she said brightly.

The patient’s eyes remained closed, and she did not answer. They’d removed the feeding tube, and she was out of immediate danger, but she was still one very sick woman.

“It’s a beautiful morning,” the nurse went on, opening the shutters and allowing a ray of sun to fall across the covers. Outside the window of the rambling Queen Anne mansion, the Hudson River sparkled amidst the winter landscape of Putnam County.

The woman’s pale face lay against the pillow, her short brown hair spreading slightly across the cotton fabric.

The nurse continued to work, changing the IV bag, smoothing the covers. Finally, she leaned over the girl and brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

The girl’s eyes slowly opened.

The nurse paused, then took her hand. “Good morning,” she said again, holding the hand lightly.

The eyes flicked to the left and right. The lips moved, but no sound came.

“Don’t you try to talk just yet,” the nurse said, moving to the intercom. “Everything will be all right. You’ve had a tough time of it, but now everything’s fine.”

She pressed the intercom lever and leaned toward it, speaking in a low voice.

“The patient in ICU-6 is waking up,” she murmured. “Get word to Dr. Winokur.”

She went and sat by the bed, taking the woman’s hand again.

“Where . . . ?”

“You’re at the Feversham Clinic, Theresa dear. A few miles north of Cold Spring. It’s January 31, and you’ve been unconscious for six days, but we’ve got you on the mend. Everything’s just fine. You’re a strong, healthy woman and you’re going to get better.”

The eyes widened slightly. “What . . . ?” the weak voice managed to say.

“What happened? Never you mind about that now. You had a very close call, but it’s all over and done with. You’re safe here.”

The figure in the bed struggled to speak, her lips moving.

“Don’t try to talk just yet. Save your strength for the doctor.”

“. . . tried to kill . . .” The phrase came out disconnected.

“Like I said, never you mind. You concentrate on getting better.”

“. . . awful . . .”

The nurse stroked her hand kindly. “I’m sure it was, but let’s not dwell on that now. Dr. Winokur will be here at any moment and he might have some questions for you. You should rest, dear.”

“Tired . . . Tired . . .”

“Certainly, you are. You’re very tired. But you can’t go back to sleep quite yet, Theresa. Stay awake for me and the doctor. Just for now. Okay? That’s a good girl.”

“I’m not . . . Theresa.”

The nurse smiled indulgently, patting her hand. “Don’t worry about a thing. A little confusion on awakening is perfectly normal. While waiting for the doctor, let’s look out the window. Isn’t it a lovely day?”

Seventy-two

HAYWARD HAD NEVER BEFORE visited the legendary high-security lockup within Bellevue Hospital, and she walked toward the unit with a rising sense of curiosity. The long, brightly lit hallways stank of rubbing alcohol and bleach, and along the way they passed through almost half a dozen locked doors: Adult Emergency Services, Psychiatric Emergency, Psychiatric Inpatient, finally ending up at the most intimidating door of all: a windowless double set of dented stainless steel, flanked by two orderlies in white suits and an NYPD police sergeant sitting at a desk. The door sported a small, scratched label: Secure Area.

Hayward flashed her badge. “Captain Laura Hayward and guest. We’re expected in D-11.”

“Morning, Captain,” said the sergeant in a leisurely tone, who took her shield, jotted down some information on the sign-in sheet, and handed it to her to sign.

“My guest will wait here while I visit the inmate first.”

“Sure, sure,” said the sergeant. “Joe will escort you.”

The beefier of the two orderlies nodded, unsmiling.

The sergeant turned to a nearby phone and made a call. A moment later, there came the sound of heavy automatic locks being released. The orderly named Joe pulled the door open. “D-11, you said?”

“That’s correct.”

“This way, Captain.”

Beyond lay a narrow corridor, the floors and walls of linoleum. Long rows of doors lined both walls. These were metal, with tiny observation ports set at eye level. A strange, muted chorus of voices met Hayward’s ears: frenzied cursing, crying, a dreadful half-human gibbering, all filtering out from behind the doors. The smell was different here; underlying the stench of alcohol and cleaning fluids was a faint waft of vomit, excrement, and something else which Hayward recognized from her visits to maximum security prisons: the smell of fear.

The door clanged shut behind her. A moment later, the automatic locks reengaged with a crack like a pistol shot.

She followed the orderly down the long corridor, around a corner, and down a similar corridor. There, toward the end, she could easily identify the room they were headed for: it could only be the one with four men in suits standing guard outside. Coffey had missed out on the actual collar, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to miss anything else.

The agents turned as she approached. Hayward recognized one of them as Coffey’s personal flunky, Agent Rabiner. He didn’t seem happy to see her.

“Put your weapons in the lockbox, Captain,” he said by way of greeting.

Captain Hayward removed her service piece and pepper spray and placed them in the lockbox.

“Looks like we’re keeping him,” Rabiner said with an unctuous smile. “We’ve got him nailed on Decker, and it fits the federal death penalty statute to a T. Right now it’s just a question of getting the psych evaluation over with. By the end of the week, he’ll be in the isolation unit at Herkmoor. We’re taking this sucker to trial, like, tomorrow.”

“You’re rather garrulous this morning, Agent Rabiner,” Hayward said.

That shut him up.

“I’d like to see him now. First myself, then I will bring back a guest.”

“You going in alone or want protection?”

Hayward didn’t bother answering. She simply stood back and waited while one of the agents peered through the glass, then unbolted the door, weapon at the ready.

“Sing out if he gets physical,” Rabiner said.

Captain Hayward stepped into the garishly lit cell.

Pendergast, in an orange prison jumpsuit, sat quietly on the narrow cot. The walls of the cell were thickly padded and there were no other furnishings.

For a moment, Hayward said nothing. She had grown so used to seeing him in a well-tailored black suit that the outfit looked incomprehensibly out of place. His face was pale and drawn, but still composed.

“Captain Hayward.” He stood and motioned her toward the cot. “Please have a seat.”

“That’s all right. I prefer to stand.”

“Very well.” Pendergast, too, remained standing, as a courtesy.

A silence settled over the small cell. Hayward was not one to find herself at a loss for words, but the fact was, she still didn’t quite know what impulse had prompted her to make this visit. After a moment, she cleared her throat.

“What did you do to piss off Special Agent Coffey?” she asked.

Pendergast smiled a little wanly. “Agent Coffey has an inordinately high opinion of himself. It’s a viewpoint I’ve never quite been able to bring myself to share. We worked on a case together some years ago, which did not end well for him.”

“I ask because we tried to get jurisdiction over the case, but I’ve never seen the FBI stomp down so hard on the NYPD. And it wasn’t done in the usual semi-cordial way.”

“I am not surprised.”

“Thing is, there’ve been a couple of bizarre developments in the case, not yet official, which I wanted to ask you about.”

“Please do.”

“Turns out Margo Green is alive. Someone pulled a fast one at the hospital, arranging for her to be medevaced upstate under a phony name, while substituting the corpse of a homeless drug addict about to be sent to potter’s field in her place. The M.E. says it was an honest mistake, the medical director claims it was a ‘regrettable bureaucratic mix-up.’ Funny that both of them happen to be old acquaintances of yours. Green’s mother just about had a heart attack when she learned the daughter she had just buried was alive.”

She paused, her eyes narrowed, then burst out: “Damn it, Pendergast! Can’t you do anything by the book? And how could you put a mother through that?”

Pendergast was silent a moment before answering. “Because her grief had to be real. Diogenes would have seen through any dissembling. As cruel as it was, it was necessary in order to save Margo Green’s life—and her life is, ultimately, more important than a mother’s temporary grief. It was this same need for utmost secrecy that kept me from telling even Lieutenant D’Agosta.”

Hayward sighed. “Anyway, I just spoke to Green on the phone. She’s incredibly weak, had the closest of calls, but she was very lucid. And what she had to say surprised the hell out of me. She’s absolutely insistent that you weren’t her attacker, and her description fits the other description we have of your brother quite well. Problem is, it was your blood at the crime scene and on the weapon Green defended herself with, along with fiber, hair, and other physical evidence. So we’ve got a major evidence conundrum on our hands.”

“You certainly do.”

“Our interviews with Viola Maskelene corroborate your story about Diogenes, at least what I understand of it. She’s insistent it was he who did the kidnapping, not you. She says he basically confessed to the killings and showed her one of the stolen diamonds from the Astor Hall. No proof, of course, just her word, but she helped lead us to the safe house where she was held. We found quite a setup there, including some pretty conclusive evidence linking Diogenes to the Astor Hall theft—evidence he clearly didn’t intend to give up.”

“Interesting.”

“We almost caught someone in the tunnels who Lieutenant D’Agosta swears was Diogenes. The gemologist, Kaplan, backs this up, as does Maskelene. Their preliminary stories are all consistent, and we know it couldn’t have been you. We’ve asked our British counterparts to open an investigation into Diogenes’s death in England, but that’ll take time. Anyway, the evidence does seem to indicate your brother may be alive, after all. We have three people who certainly believe it.”

Pendergast nodded. “And what do you believe, Captain?”

Hayward hesitated. “That the case merits further investigation. Trouble is, the FBI are moving full speed ahead bringing capital charges on the murder of a federal agent, and it seems they could care less at present about any inconsistencies in the other three. Or rather, two, since the Green killing wasn’t a killing, after all. Which makes my continued investigation of those other homicides somewhat moot.”

Pendergast nodded. “I see your problem.”

Hayward peered at him curiously. “I was just wondering—do you have anything to say about the matter to me?”

“That I have faith in your abilities as a police officer to find the truth.”

“Nothing more?”

“That’s a great deal, Captain.”

She paused. “Help me, Pendergast.”

“The person to help you is Lieutenant D’Agosta. He knows all there is to know about the case, and you could do no better than use his expertise.”

“You know that’s impossible. Lieutenant D’Agosta’s on modified duty. He can’t help anyone at the moment.”

“Nothing is impossible. You just need to learn how to bend the rules.”

Hayward sighed irritatedly.

“I have a question for you,” Pendergast said. “Does Agent Coffey know about the reappearance of Margo Green?”

“No, but I doubt he’d care much. As I said, they’re one hundred percent focused on Decker.”

“Good. I would ask you to keep that information quiet as long as possible. I believe Margo Green is safe from Diogenes, at least in the short term. My brother has gone to ground and will be licking his wounds for a while, but when he emerges, he will be more dangerous than ever. I ask that you keep a protective eye over Dr. Green during the rest of her convalescence. The same goes for William Smithback and his wife, Nora. And yourself. You’re all potential targets, I’m afraid.”

Hayward gave a shudder. What had seemed like an insane fantasy just two days ago now was beginning to look chillingly real.

“I’ll do that,” she said.

“Thank you.”

Another silence settled over the cell. After a moment, Hayward roused herself.

“Well, I’d better be going. I really just came as an escort for someone else who wants to see you.”

“Captain?” Pendergast said. “A final word.”

She turned to face him again. He stood there, pale in the artificial light, his cool gaze resting upon her.

“Please don’t be too hard on Vincent.”

Despite herself, Hayward looked away quickly.

“What he did, he did at my request. The reason he told you so little, the reason he moved out—those actions were to keep you safe from my brother. In order to help me, to protect lives, he made a grave professional sacrifice—I hope and pray the sacrifice won’t be a personal one, as well.”

Hayward did not reply.

“That’s all. Good-bye, Captain.”

Hayward found her voice. “Good-bye, Agent Pendergast.”

Then, still without making eye contact, she turned away once more and rapped on the safety glass of the observation port.

Pendergast watched the door close behind Hayward. He stood motionless, in the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, listening. He heard a few muffled voices outside the padded door, and then focused on the light but determined stride of Hayward as she made for the ward’s exit. He heard the security locks disengage, heard the heavy door boom open. It remained so for almost thirty seconds before closing and locking again.

Still, Pendergast listened, even more intently. Because now another, different set of footsteps was sounding in the corridor outside: slower, tentative. They were growing closer. As he listened, his frame tensed. A moment later, there was a rude banging on his door again.

“Visitor!”

Then Viola Maskelene appeared in the doorway.

She had a scratch over one eye, and beneath her Mediterranean tan she seemed pale, but otherwise she appeared unhurt.

Pendergast found he could not move. He simply stood and looked at her.

She stepped forward, stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room. The door closed behind her.

Still, Pendergast did not move.

Viola’s eyes fell from his face to his prison garb.

“I wish, for your sake, that you’d never met me,” he said almost coldly.

“What about for your sake?”

He looked at her a long time, and then said, more quietly: “I’ll never regret meeting you. But as long as you have feelings for me—if that is indeed the case—then you’ll be in grave danger. You must go away and never see or think of me again.”

He paused, then cast his eyes to the floor. “I’m deeply, deeply sorry for everything.”

There was a long silence.

“Is that it?” Viola finally asked in a low voice. “We’ll never know, never have the chance to find out?”

“Never. Diogenes is still out there. If he thinks there’s any connection remaining between us, anything at all, he’ll kill you. You must leave immediately, go back to Capraia, get on with your life, tell everyone—including your own heart—how utterly indifferent you are to me.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll know you’re alive. That’s enough.”

She took a fierce step forward. “I don’t want to ‘get on’ with my life. Not anymore.” She hesitated, then raised her arms and rested her hands on his shoulders. “Not after meeting you.”

Pendergast remained as still as a statue.

“You must leave me behind,” he said quietly. “Diogenes will be back. And I won’t be able to protect you.”

“He . . . said terrible things to me,” she said, her voice faltering. “It’s been thirty-six hours since I walked out of that railroad tunnel, and in all those hours I haven’t been able to think of anything else. I’ve led a stupid, wasted, loveless life. And now you’re telling me to walk away from the only thing that means anything to me.”

Pendergast put his arms gently around her waist, looked searchingly into her eyes.

“Diogenes makes it a game to find out a person’s deepest fears. Then he strikes a deadly, well-aimed blow. He’s driven people to suicide that way. But his words are hollow. Don’t let those words stalk you. To know Diogenes is to walk in darkness. You must walk out of that darkness, Viola. Back into the light. And that also means away from me.”

“No,” she murmured.

“Go back to your island and forget about me. If not for your own sake, Viola, then for mine.”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then, in the harsh light of the squalid cell, they kissed.

After a moment, Pendergast disengaged himself and stepped back. His face was uncharacteristically flushed; his pale eyes glittered.

“Good-bye, Viola,” he said.

Viola stood as if rooted to the ground. A minute passed. Then, with infinite reluctance, she turned and walked slowly to the door.

At the door, she hesitated and, without turning, began to speak in a low voice.

“I’ll do as you say. I’ll go back to my island. I’ll tell everyone I could not care less about you. I’ll live my life. And when you’re finally free, you’ll know where to find me.”

She gave a quick rap on the observation port, the door opened—and she was gone.

Epilogue

THE FIRE DIED on the grate, leaving a crumbling stack of coals. The light in the library was dim, and the usual cloak of silence lay over all: the baize-covered reading tables neatly stacked with books, the walls of slumbering volumes, the shaded lamps and leather chairs. Outside, it was a bright winter day, the last day of January, but within 891 Riverside it seemed to be perpetual night.

Constance sat in one chair, wearing a black petticoat with white lace trimming, legs tucked up beneath her, reading an eighteenth-century treatise on the benefits of bloodletting. D’Agosta sat in a wing chair nearby. A can of Budweiser sat on a silver tray on a table beside him, unconsumed, in a puddle of its own condensation.

D’Agosta glanced over at Constance, at her perfect profile, her straight brown hair. That she was a beautiful young woman, there was no doubt; that she was unusually, even uncannily, intelligent and well read for someone her age went without saying. But there was something strange about her—very, very strange. She’d had no emotional reaction at all to the news of Pendergast’s arrest and incarceration. None.

In D’Agosta’s experience, that kind of nonreaction was often the strongest reaction of all. It worried him. Pendergast had warned him of Constance’s current fragility and had hinted of dark things in her past. D’Agosta had long had his own doubts about Constance’s stability, and this inexplicable lack of reaction only made him wonder the more. It was partly to watch over her, now that Pendergast was gone, that had brought him and his few belongings back to 891 the day before—that and the fact he had no place else to go.

And then there was the problem of Diogenes. It was true he had been crossed, his plans for Viola and Lucifer’s Heart had been thwarted, he himself forced back into hiding. The NYPD now believed in his existence and were pursuing him with a vengeance. The recent developments seemed to have dented, but not completely shaken, their certainty that Pendergast was a serial killer—the problem was still the overwhelming physical evidence. The NYPD was at least now certain, however, that Diogenes was behind the Astor Hall theft and had kidnapped Viola. They’d found the safe house and were in the process of taking it apart. The case was by no means closed.

In a way, Diogenes’s failure and flight only made him more dangerous. He recalled Diogenes’s curiosity about Constance, during the phone conversation in the vintage Jaguar, and he shivered. The one thing he could count on was that Diogenes was a meticulous planner. His response—and there would be one, of that D’Agosta was sure—would not come for a while. He would have a little time to prepare for it.

Constance looked up from her book. “Did you know, Lieutenant, that even into the early 1800s, leeches were often a preferred alternative to the scarificator when performing bloodletting?”

D’Agosta glanced at her. “Can’t say that I did.”

“The colonial doctors frequently imported the European leech, Hirudinea annelida, because it was able to take in much more blood than Macrobetta decora.”

“Macrobetta decora?”

“The American leech, Lieutenant.” And Constance returned to her book.

Call me Vincent, D’Agosta thought as he looked reflectively at her. He wasn’t all that sure how much longer he was going to be a lieutenant, anyway.

His mind wandered to the previous afternoon, and the humiliating internal affairs hearing. On the one hand, it had been a huge relief: Singleton had been good to his word and the whole misadventure had been chalked up to an undercover operation gone awry, in which D’Agosta had displayed poor judgment, made errors—one of the board had termed him “maybe the stupidest cop on the force”—but in the end they found he had not willfully committed any felonies. The list of misdemeanors was ugly enough.

Stupidity was better than felony, Singleton had told him afterward. There would be more hearings, but his future as an NYPD cop—as any kind of cop—was very much in question.

Hayward, of course, had testified. Her testimony had been delivered in a resolutely neutral voice, employing the usual police jargon, and not once—not once—had she glanced in his direction. But in its own way, the testimony had been effective in helping him escape some of the heavier charges.

Once again, he dragged the Diogenes file into his lap, feeling a sudden stab of futility. Ten days before, he had been in this same room, looking at this same file, again without Pendergast there to guide him. Only now, four people had been murdered, and Pendergast, instead of being “dead,” was in Bellevue, undergoing some kind of psych evaluation. D’Agosta had learned nothing helpful then—what could he possibly learn now?

But he had to keep plugging. They’d taken everything away from him: his career, his relationship with Hayward, his closest friend—everything. There was only one thing left for him to do: prove Pendergast’s innocence. And to do that, he needed to find Diogenes.

A faint buzzer sounded in the depths of the house. Someone was at the door.

Constance looked up. For the briefest of moments, naked fear—and something else, something ineffable—showed in her face before a veil of blankness came down.

D’Agosta stood up. “It’s okay. Probably just neighborhood kids, playing around. I’ll check it out.”

He put the file aside, stood up, surreptitiously checked his weapon, then began walking toward the library door. But even as he did, he saw Proctor approaching from across the reception hall.

“A gentleman here to see you, sir,” Proctor said.

“You took the necessary precautions?” D’Agosta asked.

“Yes, sir, I—”

But just then, a man in a wheelchair came into view in the gallery behind Proctor. D’Agosta stared in astonishment as he recognized Eli Glinn, the head of Effective Engineering Solutions.

The man brushed past both Proctor and D’Agosta and wheeled himself toward one of the library tables. With a brusque motion of his arm, he shoved aside several stacks of books, clearing off a space. Then he deposited a load of papers on the table: blueprints, plats, building plans, mechanical and electrical diagrams.

Constance had risen and was standing, book in hand, looking on.

“What are you doing here?” D’Agosta asked. “How did you find this place?”

“Never mind that,” said the man, turning to D’Agosta with a gleam in his good eye. “Last Sunday, I made a promise.”

He raised his black-gloved hand, and in it was a slender manila folder. He laid it on the table.

“And there you have it: a preliminary psychological profile of Diogenes Dagrepont Bernoulli Pendergast. Updated, I might add, to reflect these most recent events—at least what I could glean of them from the news reports and my sources. I’m counting on you to tell me more.”

“There’s a lot more.”

Glinn glanced over. “And you must be Constance.”

She nodded in a way that was almost a curtsy.

“I’ll need your help, too.”

“I shall be glad.”

“Why this sudden interest?” D’Agosta asked. “I had the impression—”

“The impression that I wasn’t giving it a high priority? I wasn’t. At the time, it seemed a relatively unimportant problem, a way to earn an easy fee. But then, this happened.” And he tapped the manila folder. “There may not be a more dangerous man in the world.”

“I don’t get it.”

A grim smile gathered on Glinn’s lips. “You will when you read the profile.”

D’Agosta nodded toward the table. “And what are all these other papers?”

“Blueprints and mechanical plans for the maximum security wing of the Herkmoor Correctional Facility in upstate New York.”

“Why?”

“I should think the ‘why’ would be obvious. My client, Agent Pendergast.”

“But Pendergast is in Bellevue, not Herkmoor.”

“He’ll be in Herkmoor soon enough.”

D’Agosta glanced at Glinn in astonishment. “You don’t mean we’re going to . . . to bust him out?”

“I do.”

Constance drew in a sharp breath.

“That’s one of the worst pens in the country. No one’s ever escaped from Herkmoor.”

Glinn continued to stare at D’Agosta. “I’m aware of that.”

“You think it’s even possible?”

“Anything’s possible. But I must have your help.”

D’Agosta looked down at the papers and blueprints thrown across the table. Everything conceivable was there—diagrams and drawings of every technical, structural, electrical, and mechanical system in the building. Then he glanced at Constance. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

Finally, he looked back at Glinn’s one glittering eye. For the first time in a long while, he felt a fierce, sudden rush of hope.

“I’m in,” he said. “So help me God, I’m in.”

Another smile spread across Glinn’s scarred face. He gave the pile of papers a light slap with his gloved hand. “Come on, my friends—we’ve got work to do.”

Acknowledgments

At Warner Books, we would like to thank the following: Jamie Raab, Larry Kirshbaum, Maureen Egen, Devi Pillai, Christine Barba and the Sales Team, Karen Torres and Marketing, Martha Otis and the Advertising and Promotions Department, Jennifer Romanello, Dan Rosen, Maja Thomas, Flag Tonuzi, Bob Castillo, Penina Sacks, Jim Spivey, Miriam Parker, Beth de Guzman, and Les Pockell.

A special thanks to our editor, Jaime Levine, for being a tireless champion of the Preston-Child novels. We owe much of our success to her fine editing, enthusiasm, and advocacy.

Thanks also to our agents, Eric Simonoff at Janklow & Nesbit, and Matthew Snyder of Creative Artists Agency. Garlands of laurel leaves to Special Agent Douglas Margini, Jon Couch, John Rogan, and Jill Nowak, for their diverse and sundry ministrations.

And, as always, we want to thank our wives and children for their love and support.

It goes without saying that the characters, corporations, events, locales, police precincts, periodicals, museums, and governmental bodies described on these pages are all fictitious, or are used fictiously.

THE BOOK OF THE DEAD

Lincoln Child dedicates this book to
his mother, Nancy Child

Douglas Preston dedicates this book to
Anna Marguerite McCann Taggart

1

Early-morning sunlight gilded the cobbled drive of the staff entrance at the New York Museum of Natural History, illuminating a glass pillbox just outside the granite archway. Within the pillbox, a figure sat slumped in his chair: an elderly man, familiar to all museum staff. He puffed contentedly on a calabash pipe and basked in the warmth of one of those false-spring days that occur in New York City in February, the kind that coaxes daffodils, crocuses, and fruit trees into premature bloom, only to freeze them dead later in the month.

“Morning, doctor,” Curly said again and again to any and all passersby, whether mailroom clerk or dean of science. Curators might rise and fall, directors might ascend through the ranks, reign in glory, then plummet to ignominious ruin; man might till the field and then lie beneath; but it seemed Curly would never be shifted from his pillbox. He was as much a fixture in the museum as the ultrasaurus that greeted visitors in the museum’s Great Rotunda.

“Here, pops!”

Frowning at this familiarity, Curly roused himself in time to see a messenger shove a package through the window of his pillbox. The package had sufficient momentum to land on the little shelf where the guard kept his tobacco and mittens.

“Excuse me!” Curly said, rousing himself and waving out the window. “Hey!” But the messenger was already speeding away on his fat-tire mountain bike, black rucksack bulging with packages.

“Goodness,” Curly muttered, staring at the package. It was about twelve inches by eight by eight, wrapped in greasy brown paper, and tied up with an excessive amount of old-fashioned twine. It was so beaten-up Curly wondered if the messenger had been run over by a truck on the way over. The address was written in a childish hand: For the rocks and minerals curator, The Museum of Natural History.

Curly broke up the dottle in the bottom of his pipe while gazing thoughtfully at the package. The museum received hundreds of packages every week from children, containing “donations” for the collection. Such donations included everything from squashed bugs and worthless rocks to arrowheads and mummified roadkill. He sighed, then rose painfully from the comfort of his chair and tucked the package under his arm. He put the pipe to one side, slid open the door of his pillbox, and stepped into the sunlight, blinking twice. Then he turned in the direction of the mailroom receiving dock, which was only a few hundred feet across the service drive.

“What have you got there, Mr. Tuttle?” came a voice.

Curly glanced toward the voice. It was Digby Greenlaw, the new assistant director for administration, who was just exiting the tunnel from the staff parking lot.

Curly did not answer immediately. He didn’t like Greenlaw and his condescending Mr. Tuttle. A few weeks earlier, Greenlaw had taken exception to the way Curly checked IDs, complaining that he “wasn’t really looking at them.” Heck, Curly didn’t have to look at them—he knew every employee of the museum on sight.

“Package,” he grunted in reply.

Greenlaw’s voice took on an officious tone. “Packages are supposed to be delivered directly to the mailroom. And you’re not supposed to leave your station.”

Curly kept walking. He had reached an age where he found the best way to deal with unpleasantness was to pretend it didn’t exist.

He could hear the footsteps of the administrator quicken behind him, the voice rising a few notches on the assumption he was hard of hearing. “Mr. Tuttle? I said you should not leave your station unattended.”

Curly stopped, turned. “Thank you for offering, doctor.” He held out the package.

Greenlaw stared it at, squinting. “I didn’t say I would deliver it.”

Curly remained in place, proffering the package.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Greenlaw reached irritably for the package, but his hand faltered midway. “It’s a funny-looking thing. What is it?”

“Dunno, doctor. Came by messenger.”

“It seems to have been mishandled.”

Curly shrugged.

But Greenlaw still didn’t take the package. He leaned toward it, squinting. “It’s torn. There’s a hole . . . Look, there’s something coming out.”

Curly looked down. The corner of the package did indeed have a hole, and a thin stream of brown powder was trickling out.

“What in the world?” Curly said.

Greenlaw took a step back. “It’s leaking some kind of powder.” His voice rode up a notch. “Oh my Lord. What is it?”

Curly stood rooted to the spot.

“Good God, Curly, drop it! It’s anthrax!”

Greenlaw stumbled backward, his face contorted in panic. “It’s a terrorist attack—someone call the police! I’ve been exposed! Oh my God, I’ve been exposed!”

The administrator stumbled and fell backward on the cobblestones, clawing the ground and springing to his feet, and then he was off and running. Almost immediately, two guards came spilling out of the guard station across the way, one intercepting Greenlaw while the other made for Curly.

“What are you doing?” Greenlaw shrieked. “Keep back! Call 911!”

Curly remained where he was, package in hand. This was something so far outside his experience that his mind seemed to have stopped working.

The guards fell back, Greenlaw at their heels. For a moment, the small courtyard was strangely quiet. Then a shrill alarm went off, deafening in the enclosed space. In less than five minutes, the air was filled with the sound of approaching sirens, culminating in an uproar of activity: police cars, flashing lights, crackling radios, and uniformed men rushing this way and that stringing up yellow biohazard tape and erecting a cordon, megaphones shouting at the growing crowds to back off, while at the same time telling Curly to drop the package and step away, drop the package and step away.

But Curly didn’t drop the package and step away. He remained frozen in utter confusion, staring at the thin brown stream that continued to trickle out of the tear in the package, forming a small pile on the cobbles at his feet.

And now two strange-looking men wearing puffy white suits and hoods with plastic visors were approaching, walking slowly, hands outstretched like something Curly had seen in an old science fiction movie. One gently took Curly by the shoulders while the other slipped the package from his fingers and—with infinite care—placed it in a blue plastic box. The first man led him to one side and began carefully vacuuming him up and down with a funny-looking device, and then they began dressing him, too, in one of the strange plastic suits, all the time telling him in low electronic voices that he was going to be all right, that they were taking him to the hospital for a few tests, that everything would be fine. As they placed the hood over his head, Curly began to feel his mind coming back to life, his body able to move again.

“Scuse me, doctor?” he said to one of the men as they led him off toward a van that had backed through the police cordon and was waiting for him, doors open.

“Yes?”

“My pipe.” He nodded toward the pillbox. “Don’t forget to bring my pipe.”

2

Dr. Lauren Wildenstein watched as the “first response” team carried in the blue plastic hazmat container, placing it under the fume hood in her laboratory. The call had come in twenty minutes earlier, and both she and her assistant, Richie, were ready. At first it sounded like it might be the real deal for a change, something that actually fit the profile of a classic bioterror attack—a package sent to a high-profile New York City institution, dribbling brown powder. But on-site testing for anthrax had already come up negative, and Wildenstein knew that this one would almost certainly be another false alarm. In her two years leading the New York City DOHMS Sentinel laboratory, they had received over four hundred suspicious powders to analyze and, thank God, not one had turned out to be a bioterror agent. So far. She glanced at the running tally they kept tacked to the wall: sugar, salt, flour, baking soda, heroin, cocaine, pepper, and dirt, in that order of frequency. The list was a testament to paranoia and too damn many terror alerts.

The delivery team left and she spent a moment staring at the sealed container. Amazing, the consternation a package of powder could cause these days. It had arrived half an hour ago at the museum, and already a guard and a museum administrator had been quarantined, given antibiotics, and were now being treated by mental health services. It seemed the administrator was particularly hysterical.

She shook her head.

“Whaddya think?” came a voice from over her shoulder. “Terrorist cocktail du jour?”

Wildenstein ignored this. Richie’s work was top-notch, even if his emotional development had been arrested somewhere between the third and the fourth grade.

“Let’s run an X-ray.”

“Rolling.”

The false-color X-ray that popped up on the monitor screen showed the package was full of an amorphous substance, with no letter or any other objects visible.

“No detonator,” Richie said. “Darn.”

“I’m going to open the container.” Wildenstein broke the hazmat seals and carefully lifted out the package. She noted the crude, childish scrawl, the lack of a return address, the multiple strands of badly tied twine. It seemed almost designed to arouse suspicion. One corner of the package had been abraded by mishandling, and a light brown substance not unlike sand dribbled from it. This was unlike any bioterror agent she had studied. Awkwardly, on account of her heavy gloves, she cut the twine and opened the package, lifting out a plastic bag.

“We’ve been sandbagged!” said Richie with a snort.

“We treat it as hazardous until proven otherwise,” said Wildenstein, although her private opinion was the same as his. Naturally, it was better to err on the side of caution.

“Weight?”

“One point two kilo. For the record, I’m noting that all the biohazard and hazmat alarms under the hood are reading zero.”

Using a scoop, she took a few dozen grains of the substance and distributed them into half a dozen test tubes, sealed and racked them, then removed them from beneath the hood, passing them on to Richie. Without needing to be told, he started the usual set of chemical reagents, testing for a suite.

“Nice having a shitload of sample to work with,” he said with a chuckle. “We can burn it, bake it, dissolve it, and still have enough left over to make a sand castle.”

Wildenstein waited while he deftly did the workups.

“All negative,” he reported at last. “Man, what is this stuff?”

Wildenstein took a second rack of samples. “Do a heat test in an oxidizing atmosphere and vent the gas to the gas analyzer.”

“Sure thing.” Richie took another tube and, sealing it with a vented pipette which led to the gas analyzer, heated the tube slowly over a Bunsen burner. Wildenstein watched, and to her surprise the sample quickly ignited, glowing for a moment before disappearing, leaving no ash or residue.

“Burn, baby, burn.”

“What do you have, Richie?”

He scrutinized the readout. “Just about pure carbon dioxide and monoxide, trace of water vapor.”

“The sample must have been pure carbon.”

“Gimme a break, boss. Since when does carbon come in the form of brown sand?”

Wildenstein peered at the grit in the bottom of one of the sample tubes. “I’m going to take a look at this stuff under the stereozoom.”

She sprinkled a dozen grains onto a slide and placed it on the microscope stage, turned on the light, and looked through the oculars.

“What do you see?” Richie asked.

But Wildenstein did not answer. She kept looking, dazzled. Under a microscope, the individual grains were not brown at all, but tiny fragments of a glassy substance in myriad colors—blue, red, yellow, green, brown, black, purple, pink. Still looking through the oculars, she picked up a metal spoon, pressed it on one of the grains, and gave a little push. She could hear a faint scritch as the grain scratched the glass.

“What’re you doing?” Richie asked.

Wildenstein rose. “Don’t we have a refractometer around here somewhere?”

“Yeah, a really cheap job dating back to the Middle Ages.” Richie rummaged around in a cabinet and drew out a dusty machine in a yellowed plastic cover. He set it up, plugged it in. “You know how to work this puppy?”

“I think so.”

Using the stereozoom, she plucked a grain of the substance and let it sink into a drop of mineral oil she put on a slide. Then she slid the slide into the reading chamber of the refractometer. After a few false starts, she figured out how to turn the dial and obtain a reading.

She looked up, a smile on her face.

“Just what I suspected. We have an index of refraction of two point four.”

“Yeah? So?”

“There we are. Nailed it.”

“Nailed what, boss?”

She glanced at him. “Richie, what is made of pure carbon, has an index of refraction above two, and is hard enough to cut glass?”

“Diamond?”

“Bravo.”

“You mean, what we’ve got here is a bag of industrial diamond grit?”

“That’s what it would seem.”

Richie removed his hazmat hood, wiped his brow. “That’s a first for me.” He turned, reached for a phone. “I think I’ll put a call in to the hospital, let them know they can stand down from biological alert. From what I heard, that museum administrator actually soiled his drawers.”

3

Frederick Watson Collopy, director of the New York Museum of Natural History, felt a prickling of irritation on the back of his neck as he exited the elevator into the museum’s basement. It had been months since he’d been down in these subterranean depths, and he wondered why the devil Wilfred Sherman, chairman of the Mineralogy Department, was so insistent on his coming to the mineralogy lab instead of Sherman’s coming to Collopy’s office on the fifth floor.

He turned a corner at a brisk walk, his shoes scraping the gritty floor, and came to the mineralogy lab door—which was shut. He tried the handle—locked—and in a fresh surge of irritation knocked sharply.

The door was opened almost immediately by Sherman, who just as quickly closed and locked it behind them. The curator looked disheveled, sweaty—not to put too fine a term on it, a wreck. As well he should, thought Collopy. His eye swept the lab and quickly fixed on the offending package itself, soiled and wrinkled, sitting in a double-ziplocked bag on a specimen table next to a stereozoom microscope. Beside it lay a half-dozen white envelopes.

“Dr. Sherman,” he intoned, “the careless way this material was delivered to the museum has caused us major embarrassment. This is nothing short of outrageous. I want the name of the supplier, I want to know why this wasn’t handled through proper procurement channels, and I want to know why such valuable material was handled so carelessly and misdelivered in such a way as to cause a panic. As I understand it, industrial-grade diamond grit costs several thousand dollars a pound.”

Sherman didn’t answer. He just sweated.

“I can just see the headline in tomorrow’s newspaper: Bioterror Scare at the Natural History Museum. I’m not looking forward to reading it. I’ve just gotten a call from some reporter at the Times—Harriman something or other—and I have to call him back in half an hour with an explanation.”

Sherman swallowed, still saying nothing. A drop of sweat trickled down his brow and he quickly wiped it away with a handkerchief.

“Well? Do you have an explanation? And is there a reason why you insisted on my coming to your lab?”

“Yes,” Sherman managed to say. He nodded toward the stereozoom. “I wanted you to take a . . . take a look.”

Collopy got up, went over to the microscope, removed his glasses, and put his eyes over the oculars. A blurry mess leaped into view. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“The focus needs adjustment, there.”

Collopy fumbled with the knob, sweeping the specimen in and out of focus as he tried to find the right spot. Finally, he found himself staring at a breathtakingly beautiful array of thousands of brilliantly colored bits and pieces of crystal, backlit like a stained-glass window.

“What is it?”

“A sample of the grit that came in the package.”

Collopy pulled away. “Well? Did you or someone in your department order it?”

Sherman hesitated. “No, we didn’t.”

“Then tell me, Dr. Sherman, how did thousands of dollars’ worth of diamond grit come to be addressed and delivered to your department?”

“I have an explanation—” Sherman stopped. With a shaking hand, he picked up one of the white envelopes. Collopy waited, but Sherman seemed to have frozen up.

“Dr. Sherman?”

Sherman did not respond. He extracted the handkerchief and dabbed his face a second time.

“Dr. Sherman, are you ill?”

Sherman swallowed. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

Collopy said briskly, “We have a problem, and I’ve now got”—he checked his watch—“only twenty-five minutes to call this fellow Harriman back. So just go ahead and lay it out for me.”

Sherman nodded dumbly, dabbed yet again at his face. Despite his annoyance, Collopy felt pity for the fellow. In many ways, he was basically a middle-aged kid who never outgrew his rock collection . . . Suddenly, Collopy realized it wasn’t just sweat the man was wiping away—his eyes were leaking tears.

“It’s not industrial diamond grit,” Sherman said at last.

Collopy frowned. “Excuse me?”

The curator took a deep breath, seemed to brace himself. “Industrial diamond grit is made from black or brown diamonds of no aesthetic value. Under a microscope, it looks like what you’d expect: dark crystalline particles. But when you look at these under the microscope, you see color.” His voice quavered.

“That’s what I saw, yes.”

Sherman nodded. “Tiny fragments and crystals of color, every color in the rainbow. I confirmed that they were indeed diamond, and I asked myself . . .” His voice faltered.

“Dr. Sherman?”

“I asked myself: how in the world did a sack of diamond grit come to be made up of millions of fragments of fancy color diamonds? Two and a half pounds’ worth.”

The lab fell into a profound silence. Collopy felt himself go cold. “I don’t understand.”

“This is not diamond grit,” said Sherman all in a rush. “This is the museum’s diamond collection.”

“What the devil are you saying?”

“The man who stole our diamonds last month. He must have pulverized them. All of them.” The tears were now flowing freely, but Sherman no longer bothered to wipe them away.

“Pulverized?” Collopy looked around wildly. “How can you pulverize a diamond?”

“With a sledgehammer.”

“But they’re supposed to be the hardest thing in the world.”

“Hard, yes. That doesn’t mean they aren’t brittle.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Many of our diamonds have a unique color. Take the Queen of Narnia, for example. No other diamond has quite that blue color, with hints of violet and green. I was able to identify each tiny fragment. That’s what I’ve been doing—separating them out.”

He took the white envelope in his hand and tipped it out on a sheet of paper lying on the specimen table. A pile of blue grit poured out. He pointed to it.

“The Queen of Narnia.”

He took out another envelope, tipped it over into a purple pile. “The Heart of Eternity.”

One after another he emptied the little envelopes. “The Indigo Ghost. Ultima Thule. The Fourth of July. The Zanzibar Green.”

It was like a steady drumbeat, one pounding blow after another. Collopy stared in horror at the tiny piles of glittering sand.

“This is a sick joke,” he finally said. “Those can’t be the museum’s diamonds.”

“The exact hues of many of these famous diamonds are quantifiable,” Sherman replied. “I have hard data on them. I tested the fragments. They’re diamonds with exactly the right hue. There can be no mistake. There’s nothing else they could be.”

“But surely not all of them,” said Collopy. “He can’t have destroyed them all.”

“That package contained 2.42 pounds of diamond grit. That’s equivalent to about 5,500 carats. Adding in the amount that spilled, the original shipment would have contained roughly 6,000 carats. I added up the carat weights of the diamonds that were stolen . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Well?” Collopy asked at last, no longer able to contain himself.

“The total weight was 6,042 carats,” Sherman said in a whisper.

A long silence filled the laboratory, the only sound the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. At last Collopy raised his head and looked Sherman in the eye.

“Dr. Sherman,” he began, but his voice cracked and he was forced to start over. “Dr. Sherman. This information must not leave this room.”

Sherman, already pale, went white as a ghost. But after a moment, he nodded silently.

4

William Smithback Jr. entered the dark and fragrant confines of the pub known as the Bones and scanned the noisy crowd. It was five o’clock and the place was packed with museum staff, all lubricating themselves after the long and dusty hours spent laboring in the granite pile across the street. Why in the world they all wanted to hang out in a place whose every square inch of wall space was covered with bones, after escaping just such an environment at work, was a mystery to him. These days he himself came to the Bones for one reason only: the forty-year-old single malt that the bartender kept hidden under the bar. At thirty-six dollars a shot, it wasn’t exactly a bargain, but it sure beat having your insides corroded by three dollars’ worth of Cutty Sark.

He spied the copper-colored hair of his new bride, Nora Kelly, at their usual table in the back. He waved, sauntered over, and struck a dramatic pose.

“‘But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?’” he intoned. Then he kissed the back of her hand briefly, kissed her lips rather more attentively, and took a seat across the table. “How are things?”

“The museum continues to be an exciting place to work.”

“You mean that bioterror scare this morning?”

She nodded. “Someone delivered a package for the Mineralogy Department, leaking some kind of powder. They thought it was anthrax or something.”

“I heard about that. In fact, brother Bryce filed a story on that today.” Bryce Harriman was Smithback’s colleague and archrival at the Times, but Smithback had secured himself a little breathing room with some recent—and very dramatic—scoops.

The hangdog waiter came by and stood by the table, silently waiting to take their drink orders.

“I’ll take two fingers of the Glen Grant,” Smithback said. “The good stuff.”

“A glass of white wine, please.”

The waiter shuffled off.

“So it caused a stir?” Smithback asked.

Nora giggled. “You should have seen Greenlaw, the guy who found it. He was so sure he was dying they had to carry him out on a stretcher, protective suit and all.”

“Greenlaw? I don’t know him.”

“He’s the new V.P. for administration. Just hired from Con Ed.”

“So what’d it turn out to be? The anthrax, I mean.”

“Grinding powder.”

Smithback chuckled as he accepted his drink. “Grinding powder. Oh, God, that’s perfect.” He swirled the amber liquid around in the balloon glass and took a sip. “How’d it happen?”

“It seems the package was damaged in transit, and the stuff was dribbling out. A messenger dropped it off with Curly, and Greenlaw just happened by.”

“Curly? The old guy with the pipe?”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s still at the museum?”

“He’ll never leave.”

“How did he take it?”

“In stride, like everything else. He was back in his pillbox a few hours later, like nothing had happened.”

Smithback shook his head. “Why in the world would anyone send a sack of grit by messenger?”

“Beats me.”

He took another sip. “You think it was deliberate?” he asked absently. “Someone trying to freak out the museum?”

“You’ve got a criminal mind.”

“Do they know who sent it?”

“I heard the package didn’t have a return address.”

At this small detail, Smithback grew suddenly interested. He wished he’d called up Harriman’s piece on the Times internal network and read it. “You know how much it costs to send something by messenger in New York City these days? Forty bucks.”

“Maybe it was valuable grit.”

“But then, why no return address? Who was it addressed to?”

“Just the Mineralogy Department, I heard.”

Smithback took another thoughtful sip of the Glen Grant. There was something about this story that set off a journalistic alarm in his head. He wondered if Harriman had gotten to the bottom of it. Not bloody likely.

He extracted his cell. “Mind if I make a call?”

Nora frowned. “If you must.”

Smithback dialed the museum, asked to be put through to mineralogy. He was in luck: someone was still there. He began speaking rapidly. “This is Mr. Humnhmn in the Grmhmhmn’s office, and I had a quick question: what kind of grinding powder was it that caused the scare this morning?”

“I didn’t catch—”

“Look, I’m in a hurry. The director’s waiting for an answer.”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anyone there who does?”

“There’s Dr. Sherman.”

“Put him on.”

A moment later, a breathless voice got on. “Dr. Collopy?”

“No, no,” said Smithback easily. “This is William Smithback. I’m a reporter for the New York Times.”

A silence. Then a very tense “Yes?”

“About that bioterror scare this morning—”

“I can’t help you,” came the immediate response. “I already told everything I know to your colleague, Mr. Harriman.”

“Just a routine follow-up, Dr. Sherman. Mind?”

Silence.

“The package was addressed to you?”

“To the department,” came the terse reply.

“No return address?”

“No.”

“And it was full of grit?”

“That’s right.”

“What kind?”

A hesitation. “Corundum grit.”

“How much is corundum grit worth?”

“I don’t know offhand. Not much.”

“I see. That’s all, thanks.”

He hung up to find Nora looking at him.

“It’s rude to use your cell phone in a pub,” she said.

“Hey, I’m a reporter. It’s my job to be rude.”

“Satisfied?”

“No.”

“A package of grit came to the museum. It was leaking, it freaked someone out. End of story.”

“I don’t know.” Smithback took another long sip of the Glen Grant. “That guy sounded awfully nervous just now.”

“Dr. Sherman? He’s high-strung.”

“He sounded more than high-strung. He sounded frightened.”

He opened his cell phone again, and Nora groaned. “If you start making calls, I’m heading home.”

“Come on, Nora. One more call, then we’ll head over to the Rattlesnake Café for dinner. I gotta make this call now. It’s already after five and I want to catch people before they leave.”

Quickly, he dialed information, got a number, punched it in. “Department of Health and Mental Services?”

After being bounced around a bit, he finally got the lab he wanted.

“Sentinel lab,” came a voice.

“To whom am I speaking?”

“Richard. And to whom am I speaking?”

“Hi, Richard, this is Bill Smithback of the Times. You in charge?”

“I am now. The boss just went home.”

“Lucky for you. Can I ask a few questions?”

“You said you’re a reporter?”

“That’s right.”

“I suppose so.”

“This is the lab that handled that package from the museum this morning?”

“Sure is.”

“What was in it?”

Smithback heard a snort. “Diamond grit.”

“Not corundum?”

“No. Diamond.”

“Did you examine the grit yourself?”

“Yup.”

“What’d it look like?”

“Under coarse examination, like a sack of brown sand.”

Smithback thought for a moment. “How’d you figure out it was diamond grit?”

“By the index of refraction of the particles.”

“I see. And it couldn’t be confused with corundum?”

“No way.”

“You also examined it under a microscope, I assume?”

“Yup.”

“What’d it look like?”

“It was beautiful, like a bunch of little colored crystals.”

Smithback felt a sudden tingling at the nape of his neck. “Colored? What do you mean?”

“Bits and fragments of every color of the rainbow. I had no idea diamond grit was so pretty.”

“That didn’t strike you as odd?”

“A lot of things that are ugly to the human eye look beautiful under the microscope. Like bread mold, for instance—or sand, for that matter.”

“But you said the grit looked brown.”

“Only when blended together.”

“I see. What’d you do with the package?”

“We sent it back to the museum and chalked it up as a false alarm.”

“Thanks.”

Smithback slowly shut the phone. Impossible. It couldn’t be.

He looked up to find Nora staring at him, annoyance clear on her face. He reached over and took her hand. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got another call to make.”

She crossed her arms. “And I thought we were going to have a nice evening together.”

“One more call. Please. I’ll let you listen in. Believe me, this is going to be good.”

Nora’s cheeks grew pink. Smithback knew that look: his wife was getting steamed.

Quickly, he dialed the museum again, put the phone on speaker. “Dr. Sherman?”

“Yes?”

“This is Smithback from the Times again.”

“Mr. Smithback,” came the shrill reply, “I’ve already told you everything I know. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a train to catch.”

“I know that what arrived at the museum this morning was not corundum grit.”

Silence.

“I know what it really was.”

More silence.

“The museum’s diamond collection.”

In the silence, Nora looked at him sharply.

“Dr. Sherman, I’m coming over to the museum to talk to you. If Dr. Collopy is still around, he would be wise to be there—or, at least, to make himself available by phone. I don’t know what you told my colleague Harriman, but you’re not going to fob the same stuff off onto me. It’s bad enough that the museum allowed its diamond collection—the most valuable in the world—to be stolen. I’m certain the museum trustees wouldn’t want a cover-up scandal to follow hard on the heels of the revelation that the same diamond collection had just been reduced to industrial-strength grinding powder. Are we clear on that, Dr. Sherman?”

It was a very weak and shaky voice that finally issued from the cell phone. “It wasn’t a cover-up, I assure you. It was, ah, just a delay in the announcement.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

Smithback immediately made another call, to his editor at the Times. “Fenton? You know that piece on the anthrax scare at the museum that Bryce Harriman filed? Better kill that. I’ve got the real story, and it’s a bombshell. Hold the front page for me.”

He shut the phone and looked up. Nora was no longer mad. She was white.

“Diogenes Pendergast,” she whispered. “He destroyed the diamonds?”

Smithback nodded.

“But why?”

“That’s a very good question, Nora. But now, darling, with my infinite apologies, and an IOU for dinner at the Rattlesnake Café, I have to go. I’ve got a couple of interviews to conduct and a story to file before midnight if I’m going to make the national edition. I’m really, really sorry. Don’t wait up for me.”

He rose and gave her a kiss.

“You’re amazing,” she said in an awed voice.

Smithback hesitated, feeling an unaccustomed sensation. It took him a moment to realize he was blushing.

5

Dr. Frederick Watson Collopy stood behind the great nineteenth-century leather-topped desk of his corner office in the museum’s southeast tower. The huge desk was bare, save for a copy of the morning’s New York Times. The newspaper had not been opened. It did not need to be: already, Collopy could see everything he needed to see, on the front page, above the fold, in the largest type the staid Times dared use.

The cat was out of the bag, and it could not be put back in.

Collopy believed that he occupied the greatest position in American science: director of the New York Museum of Natural History. His mind drifted from the subject of the article to the names of his distinguished forebears: Ogilvy, Scott, Throckmorton. His goal, his one ambition, was to add his name to that august registry—and not fall into ignominy like his two immediate predecessors: the late and not-much-lamented Winston Wright or the inept Olivia Merriam.

And yet there, on the front page of the Times, was a headline that might just be his tombstone. He had weathered several bad patches recently, irruptions of scandal that would have felled a lesser man. But he had handled them coolly and decisively—and he would do the same here.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Come in.”

The bearded figure of Hugo Menzies, chairman of the Anthropology Department, dressed elegantly and with less than the usual degree of academic rumpledness, entered the room. He silently took a chair as Josephine Rocco, the head of public relations, entered behind him, along with the museum’s lawyer, the ironically named Beryl Darling of Wilfred, Spragg and Darling.

Collopy remained standing, watching the three as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. Finally he spoke.

“I’ve called you here in emergency session, for obvious reasons.” He glanced down at the paper. “I assume you’ve seen the Times?”

His audience nodded in silent assent.

“We made a mistake in trying to cover this up, even briefly. When I took this position as director of the museum, I told myself I would run this place differently, that I wouldn’t operate in the secretive and sometimes paranoid manner of the last few administrations. I believed the museum to be a great institution, one strong enough to survive the vicissitudes of scandal and controversy.”

He paused.

“In trying to play down the destruction of our diamond collection, in seeking to cover it up, I made a mistake. I violated my own principles.”

“An apology to us is all well and good,” said Darling in her usual crisp voice, “but why didn’t you consult me before you made that hasty and ill-considered decision? You must have realized you couldn’t get away with it. This has done serious damage to the museum and made my job that much more difficult.”

Collopy reminded himself this was precisely the reason the museum paid Darling four hundred dollars an hour: she always spoke the unvarnished truth.

He raised a hand. “Point taken. But this is a development I never in my worst nightmares anticipated—finding that our diamonds have been reduced to . . .” His voice cracked: he couldn’t finish.

There was an uneasy shifting in the room.

Collopy swallowed, began again. “We must take action. We’ve got to respond, and respond now. That is why I’ve asked you to this meeting.”

As he paused, Collopy could hear, coming faintly from Museum Drive below, the shouts and calls of a growing crowd of protesters, along with police sirens and bullhorns.

Rocco spoke up. “The phones in my office are ringing off the hook. It’s nine now, and I think we’ve probably got until ten, maybe eleven at the latest, to make some kind of official statement. In all my years in public relations, I’ve never encountered anything quite like this.”

Menzies shifted in his chair, smoothed his silver hair. “May I?”

Collopy nodded. “Hugo.”

Menzies cleared his throat, his intense blue eyes darting to the window and back to Collopy. “The first thing we have to realize, Frederick, is that this catastrophe is beyond ‘spinning.’ Listen to the crowd out there—the fact that we even considered covering up such a loss has the people up in arms. No: we’ve got to take the hit, honestly and squarely. Admit our wrong. No more dissembling.” He glanced at Rocco. “That’s my first point and I hope we’re all in agreement on it.”

Collopy nodded again. “And your second?”

He leaned forward slightly. “It’s not enough to respond. We need to go on the offensive.”

“What do you mean?”

“We need to do something glorious. We need to make a fabulous announcement, something that will remind New York City and the world that, despite all this, we’re still a great museum. Mount a scientific expedition, perhaps, or embark on some extraordinary research project.”

“Won’t that look like a rather transparent diversion?” asked Rocco.

“Perhaps to some. But the criticism will last only a day or two, and then we’ll be free to build interest and good publicity.”

“What kind of project?” Collopy asked.

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

Rocco nodded slowly. “Perhaps it would work. This event could be combined with a gala party, strictly A-list, the social ‘must’ of the season. That will mute museum-bashing among the press and politicians, who will naturally want to be invited.”

“This sounds promising,” Collopy said.

After a moment, Darling spoke. “It’s a fine theory. All we lack is the expedition, event, or whatever.”

At that moment, Collopy’s intercom buzzed. He stabbed at it with irritation. “Mrs. Surd, we’re not to be disturbed.”

“I know, Dr. Collopy, but . . . well, this is highly unusual.”

“Not now.”

“It requires an immediate response.”

Collopy sighed. “Can’t it wait ten minutes, for heaven’s sake?”

“It’s a bank wire transfer donation of ten million euros for—”

“A gift of ten million euros? Bring it in.”

Mrs. Surd entered, efficient and plump, carrying a paper.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Collopy snatched the paper. “Who’s it from and where do I sign?”

“It’s from a Comte Thierry de Cahors. He’s giving the museum ten million euros to renovate and reopen the Tomb of Senef.”

“The Tomb of Senef? What the devil is that?” Collopy tossed the paper on the desk. “I’ll deal with this later.”

“But it says here, sir, that the funds are waiting in transatlantic escrow and must be either refused or accepted within the hour.”

Collopy resisted an impulse to wring his hands. “We’re awash in bloody restricted funds like this! What we need are general funds to pay the bills. Fax this count whoever and see if you can’t persuade him to make this an unrestricted donation. Use my name with the usual courtesies. We don’t need the money for whatever windmill he’s tilting at.”

“Yes, Dr. Collopy.”

She turned away and Collopy glanced at the group. “Now, I believe Beryl had the floor.”

The lawyer opened her mouth to speak, but Menzies held out a suppressing hand. “Mrs. Surd? Please wait a few minutes before contacting the Count of Cahors.”

Mrs. Surd hesitated, glancing at Collopy for confirmation. The director nodded his confirmation and she left, closing the door behind her.

“All right, Hugo, what’s this about?” Collopy asked.

“I’m trying to remember the details. The Tomb of Senef—it rings a bell. And, now that I recall, so does the Count of Cahors.”

“Can we move on here?” Collopy asked.

Menzies sat forward suddenly. “Frederick, this is moving on! Think back over your museum history. The Tomb of Senef was an Egyptian tomb on display in the museum from its original opening until, I believe, the Depression, when it was closed.”

“And?”

“If memory serves, it was a tomb stolen and disassembled by the French during the Napoleonic invasion of Egypt and later seized by the British. It was purchased by one of the museum’s benefactors and reassembled in the basement as one of the museum’s original exhibits. It must still be there.”

“And who is this Cahors?” Darling asked.

“Napoleon brought an army of naturalists and archaeologists with his army when he invaded Egypt. A Cahors led the archaeological contingent. I imagine this fellow is a descendant.”

Collopy frowned. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Don’t you see? This is precisely what we’re looking for!”

“A dusty old tomb?”

“Exactly! We make a big announcement of the count’s gift, set an opening date with a gala party and all the trappings, and make a media event out of it.” Menzies looked inquiringly at Rocco.

“Yes,” Rocco said. “Yes, that could work. Egypt is always popular with the general public.”

“Could work? It will work. The beauty of it is that the tomb’s already installed. The Sacred Images exhibition has run its course, it’s time for something new. We could do this in two months—or less.”

“A lot depends on the condition of the tomb.”

“Nevertheless, it’s still in place and ready to go. It might only need to be swept out. Our storage rooms are full of Egyptian odds and ends that we could put in the tomb to round out the exhibition. The count is offering plenty of money for whatever restoration is necessary.”

“I don’t understand,” Darling said. “How could an entire exhibition be forgotten for seventy years?”

“For one thing, it would have been bricked up—that’s often what they did to old exhibits to preserve them. “ Menzies smiled a little sadly. “This museum simply has too many artifacts, and not enough money or curators to tend them. That’s why I’ve lobbied for years now to create a position for a museum historian. Who knows what other secrets sleep in the long-forgotten corners?”

A brief silence settled over the room, broken abruptly as Collopy brought his hand down on his desk. “Let’s do it.” He reached for the phone. “Mrs. Surd? Tell the count to release the money. We’re accepting his terms.”

6

Nora Kelly stood in her laboratory, gazing at a large specimen table covered with fragments of ancient Anasazi pottery. The potsherds were of an unusual type that glowed almost golden in the bright lights, a sheen caused by countless mica particles in the original clay. She had collected the sherds during a summertime expedition to the Four Corners area of the Southwest, and now she had arranged them on a huge contour map of the Four Corners, each sherd in the precise geographical location where it had been found.

She stared at the glittering array, once again trying to make sense of it. This was the core of her major research project at the museum: tracing the diffusion of this rare micaceous pottery from its source in southern Utah as it was traded and retraded across the Southwest and beyond. The pottery had been developed by a religious kachina cult that had come up from Aztec Mexico, and Nora believed that—by tracing the spread of the pottery across the Southwest—she could thereby trace the spread of the kachina cult.

But there were so many sherds, and so many C-14 dates, that making all the variables work together was a thorny problem, and she had not even begun to solve it. She stared hard: the answer was there. She just had to find it.

She sighed and took a sip of coffee, glad she had her basement lab as a refuge from the storm raging outside the museum above. Yesterday it had been the anthrax scare, but today was worse—thanks in large part to her husband, Bill, who had a singular knack for stirring up trouble. He had broken the story in the Times this morning that the powder was, in fact, the museum’s stolen diamond collection, worth hundreds of millions of dollars, pulverized to dust by the thief. The news had caused an uproar worse than anything Nora could remember. The mayor, cornered by a bevy of television cameras outside his office, had already blasted the museum and called for the immediate removal of its director.

She forced her mind back to the problem of the potsherds. All the lines of diffusion led back to one place: the source of the rare clay at the base of the Kaiparowits plateau of Utah, where it had been mined and fired by the inhabitants of a large cliff dwelling hidden in the canyons. From there, it had been traded to places as far away as northern Mexico and western Texas. But how? And when? And by whom?

She got up and went to a cabinet, removing the last ziplock bag of potsherds. The lab was as quiet as a tomb, the only sound the faint hiss of the forced-air ducts. Beyond the laboratory itself lay large storage areas: ancient oak cabinets with rippled glass windows, filled with pots, arrowheads, axes, and other artifacts. A faint whiff of paradichlorobenzene wafted in from the Indian mummy storage room next door. She began laying the sherds out on the map, filling in its last blank corner, double-checking the accession number on each sherd as she placed it.

Suddenly she paused. She had heard the creaking-open of the laboratory door and the sound of a soft footfall on the dusty floor. Hadn’t she locked it? It was a silly habit, locking the door: but the museum’s vast and silent basement, with its dim corridors and its dark storage rooms filled with strange and dreadful artifacts, had always given her the creeps. And she could not forget what had happened to her friend Margo Green just a few weeks earlier in a darkened exhibition hall, two floors above where she stood now.

“Is someone there?” she called out.

A figure materialized from the dimness, first the outlines of a face, then a closely trimmed beard with silvery-white hair—and Nora relaxed. It was only Hugo Menzies, chairman of the Anthropology Department and her immediate boss. He was still a little pale from his recent bout with gallstones, his cheerful eyes rimmed in red.

“Hello, Nora,” said the curator, giving her a kindly smile. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Menzies perched himself on a stool. “It’s so lovely and quiet down here. Are you alone?”

“Yes. How are things up top?”

“The crowd outside is still growing.”

“I saw them when I came in.”

“It’s getting ugly. They’re jeering and hectoring the arriving staff and blocking traffic on Museum Drive. And I fear this is just the beginning. It’s one thing when the mayor and governor make pronouncements, but it appears the people of New York have also been aroused. God save us from the fury of the vulgus mobile.”

Nora shook her head. “I’m sorry that Bill was the cause—”

Menzies laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Bill was only the messenger. He did the museum a favor in exposing this ill-advised cover-up scheme before it could take hold. The truth would have come out eventually.”

“I can’t understand why someone would go to the trouble to steal the gems and then destroy them.”

Menzies shrugged. “Who knows what goes on in the mind of a deranged individual? It evinces, at the very least, an implacable hatred of the museum.”

“What had the museum ever done to him?”

“Only one person can answer that question. But I’m not here to speculate on the criminal’s mind. I’m here for a specific reason, and it has to do with what’s going on upstairs.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve just come from a meeting in Dr. Collopy’s office. We made a decision, and it involves you.”

Nora waited, feeling a creeping sense of alarm.

“Are you familiar with the Tomb of Senef?”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Not surprising. Few museum employees have. It was one of the museum’s original exhibits, an Egyptian tomb from the Valley of the Kings that was reassembled in these basements. It was closed down and sealed off in the thirties and never reopened.”

“And?”

“What the museum needs right now is some positive news, something that will remind everyone that we’re still doing good things. A distraction, as it were. That distraction is going to be the Tomb of Senef. We’re going to reopen it, and I want you as point person for the project.”

“Me? But I put off my research for months to help mount the Sacred Images show!”

An ironic smile played over Menzies’s face. “That’s right, and that’s why I’m asking you to do this. I saw the work you did on Sacred Images. You’re the only one in the department who can pull this off.”

“In how long?”

“Collopy wants it fast-tracked. We’ve got six weeks.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“We face a real emergency. Finances have been in a sorry state for a long time. And with this new spate of bad publicity, anything could happen.”

Nora fell silent.

“What set this in motion,” Menzies continued gently, “is that we just received ten million euros—thirteen million dollars—to fund this project. Money is no object. We’ll have the unanimous support of the museum, from the board of trustees to all the unions. The Tomb of Senef has remained sealed, so it should be in fairly good condition.”

“Please don’t ask me to do this. Give it to Ashton.”

“Ashton’s no good at controversy. I saw how you handled yourself with those protesters at the Sacred Images opening. Nora, the museum is in a fight for its life. I need you. The museum needs you.”

There was a silence. Nora glanced back over her potsherds with a horribly sinking heart. “I don’t know anything about Egyptology.”

“We’re bringing in a top Egyptologist as a temporary hire to work with you.”

Nora realized there was no escape. She heaved a huge sigh. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Brava! That’s what I wanted to hear. Now then, we haven’t gotten very far with the idea yet, but the tomb hasn’t been on display in seventy years, so it will obviously need some sprucing up. It’s not enough these days to mount a static exhibition; you need multimedia. And of course, there will be a gala opening, something every New Yorker with social aspirations will have to get a ticket for.”

Nora shook her head. “All this in six weeks?”

“I was hoping you might have some ideas.”

“When do you need them?”

“Right now, I’m afraid. Dr. Collopy has scheduled a press conference in half an hour to announce about the show.”

“Oh, no.” Nora slumped on her stool. “Are you sure special effects will be necessary? I hate computerized window dressing. It distracts from the objects.”

“That is what being a museum means these days, unfortunately. Look at the new Abraham Lincoln library. Yes, on a certain level, it’s a bit vulgar perhaps—but this is the twenty-first century and we’re competing with television and video games. Please, Nora: I need ideas now. The director will be bombarded with questions and he wants to be able to talk about the exhibit.”

Nora swallowed. On the one hand, it made her sick to think of putting off her research yet again, working seventy-hour weeks, never seeing her husband of only a few months. On the other hand, if she was going to do this—and it seemed she had no choice—she wanted to do it well.

“We don’t want anything cheesy,” she said. “No mummies popping up from their sarcophagi. And it’s got to be educational.”

“My feelings exactly.”

Nora thought a moment. “The tomb was robbed, am I right?”

“It was robbed in antiquity, like most Egyptian tombs, probably by the very priests who buried Senef—who, by the way, was not a pharaoh, but vizier and regent to Thutmosis IV.”

Nora digested this. It was, she supposed, a huge honor to be asked to coordinate a major new exhibition—and this one would have exceptionally high visibility. It was intriguing. She found herself being drawn into it, despite herself.

“If you’re looking for something dramatic,” she said, “why not re-create the moment of the robbery itself? We could dramatize the robbers at work—show their fear of being caught, what would happen to them if they were caught—with a voice-over explaining what was happening, who Senef was, that sort of thing.”

Menzies nodded. “Excellent, Nora.”

Nora felt a mounting excitement. “If done right, with computerized lighting and so forth, it would give visitors an experience they’d never forget. Make history come alive inside the tomb itself.”

“Nora, someday you’ll be director of this museum.”

She blushed. The idea did not displease her.

“I’d been thinking of some sort of sound-and-light show myself. It’s perfect.” With uncharacteristic exuberance, Menzies seized Nora’s hand. “This is going to save the museum. And it will make your career here. As I said, you’ll have all the money and support you’ll need. As for the computer effects, let me manage that side of things—you focus on the objects and displays. Six weeks will be just enough time to get the buzz going, get out the invitations, and work the press. They won’t be able to trash the museum if they’re angling to be invited.”

He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to prepare Dr. Collopy for the press conference. Thank you so much, Nora.”

He bustled out, leaving Nora alone in the silent laboratory. She turned her eye regretfully to the table she had so carefully arranged with potsherds, and then she started picking them up, one at a time, and returning them to their storage bags.

7
special Agent Spencer Coffey rounded the corner and approached the warden’s office, his steel-capped heels making a satisfying tattoo against the polished cement floor. Short, bottle-mustached Agent Rabiner followed, deferentially riding his wake. Coffey paused before the institutional oak door, gave a tap, then opened it without waiting for an invitation.

The warden’s secretary, a thin bleach-blonde with old acne scars on her face and a no-bullshit attitude, gave him the once-over. “Yes?”

“Agent Coffey, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He waved his badge. “We’ve got an appointment, and we’re in a hurry.”

“I’ll tell the warden you’re here,” she said, her upstate hick accent grating on his nerves.

Coffey glanced at Rabiner and rolled his eyes. He’d already had a run-in with the woman over a dropped connection when he called earlier that day, and now, meeting her in person, he confirmed she was everything he despised, a low-class hayseed who’d clawed her way into a position of semirespectability.

“Agent Coffey and—?” She glanced at Rabiner.

“Special Agent Coffey and Special Agent Rabiner.”

The woman picked up the intercom phone with insolent slowness. “Agents Coffey and Rabiner to see you, sir. They say they have an appointment.”

She listened for a moment, and then hung up. She waited just long enough to let Coffey know she wasn’t in nearly the hurry he was. “Mr. Imhof,” she finally said, “will see you.”

Coffey started to walk past her desk. Then he paused. “So. How are things down on the farm?”

“Seems to be ruttin’ season for hogs,” she responded without a pause, not even looking at him.

Coffey continued into the inner office, wondering just what the bitch meant and whether he’d been insulted or not.

As Coffey shut the door behind them, Warden Gordon Imhof rose from behind a large Formica desk. Coffey hadn’t seen him in person before, and found the man far younger than he expected, small and neat, with a goatee and cool blue eyes. He was impeccably dressed and sported a helmet of blow-dried hair. Coffey couldn’t quite pigeonhole him. In the old days, wardens came through the ranks; but this fellow looked like he’d gotten some Ph.D. somewhere in correctional facility management and had never felt the satisfying thok! of a nightstick striking human flesh. Still, there was a thinness to the lips that boded well.

Imhof extended his hand to Coffey and Rabiner. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

“How did the interrogation go?”

“Our case is developing,” Coffey said. “If this doesn’t fit the federal death penalty statute to a T, I don’t know what does. But it’s no slam dunk. There are certain complications.” He didn’t mention that the interrogation had, in fact, gone badly—very badly.

Imhof’s face was inscrutable.

“I want to make something clear,” Coffey continued. “One of this killer’s victims was a colleague and friend of mine, the third most decorated agent in the history of the FBI.”

He let that sink in. What he didn’t mention was that this victim, Special Agent in Charge Mike Decker, was responsible for a humiliating demotion Coffey had been hit with seven years before, in the wake of the museum killings, and that nothing in his life had satisfied Coffey more than hearing about his death—except the news of who’d done it.

That had been a special moment.

“So you’ve got a very special prisoner, Mr. Imhof. He’s a sociopathic serial killer of the most dangerous kind—murdered at least three people, although our interest in him is restricted to the murder of the federal agent. We’re letting the State of New York worry about the others, but we hope by the time they convict we’ll already have the prisoner strapped to a gurney with a needle in his arm.”

Imhof, listening, inclined his head.

“The prisoner is also an arrogant bastard. I worked with him on a case years ago. He thinks he’s better than everyone else, thinks he’s above the rules. He’s got no respect for authority.”

At the mention of respect, Imhof finally seemed to respond. “If there’s one thing I demand as warden of this institution, it’s respect. Good discipline begins and ends with respect.”

“Exactly,” said Coffey. He decided to follow up this line, see if he could get Imhof to bite. “Speaking of respect, during the interrogation the prisoner had some choice things to say about you.”

Now he could see Imhof getting interested.

“But they don’t bear repeating,” Coffey went on. “Naturally, you and I have learned to rise above such pettiness.”

Imhof leaned forward. “If a prisoner has shown a lack of respect—and I’m not talking about anything personal here, but a lack of respect for the institution in any way—I need to know about it.”

“It was the usual bullshit and I’d hate to repeat it.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to know.”

Of course, the prisoner had, in fact, said nothing. That had been the problem.

“He referred to you as a beer-swilling Nazi bastard, a Boche, a Kraut, that sort of thing.”

Imhof’s face tightened slightly, and Coffey knew immediately he’d scored a hit.

“Anything else?” the warden asked quietly.

“Very crude stuff, something about the size of your—ah, well, I don’t even recall the details.”

There was a frosty silence. Imhof’s goatee quivered slightly.

“As I said, it was all bullshit. But it points out an important fact: the prisoner hasn’t seen the wisdom of cooperating. And you know why? Everything stays the same for him whether he answers our questions or not, whether he shows respect for you or the institution or not. That’s got to change. He has to learn that his wrong choices have consequences. And another thing: he’s got to be kept in total, utter isolation. He can’t be allowed to pass any messages to the outside. There have been allegations that he might be in league with a brother, still on the lam. So no phone calls, no more meetings with his lawyer, total blackout of communication with the outside world. We wouldn’t want any further, ah, collateral damage to occur due to lack of vigilance. Do you understand what I mean, Warden?”

“I certainly do.”

“Good. He’s got to be made to see the advantages of cooperation. I’d love to work him over with a rubber hose and a cattle prod—he deserves nothing less—but unfortunately that’s not possible, and we sure as hell don’t want to do anything that could come back to haunt us at the trial. He may be crazy, but he’s not dumb. You can’t give a guy like that an opening. He’s got enough money to dig up Johnnie Cochran and hire him for the defense.”

Coffey stopped talking. Because for the first time, Imhof had smiled. And something about the look in the man’s blue eyes chilled Coffey.

“I understand your problem, Agent Coffey. The prisoner must be shown the value of respect. I’ll see to it personally.”

8

On the morning appointed for opening the sealed Tomb of Senef, Nora arrived in Menzies’s capacious office to find him sitting in his usual wing chair, in conversation with a young man. They both rose as she came in.

“Nora,” he said. “This is Dr. Adrian Wicherly, the Egyptologist I mentioned to you. Adrian, this is Dr. Nora Kelly.”

Wicherly turned to her with a smile, a thatch of untidy brown hair the only eccentricity in his otherwise perfectly dressed and groomed person. At a glance, Nora took in the understated Savile Row suit, the fine wing tips, the club tie. Her sweep came to rest on an extraordinarily handsome face: dimpled cheeks, flashing blue eyes, and perfect white teeth. He was, she thought, no more than thirty.

“Delighted to meet you, Dr. Kelly,” he said in an elegant Oxbridge accent. He clasped her hand gently, blessing her with another dazzling smile.

“A pleasure. And please call me Nora.”

“Of course. Nora. Forgive my formality—my stuffy upbringing has left me rather hamstrung this side of the pond. I just want to say how smashing it is to be here, working on this project.”

Smashing. Nora suppressed a smile—Adrian Wicherly was almost a caricature of the dashing young Brit, of a type she didn’t think even existed outside P. G. Wodehouse novels.

“Adrian comes to us with some impressive credentials,” Menzies said. “D.Phil. from Oxford, directed the excavation of the tomb KV 42 in the Valley of the Kings, university professor of Egyptology at Cambridge, author of the monograph Pharaohs of the XX Dynasty.”

Nora looked at Wicherly with fresh respect. He was amazingly young for an archaeologist of such stature. “Very impressive.”

Wicherly put on a self-deprecating face. “A lot of academic rubbish, really.”

“It’s hardly that.” Menzies glanced at his watch. “We’re meeting someone from the Maintenance Department at ten. As I understand it, nobody knows quite precisely where the Tomb of Senef is anymore. The one certainty is that it was bricked up and has been inaccessible ever since. We’re going to have to break our way in.”

“How intriguing,” said Wicherly. “I feel rather like Howard Carter.”

They descended in an old brass elevator, which creaked and groaned its way to the basement. They emerged in the Maintenance Section and threaded a complex path through the machine shop and carpentry, at last arriving at the open door of a small office. Inside, a small man sat at a desk, poring over a thick press of blueprints. He rose as Menzies rapped on the door frame.

“I’d like to introduce you both to Mr. Seamus McCorkle,” said Menzies. “He probably knows more about the layout of the museum than anyone alive.”

“Which still isn’t saying much,” said McCorkle. He was an elvish man in his early fifties with a fine Celtic face and a high, whistling voice. He pronounced the final word mitch.

After completing the introductions, Menzies turned back to McCorkle. “Have you found our tomb?”

“I believe so.” McCorkle nodded at the slab of old blueprints. “It’s not easy, finding things in this old pile.”

“Why ever not?” Wicherly asked.

McCorkle began rolling up the top blueprint. “The museum consists of thirty-four interconnected buildings, with a footprint of more than six acres, over two million square feet of space, and eighteen miles of corridors—and that’s not even counting the sub-basement tunnels, which no one’s ever surveyed or diagrammed. I once tried to figure out how many rooms there were in this joint, gave up when I hit a thousand. It’s been under constant construction and renovation for every single one of its hundred and forty years. That’s the nature of a museum—collections get moved around, rooms get joined together, others get split apart and renamed. And a lot of these changes are made on the fly, without blueprints.”

“But surely they couldn’t lose an entire Egyptian tomb!” said Wicherly.

McCorkle laughed. “That would be difficult, even for this museum. It’s finding the entrance that might be tricky. It was bricked up in 1935 when they built the connecting tunnel from the 81st Street subway station.” He tucked the blueprints under his arm and picked up an old leather bag that lay on his desk. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way,” said Menzies.

They set off along a puke-green corridor, past maintenance rooms and storage areas, through a heavily trafficked section of the basement. As they went along, McCorkle gave a running account. “This is the metal shop. This is the old physical plant, once home to the ancient boilers, now used to store the collection of whale skeletons. Jurassic dinosaur storage . . . Cretaceous . . . Oligocene mammals . . . Pleistocene mammals . . . dugongs and manatees . . .”

The storage areas gave way to laboratories, their shiny, stainless-steel doors in contrast to the dingy corridors, lit with caged lightbulbs and lined with rumbling steam pipes.

They passed through so many locked doors Nora lost count. Some were old and required keys, which McCorkle selected from a large ring. Other doors, part of the museum’s new security system, he opened by swiping a magnetic card. As they moved deeper into the fabric of the building, the corridors became progressively empty and silent.

“I daresay this place is as vast as the British Museum,” said Wicherly.

McCorkle snorted in contempt. “Bigger. Much bigger.”

They came to an ancient set of riveted metal doors, which McCorkle opened with a large iron key. Darkness yawned beyond. He hit a switch and illuminated a long, once-elegant corridor lined with dingy frescoes. Nora squinted: they were paintings of a New Mexico landscape, with mountains, deserts, and a multistoried Indian ruin she recognized as Taos Pueblo.

“Fremont Ellis,” said Menzies. “This was once the Hall of the Southwest. Shut down since the forties.”

“These are extraordinary,” said Nora.

“Indeed. And very valuable.”

“They’re rather in need of curation,” said Wicherly. “That’s a rather nasty stain, there.”

“It’s a question of money,” Menzies said. “If our count hadn’t stepped forward with the necessary grant, the Tomb of Senef would probably have been left to sleep for another seventy years.”

McCorkle opened another door, revealing another dim hall turned into storage, full of shelves covered with beautifully painted pots. Old oaken cabinets stood against the walls, fronted with rippled glass, revealing a profusion of dim artifacts.

“The Southwest collections,” McCorkle said.

“I had no idea,” said Nora, amazed. “These should be available for study.”

“As Adrian pointed out, they need to be curated first,” Menzies said. “Once again, a question of money.”

“It’s not only money,” McCorkle added, with a strange, pinched expression on his face.

Nora exchanged glances with Wicherly. “I’m sorry?” she asked.

Menzies cleared his throat. “I think what Seamus means is that the, ah, first Museum Beast killings happened in the vicinity of the Hall of the Southwest.”

In the silence that followed, Nora made a mental note to have a look at these collections later—preferably, in the company of a large group. Maybe she could write a grant to see them moved to updated storage.

Another door gave way to a smaller room, lined floor-to-ceiling with black metal drawers. Half hidden behind the drawers were ancient posters and announcements from the twenties and thirties, with art deco lettering and images of Gibson Girls. In an earlier era, it must have been an antechamber of sorts. The room smelled of paradichlorobenzene and something bad—like old beef jerky, Nora decided.

At the far end, a great dim hall opened up. In the reflected light, she could see that its walls were covered with frescoes of the pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx as they had appeared when first built.

“Now we’re approaching the old Egyptian galleries,” McCorkle said.

They entered the vast hall. It had been turned into storage space: shelving was covered in transparent plastic sheets, which were in turn overlaid with dust.

McCorkle unrolled the blueprints, squinted at them in the dim light. “If my estimations are correct, the entrance to the tomb was in what is now the annex, at the far end.”

Wicherly went to one shelf, lifted the plastic. Beneath, Nora could make out metal shelves crowded with pottery vessels, gilded chairs and beds, headrests, canopic jars, and smaller figurines in alabaster, faience, and ceramic.

“Good Lord, this is one of the finest collections of ushabtis I’ve ever seen.” Wicherly turned excitedly to Nora. “Why, there’s enough material here alone to fill up the tomb twice over.” He picked up an ushabti and turned it over with reverence. “Old Kingdom, II Dynasty, reign of the pharaoh Hetepsekhemwy.”

“Dr. Wicherly, the rules about handling objects . . . ,” said McCorkle, a warning note in his voice.

“It’s quite all right,” said Menzies. “Dr. Wicherly is an Egyptologist. I’ll take responsibility.”

“Of course,” said McCorkle, a little put out. Nora had the feeling that McCorkle took a kind of proprietary interest in these old collections. They were his, in a way, as he was one of the few people ever to see them.

Wicherly went from one shelf to the next, his mouth practically watering. “Why, they even have a Neolithic collection from the Upper Nile! Good Lord, take a look at this ceremonial thatof!” He held up a foot-long stone knife, flaked from gray flint.

McCorkle cast an annoyed glance at Wicherly. The archaeologist laid the knife back in its place with the utmost care, then reshrouded it in plastic.

They came to another iron-bound door, which McCorkle had some difficulty opening, trying several keys before finding the correct one. The door groaned open at last, the hinges shedding clouds of rust.

Beyond lay a small room filled with sarcophagi made of painted wood and cartonnage. Some were without lids, and inside, Nora could make out the individual mummies—some wrapped, some unwrapped.

“The mummy room,” said McCorkle.

Wicherly rushed in ahead of the rest. “Good heavens, there must be a hundred in here!” He swept a plastic sheet aside, exposing a large wooden sarcophagus. “Look at this!”

Nora went over and peered at the mummy. The linen bandages had been ripped from its face and chest, the mouth was open, the black lips shriveled and drawn back as if crying out in protest at the violation. In its chest stood a gaping hole, the sternum and ribs torn out.

Wicherly turned toward Nora, eyes bright. “Do you see?” he said in an almost reverential whisper. “This mummy was robbed. They tore off the linen to get at precious amulets hidden in the wrappings. And there—where that hole is—was where a jade and gold scarab beetle had been placed on the chest. The symbol of rebirth. Gold was considered the flesh of the gods, because it never tarnished. They ripped it open to take it.”

“This can be the mummy we put in the tomb,” Menzies said. “The idea—Nora’s idea—was that we show the tomb as it appeared while being robbed.”

“How perfect,” said Wicherly, turning a brilliant smile to Nora.

“I believe,” McCorkle interrupted, “that the tomb entrance was against that wall.” Dropping his bag on the floor, he pulled the plastic sheeting away from the shelves covering the far wall, exposing pots, bowls, and baskets, all filled with black shriveled objects.

“What’s that inside?” Nora asked.

Wicherly went over to examine the objects. After a silence, he straightened up. “Preserved food. For the afterlife. Bread, antelope joints, fruits and vegetables, dates—preserved for the pharaoh’s journey to the afterworld.”

They heard a growing rumble coming through the walls, followed by a muffled squeal of metal, then silence.

“The Central Park West subway,” McCorkle explained. “The 81st Street station is very close.”

“We’ll have to find some way to dampen that sound,” Menzies said. “It destroys the mood.”

McCorkle grunted. Then he removed an electronic device from the bag and aimed it at the newly exposed wall, turned, aimed again. Then he pulled out a piece of chalk, made a mark on the wall. Taking a second device from his shirt pocket, he laid it against the wall and slid it across slowly, taking readings as he went.

Then he stepped back. “Bingo. Help me move these shelves.”

They began shifting the objects to shelves on the other walls. When the wall was at last bare, McCorkle pulled the shelf supports from the crumbling plaster with a set of pliers and put them to one side.

“Ready for the moment of truth?” McCorkle asked, a gleam in his eye, good humor returning.

“Absolutely,” said Wicherly.

McCorkle removed a long spike and hammer from his bag, positioned the spike on the wall, gave it a sharp blow, then another. The sounds echoed in the confined space and plaster began falling in sheets, exposing courses of brick. He continued to drive the spike in, dust rising . . . and then suddenly the spike slid in to the hilt. McCorkle rotated it, giving it a few side blows with the hammer, loosening the brick. A few more deft blows knocked free a large chunk of brickwork, leaving a black rectangle. He stepped back.

As he did so, Wicherly darted forward. “Forgive me if I claim explorer’s privilege.” He turned back with his most charming smile. “Any objections?”

“Be our guest,” said Menzies. McCorkle frowned but said nothing.

Wicherly took his flashlight and shined it into the hole, pressing his face to the gap. A long silence ensued, interrupted by the rumble of another subway train.

“What do you see?” asked Menzies at last.

“Strange animals, statues, and gold—everywhere the glint of gold.”

“What in heck?” said McCorkle.

Wicherly glanced back at him. “I was being facetious—quoting what Howard Carter said when he first peered into King Tut’s tomb.”

McCorkle’s lips tightened. “If you’ll step aside, please, I’ll have this open in a moment.”

McCorkle stepped back up to the gap, and with a series of expertly aimed blows of the spike, loosened several rows of bricks. In less than ten minutes, he had opened a hole big enough to step through. He disappeared inside, came back out a moment later.

“The electricity isn’t working, as I suspected. We’ll have to use our flashlights. I’m required to lead the way,” he said with a glance at Wicherly. “Museum regulations. Might be hazards in there.”

“The mummy from the Black Lagoon, perhaps,” said Wicherly with a laugh and a glance at Nora.

They stepped carefully inside, then stopped to reconnoiter. In the glow of their flashlight beams, a great stone threshold was visible, and beyond, a descending staircase carved out of rough limestone blocks.

McCorkle moved toward the first step, hesitated, then gave a slightly nervous chuckle. “Ready, ladies and gents?”

9

Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward stood silently in her office, looking at the untidy forest that seemed to sprout from her desk, from every chair, and to spill over to the floor—chaotic heaps of papers, photographs, tangles of colored string, CDs, yellowing telex sheets, labels, envelopes. The outward disarray, she mused, was a perfect mirror of her inner state of mind.

Her beautiful layout of evidence against Special Agent Pendergast, with all its accusatory paraphernalia of colored strings, photos, and labels, was no more. It had fit together so well. The evidence had been subtle but clean, convincing, utterly consistent. An out-of-the-way spot of blood, some microscopic fibers, a few strands of hair, a knot tied in a certain way, the chain of ownership of a murder weapon. The DNA tests didn’t lie, the forensics didn’t lie, the autopsies didn’t lie. They all pointed to Pendergast. The case against him was that good.

Maybe too good. And that, in a nutshell, was the problem.

A tentative knock came at the door and she turned to see the figure of Glen Singleton, local precinct captain, hovering outside. He was in his late forties; tall, with the sleek, efficient movements of a swimmer, a long face, and an aquiline profile. He wore a charcoal suit that was far too expensive and well cut for an NYPD captain, and every other week he dropped $120 at the barbershop in the lobby of the Carlyle to have his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed to perfection. But these were signs of personal fastidiousness, not a cop on the take. And despite the sartorial affectations, he was a damned good cop, one of the most decorated on active duty in the force.

“Laura, may I?” He smiled, displaying an expensive row of perfect teeth.

“Sure, why not?”

“We missed you at the departmental dinner last night. Did you have a conflict?”

“A conflict? No, nothing like that.”

“Really? Then I can’t understand why you’d pass up a chance to eat, drink, and be merry.”

“I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t really in the mood to be merry.”

There was an awkward silence while Singleton looked around for an empty chair.

“Sorry about the mess. I was just doing . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

Hayward shrugged.

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Singleton hesitated briefly, seemed to come to some decision, then shut the door behind him and stepped forward.

“This isn’t like you, Laura,” he said in a low voice.

So it’s going to be like that, thought Hayward.

“I’m your friend, and I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he went on. “I have a pretty good idea what you were ‘just doing,’ and you’re asking for trouble by doing it.”

Hayward waited.

“You developed the case in textbook fashion. You handled it perfectly. So why are you beating yourself up about it now?”

She gazed steadily at Singleton for a moment, trying to control the surge of anger that she knew was directed more at herself than him.

“Why? Because the wrong man’s in jail. Agent Pendergast didn’t murder Torrance Hamilton, he didn’t murder Charles Duchamp, and he didn’t murder Michael Decker. His brother, Diogenes, is the real murderer.”

Singleton sighed. “Look. It’s clear that Diogenes stole the museum’s diamonds and kidnapped Viola Maskelene. There are statements from Lieutenant D’Agosta, that gemologist, Kaplan, and Maskelene herself to that effect. But that doesn’t make him a murderer. You have absolutely no proof of that. On the other hand, you’ve done a great job proving Agent Pendergast did commit those murders. Let it go.”

“I did the job I was supposed to do, and that’s the problem. I was set up. Pendergast was framed.”

Singleton frowned. “I’ve seen plenty of frame jobs in my career, but for this to work, it would have to have been impossibly sophisticated.”

“D’Agosta told me all along that Diogenes Pendergast was framing his brother. Diogenes collected all the physical evidence he needed during Pendergast’s convalescence in Italy—blood, hair, fibers, everything. D’Agosta insisted Diogenes was alive; that he was the kidnapper of Viola Maskelene; that he was behind the diamond theft. He was right about those things, and it makes me think he might be right about everything else.”

“D’Agosta messed up big-time!” Singleton snapped. “He betrayed my trust, and yours. I’ve no doubt that the disciplinary trial will confirm his dismissal from the force. You really want to tie your wagon to that star?”

“I want to tie my wagon to the truth. I’m responsible for putting Pendergast on trial for his life, and I’m the only one who can undo it.”

“The only way to do that is to prove somebody else is the murderer. Do you have a single shred of evidence against Diogenes?”

Hayward frowned. “Margo Green described her assailant as—”

“Margo Green was attacked in a darkened room. Her testimony would never hold up.” Singleton hesitated. “Look, Laura,” he said in a gentler voice. “Let’s not bullshit each other here. I know what you’re going through. Hooking up with someone on the force is never easy. Breaking up with them is even harder. And with Vincent D’Agosta in the middle of this case, I don’t wonder you feel a touch of—”

“D’Agosta and I are ancient history,” Laura interrupted. “I don’t appreciate that insinuation. And for that matter, I don’t appreciate this visit of yours.”

Singleton picked up a pile of papers from the guest chair, placed them on the floor, and sat down. He bowed his head, propped his elbows on his knees, sighed, then looked up.

“Laura, “ he said, “you’re the youngest female homicide captain in the history of the NYPD. You’re twice as good as any man at your level. Commissioner Rocker loves you. The mayor loves you. Your own people love you. You’re going to be commissioner someday—you’re that good. I didn’t come here at anyone’s behest, I came here on my own. To warn you that you’ve run out of time on this. The FBI is moving ahead with their case against Pendergast. They think he killed Decker, and they aren’t interested in inconsistencies. What you’ve got is a hunch, nothing more . . . and it’s not worth throwing away your career on a hunch. Because that’s what will happen if you go up against the FBI on this—and lose.”

She looked at him steadily, took a deep breath. “So be it.”

10

The small group descended the dust-laden staircase of the Tomb of Senef, their shoes leaving prints as in a coating of fresh snow.

Wicherly paused, shining his light around. “Ah. This is what the Egyptians called the God’s First Passage along the Sun’s Path.” He turned toward Nora and Menzies. “Are you interested, or will I be making a bore of myself?”

“By all means,” said Menzies. “Let’s have the tour.”

Wicherly’s teeth gleamed in the dim light. “The problem is, much of the meaning of these ancient tombs still eludes us. They’re easy enough to date, though—this seems a fairly typical New Kingdom tomb, I’d say late XVIIIth Dynasty.”

“Right on target,” said Menzies. “Senef was the vizier and regent to Thutmosis IV.”

“Thank you.” Wicherly absorbed the compliment with evident satisfaction. “Most of these New Kingdom tombs had three parts—an outer, middle, and inner tomb, divided into a total of twelve chambers, which together represented the passage of the Sun God through the underworld during the twelve hours of night. The pharaoh was buried at sunset, and his soul accompanied the Sun God on his solar barque as he made the perilous journey through the underworld toward his glorious rebirth at dawn.”

He shone his light ahead, illuminating a dim portal at the far end. “This staircase would have been filled with rubble, ending in a sealed door.”

They continued descending the staircase, at last reaching a massive doorway topped by a lintel carved with a huge Eye of Horus. Wicherly paused, shining his light on the Eye and the hieroglyphics surrounding it.

“Can you read these hieroglyphics?” asked Menzies.

Wicherly grinned. “I make a pretty good show of it. It’s a curse.” He winked slyly at Nora. “To any who cross this threshold, may Ammut swallow his heart.”

There was a short silence.

McCorkle issued a high-pitched chuckle. “That’s all?”

“To the ancient tomb robber,” said Wicherly, “that would be enough—that’s a heck of a curse to an ancient Egyptian.”

“Who is Ammut?” Nora asked.

“The Swallower of the Damned.” Wicherly pointed his flashlight on a dim painting on the far wall, depicting a monster with a crocodilian head, the body of a leopard, and the grotesque hindquarters of a hippo, squatting on the sand, mouth open, about to devour a row of human hearts. “Evil words and deeds made the heart heavy, and after death Anubis weighed your heart on a balance scale against the Feather of Maat. If your heart weighed more than the feather, the baboon-headed god, Thoth, tossed it to the monster Ammut to eat. Ammut journeyed into the sands of the west to defecate, and that’s where you’d end up if you didn’t lead a good life—a shite, baking in the heat of the Western Desert.”

“That’s more than I needed to hear, thank you, Doctor,” said McCorkle.

“Robbing a pharaoh’s tomb must have been a terrifying experience for an ancient Egyptian. The curses put on any who entered the tomb were very real to them. To cancel the power of the dead pharaoh, they didn’t just rob the tomb, they destroyed it, smashing everything. Only by destroying the objects could they disperse their malevolent power.”

“Fodder for the exhibit, Nora,” Menzies murmured.

After the briefest hesitation, McCorkle stepped across the threshold, and the rest followed.

“The God’s Second Passage,” Wicherly said, shining his light around at the inscriptions. “The walls are covered with inscriptions from the Reunupertemhru, the Egyptian Book of the Dead.”

“Ah! How interesting!” Menzies said. “Read us a sample, Adrian.”

In a low voice, Wicherly began to intone:

The Regent Senef, whose word is truth, saith: Praise and thanksgiving be unto thee, Ra, O thou who rollest on like unto gold, thou Illuminer of the Two Lands on the day of thy birth. Thy mother brought thee forth on her hand, and thou didst light up with splendor the circle which is traveled over by the Disk. O Great Light who rollest across Nu, thou dost raise up the generations of men from the deep source of thy waters . . .

“It’s an invocation to Ra, the Sun God, by the deceased, Senef. It’s pretty typical of the Book of the Dead.”

“I’ve heard about the Book of the Dead,” Nora said, “but I don’t know much about it.”

“It was basically a group of magical invocations, spells, and incantations. It helped the dead make the dangerous journey through the underworld to the Field of Reeds—the ancient Egyptian idea of heaven. People waited in fear during that long night after the burial of the pharaoh, because if he buggered up somehow down in the underworld and wasn’t reborn, the sun would never rise again. The dead king had to know the spells, the secret names of the serpents, and all kinds of other arcane knowledge to finish the journey. That’s why it’s all written on the walls of his tomb—the Book of the Dead was a set of crib notes to eternal life.”

Wicherly chuckled, shining his beam over four registers of hieroglyphics painted in red and white. They stepped toward them, raising clouds of deepening gray dust. “There’s the First Gate of the Dead,” he went on. “It shows the pharaoh getting into the solar barque and journeying into the underworld, where he’s greeted by a crowd of the dead . . . Here in Gate Four they’ve encountered the dreaded Desert of Sokor, and the boat magically becomes a serpent to carry them across the burning sands . . . And this! This is very dramatic: at midnight, the soul of the Sun God Ra unites with his corpse, represented by the mummified figure—”

“Pardon my saying so, Doctor,” McCorkle broke in, “but we’ve still got eight rooms to go.”

“Right, of course. So sorry.”

They proceeded to the far end of the chamber. Here, a dark hole revealed a steep staircase plunging into blackness. “This passage would also have been filled with rubble,” Wicherly said. “To hinder robbers.”

“Be careful,” McCorkle muttered as he led the way.

Wicherly turned to Nora and held out a well-manicured hand. “May I?”

“I think I can handle it,” she said, amused at the old-world courtesy. As she watched Wicherly descend with excessive caution, his beautifully polished shoes heavily coated with dust, she decided that he was far more likely to slip and break his neck than she was.

“Be careful!” Wicherly called out to McCorkle. “If this tomb follows the usual plan, up ahead is the well.”

“The well?” McCorkle’s voice floated back.

“A deep pit designed to send unwary tomb robbers to their death. But it was also a way to keep water from flooding the tomb, during those rare periods when the Valley of the Kings flash-flooded.”

“Even if it remains intact, the well will surely be bridged over,” Menzies said. “Recall that this was once an exhibit.”

They moved forward cautiously, their beams finally revealing a rickety wooden bridge spanning a pit at least fifteen feet deep. McCorkle, gesturing for them to remain behind, examined the bridge carefully with his light, then advanced out onto it. A sudden crack! caused Nora to jump. McCorkle grabbed desperately for the railing. But it was merely the sound of settling wood, and the bridge held.

“It’s still safe,” said McCorkle. “Cross one at a time.”

Nora walked gingerly across the narrow bridge. “I can’t believe this was once part of an exhibit. How did they ever install a well like this in the sub-basement of the museum?”

“It must have been cut into the Manhattan bedrock,” Menzies said from behind. “We’ll have to bring this up to code.”

On the far side of the bridge, they passed over another threshold. “Now we’re in the middle tomb,” said Wicherly. “There would have been another sealed door here. What marvelous frescoes! Here’s an image of Senef meeting the gods. And more verses from the Book of the Dead.”

“Any more curses?” Nora asked, glancing at another Eye of Horus painted prominently above the once-sealed door.

Wicherly shone his light toward it. “Hmmm. I’ve never seen an inscription like this before. The place which is sealed. That which lieth down in the closed place is reborn by the Ba-soul which is in it; that which walketh in the closed space is dispossessed of the Ba-soul. By the Eye of Horus I am delivered or damned, O great god Osiris.”

“Sure sounds like another curse to me,” said McCorkle.

“I would guess it’s merely an obscure quotation from the Book of the Dead. The bloody thing runs to two hundred chapters and nobody’s figured all of it out.”

The tomb now opened up onto a stupendous hall, with a vaulted roof and six great stone pillars, all densely covered with hieroglyphics and frescoes. It seemed incredible to Nora that this huge, ornate space had been asleep in the bowels of the museum for more than half a century, forgotten by almost all.

Wicherly turned, playing his light across the extensive paintings. “This is rather extraordinary. The Hall of the Chariots, which the ancients called the Hall of Repelling Enemies. This was where all the war stuff the pharaoh needed in the afterlife would have been stored—his chariot, bows and arrows, horses, swords, knives, war club and staves, helmet, leather armor.”

His beam paused at a frieze depicting beheaded bodies laid out by the hundreds on the ground, their heads lying in rows nearby. The ground was splattered with blood, and the ancient artist had added such realistic details as lolling tongues.

They moved through a long series of passageways until they came to a room that was smaller than the others. A large fresco on one side showed the same scene of weighing the heart depicted earlier, only much larger. The hideous, slavering form of Ammut squatted nearby.

“The Hall of Truth,” Wicherly said. “Even the pharaoh was judged, or in this case, Senef, who was almost as powerful as a pharaoh.”

McCorkle grunted, then disappeared into the next chamber, and the rest followed. It was another spacious room with a vaulted ceiling, painted with a night sky full of stars, the walls dense with hieroglyphics. An enormous granite sarcophagus sat in the middle, empty. The walls on each side were interrupted by four black doors.

“This is an extraordinary tomb,” said Wicherly, shining the light around. “I had no idea. When you called me, Dr. Menzies, I thought it would be something small but charming. This is stupendous. Where in the world did the museum get it?”

“An interesting story,” Menzies replied. “When Napoleon conquered Egypt in 1798, one of his prizes was this tomb, which he had disassembled, block by block, to take back to France. But when Nelson defeated the French in the Battle of the Nile, a Scottish naval captain finagled the tomb for himself and reassembled it at his castle in the Highlands. In the nineteenth century, his last descendant, the 7th Baron of Rattray, finding himself strapped for cash, sold it to one of the museum’s early benefactors, who had it shipped across the Atlantic and installed while they were building the museum.”

“The baron let go of one of England’s national treasures, I should say.”

Menzies smiled. “He received a thousand pounds for it.”

“Worse and worse! May Ammut swallow the greedy baron’s heart for selling the ruddy thing!” Wicherly laughed, casting his flashing blue eyes on Nora, who smiled politely. His attentiveness was becoming obvious, and he seemed not at all discouraged by the wedding band on her finger.

McCorkle began to tap his foot impatiently.

“This is the burial chamber,” Wicherly began, “which the ancients called the House of Gold. Those antechambers would be the Ushabti Room; the Canopic Room, where all the pharaoh’s preserved organs were stored in jars; the Treasury of the End; and the Resting Place of the Gods. Remarkable, isn’t it, Nora? What fun we’ll have!”

Nora didn’t answer immediately. She was thinking about just how massive the tomb was, and how dusty, and how much work lay ahead of them.

Menzies must have been thinking the same thing, because he turned to her with a smile that was half eager, half rueful.

“Well, Nora,” he said. “It should prove an interesting six weeks.”

11

Gerry Fecteau slammed the door to solitary 44 hard, causing a deafening boom throughout the third floor of Herkmoor Correctional Facility 3. He smirked and winked at his companion as they paused outside the door, listening while the sound echoed through the vast cement spaces before dying slowly away.

The prisoner in 44 was a big mystery. All the guards were talking about him. He was important, that much was clear: FBI agents had come to visit him several times and the warden had taken a personal interest. But what most impressed Fecteau was the tight lid on information. For most new prisoners, it didn’t take long for the rumor mill to grind out the accusation, the crime, the gory details. But in this case, nobody even knew the prisoner’s name, let alone his crime. He was referred to simply by a single letter: A.

On top of that, the man was scary. True, he wasn’t physically imposing: tall and slender with skin so pale it looked like he might have been born in solitary. He rarely spoke, and when he did, you had to lean forward to hear him. No, it wasn’t that. It was the eyes. In his twenty-five years in corrections, Fecteau had never before seen eyes that were so utterly cold, like two glittering silvery chips of dry ice, so far below zero they just about smoked.

Christ, it gave Fecteau a chill just thinking about them.

There was no doubt in Fecteau’s mind this prisoner had committed a truly heinous crime. Or series of crimes, a Jeffrey Dahmer type, a cold-blooded serial killer. He looked that scary. That’s why it gave Fecteau such satisfaction when the order came down that the prisoner was to be moved to solitary 44. Nothing more needed to be said. It was where they sent the hard cases, the ones who needed softening up. Not that solitary 44 was any worse than the other cells in Herkmoor 3 Solitary—all the cells were identical: metal cot, toilet with no seat, sink with only cold running water. What made solitary 44 special, so useful in breaking a prisoner, was the presence of the inmate in solitary 45. The drummer.

Fecteau and his partner, Benjy Doyle, stood on either side of the cell door, making no noise, waiting for the drummer to start up again. He’d paused, as he always did for a few minutes when a new prisoner was installed. But the pause never lasted long.

Then, as if on schedule, Fecteau heard a faint soft-shoe shuffle start up again inside solitary 45. This was followed by the popping sound of lips, and then a low tattoo of fingers drumming against the metal rail of the bed. A little more soft-shoe, some snatches of humming . . . and then, the drumming. It started slowly, and quickly accelerated, a rapid roll breaking off into syncopated riffs, punctuated with a pop or a shuffle, a never-ending sonic flood of inexhaustible hyperactivity.

A smile spread across Fecteau’s face and his eyes met those of Doyle.

The drummer was a perfect inmate. He never shouted, screamed, or threw his food. He never swore, threatened the guards, or trashed his cell. He was neat and tidy, keeping his hair groomed and his body washed. But he had two peculiar characteristics that kept him in solitary: he almost never slept, and he spent his waking hours—all his waking hours—drumming. Never loudly, never in-your-face. The drummer was utterly oblivious to the outside world and the many curses and threats directed at him. He did not even seem to be aware that there was an outside world, and he continued on, never varying, never ruffled or disturbed, totally focused. Curiously, the very softness of the drummer’s sounds were the most unendurable aspect of them: Chinese water torture of the ear.

In transferring the prisoner known as A to solitary, Fecteau and Doyle had had orders to deprive the man of all his possessions, including—especially including, the warden had made clear—writing instruments. They had taken everything: books, sketches, photographs, journals, notebooks, pens and inks. The prisoner was left with nothing—and with nothing to do but listen:

Ba-da-ba-da-ditty-ditty-bop-hup-hup-huppa-huppa-be-bop-be-bop-ditty-ditty-ditty-boom! Ditty-boom! Ditty-boom! Ditty-bada-boom-bada-boom-ba-ba-ba-boom! Ba-da-ba-da-pop! Ba-pop! Ba-pop! Ditty-ditty-datty-shuffle-shuffle-ditty-da-da-da-dit! Ditty-shuffle-tap-shuffle-tap-da-da-dadadada-pop! Dit-ditty-dit-ditty-dap! Dit-ditty . . .

Fecteau had heard enough. It was already getting under his skin. He gestured toward the exit with his chin, and he and Doyle headed hurriedly back down the hall, the sounds of the drummer dying away.

“I give him a week,” said Fecteau.

“A week?” Doyle replied with a snort. “The poor bastard won’t last twenty-four hours.”

12

Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta lay on his belly, in a freezing drizzle, on a barren hill above the Herkmoor Federal Correctional and Holding Facility in Herkmoor, New York. Next to him crouched the dark form of the man named Proctor. The time was midnight. The great prison spread out in a flat valley below them, brilliantly illuminated by the yellow glare of overhead lights, as surreal an industrial confection as a giant oil refinery.

D’Agosta raised a pair of powerful digital binoculars and once again examined the general layout of the facility. It covered at least twenty acres, consisting of three low, enormous concrete building blocks, set in a U shape, surrounded by asphalt yards, lookout towers, fenced service areas, and guardhouses. D’Agosta knew the first building was the Federal Maximum Security Unit, filled with the very worst violent offenders contemporary America could produce—and that, D’Agosta thought grimly, was saying quite a bit. The second, much smaller area bore the official title of Federal Capital Sentence Holding and Transfer Facility. While New York State had no death penalty, there was a federal death penalty, and this is where those few who had been sentenced to death by the federal courts were held.

The third unit also had a name that could only have been invented by a prison bureaucrat: the Federal High-Risk Violent Offender Pretrial Detention Facility. It contained those awaiting trial for a small list of heinous federal crimes: men who had been denied bail and who were considered at especially high risk of escape or flight. This facility held drug kingpins, domestic terrorists, serial killers who had exercised their trade across state boundaries, and those accused of killing federal agents. In the lingo of Herkmoor, this was the Black Hole.

It was this unit that currently housed Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast.

While some of the storied state prisons, such as Sing Sing and Alcatraz, were famed for never having had an escape, Herkmoor was the only federal facility that could boast a similar record.

D’Agosta’s binoculars continued to roam the facility, taking in even the minute details he had already spent three weeks studying on paper. Slowly, he worked his way from the central buildings to the outbuildings and, finally, to the perimeter.

At first glance, the perimeter of Herkmoor looked unremarkable. Security consisted of the standard triple barrier. The first was a twenty-four-foot chain-link fence, topped by concertina wire, illuminated by the multimillion-candlepower brilliance of xenon stadium lights. A series of twenty-yard spaces spread with gravel led to the second barrier: a forty-foot cinder-block wall topped with spikes and wire. Along this wall, every hundred yards, was a tower kiosk with an armed guard; D’Agosta could see them moving about, wakeful and alert. A hundred-foot gap roamed by Dobermans led to the final perimeter, a chain-link fence identical to the first. From there, a three-hundred-yard expanse of lawn extended to the edge of the woods.

What made Herkmoor unique was what you couldn’t see: a state-of-the-art electronic surveillance and security system, said to be the finest in the country. D’Agosta had seen the specs to this system—he had, in fact, been poring over them for days—but he still barely understood it. He did not see that as a problem: Eli Glinn, his strange and silent partner—holed up in a high-tech surveillance van a mile down the road—understood it, and that’s what counted.

It was more than a security system: it was a state of mind. Although Herkmoor had suffered many escape attempts, some extraordinarily clever, none had succeeded—and every guard at Herkmoor, every employee, was acutely aware of that fact and proud of it. There would be no bureaucratic turpitude or self-satisfaction here, no sleeping guards or malfunctioning security cameras.

That troubled D’Agosta most of all.

He finished his scrutiny and glanced over at Proctor. The chauffeur was lying prone on the ground beside him, taking pictures with a digital Nikon equipped with a miniature tripod, a 2600mm lens, and specially made CCD chips, so sensitive to light they were able to record the arrival of single photons.

D’Agosta ran over the list of questions Glinn wanted answered. Some were obviously important: how many dogs there were, how many guards occupied each tower, how many guards manned the gates. Glinn had also requested a description of the arrival and departure of all vehicles, with as much information as possible on them. He wanted detailed pictures of the clusters of antennas, dishes, and microwave horns on the building roofs. But other requests were not so clear. Glinn wanted to know, for example, if the area between the wall and the outer fence was dirt, grass, or gravel. He had asked for a downstream sample from the brook running past the facility. Strangest of all, he had asked D’Agosta to collect all the trash he could find in a certain stretch of the brook. He had asked them to observe the prison through a full twenty-four-hour period, keeping a log of every activity they could note: prisoner exercise times, the movements of guards, the comings and goings of suppliers, contractors, and delivery people. He wanted to know the times when the lights went on and off. And he wanted it all recorded to the nearest second.

D’Agosta paused to murmur some observations into the digital recorder Glinn had given him. He heard the faint whirring of Proctor’s camera, the patter of rain on leaves.

He stretched. “Jesus, it really kills me to think of Pendergast in there.”

“It must be very hard on him, sir,” said Proctor in his usual impenetrable way. The man was no mere chauffeur—D’Agosta had figured that out as soon as he saw him break down and stow away a CAR-15/XM-177 Commando in less than sixty seconds—but he could never seem to penetrate Proctor’s Jeeves-like opacity. The soft click and whir of the camera continued.

The radio on his belt squawked. “Vehicle,” came Glinn’s voice.

A moment later, a pair of headlights flashed through the bare branches of the trees, approaching on the single road leading to Herkmoor, which ran up the hill from the town two miles away. Proctor quickly swung the lens of his camera around. D’Agosta clapped the binoculars to his eyes, the gain automatically adjusting to compensate for the changing contrasts of dark and light.

The truck came out of the woods and into the glow of lights surrounding the prison. It looked like a food-service truck of some kind, and as it turned, D’Agosta could read the logo on the side, Helmer’s Meats and By-Products. It stopped at the guardhouse, presented a sheaf of documents, and was waved through. The three sets of gates opened automatically, one after the other, the gate ahead not opening until the one behind had closed. The soft clicking of the camera’s shutter continued. D’Agosta checked his stopwatch, murmured into the recorder. He turned to Proctor.

“Here comes tomorrow’s meat loaf,” he said, making a feeble joke.

“Yes, sir.”

D’Agosta thought of Pendergast, the supreme gourmet, eating whatever it was that truck was bringing. He wondered how the agent was handling it.

The truck entered the inner service drive, did a two-point turn, and backed up into a covered loading dock, where it was obscured from view. D’Agosta made another entry on the digital recorder, then settled down to wait. Sixteen minutes later, the vehicle drove back out.

He glanced at his watch. Almost one o’clock. “I’m heading down to get that water and air sample, and do the magnetic drag.”

“Be careful.”

D’Agosta shouldered his small knapsack and retreated to the back side of the hill, making his way down through bare trees, scrub, and mountain laurel. Everything was sopping wet, and water dripped from the trees. Here and there, small patches of damp snow glistened beneath the branches. He didn’t need a light once he’d rounded the hill—there was enough glow from Herkmoor to light up most of the mountain.

D’Agosta was glad of the activity. During the wait on top, he’d had too much time to think. And thinking was the last thing he wanted to do: thinking about his upcoming disciplinary trial, which might very well end in his dismissal from the NYPD. It seemed incredible what had happened in the last few months: his sudden promotion to the NYPD; his blossoming relationship with Laura Hayward; his reconnection with Agent Pendergast. And then it had all come crashing down. His career as a cop was in deep shit; he was estranged from Hayward; and his friend Pendergast was rotting in that damp hell below, shortly to go on trial for his life.

D’Agosta staggered, righted himself. He tilted his bleary face upward, letting the drops of icy rain lash a modicum of alertness into him.

He wiped his face and pushed on. Getting the water sample was going to be tricky, since the stream flowed along the edge of an open field outside the prison walls, completely exposed to the guards in the towers. But this was nothing compared to the magnetic drag he was charged with performing. Glinn wanted him to crawl as close to the outer perimeter fence as he could get, carrying a miniature magnetometer in his pocket, to see if there were any buried sensors or hidden electromagnetic fields . . . and then plant the damn thing in the ground. Of course, if there were any sensors, he might well set them off—and then things would get exciting.

He crept slowly downhill, the ground gradually leveling out. Despite his slicker and gloves, he could feel the icy water creeping down his legs and in through the poor sealing of his boots. A hundred yards farther on, he could make out the edge of the woods and hear the gurgle of the stream. He kept low in the laurel bushes as he moved forward. The last few yards he got down on his hands and knees and crawled.

A moment later, he was at the edge of the brook. It was dark and smelled of damp leaves, and along one bank a scalloped edge of old, rotten ice stubbornly remained.

He paused, looking at the prison. The guard towers loomed above now, only two hundred yards distant, the bright lights like multiple suns. He fumbled in his pocket and was about to remove the vial Glinn had given him when he froze. His assumption that the guards would be looking inward, toward the prison, had been wrong: he could clearly see one of them looking out, scanning the edge of the woods nearby with high-powered binoculars.

An important detail.

He froze, flattening himself in the laurel. He had already entered the forbidden perimeter, and he felt horribly exposed to view.

The guard’s attention seemed to have swept past him. With exaggerated care, he edged forward and dipped the vial into the icy water, filled it, then screwed the top back on. Then he crept downstream, fishing out trash—old Styrofoam coffee cups, a few beer cans, gum wrappers—and putting it in the knapsack. Glinn had been quite insistent that D’Agosta collect everything. It was a highly unpleasant job, wading in the icy water, sometimes having to root about the cobbled stream bottom up to his shoulder in water. One jam-up of branches across the stream acted like a sieve and he hit the jackpot, collecting a good ten pounds of sodden garbage.

When he was done, he found himself at the point downstream where Glinn wanted the magnetometer placed. He waited until the guard’s attention was at the farthest point; then he half waded, half crawled across the stream. The meadow that surrounded the prison was unkempt, grasses dead and flattened by the winter snows. But there were just enough skeletal weeds to provide at least the semblance of cover.

D’Agosta crawled forward, freezing in place every time the guard swept the binoculars his way.

The minutes crawled by. He felt the icy drizzle trickling down his neck and back. The fence grew closer only by excruciating degrees of slowness. But he had to keep going, and as fast as he dared: the longer he lingered, the higher the probability that one of the guards would spot him.

At last he reached the groomed part of the lawn. He removed the device from his pocket, pushed one hand out through the tall weeds, sank the magnetometer down to the level of the grass, then began an awkward retreat.

Crawling back was much more difficult. Now he was facing the wrong direction and unable to monitor the guard towers. He kept on, slowly but steadily, with frequent long pauses. Forty-five minutes after setting out, he once again crossed the stream and reentered the dripping woods, pushing up through the laurel bushes toward their spy nest on top of the hill, feeling half frozen, his back aching from lugging the knapsack of wet trash.

“Mission accomplished?” Proctor asked as he returned.

“Yeah, assuming I don’t lose my frigging toes to frostbite.”

Proctor adjusted a small unit. “Signal’s coming in nicely. It appears you got within fifty feet of the fence. Nice work, Lieutenant.”

D’Agosta turned wearily toward him. “Call me Vinnie,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d call you by your first name, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Proctor is fine.”

D’Agosta nodded. Pendergast had surrounded himself with people almost as enigmatic as himself. Proctor, Wren . . . and in the case of Constance Greene, maybe even more enigmatic. He checked his watch again: almost two.

Fourteen hours to go.

13

Rain hammered against the crumbling brick-and-marble facade of the Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. Far above the mansard roof and its widow’s walk, lightning tore at the night sky. The first-floor windows had been boarded up and covered with tin, and the windows of the upper three stories were securely shuttered—no light pierced through to betray life within. The fenced front yard was overgrown with sumac and ailanthus bushes, and stray bits of wind-whipped trash lay in the carriage drive and beneath the porte cochere. In every way, the mansion appeared abandoned and deserted, like many others along that bleak stretch of Riverside Drive.

For a great many years—a truly remarkable number of years, in fact—this house had been the shelter, redoubt, laboratory, library, museum, and repository for a certain Dr. Enoch Leng. But after Leng’s death, the house had passed through obscure and secret channels—along with the charge of Leng’s ward, Constance Greene—to his descendant, Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast.

But now, Agent Pendergast was in solitary confinement in the maximum security wing of Herkmoor Correctional Facility, awaiting trial for murder. Proctor and Lieutenant D’Agosta were away on a reconnaissance of the prison. The queer excitable man known as Wren, who was Constance Greene’s nominal guardian while Pendergast was gone, was at his night job at the New York Public Library.

Constance Greene was alone.

She sat before a dying fire in the library, where neither the sounds of rain nor those of traffic penetrated. She had before her My Life by Giacomo Casavecchio, and she was intently studying the Renaissance spy’s account of his celebrated escape from the Leads, the dreaded prison in the Venetian Ducal Palace from which no one had ever escaped before—or would escape again. A stack of similar volumes covered a nearby table: accounts of prison escapes from all over the world, but especially focusing on the federal correctional system in the United States. She read in silence, every so often pausing to make a notation in a leather-bound notebook.

As she finished one of these notations, the fire settled in the grate with a loud crack. Constance looked up abruptly, eyes widening at the sudden noise. Her eyes were large and violet, and strangely wise for a face that appeared to be no older than twenty-one. Slowly, she relaxed again.

It was not that she felt nervous, exactly. After all, the mansion was hardened against intruders; she knew its secret ways better than anyone; and she could vanish into one of a dozen hidden passages at a moment’s notice. No—it was that she had lived here so long, knew the old dark house so well, that she could almost sense its moods. And she had the distinct impression something was not right; that the house was trying to tell her something, warn her about something.

A pot of chamomile tea sat on a side table beside the chair. She put the documents aside, poured herself a fresh cup, then rose. Smoothing down the front of her bone-colored pinafore, she turned and walked to the bookshelves set into the far wall of the library. The stone floor was covered in rich Persian rugs, and as she moved, Constance made no noise.

Reaching the bookshelves, she leaned close, squinting at the gilt bindings. The only light came from the fire and a lone Tiffany lamp beside her chair, and this far corner of the library was dim. At last she found what she was looking for—a Depression-era prison management treatise—and returned to her chair. Seating herself once again, she opened the book, leafed ahead to the contents page. Finding the desired chapter, she reached for her tea, took a sip, then moved to replace the cup.

As she did so, she glanced up.

In the wing chair next to the side table, a man was now seated: tall, aristocratic, with an aquiline nose and a high forehead, pale skin, dressed in a severe black suit. He had ginger-colored hair and a small, neatly trimmed beard. As he looked back at her, the firelight illuminated his eyes. One was a rich hazel green; the other, a milky, dead blue.

The man smiled.

Constance had never seen this man before, and yet she knew immediately who he was. She rose with a cry, the cup dropping from her fingers.

As fast as a striking snake, the man’s arm shot out and deftly caught the cup just before it hit the ground. He replaced it on its silver salver, sat back again. Not a drop had spilled. It had happened so fast that Constance was hardly sure it had happened at all. She remained standing, unable to move. Despite her profound shock, one thing was clear: the man was seated between her and the room’s only exit.

The man spoke softly, as if sensing her thoughts. “There is no need for alarm, Constance. I mean you no harm.”

She remained where she was, standing motionless before the chair. Her eyes flickered about the room and returned to the seated man.

“You know who I am, don’t you, child?” he asked. Even the buttery New Orleans tones were familiar.

“Yes. I know who you are.” She choked on the uncanny resemblance to the man she knew so well, all except his hair—and his eyes.

The man nodded. “I am gratified.”

“How did you get in here?”

“How I got in is unimportant. Why I am here is the true question, don’t you think?”

Constance seemed to consider this for a moment. “Yes. Perhaps you are right.” She took a step forward, letting the fingers of one hand drift from her wing chair and slide along the side table. “Very well, then: why are you here?”

“Because it’s time we spoke, you and I. It’s the least courtesy you could pay me, after all.”

Constance took another step, her fingers trailing along the polished wood. Then she paused. “Courtesy?”

“Yes. After all, I—”

With a sudden motion, Constance snatched a letter opener from the side table and leaped at the man. The attack was remarkable not only for its swiftness, but for its silence. She had done nothing, said nothing, to warn the man of her strike.

To no avail. The man twitched aside at the last instant and the letter opener sank to its hilt in the worn leather of the wing chair. Constance jerked it free and—still without uttering a sound—whirled to face the man, raising the weapon above her head.

As she lunged, the man coolly dodged the stroke and with a flick of his arm seized her wrist; she thrashed and struggled, and they fell to the floor, the man pinning her body under his, the letter opener skidding across the rug.

The man’s lips moved to within an inch of her ear. “Constance,” he said in a quiet voice. “Du calme. Du calme.”

“Courtesy!” she cried once again. “How dare you speak of courtesy! You murder my guardian’s friends, disgrace him, tear him from his house!” She stopped abruptly and struggled. A soft groan rose in her throat: a groan of frustration, mingled with another, more complex emotion.

The man continued to speak in a smooth undertone. “Please understand, Constance, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m restraining you simply to prevent harm to myself.”

She struggled again. “Hateful man!”

“Constance, please. I have something to say to you.”

“I’ll never listen to you!” she gasped.

But he continued to pin her to the floor, gently yet firmly. Slowly her struggling ceased. She lay there, heart racing painfully. She became aware of the beating of his own heart—much slower—against her breasts. He was still whispering calming, soothing words into her ear that she tried to ignore.

He pulled away slightly. “If I release you, will you promise not to attack me again? To stay and hear me out?”

Constance did not reply.

“Even a condemned man has the right to be heard. And you may learn that everything is not as it seems.”

Still, Constance said nothing. After a long moment, the man raised himself from the floor, then—slowly—released his grip on her wrists.

She stood at once. Breathing heavily, she smoothed down her pinafore. Her eyes darted around the library again. The man was still positioned strategically between her and the door. He raised a hand toward her wing chair.

“Please, Constance,” he said. “Sit down.”

Warily, she seated herself.

“May we speak now, like civilized people, without further outbursts?”

“You dare speak of yourself as civilized? You? A serial killer and thief.” She laughed scornfully.

The man nodded slowly, as if ingesting this. “Naturally, my brother has taken a certain line with you. After all, it’s worked so well for him in the past. He’s an extraordinarily persuasive and charismatic individual.”

“You can’t presume to imagine I’d believe anything you say. You’re insane—or worse, you do these things as a sane man.” She again glanced past him, toward the library exit and the reception hall beyond.

The man gazed back at her. “No, Constance. I am not insane—on the contrary, like you, I greatly fear insanity. You see, the sad fact is, we have a great deal in common—and not just that which we fear.”

“We haven’t the slightest in common.”

“No doubt this is what my brother would like you to believe.”

It seemed to Constance that the man’s expression had become one of infinite sadness. “It’s true that I am far from perfect and cannot yet expect your trust,” he went on. “But I hope you understand that I intend you no hurt.”

“What you intend means nothing. You’re like a child who befriends a butterfly one day to pull off its wings the next.”

“What do you know of children, Constance? Your eyes are so wise and so old. Even from here, I can see the vast experience written there. What strange and terrible things they must have seen! How very penetrating your gaze! It fills me with sadness. No, Constance: I sense—I know—that childhood was a luxury you were denied. Just as I myself was denied it.”

Constance went rigid.

“Earlier, I said I was here because it’s time we spoke. It is time that you learned the truth. The real truth.”

His voice had sunk so low that the words were only just audible. Against her will, she asked, “The truth?”

“About the relationship between me and my brother.”

In the soft light of the dying fire, Diogenes Pendergast’s peculiar eyes looked vulnerable, almost lost. Gazing back at her, they brightened slightly.

“Ah! Constance, it must sound impossibly strange to you. But gazing on you like this, I feel I would do anything in my power to lift from you that burden of pain and fear and carry it myself. And do you know why? Because when I look at you, I see myself.”

Constance did not reply. She merely sat, motionless.

“I see a person who longs to fit in, to be merely human, and yet who is destined always to remain apart. I see a person who feels the world more deeply, more intensely, than she is willing to admit . . . even to herself.”

Listening, Constance began to tremble.

“I sense both pain and anger in you. Pain at being abandoned—not once, but several times. And anger at the sheer capriciousness of the gods. Why me? Why again? For it’s true: you’ve been abandoned once again. Though not, perhaps, in exactly the way you imagined it. Here, too, we are the same. I was abandoned when my parents were burned to death by an ignorant mob. I escaped the flames. They did not. I’ve always felt that I should have died, not them; that it was my fault. You feel the same way about the death of your own sister, Mary—that it was you, instead of she, who should have died. Later, I was abandoned by my brother. Ah: I see the disbelief in your face. But then again, you know so little about my brother. All I ask is that you hear me with an open mind.”

He rose. Constance took in a sharp breath, half rising herself.

“No,” Diogenes said, and once again Constance stopped. There was nothing in his tone but weariness now. “There’s no need to run. I’ll take my leave of you. In the future, we’ll speak again, and I’ll tell you more about the childhood I was denied. About the older brother who took the love I offered and flung back scorn and hatred. Who took pleasure in destroying everything I created—my journals of childish poetry, my translations of Virgil and Tacitus. Who tortured and killed my favorite pet in a way that, even today, I can barely bring myself to think about. Who made it his mission in life to turn everyone against me, with lies and insinuations, to paint me as his evil twin. And when in the end none of this could break my spirit, he did something so awful . . . so, so awful . . .” But at this, his voice threatened to break. “Look at my dead eye, Constance: that was the least of what he did . . .”

There was a brief silence, broken only by the sound of labored breathing as Diogenes struggled to master himself, his opaque eye staring not quite at her, but not quite away from her, either.

He passed one hand across his brow. “I’ll be going now. But you’ll find I’ve left you with something. A gift of kinship, a recognition of the pain we share. I hope you’ll accept it in the spirit in which it is offered.”

“I want nothing from you,” Constance said, but the hatred and conviction in her voice had ebbed into confusion.

He held her gaze a moment longer. Then—slowly, very slowly—he turned and walked away, toward the library exit. “Good-bye, Constance,” he said quietly over his shoulder. “Take care. I’ll see myself out.”

Constance sat rooted in place as she listened to his departing footsteps. Only when silence had returned did she rise from her chair.

As she did so, something moved in the handkerchief pocket of her crinoline.

She started. The movement came again. And then a tiny pink nose appeared, bewhiskered and twitching, followed by two beady black eyes and two soft little ears. In wonder, she put her hand in her pocket and cupped it. The little creature climbed up on it and sat upright, his little paws curled as if begging, whiskers trembling, his bright eyes looking pleadingly up into her own. It was a white mouse: sleek, tiny, and perfectly tame—and Constance’s heart melted with a suddenness so unexpected that the breath fled from her and tears sprang into her eyes.

14

Dust motes drifted in the still air of the Central Archives reading room, and it smelled not unpleasantly of old cardboard, dust, buckram, and leather. Polished oak paneling rose to an elaborately carved and gilded rococo ceiling, dominated by a pair of heavy chandeliers of gilt copper and crystal. Against the far wall stood a bricked-up fireplace of pink marble at least eight feet high and as many wide, and the center of the room was dominated by three massive oaken tables with claw feet, tops laid over with a heavy covering of baize. It was one of the most impressive rooms in the museum—and one of the least known.

It had been over a year since Nora was last in this room, and despite its grandeur, the memories it evoked were not good. Unfortunately, it was the only place where she could peruse the museum’s most important historic files.

A faint tap came at the door and the stocky form of Oscar Gibbs entered, his muscular arms piled with ancient documents tied up with twine.

“There’s quite a lot on this Tomb of Senef,” he said, staggering a little as he laid out the documents on the baize table. “Funny that I never heard of it until yesterday.”

“Very few have.”

“It’s become the talk of the museum overnight.” He shook his head, which was shaved as bald as a billiard ball. “Only in a joint like this could you hide an Egyptian tomb.”

He paused, catching his breath. “You remember the drill, right, Dr. Kelly? I have to lock you in. Just call extension 4240 when you’re done. No pencils or paper; you have to use the ones in those leather boxes.” He glanced at her laptop. “And wear linen gloves at all times.”

“Got it, Oscar.”

“I’ll be in the archives if you need me. Remember, extension 4240.”

The huge bronze door closed and Nora heard the well-oiled click of the lock. She turned to the table. The neat bundles of documents emanated a heavy odor of decay. She looked them over one by one, getting a general sense of what there was and how much of it she actually needed to read. There was no way she could read them all: it would be a question of triage.

She had asked for accession files to the Tomb of Senef and all related documents in the archives, from its discovery in Thebes to its final 1935 closing as an exhibition. It looked like Oscar had done a thorough job. The oldest documents were in French and Arabic, but they switched to English as the tomb’s chain of ownership went from Napoleon’s army to the British. There were letters, diagrams of the tomb, drawings, shipping manifests, insurance papers, excerpts from journals, old photographs, and scientific monographs. Once the tomb arrived at the museum, the number of documents exploded. A series of fat folders contained construction diagrams, plats, blueprints, conservators’ reports, various pieces of correspondence, and innumerable invoices from the period of the tomb’s construction and opening; and beyond that, letters from visitors and scholars, internal museum reports, more conservators’ evaluations. The material ended with a flurry of documents relating to the new subway station and the museum’s request to the City of New York for a pedestrian tunnel connecting the 81st Street subway station with a new basement entrance to the museum. The final document was a terse report from a long-forgotten curator indicating that the bricking-up of the exhibition had been completed. It was dated January 14, 1935.

Nora sighed, looking at the spread of bundled documents. Menzies wanted a summary report of them by the following morning so they could begin planning the “script” for the exhibition, drawing up label text and introductory panels. She glanced at her watch: 1:00 P.M.

What had she gotten herself into?

She plugged in her laptop and booted it up. At the insistence of her husband, Bill, she had recently switched from a PC to a Mac, and now the boot-up process took a tenth the time—zero to sixty in 8.9 seconds instead of two and a half plodding minutes. It had been like trading up from a Ford Fiesta to a Mercedes SL. As she watched the Apple logo appear, she thought that at least one thing in her life was going right.

She slipped on a pair of crisp linen gloves and began untying the twine that held the first bundle of papers together, but before she could get the century-old knot undone, the twine parted with a puff of dust.

With infinite care, she opened the first folder and slipped out a yellowed document, written in a spidery French script, and began the laborious process of working her way through it, taking notes on the PowerBook. Despite her difficulties with the script and the French language, she found herself becoming absorbed in the story Menzies had briefly touched on in the tomb the day before.

During the Napoleonic Wars, Napoleon had conceived a quixotic plan to follow Alexander the Great’s route of conquest across the Middle East. In 1798, he mounted a huge invasion of Egypt, involving four hundred ships and 55,000 soldiers. In an idea radically modern for the time, Napoleon also brought with him more than 150 civilian scientists, scholars, and engineers, to make a complete scientific study of Egypt and its mysterious ruins. One of these scholars was an energetic young archaeologist named Bertrand Magny de Cahors.

Cahors was one of the first to examine the greatest Egyptological discovery of all time: the Rosetta stone, which Napoleon’s soldiers had unearthed while digging a fort along the shore. The stone inflamed him with the possibilities that lay ahead. He followed the Napoleonic army as it pushed southward up the Nile, where they came across the great temples of Luxor and, across the river, the ancient desert canyon that became the most famous graveyard in the world: the Valley of the Kings.

Most of the tombs in the Valley of the Kings were cut out of the living rock and could not be moved. But there were a few tombs of lesser pharaohs, regents, and viziers, built higher up in the valley out of blocks of cut limestone. And it was one of these—the Tomb of Senef, vizier and regent to Thutmosis IV—that Cahors decided to disassemble and take back to France. It was an audacious and even dangerous engineering feat, since the blocks weighed several tons each and had to be individually lowered down a two-hundred-foot cliff in order to be carted to the Nile and floated downstream.

The project was plagued with disaster from the beginning. The locals refused to work on the tomb, believing it to be cursed, and so Cahors dragooned a group of French soldiers to undertake the job. The first calamity struck when the inner tomb—which had been resealed in antiquity after the tomb was robbed—was broached. Nine men died almost immediately. Later, it was hypothesized that carbon dioxide gas from acid groundwater moving through limestone far below had filled the tomb, causing the asphyxiation of the three soldiers who first entered, along with the half-dozen others sent in to rescue them.

But Cahors was singularly determined, and the tomb was eventually taken apart, block by numbered block, and barged down the Nile to the Bay of Aboukir, where it was laid out on the desert sands in a vast array, awaiting transport to France.

The famous Battle of the Nile ended those plans. After Admiral Horatio Nelson met Napoleon’s grand flotilla—and soundly defeated it—in the most decisive naval battle in history, Napoleon fled in a small ship, leaving his armies cut off. Those armies soon capitulated, and in the terms of surrender, the British appropriated their fabulous collections of Egyptian antiquities, including the Rosetta stone—and the Tomb of Senef. A day after the signing of the terms of capitulation, Cahors stabbed himself in the heart with his sword while kneeling amid the stacks of blocks on the sands of Aboukir. And yet his fame as the first Egyptologist lived on, and it was a descendant of this same Cahors who was bankrolling the museum’s reopening of the tomb, à la distance.

Nora put the first sheaf of documents aside and picked up the second. A Scottish officer with the Royal Navy, Captain Alisdair William Arthur Cumyn, later Baron of Rattray, managed to acquire the Tomb of Senef in a murky transaction that appeared to involve a card game and two prostitutes. Baron Rattray had the tomb transported and reassembled on his ancestral estate in the Highlands of Scotland, went bankrupt doing so, and was forced to sell off most of his ancestral lands. The Barons of Rattray limped along until the mid-nineteenth century, when the last of the line, in a desperate bid to save what was left of the estate, sold the tomb to the American railroad magnate William C. Spragg. One of the museum’s early benefactors, Spragg shipped the tomb across the Atlantic and had it reassembled in the museum, which was under construction at that time. It was his pet project and he spent months haunting the site, hounding the workers, and otherwise making a nuisance of himself. In a tragic irony, he was crushed under the wheels of a horse-drawn ambulance just two days before the grand opening in 1872.

Nora took a break from her perusal of the documents. It was not quite three o’clock, and she was making better progress than she’d expected. If she could get this done by eight, she might have time to share a quick bite with Bill at the Bones. He would love this dark, dusty history. And it might make a good piece for the Times’s cultural or metropolitan section when the tomb’s opening neared.

She moved along to the next bundle, all museum documents and in much better condition. The first set of papers dealt with the opening of the tomb. In it were some copies of the engraved invitation:

The President of the United States of America
the Honorable General Ulysses S. Grant

The Governor of the State of New York the Honorable John T. Hoffman

The President of the New York Museum of Natural History

Dr. James K. Moreton

The Trustees and the Director of the Museum

Cordially invite you to a Dinner and Ball in honor of the opening of the

GRAND TOMB OF SENEF

Regent and Vizier to the Pharaoh Thutmosis IV,

Ruler of Ancient Egypt

1419-1386 B.C.

The Diva Eleonora de Graff Bolkonsky will perform Arias
from the New and Celebrated Opera Aïda
by Giuseppe Verdi

Egyptian Costume

Nora held the crumbling invitation in her hand. It amazed her that the museum commanded such a presence in those days that the president himself signed the invitation. She shuffled further and discovered a second document—a menu for the dinner.

Hors d’oeuvres Variés

Consommé Olga

Kebab Egyptien

Filet Mignon Lili

Vegetable Marrow Farcie

Roast Squab & Cress

Pâté de Foie Gras en Croûte

Baba Ghanouj

Waldorf Pudding

Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly

There were a dozen blank invitations in the file. She set one aside, along with the menu, in a “to be photocopied” folder. This was something Menzies should see. In fact, she thought, it would be marvelous if they could duplicate the original opening—without the costume ball, perhaps—and offer the same menu.

She began reading the press notices of the evening. It had been one of those great social events of late-nineteenth-century New York, the likes of which would never be seen again. The guest list read like a roll call at the dawn of the Gilded Age: the Astors and Vanderbilts, William Butler Duncan, Walter Langdon, Ward McAllister, Royal Phelps. There were engravings from Harper’s Weekly showing the ball, with everyone dressed in the most outlandish interpretations of Egyptian costume . . .

But she was wasting time. She pushed the clippings aside and opened the next folder. It also contained a newspaper clipping, this time from the New York Sun, one of the scandal sheets of the time. It had an illustration of a dark-haired man in a fez, with liquid eyes, dressed in flowing robes. Quickly she scanned the article.

_______________________________________________________________

Sun Exclusive

________

Tomb in New York Museum Is Accursed!

________

Egyptian Bey Issues Warning

________

The Malediction of the Eye of Horus

New York—On a recent visit to New York by His Eminence Abdul El-Mizar, Bey of Bolbassa in Upper Egypt, the gentleman from the land of the pharaohs was shocked to find on display at the New York Museum the Tomb of SENEF.

The Egyptian and his entourage, who were being given a tour of the museum, turned away from the tomb in horror and consternation, warning other visitors that to enter the tomb was to consign oneself to certain and terrible death. “This tomb carries a curse well known in my own country,” El-Mizar later told the Sun

_______________________________________________________________

Nora smiled. The article went on in the same vein, mingling a stew of dire threats with wildly inaccurate historical pronouncements, ending, naturally, with a “demand” by the alleged “Bey of Bolbassa” that the tomb be returned forthwith to Egypt. At the conclusion, almost as an afterthought, a museum official was quoted as saying that several thousand visitors entered the tomb every day and that there had never been an “untoward incident.”

This article was followed by a flurry of letters from various people, many of them clearly cranks, describing “sensations” and “presences” they had experienced while in the tomb. Several complained of sickness after visiting: shortness of breath, sweats, palpitations, nervous disorders. One, which merited a file all its own, told of a child who fell into the well and broke both his legs, one of which had to be amputated. An exchange of letters from lawyers resulted in a quiet settlement with the family for a sum of two hundred dollars.

She moved to the next file, which was very slender, and opened it, surprised to find inside a single yellowed piece of cardboard with a label pasted on it:

Contents moved to Secure Storage

March 22, 1938

Signed: Lucien P. Strawbridge

Curator of Egyptology

Nora turned this card over in surprise. Secure Storage? That must be what was now known as the Secure Area, where the museum kept its most valuable artifacts. What inside this file could have merited being locked away?

She replaced the piece of cardboard and put the file aside, making a mental note to follow up on this later. There was just one final bundle to go. Unsealing it, Nora found it to be full of correspondence and notes on the building of the pedestrian tunnel connecting the IND line subway station to the museum.

The correspondence was voluminous. As Nora read through it, she began to realize that the story the museum told—that the tomb had been sealed off because of the construction of the tunnel—was not exactly true. The truth, in fact, was just the opposite: the city wanted to route the pedestrian walkway from the front of the station well past the entrance of the tomb—a quicker and cheaper alternative. But for some reason, the museum wished to situate the tunnel toward the far end of the station. Then they argued that the new route would cut off the tomb’s entrance and force its closure. It seemed as if the museum wanted to force the closure of the tomb.

She read on. Toward the end of the file, she found a handwritten note, from the same Lucien P. Strawbridge who’d placed the earlier file in Secure Storage, scribbled on a memo from a New York City official asking why the museum wanted the pedestrian walkway in that particular location, given the extra costs involved.

The marginalia read:

Tell him anything. I want that tomb closed. Let us not miss our last, best chance to rid ourselves of this damnable problem.

L. P. Strawbridge

Damnable problem? Nora wondered just what kind of problem Strawbridge was referring to. She flipped through the file again, but there didn’t seem to be a problem connected with the tomb, beyond the annoyance of the Bey of Bolbassa’s comments and the crank letters they had generated.

The problem, she decided, must be in the file in Secure Storage. In the end, it didn’t seem relevant, and she had run out of time. When she had time, she might look into it. As it was, if she didn’t get started on her report, she’d never make dinner with Bill.

She pulled her laptop toward her, opened a new file, and began typing.

15

The following day, Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward showed her ID and was deferentially ushered into the office of Jack Manetti, head of security for the New York Museum of Natural History. Hayward liked the fact that, in a museum where the administration seemed overly concerned with status, the head of security had chosen for himself a small, windowless office in the back of the security pool, and had furnished it with utterly functional metal desks and chairs. It said something positive about Manetti—at least she hoped it did.

Manetti was clearly not happy to see her, but he made an attempt at courtesy, offering her a chair and a cup of coffee, which she declined.

“I’m here on the Green assault,” she said. “I wonder if you’d be willing to accompany me to the Sacred Images show so we can run through a few additional questions I have about ingress and egress, access, security.”

“But we’ve been all over that, weeks ago. I thought the investigation was complete.”

“My investigation isn’t complete yet, Mr. Manetti.”

Manetti licked his lips. “Did you go through the office of the director? We’re supposed to coordinate all law enforcement—”

She cut him off and stood up, growing irritated. “I don’t have the time, and neither do you. Let’s go.”

She followed the security director through a labyrinth of corridors and dusty halls, arriving at last at the exhibit entrance. The museum was still open and the security doors hooked back, but the exhibit itself was almost deserted.

“Let’s begin here,” said Hayward. “I’ve been going over the setup again and again, and there are a few things I just don’t get. The perp had to enter the hall through this door, am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“The door at the far end could be opened only from the inside, not from the outside. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“And the security system was supposed to automatically keep a log of all who came and went, because each magnetic card key is coded with the name of the owner.”

Manetti nodded.

“But the system registered no entry other than Margo Green. The perp then stole her card and used it to leave by the rear exit.”

“That’s the assumption.”

“Green could have entered and left this door hooked open.”

“No. First, that would have been against the rules. Second, the system registered that she didn’t do that. A few seconds after she entered, the door reengaged. We had an electronic log to that effect.”

“So the perp must have been waiting in the hall, hiding, from the time it closed to visitors—five o’clock—until the time of the assault, two A.M.”

Manetti nodded.

“Or else the perp managed to get around the security system.”

“We think that’s highly improbable.”

“But I think it’s almost certain. I’ve been through this hall a dozen times since the assault. There’s no place for the perp to have hidden.”

“It was under construction. Stuff was all over the place.”

“It was two days from opening. It was almost finished.”

“The security system is foolproof.”

“Like the Diamond Hall. Right?”

She watched Manetti’s lips tighten and felt a pang. This wasn’t her style. She was becoming a bitch, and she didn’t like it.

“Thank you, Mr. Manetti,” she said. “I’d like to make another pass through the hall, if you don’t mind.”

“Be our guest.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Manetti disappeared and Hayward took a thoughtful turn around the room where Green had been attacked, picturing, yet again, each step of the assault in a kind of mental stop-motion. She tried to shut out the little voice in her head that said this was a wild-goose chase; that she wasn’t likely to find anything of value here weeks after the attack, after a hundred thousand people had walked through; that she was doing this for all the wrong reasons; that she should just get on with her life and career while she still could.

She took another turn around the room, the little voice disappearing under the rap of her heels against the floor. As she came to the side of the case where the spot of blood had been found, she saw a crouched, dark-suited figure moving toward her from behind the case, ready to spring out.

She pulled out her weapon, drew down on the figure. “You! Freeze! NYPD!”

The person leaped up with a gargled shout, arms windmilling, an unruly cowlick of hair bobbing. Hayward recognized him as William Smithback, the Times city desk reporter.

“Don’t shoot!” the journalist cried. “I was just, you know, looking around! Jesus, you’re scaring the hell out of me with that thing!”

Hayward holstered her weapon, feeling sheepish. “Sorry. I’m a bit on edge.”

Smithback squinted. “You’re Captain Hayward, isn’t that right?”

She nodded.

“I’m covering the Pendergast case for the Times.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Good. In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

She glanced at her watch. “I’m very busy. Make an appointment through my office.”

“I already tried that. You don’t speak to the press.”

“That’s right.” She gave him a stern look and took a step forward, but he didn’t step aside to let her pass.

“Do you mind?”

“Listen,” he said, talking fast. “I think we can help each other. You know, exchange information, that kind of thing.”

“If you have any information of an evidentiary nature, you better divulge it now or get slapped with an obstruction charge,” she said sharply.

“No, nothing like that! It’s just that . . . well, I think I know why you’re here. You’re not satisfied. You think maybe Pendergast isn’t the one who assaulted Margo. Am I right?”

“What makes you say that?”

“A busy homicide captain doesn’t waste her valuable time visiting the scene of the crime when the case is wrapped up. You must have your doubts.”

Hayward said nothing, concealing her surprise.

“You wonder if the killer might have been Diogenes Pendergast, the agent’s brother. That’s why you’re here.”

Still, Hayward said nothing, her surprise mounting.

“And that happens to be why I’m here, too.” He paused and peered at her curiously, as if to gauge the effect of his words.

“What makes you think it wasn’t Agent Pendergast?” asked Hayward cautiously.

“Because I know Agent Pendergast. I’ve been covering him—in a manner of speaking—since the museum murders seven years ago. And I know Margo Green. She phoned me from her hospital bed. She swears it wasn’t Pendergast. She says her attacker had eyes of two different colors, one green, the other milky blue.”

“Pendergast is known to be a master of disguises.”

“Yeah, but that description fits his brother. Why would he disguise himself as his brother? And we already know his brother pulled the diamond heist and kidnapped that woman, Lady Maskelene. The only logical answer is that Diogenes also assaulted Margo and framed his brother. QED.”

Once again, Hayward had to control her surprise, his thinking so closely paralleling her own. Finally she allowed a smile. “Well, Mr. Smithback, you seem to be quite the investigative reporter.”

“That I am,” he hastened to confirm, smoothing down his cowlick, which popped up again, unrepentant.

She paused a moment, considering. “All right, then. Maybe we can help each other. My involvement, naturally, will be strictly off the record. Background only.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I expect you to bring anything you find to me first. Before you bring it to your paper. That’s the only way I’ll consent to work with you.”

Smithback nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

“Very well. It seems Diogenes Pendergast has vanished. Completely. The trail stops dead at his hideout on Long Island, the place where he held Lady Maskelene prisoner. Such an utter disappearance just doesn’t happen these days, except for one possible circumstance: he slipped into an alter ego. A long-established alter ego.”

“Any ideas who?”

“We’ve drawn a blank. But if you were to publish a story about it . . . well, it just might shake something loose. A tip, a nosy neighbor’s observation: you understand? Naturally, my name couldn’t appear.”

“I certainly do understand. And—and what do I get in return?”

Hayward’s smile returned, broader this time. “You’ve got it backward. I just did you the favor. The question now is, what do you do for me in return? I know you’re covering the diamond heist. I want to know all about it. Everything, big or small. Because you’re right: I think Diogenes is behind the Green assault and the Duchamp murder. I need all the evidence I can get, and because I am in Homicide, it’s difficult for me to access information at the precinct level.”

She didn’t say that Singleton, the precinct captain handling the diamond theft, was unlikely to share information with her.

“No problem. We have a deal.”

She turned away, but Smithback called after her. “Wait!”

She glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow.

“When do we meet again? And where?”

“We don’t. Just call me if—when—something important turns up.”

“Okay.”

And she left him in the semidarkness of the exhibition hall, jotting notes hurriedly onto the back of a scrap of paper.

16

Jay Lipper, computer effects consultant, paused in the empty burial chamber, peering about in the dim light. Four weeks had passed since the museum made the big announcement about the new opening of the Tomb of Senef; and Lipper himself had been on the job three weeks. Today was the big meeting, and he had arrived ten minutes early, to walk through the tomb and visualize the setup he’d diagrammed out: where to lay the fiber-optic cables, where to put the LEDs, where to mount the speakers, where to float the spots, where to put the holographic screens. It was two weeks before the grand opening, and an incredible amount still had to be done.

He could hear a medley of voices echoing down the multi-chambered tomb from somewhere near the entrance, distorted, mingled with the sound of hammering and the whine of Skilsaws. The teams of workmen were going flat out, and no expense was being spared. Especially his expense: he was charging $120 an hour, working eighty hours a week, making a fortune. On the other hand, he was earning every penny of it. Especially given the clown the museum had assigned him as cable-puller, duct-taper, and all-around electronic gofer. A real knuckle-dragger: if the guy was typical of the museum’s tech staff, they were in trouble. The man was so buffed and toned he looked like a brick of meat, with a bullet head that contained about as much gray matter as a spaniel. The man probably spent his weekends in the gym instead of boning up on the technology he was supposed to understand.

As if on cue, the clown’s voice rang down the corridor. “Dark as a tomb in here, hey, Jayce?” Teddy DeMeo came lumbering around the corner, arms full of an untidy bundle of rolled electronic diagrams.

Lipper tightened his lips and reminded himself once again of that $120 an hour. The worst of it was that, before he’d gotten to know what DeMeo was like, Lipper had unwisely mentioned to him the massively multiplayer online RPG he was involved in: Land of Darkmord. And DeMeo had immediately gone online and subscribed. Lipper’s character, a devious half-elf sorcerer with a +5 onyx cape and a full book of offensive spells, had spent weeks organizing a military expedition to a distant castle stronghold. He’d been recruiting warriors—and suddenly, there was DeMeo, in the character of a slope-faced orc carrying a club, volunteering for military service, acting like his best friend, full of asinine questions and stupid off-color jokes and embarrassing him in front of all the other players.

DeMeo came to a halt beside him, breathing hard, the sweat pouring off his brow, smelling like a damp sock.

“All right, let’s see . . .” He unrolled one of the plats. Naturally, DeMeo was holding it upside down, and it took him several seconds to right it.

“Give it to me,” said Lipper, snatching it from him and smoothing it out. He glanced at his watch. Still five minutes before the curatorial committee was due to arrive. No problem—at two dollars a minute, Lipper would wait for Godot.

He sniffed, looked around. “Someone’s going to have to do something about this humidity. I can’t have my electronics sitting in a sweatshop.”

“Yeah,” said DeMeo, looking around. “And will you look at this weird shit? I mean, what the hell’s that? Gives me the creeps.”

Lipper glanced over at the fresco in question, depicting a human being with the black head of an insect, wearing pharaonic dress. The burial chamber was creepy: walls black with hieroglyphics, ceiling covered with a representation of the night sky, strange yellow stars and a moon against a field of deep indigo. But the truth was, Lipper liked being creeped out. It was like being inside the world of Darkmord for real.

“That’s the god Khepri,” he said. “A man with the head of a scarab beetle. He helps roll the sun across the sky.” Working on the project had fascinated Lipper, and he’d delved deeply into Egyptian mythology over the last several weeks, looking for background and visual cues.

“The Mummy meets The Fly,” said DeMeo with a laugh.

Their conversation was cut short by a rising hubbub of voices as a group entered the burial chamber: the man in charge, Menzies, followed by his curators.

“Gentlemen! I’m glad you’re already here. We don’t have much time.” Menzies came forward, shook their hands. “You all know each other, of course.”

They all nodded. How could they not, having practically been living together these past few weeks? There was Dr. Nora Kelly, someone Lipper could at least work with; the smug Brit named Wicherly; and Mr. Personality himself, the anthropology curator, George Ashton. The committee.

As the new arrivals talked briefly among themselves, Lipper felt a painful dig in his ribs. He looked over to see DeMeo, mouth open, winking and leering. “Man, oh man,” he whispered, nodding at Dr. Kelly. “I’d climb all over that in a heartbeat.”

Lipper glanced away, rolling his eyes.

“Well!” Menzies turned to address them again. “Shall we do the walk-through?”

“Sure thing, Dr. Menzies!” said DeMeo.

Lipper gave him a look he hoped would shut the moron up. This was his plan, his brainwork, his artistry: DeMeo’s job was rack-mounting the equipment, pulling cable, and making sure juice got to all parts of the system.

“We should start at the beginning,” Lipper said, leading them back to the entrance with another warning side glance at DeMeo.

They threaded their way back through the half-built exhibits and the construction teams. As they approached the entrance to the tomb, Lipper felt his annoyance at DeMeo displaced by a growing excitement. The “script” for the sound-and-light show had been written by Wicherly, with various additions by Kelly and Menzies, and the end result was good. Very good. In turning it into reality, he’d made it even better. This was going to be one kick-ass exhibition.

Reaching the God’s First Passage, Lipper turned to face the others. “The sound-and-light show will be triggered automatically. It’s important that people be let into the tomb as a group and move through it together. As they proceed, they’ll trip hidden sensors that in turn start each sequence of the show. When the sequence ends, they will move to the next part of the tomb and see the next sequence. After the show ends, the group will have fifteen minutes to look around the tomb before being escorted out and the next group brought in.”

He pointed to the ceiling. “The first sensor will be up there, in the corner. As the visitors pass this point, the sensor will register, wait thirty seconds for stragglers to catch up, and start the first sequence, which I call act 1.”

“How are you hiding the cable?” asked Menzies.

“No problem,” broke in DeMeo. “We’re running it through black one-inch conduit. They’ll never see it.”

“Nothing can be affixed to the painted surface,” said Wicherly.

“No, no. The conduit is steel, self-supporting, only needs to be anchored in the corners. It floats two millimeters above the surface of the paint, won’t even touch it.”

Wicherly nodded.

Lipper breathed out, thankful that DeMeo hadn’t come across as an idiot—at least not yet.

Lipper led the party into the next chamber. “When the visitors reach the center of the God’s Second Passage—where we’re standing now—the lights will suddenly dim. There will be the sound of digging, furtive chatter, pickaxes striking stone—at first just sounds in the dark, no visuals. A voice-over will explain that this is the tomb of Senef and that it is about to be robbed by the very priests who buried him two months before. The sounds of digging will get louder as the robbers reach the first sealed door. They’ll attack it with pickaxes—and then, suddenly, one will break through. That’s when the visuals start.”

“The point where they break through the sealed door is critical,” Menzies said. “What’s needed is a resounding blow from the pickax, a tumble of stones inward, and a piercing shaft of light like a bolt of lightning. This is a key moment and it needs to be dramatic.”

“It will be dramatic.” Lipper felt a faint irritation. Menzies, while charming enough, had been intrusive and meddlesome about certain technical details, and Lipper was worried he might micromanage the installation as well.

Lipper continued. “Then the lights come up and the voice-over directs the audience to the well.” He led them through the long passageway and a broad staircase. Ahead, a new bridge had been built over the pit, broad enough to hold a large group.

“As they approach the well,” Lipper went on, “a sensor in that corner will pick up their passage and begin act 2.”

“Right,” DeMeo interrupted. “Each act will be independently controlled by a pair of dual-processor PowerMac G5s, slaved to a third G5 that will act as backup and master controller.”

Lipper rolled his eyes. DeMeo had just quoted, word for word, from Lipper’s own spec sheet.

“Where will these computers be located?” asked Menzies.

“We’re going to cable through the wall—”

“Look here,” said Wicherly. “No one’s going to drill any holes in the walls of this tomb.”

DeMeo turned to him. “It just so happens that a long time ago somebody already drilled through the wall—in five places! The holes were cemented up, but I found them and cleared them out.” DeMeo crossed his muscled arms in triumph, as if he’d just kicked sand in the face of a ninety-eight-pound weakling at the beach.

“What’s on the far side?” Menzies asked.

“A storeroom,” said DeMeo, “currently empty. We’re converting it to a control room.”

Lipper cleared his throat, forestalling any more interruptions by DeMeo. “In act 2, visitors will see the digitized images of the robbers bridging the well so they can break the second sealed door. A screen will lower on the far side of the well—unseen to the visitors, of course. Then a holographic projector in the far corner will project images of the robbers in the passageway ahead, carrying burning torches, breaking the seals of the inner door, smashing it down, and heading for the burial chamber. The idea here is to make the visitors feel like they’re actually part of the gang of robbers. They’ll follow the robbers into the inner tomb—where act 3 begins.”

“Lara Croft, watch out!” DeMeo said, looking around and laughing at his witticism.

The group entered the burial chamber, where Lipper paused again. “The visitors will hear things before they see anything—breakage, shouting. As they enter this end of the burial chamber, they’ll be stopped by a gate, here. And then the main event begins. First, it’s dark, with frightened, excited voices. Then more smashing and breaking. A sudden flare, and another, and the torches are lit up. We see the sweaty, terrified, avaricious faces of the priests. And gold! Everywhere, the gleam of gold.” He turned to Wicherly. “Just as you wrote in the script.”

“Excellent!”

“As the torches are lit, the computer-controlled lighting will come up, dimly illuminating parts of the burial chamber. The thieves will shove off and smash the stone lid of the sarcophagus. Then they’ll hoist up the top of the inner sarcophagus—the one in solid gold—and one of them will leap in and begin ripping off the linen wrappings. Then, with a shout of triumph, they’ll hold up the scarab and smash it, thus breaking its power.”

“That’s the climax,” said Menzies, breaking in excitedly. “That’s where I want the peal of thunder, the strobes simulating flashes of lightning.”

“And you’ll have it,” DeMeo said. “We got a complete Dolby Surround and Pro Logic II sound system and four Chauvet Mega II 750-watt strobes, along with a bunch of spots. All controlled by a twenty-four-channel DMX lighting console, fully automated.”

He looked around proudly, as if he knew what the hell he was talking about instead of, once again, quoting verbatim from Lipper’s carefully designed specs. God, Lipper couldn’t stand him. He waited a moment before resuming.

“After the light and thunder, the holographic projectors will switch back on, and we’ll see Senef himself rise from the sarcophagus. The priests will fall back, terrified. This is all meant to be in their minds, what they imagine, as was written in the script.”

“But it will be realistic?” Nora asked, frowning. “Not hokey?”

“It’ll all be 3-D, and the holographic images are a bit like ghosts—you can see through them, but only when there’s strong light behind. We’ll manipulate the light levels very carefully to exploit that illusion. Some of it’s video-based, some of it C.G. Anyway, Senef rises, violated, and points a finger. To more flashes of lightning and thunder, he speaks of his life, what he has done, what a great regent and vizier he was to Thutmosis, and of course, this is where you slip in the educational stuff.”

“Meanwhile,” said DeMeo, “we’ve got a 500-watt Jem Glaciator hidden in the sarcophagus, pumping out an awesome ground fog. Two thousand cubic feet a minute.”

“My script doesn’t call for artificial smoke,” said Wicherly. “This could damage the paintings.”

“The Jem system uses only environmentally friendly fluids,” Lipper said. “Guaranteed not to chemically alter anything.”

Nora Kelly was frowning again. “Forgive me for raising this question, but is this level of theatricality really necessary?”

Menzies turned to her. “Why, Nora! This was your idea to begin with.”

“I was imagining something lower-key, not strobe lights and fog machines.”

Menzies chuckled. “As long as we’re going this route, Nora, we should do it right. Trust me, we’re creating an unforgettable educational experience. It’s a marvelous way to slip a little learning to the vulgus mobile without them ever realizing it.”

Nora continued to look doubtful, but said nothing further.

Lipper resumed. “As Senef speaks, the robbers fall to the floor in terror. Then Senef melts back into his sarcophagus, the robbers vanish, the holographic screens retract, the lights come up—and suddenly the tomb is as it was, before the robbery. A museum exhibit once again. The gate slides back and the visitors are free to tour the burial chamber as if nothing had happened.”

Menzies raised a finger. “But they will do so having gained an appreciation of Senef and been entertained in the process. Now for the million-dollar question: can you finish by deadline?”

“We’ve already outsourced as much of the programming as possible,” Lipper said. “The electrical staff are working flat out. I’d say we can have it installed and ready for alpha testing in four days.”

“That’s excellent.”

“And then comes the debugging.”

Menzies cocked his head questioningly. “Debugging?”

“That’s the killer. A rule of thumb says the debugging takes twice as long as the original programming.”

“Eight days?”

Lipper nodded, uneasy from the sudden darkening of Menzies’s face.

“Four plus eight is twelve—two days before the gala opening. Can you finish the debugging in five?”

Something in Menzies’s tone led Lipper to think it was more an order than a question. He swallowed: the schedule already verged on the insane. “We’ll certainly try.”

“Good. Now, let’s talk for a minute about the opening. Dr. Kelly suggested we duplicate the original opening in 1872, and I wholeheartedly concurred. We are planning a cocktail reception, a bit of opera, and then the guests will be escorted into the tomb for the sound-and-light show. Dinner will follow.”

“How many are we talking about?” Lipper asked.

“Six hundred.”

“Obviously we’re not going to fit six hundred people into the tomb at one time,” Lipper said. “I’ve been estimating two hundred at a go for the sound-and-light show, which lasts about twenty minutes, but we could up that to, say, three hundred for the opening.”

“Fine,” said Menzies. “We’ll divide them into two groups. The first in, of course, will be the A-list: the mayor, governor, senators and congressmen, the museum’s top brass, the biggest patrons, movie stars. With two showings, we’ll get guests through the exhibit within an hour. Finish off the entire crowd.” He looked from Lipper to DeMeo. “You two are crucial. There can’t be any mistakes. Everything’s riding on you finishing that sound-and-light show on time. Four days plus five: that’s nine days.”

“I’ve got no problem,” said DeMeo, all smiles and self-confidence: gofer and cable-puller extraordinaire.

Those disquieting blue eyes now turned back to Lipper. “And you, Mr. Lipper?”

“It’ll happen.”

“Delighted to hear it. I trust you’ll keep me up-to-date with progress reports?”

They nodded.

Menzies glanced at his watch. “Nora, if you’ll excuse me, I have to catch a train. I’ll check in with you later.”

Menzies and the curators were gone, leaving Lipper alone with DeMeo once again. He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going, DeMeo, because I’d like to get to sleep tonight before four A.M. for a change.”

“What about Darkmord?” DeMeo asked. “You promised to have the band of warriors ready for the attack by midnight.”

Lipper groaned. Shit. They would just have to launch the attack on Castle Gloaming without him.

17

When Margo Green awoke, a bright afternoon sun was slanting in through the windows of the Feversham Clinic. Outside, puffy cumulus clouds drifted across a lazy blue sky. The distant call of waterbirds came from the direction of the Hudson River.

She yawned, stretched, then sat up in bed. Glancing at the clock, she noticed it was quarter to four. The nurse should be in soon with her afternoon cup of peppermint tea.

The hospital table beside her bed was crowded: back issues of Natural History, a Tolstoy novel, a portable music player, a laptop, and a copy of the New York Times. She reached for the newspaper, flipped through the C section. Maybe she could finish the crossword before Phyllis brought her tea.

Now that her condition was no longer critical, recovery at the clinic had settled into a kind of routine. She found that she looked forward to the afternoon chats with Phyllis. She hardly had any visitors—no visitors at all, actually, save her mother and Captain Laura Hayward—and the thing she missed most, other than her career, was companionship.

Picking up a pencil, she applied herself to the crossword. But it was one of those late-in-the-week puzzles, full of coy clues and obscure references, and mental exercise still tired her. After a few minutes, she put it aside. She found her thoughts straying back to Hayward’s recent visit and the unpleasant memories it had reawakened.

It disturbed her that her memory of the attack remained shadowy. There were bits and pieces, disconnected, as if from a nightmare—but nothing coherent. She’d been inside the Sacred Images exhibition, checking the arrangement of some Native American masks. While there, she’d become aware of a presence: somebody else in the exhibition, lurking in the shadows. Following her. Stalking her. Cornering her. She dimly remembered making a stand, fighting with a box cutter. Had she wounded her pursuer? The actual attack itself was the most fragmentary: little more than a searing pain in her back. And that had been all—until she woke up in this room.

She folded up the newspaper, put it back on the table. The most disturbing thing was that, even though she knew her attacker had spoken to her, she couldn’t remember anything he had said. His words were gone, fallen into the darkness. Curiously, she did remember, seared into her mind, the man’s strange eyes and his hideous, dry chuckle.

She turned restlessly in her bed, wondering where Phyllis was, still thinking of Hayward’s visit. The captain had asked a lot of questions about Agent Pendergast and his brother, a man with the peculiar name of Diogenes. It all seemed strange: Margo hadn’t seen Pendergast in years, and she had never even known the FBI agent had a brother.

Now at last the door to her room opened and Phyllis walked in. But she wasn’t carrying a tray of tea things, and her friendly face bore an official expression.

“Margo, you have a visitor,” she said.

Margo barely had time to react to this announcement before a familiar figure appeared in the doorway: the chairman of her department at the museum, Dr. Hugo Menzies. He was dressed as usual in rumpled elegance, his thick white hair combed back from his forehead, his lively blue eyes darting briefly around the room before settling on her.

“Margo!” he cried, coming forward, patrician features breaking into a smile. “How wonderful to see you.”

“Same here, Dr. Menzies,” she replied. Her surprise at having a visitor was quickly replaced by embarrassment: she wasn’t exactly dressed to receive her boss.

But Menzies, as if sensing her discomfort, was quick to put her at ease. He thanked Phyllis, waited until the nurse had left the room, then took a seat beside the bed.

“What a beautiful room!” he exclaimed. “And with an exquisite view of the Hudson River Valley. The quality of the light here is second only to Venice, I think; perhaps that’s why it has drawn so many painters.”

“They’ve been very good to me here.”

“As well they should. You know, my dear, I’ve been terribly worried about you. The entire Anthropology Department has. We can’t wait for your return.”

“Neither can I.”

“Your location has been almost a state secret. Until yesterday, I never even knew this place existed. As it was, I had to charm my way past half the staff.” He smiled.

Margo smiled back. If anyone could charm his way in, Menzies could. She’d been lucky to get him as her supervisor: many museum curators lorded it over their minions, behaving like conceited philosopher-kings. Menzies was the exception: affable, receptive to the ideas of others, supportive of his staff. It was true—she couldn’t wait to get out of here and back to work. Museology, the periodical she edited, was rudderless in her absence. If only she didn’t grow tired so easily . . .

She realized her mind was drifting. She roused herself, glanced at Menzies. He was looking back at her, concern on his face.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m still a little out of it.”

“Of course you are,” he said. “Perhaps that’s why this is still necessary?” And he nodded at the saline drip hanging beside the bed.

“The doctor said that’s just a precautionary measure. I’m getting plenty of fluids now.”

“Good, very good. The loss of blood must have been a severe shock. So much blood, Margo. There’s a reason they call it the living liquid, don’t you agree?”

A strange current, almost like a physical shock, passed through Margo. The weakness, the feeling of torpor, receded. She suddenly felt wide awake. “What did you say?”

“I said, have they given you any indication of when you can leave?”

Margo relaxed. “The doctors are very pleased with my progress. Another two weeks or so.”

“And then bed rest at home, I assume?”

“Yes. Dr. Winokur—that’s my primary physician here—said I would need another month’s recuperation before returning to work.”

“He would know best.”

Menzies’s voice was low and soothing, and Margo felt torpidity returning. Almost without realizing it, she yawned.

“Oh!” she said, embarrassed anew. “I’m sorry.”

“Think nothing of it. I don’t want to overstay my welcome, I’ll leave shortly. Are you tired, Margo?”

She smiled faintly. “A little bit.”

“Sleeping all right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I was worried you might have been having nightmares.” Menzies glanced over his shoulder, toward the open door and the corridor beyond.

“No, not really.”

“That’s my girl! What spunk!”

There: that strange electric tingle again. Menzies’s voice had changed—something about it was both foreign and disquietingly familiar. “Dr. Menzies,” she began, sitting up once more.

“Now, now, you just sit back and rest.” And with a gentle but firm pressure on her shoulder, he guided her back down onto the pillow. “I’m so glad to hear you’re sleeping well. Not everybody could put such a traumatic event behind them.”

“It’s not exactly behind me,” she said. “I just don’t seem to remember what happened very well, that’s all.”

Menzies laid a comforting hand on hers. “That’s just as well,” he said, slipping his other hand inside his jacket.

Margo felt an inexplicable sense of alarm. She was tired—that’s all it was. Much as she liked Menzies, much as she appreciated this break in the monotony, she needed to rest.

“After all, nobody would want such memories. The noises in the empty exhibition hall. Being followed. The invisible footfalls, the falling of boards. The sudden darkness.”

Margo felt an unfocused panic well up within her. She stared at Menzies, unable to wrap her mind around what he was saying. The anthropologist kept on talking in his low, soothing voice.

“Laughter in the blackness. And then, the plunge of the knife . . . No, Margo. Nobody would want those memories.”

And then Menzies himself laughed. But it wasn’t his voice. No: it was another voice, another voice entirely: a hideous, dry chuckle.

A sudden dreadful shock burned through the gathering lethargy. No. Oh, no. It couldn’t be . . .

Menzies sat in the chair, looking at her intently, as if gauging the effect of his words.

Then he winked.

Margo tried to pull away, opened her mouth to scream. But even as she did so, the feeling of lassitude intensified, flooding her limbs, leaving her unable to speak or move. She had a desperate realization that the lethargy wasn’t normal, that something was happening to her . . .

Menzies let his hand fall away from hers, and as he did so, she saw—with a thrill of horror—that his other hand had been concealed beneath. It held a tiny syringe, which was injecting a colorless liquid into the IV tube at her wrist. Even as she watched, he withdrew the syringe, palmed it, then replaced it in his suit jacket.

“My dear Margo,” he said, sitting back, his voice so very different now. “Did you really think you’d seen the last of me?”

Panic, and a desperate desire to survive, surged within her—yet she felt utterly powerless against the drug that was spreading through her veins, silencing her voice and paralyzing her limbs. Menzies swept to his feet, placed a finger against his lips, and whispered, “Time to sleep, Margo . . .”

The hated darkness surged in, blotting out sight and thought. Panic, shock, and disbelief fell aside as the mere act of drawing breath became a struggle. As she lay paralyzed, Margo saw Menzies turn and hasten from the room, heard his faint yelling for a nurse. But then his voice, too, was subsumed into the hollow roar that filled her head, and darkness gathered in her eyes until the roar dwindled into blackness and eternal night, and she knew no more.

18

Four days after their meeting with Menzies, the sound-and-light show was finally installed and ready for debugging, and that night they were pulling the final cables, hooking everything up. Jay Lipper crouched by the dusty hole near the floor of the Hall of the Chariots, listening to various sounds emerging from the hole: grunts, heavy breathing, muttered curses. It was the third night in a row they’d worked on the install into the wee hours of the morning, and he was dog-tired. He couldn’t take much more of this. The exhibition had basically taken over his life. All his guildmates in Land of Darkmord had given up on him and continued with the online game. By now, they’d leveled up once, maybe twice, and he was hopelessly behind.

“Got it?” came DeMeo’s muffled voice from the hole. Lipper looked down to see the end of a fiber-optic cable poking out of the blackness.

Lipper seized the end. “Got it.”

He pulled it through, then waited for DeMeo to come around from the other side. Soon DeMeo’s blocky figure, backlit and faint in the dim light of the tomb, came huffing down the passageway, cables coiled about his massive shoulders. Lipper handed him the cable end and DeMeo plugged it into the back of a PowerBook sitting on a nearby worktable. Later, when the artifacts were all in place, the laptop would be artfully hidden behind a gilded and painted chest. But for now, it was out in the open, where they could access it.

DeMeo slapped the dust off his thighs with a grin, then held up his hand. “High five, bro. We did it.”

Lipper ignored the hand, unable to disguise his irritation. He had had just about enough of DeMeo. The museum’s two electricians had insisted on going home at midnight, and as a result he’d found himself on his hands and knees, acting as DeMeo’s damn assistant.

“We’ve got a long way to go,” he said in a sulky voice.

DeMeo’s hand dropped. “Yeah, but at least, the cabling’s been pulled, the software’s loaded, and we’re on schedule. You can’t ask for better than that, right, Jayce?”

Lipper reached over and turned on the computer, initiating the boot sequence. He hoped to hell the computer would see the network and the remote devices, but he knew it wouldn’t. It was never that easy—and besides, DeMeo was the one who set up the frigging network. Anything could happen.

The computer finished booting and, with a sinking heart, Lipper began sending pings over the network, checking to see how many of the two dozen remote devices were missing and would require time-consuming troubleshooting to locate. He’d be lucky if the computer saw half of the peripherals on first boot-up: it was the nature of the business.

But as he moused his way from one network address to another, a sense of disbelief stole over him. Everything seemed to be there.

He ran over his checklist. It was impossible, but true: the entire network was there, visible and operational. All the remote devices, the sound-and-light apparatus, were responding and seemed to be perfectly synchronized. It was as if someone had already worked out the kinks.

Lipper rechecked his list, but with the same result. Disbelief gave way to a kind of guarded jubilation: he could not recall a single job where such a complicated network was up and running on the first try. And it wasn’t just the network: the entire project had been like that, everything coming together like a charm. It had taken days of seemingly endless work, but in the real world it would have taken even longer. Probably a lot longer. He fetched a deep breath.

“How’s it look?” DeMeo asked, crowding up behind him to peer at the small screen. Lipper could smell his oniony breath.

“Looks good.” Lipper edged away.

“Sweet!” DeMeo gave a whoop that echoed through the tomb, just about blowing out Lipper’s eardrum. “I am the man! I’m a freaking network monster!” He danced around the room, doing an ungainly buck-and-wing, pumping his fist into the air. Then he glanced over at Lipper. “Let’s do a test run.”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you go out and get us a couple of pizzas?”

DeMeo looked at him in surprise. “What—now? You don’t want to do an alpha?”

Lipper certainly did want to do a test run. But not with DeMeo breathing down his neck, whooping in his ear, and acting like an ass. Lipper wanted to admire his handiwork quietly, in a focused way. He needed a break from DeMeo, and he needed one bad.

“We’ll do a run after the pizzas. On me.”

He watched as DeMeo considered this.

“All right,” DeMeo said. “What do you want?”

“The Neapolitan. With a large iced tea.”

“I’m going for the Hawaiian double pineapple with honey-glazed ham, extra garlic, and two Dr Peppers.”

It was typical of DeMeo to assume Lipper gave a shit what kind of pizza he wanted. Lipper pulled out two twenties, passed them over.

“Thanks, bro.”

He watched DeMeo’s form labor up the stone staircase and vanish in the gloom. The footsteps echoed slowly away.

Lipper breathed in the blessed silence. Maybe DeMeo would be run over by a bus on the way back.

With that pleasant thought in mind, he turned his attention back to the computer’s control panel. He moused over each peripheral device in turn, checking to see that it was alive and functional, surprised again that each one responded perfectly, on cue, as if somebody had already debugged the network for them. DeMeo, for all his wisecracks and shenanigans, had actually done his job—and done it perfectly.

Suddenly he paused, frowning. A software icon was jumping frantically in the dock. Somehow the main routines for the sound-and-light show had loaded automatically, when, in fact, he had specifically programmed them to load manually, at least during the alpha testing, so he could step through the code and check each module.

So there was a glitch, after all. He’d need to fix it, of course: but not right now. The software was loaded, the controllers were online and ready, the screens in place, the fog machine filled.

He might as well run it.

He drew in another breath, savoring the peace and quiet, his finger over the return key, ready to execute the program. Then he paused. A sound had drifted toward him from the deeper part of the tomb: the Hall of Truth, or maybe even the burial chamber itself. Couldn’t be DeMeo, since he’d be coming from the opposite direction. And the pizzas would take at least half an hour; if he were lucky, maybe even forty minutes.

Perhaps it was a guard or something.

The sound came again: a strange, dry, scurrying sound. No guard made a noise like that.

Mice, maybe?

He rose indecisively. It was probably nothing. Christ, he was letting himself get spooked by all this curse crap the guards had started to whisper about. It was probably just a mouse. After all, there’d been plenty of mice in the old Egyptian galleries, enough so the Maintenance Department had needed to place glue traps. Still, if some had gotten into the tomb itself—maybe through one of the cable holes DeMeo had opened up—all it would take was a pair of rodent teeth sunk into one cable to crash the whole system and cause a delay of hours, maybe even days, while they examined each cable. Inch by frigging inch.

Another scurry, like wind rustling dead leaves. Leaving the lights dimmed, he picked up DeMeo’s coat—ready to throw it over a mouse if he found one—then rose and made his way stealthily into the deepest recesses of the tomb.

Teddy DeMeo fumbled for his key card, swiping it through the newly installed lock to the Egyptian gallery while trying not to drop the pizzas at the same time. The damn pies were cold—the guards at the security entrance had taken their sweet time clearing him through, when the same idiots had checked him out just twenty-five minutes earlier. Security? More like moronity.

The door to the Egyptian gallery whispered shut and he strode down the length of the hall, turned into the annex—and was surprised to find the doors to the tomb shut before him.

A suspicion took root in his mind: had Lipper gone and done the first run without him? But he quickly dismissed it. Lipper, though a fussy artiste type and cranky as hell, was basically a cool guy.

He fumbled out his key card and swiped it, hearing the locks disengage. Still balancing the pizzas and drinks, he got an elbow into the door and shoved it open, then slipped through, the door clicking shut behind him.

The lights had dimmed to level 1—the level they would be at after a run—and once again, DeMeo felt a stab of suspicion.

“Hey, Jayce!” he called out. “Pizza delivery!”

His voice echoed and died away.

“Jayce!”

He descended the staircase, walked down the corridor, and went as far as the bridge over the well before pausing again.

“Jayce! Pizza time!”

He listened while the echoes died away. Lipper wouldn’t have done an initial test run without him: not after all the time they’d put in on the project together. He wasn’t that much of an asshole. He probably had his earphones on, checking the sound track or something. Or maybe he was listening to his iPod—sometimes he did that while working. DeMeo ventured across the bridge and entered their main work area in the Hall of the Chariots.

As he did so, he heard a distant footstep. At least he thought it was a footstep. But it had made an odd thumping sound. It came from deeper within the tomb, probably the burial chamber.

“That you, Jayce?” For the first time, DeMeo felt a creeping sense of alarm. He put the pizzas down on the worktable and took a few steps toward the Hall of Truth and the burial chamber beyond. He could see that it was quite dark—still at level 1 lighting, like the rest of the tomb. He couldn’t see a damn thing, to tell the truth.

He went back to the worktable, looked at the computer. It was fully booted, the software loaded and waiting in standby mode. He moused over to the lighting icon, trying to remember how to raise the light levels. Lipper had done it a hundred times, but he’d never paid much attention. There were some software sliders visible in an open window and he clicked the one labeled Hall of the Chariots.

Christ! The lights dimmed, sending the disquieting Egyptian carvings and stone statuary even further into gloom. He quickly moused the slider in the other direction, and the lights intensified. Then he began brightening the lights in the rest of the tomb.

He heard a thump and turned with a jerk. “Jayce?”

It had definitely come from the burial chamber.

DeMeo laughed. “Hey, Jayce, c’mere. I got the pizzas.”

There was that strange noise again: Draaaag-thump. Draaaag-thump. As if somebody, or some thing, was dragging one limb.

“It sounds just like The Mummy’s Curse. Ha, ha, Jayce—good one!”

No answer.

DeMeo, still chuckling, turned from the computer and strode through the Hall of Truth. He turned his eyes away from the squatting form of Ammut—something about the Egyptian god, the eater of hearts with a crocodile head and lion’s mane, creeped him out even worse than the rest of the tomb.

He paused beyond the door to the burial chamber. “You’re a funny guy, Jayce.”

He waited for Lipper’s laugh, for the sight of his skinny form emerging from behind a pilaster. But there was nothing. The silence was absolute. With a nervous swallow, he ducked inside, peered about the tomb.

Nothing. The other doors leading away from the burial chamber were dark—they weren’t part of the computer lighting scheme. Lipper must be hiding in one of those rooms, preparing to jump out and scare him half to death.

“Hey, Jayce, come on. The pizzas are cold and getting colder.”

The lights suddenly went out.

“Hey!”

DeMeo spun around, but the tomb doglegged at the Hall of Truth and he could not see back into the Hall of the Chariots—nor could he see the comforting blue glow of the LCD screen.

He spun again, hearing the strange, dragging footfalls behind him, moving closer now.

“This isn’t funny, Jay.”

He felt for his flashlight—but of course he wasn’t carrying it; it was back in the chariots hall, on the table. Why couldn’t he see the indirect glow of the LCD? Had the power been cut as well? The darkness was total.

“Look, Jay, cut the crap. I’m serious.”

He shuffled backward in the dark, came up against one of the pillars, began feeling his way around it. The steps drew still closer.

Draaaag-thump. Draaaag-thump.

“Jay, come on. Cut the bullshit.”

Suddenly, from closer than he ever expected, he heard the raspy sound of air escaping from a dry throat. A rattle that was almost a hiss, full of something like hatred.

“Jesus!” DeMeo took a step forward and swiped his heavy fist through the air, striking something that shuffled back with another snakelike hiss.

“Stop it! Stop it!”

He both heard and felt the thing rush at him with a high keening sound. He tried to twist aside but felt, with astonishment, a terrible blow. Searing heat knifed through his chest. With a shriek, he fell backward, clawing at the darkness, and as he hit the ground, he felt something heavy and cold stamp on his throat and bear down with shocking weight. He lashed about with his hands as he heard the bones crackling in his neck and a sudden, dazzling explosion of urine-colored light flashed in his eyes—and then nothing.

19

The large, elegant library in Agent Pendergast’s mansion on Riverside Drive was the last room one would expect to call crowded. And yet—D’Agosta reflected moodily—there was no other word for it this evening. Tables, chairs, and much of the floor were covered with plats and diagrams. Half a dozen easels and whiteboards had been erected, showing schematics, maps, routes of ingress and egress. The low-tech reconnaissance they had conducted of Herkmoor a few nights earlier had now been enhanced by high-tech remote surveillance, including false-color satellite images in radar and infrared wavelengths. Boxes lay shoved against one wall, overflowing with printouts, data dumps from computer probes of the Herkmoor network, and aerial photographs of the prison complex.

In the middle of the controlled chaos sat Glinn, nearly motionless in his wheelchair, speaking quietly in his usual monotone. He had begun the meeting with a crushingly detailed analysis of Herkmoor’s physical plant and security measures. D’Agosta needed no convincing there: if any prison was escape-proof, it was Herkmoor. The old-fashioned defenses like redundant guard posts and triple fencing had been bolstered by cutting-edge instrumentation, including laser-beam “lattices” at every exit, hundreds of digital videocams, and a network of passive listening devices set into the walls and ground, ready to pick up anything from digging to stealthy footsteps. Every prisoner was required to wear an ankle bracelet with an embedded GPS device, which broadcast the prisoner’s location to a central command unit. If the bracelet were cut, an alarm would immediately sound and an automatic lockdown sequence would begin.

As far as D’Agosta was concerned, Herkmoor was invincible.

From there, Glinn had segued to the next step in the escape plan. And this was where D’Agosta’s simmering unease had boiled over. Not only did the idea seem simplistic and inept, but, even worse, it turned out that he, D’Agosta—and he alone—was the man assigned to carry it out.

He glanced around the library, waiting impatiently for Glinn to finish. Wren had arrived earlier that evening with a set of architectural plans of the prison, “borrowed” from the private records section of the New York Public Library, and now he hovered around Constance Greene. With his luminous eyes and almost translucent skin, the man looked like a cave creature, paler even than Pendergast . . . if that were possible.

Next, D’Agosta’s gaze fell on Constance. She sat at a side table opposite Wren, a stack of books before her, listening to Glinn and taking notes. She was wearing a severe black dress with a row of tiny pearl buttons in the back, running from the base of her spine up to the nape of her neck. D’Agosta found himself wondering who had buttoned them up for her. More than once, he had caught her privately stroking one hand over the other, or gazing into the fire that crackled on the huge grate, lost in thought.

She’s probably as skeptical about all this as I am, he thought. Because as he looked around at their little foursome—Proctor, the chauffeur, was unaccountably absent—he couldn’t imagine a group less suited for such a daunting task. He had never really liked Glinn and his smooth arrogance, and he wondered if the man had finally met his match with the Herkmoor penitentiary.

There came a pause in Glinn’s drone, and he turned toward D’Agosta.

“Do you have any questions or comments so far, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah. A comment: the scheme is crazy.”

“Perhaps I should have phrased the question differently. Do you have any comments of substance to make?”

“You think I can just waltz in, make a spectacle of myself, and get out scot-free? This is Herkmoor we’re talking about. I’ll be lucky not to end up in the cell next to Pendergast.”

Glinn’s expression did not change. “As long as you stick to the script, there will be no problems and you will get off ‘scot-free.’ Everything has been planned down to the last eventuality. We know exactly how the guards and prison personnel will react to your every move.” Glinn suddenly smiled, his thin lips stretching mirthlessly. “That, you see, is Herkmoor’s fatal weakness. That and those GPS bracelets, which show the position of every inmate in the entire prison at the touch of a key . . . a most foolish innovation.”

“If I go in there and make a scene, won’t it put them on alert?”

“Not if you follow the script. There is some critical information which only you can get. And some prep work that only you can do.”

“Prep work?”

“I’ll get to that shortly.”

D’Agosta felt his frustration rise. “Pardon my saying so, but all your planning isn’t going to mean jack once I’m inside those walls. This is the real world, and people are unpredictable. You can’t know what they’re going to do.”

Glinn looked at him without moving. “You’ll forgive me for contradicting you, Lieutenant, but human beings are disgustingly predictable. Especially in an environment like Herkmoor, where the rules of behavior are mapped out in excruciating detail. The scheme may seem simple, even inane, to you. But that’s its power.”

“It’s just going to get me into deeper shit than I am already.”

After dropping this epithet, he glanced at Constance. But the young woman was staring into the fire with her strange eyes, not even seeming to have heard.

“We never fail,” Glinn said, remaining unnervingly calm and neutral. “That’s our guarantee. All you need to do, Lieutenant, is follow instructions.”

“I’ll tell you what we really need: a pair of eyes on the inside. You can’t tell me none of those guards can be turned—blackmailed, whatever. Christ, prison guards are one step away from being criminals themselves, at least in my experience.”

“Not these guards. Any attempt to turn one would be foolhardy.” Glinn wheeled himself over to a desk. “If I told you we had somebody on the inside, however, would it reassure you?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Would it secure your cooperation? Silence all these doubts?”

“If the source was reliable, yeah.”

“I believe you will find our source to be above reproach.” And with that, Glinn picked up a single piece of paper and handed it to D’Agosta.

D’Agosta glanced over the sheet. It contained a long column of numbers, with two corresponding times linked to each number.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A schedule of guard patrols in the solitary unit during lockdown, from ten P.M. to six A.M. And this is just one of the many useful pieces of information that have come our way.”

D’Agosta stared in disbelief. “How the hell did you get it?”

Glinn allowed himself a smile—at least D’Agosta thought the faint thinning of the lips was a smile. “Our inside source.”

“And who might that be, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“You know him well.”

Now D’Agosta was even more surprised. “Not—?”

“Special Agent Pendergast.”

D’Agosta slumped in his chair. “How did he get this to you?”

This time a true smile broke over Glinn’s features. “Why, Lieutenant, don’t you remember? You brought it out.”

“Me?”

Glinn reached behind the desk, pulled out a plastic box. Looking inside, D’Agosta was surprised to see some of the trash he’d collected in his recon of the prison perimeter—gum wrappers and scraps of linen—now carefully dried, pressed, and mounted between sheets of archival plastic. When he looked closely at the linen scraps, he could just make out faint markings.

“There’s an old drain in Pendergast’s cell—as in most of the older cells at Herkmoor—which was never hooked into the modern sewage treatment system. It drains into a catchment basin outside the prison walls, which in turn empties into Herkmoor Creek. Pendergast writes us a message on a scrap of trash, sticks it into the drain, and washes it down with water from the sink, which ends up in the creek. Simple. We discovered it because the DEP had recently cited Herkmoor for the water-quality violation.”

“What about ink? Writing equipment? Those are the first things they’d have taken away.”

“Frankly, I don’t know how he’s doing it.”

There was a short silence.

“But you knew he’d communicate with us,” D’Agosta said at last in a quiet voice.

“Naturally.”

Despite himself, D’Agosta was impressed. “Now, if there was only some way to get information to Pendergast.”

Wry amusement flickered briefly in Glinn’s eyes. “As soon as we knew what cell he was in, that was simplicity itself.”

Before D’Agosta could respond, a sudden noise rose in the library: a faint, urgent squeaking, coming from the direction of Constance. D’Agosta looked over in time to see her picking up a small white mouse from the carpet, which had apparently fallen from her pocket. She calmed it with soft words, petting it softly, before returning the mouse to its hiding place. Sensing the silence in the room and the eyes upon her, she looked up, coloring suddenly.

“What a delightful little pet,” Wren said after a moment. “I didn’t know you were fond of mice.”

Constance smiled nervously.

“Wherever did you get it, my dear?” Wren went on, his voice high and tense.

“I . . . found it in the basement.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Among the collections. The place is overrun.”

“It seems awfully tame. And one doesn’t usually find white mice running around loose.”

“Perhaps it was somebody’s pet that escaped,” she said with some irritation, and rose. “I’m tired. I hope you’ll excuse me. Good night.”

After she had left, there was a moment of silence, and then Glinn spoke again, his voice low. “There was another message from Pendergast in those papers—urgent—not relating to the matter at hand.”

“What was it about?”

“Her. He asked that you, Mr. Wren, keep a careful watch over her during the daytime—when you are not sleeping, of course. And that when you leave for your nighttime job at the library, you make sure the house is secure, and she in it.”

Wren seemed pleased. “Of course, of course! Glad to, very glad indeed.”

Glinn’s eye turned to D’Agosta. “Even though you’re living in the house, he asked if you could make it a point to drop in and check on her from time to time during working hours as well.”

“He seems worried.”

“Very.” Glinn paused, then opened a drawer and began to remove items and place them on the desk: a hip flask of whiskey, a computer flash drive, a roll of duct tape, a rolled-up sheet of mirrored Mylar plastic, a capsule of brown liquid, a hypodermic needle, a small pair of wire cutters, a pen, and a credit card.

“And now, Lieutenant, let us go over the prep work you will be expected to accomplish once you are inside Herkmoor . . .”

Later on—once all the maps and boxes and charts had been packed away, and as D’Agosta was seeing Glinn and Wren out at the mansion’s front door—the old librarian lingered behind.

“Listen a moment, if you would,” he said, plucking at D’Agosta’s sleeve.

“Sure,” D’Agosta said.

Wren leaned in close, as if to impart a secret. “Lieutenant, you are not familiar with the—the circumstances of Constance’s past existence. Let me just say that they are . . . unusual.”

D’Agosta hesitated, surprised by the look of agitation in the strange man’s eyes. “Okay,” he said.

“I know Constance well: I was the person who found her in this house, where she’d been hiding. She has always been scrupulously honest—sometimes painfully so. But tonight, for the first time, she lied.”

“The white mouse?”

Wren nodded. “I have no idea what it means, except that I’m convinced she’s in some kind of trouble. Lieutenant, she’s an emotional house of cards, just waiting for a puff of wind. We both need to keep a close eye on her.”

“Thank you for the information, Mr. Wren. I’ll check in as frequently as I can.”

Wren held his gaze for a moment, staring at him with remarkable urgency. Then he nodded, grasped D’Agosta’s hand briefly in his own bony claw, and vanished into the chill darkness.

20

The prisoner known only as A sat on the bunk in solitary 44, deep within the Federal High-Risk Violent Offender Pretrial Detention Facility—the Black Hole—of Herkmoor. It was a cell of monastic spareness, eight feet by ten, with freshly whitewashed walls, a cement floor with a central drain, a toilet in one corner, a sink, a radiator, and a narrow metal bed. A fluorescent bulb, recessed into the ceiling and protected by a wire cage, provided the cell’s sole light. There was no switch: the bulb went on at 6 A.M. and went off at 10 P.M. High up on the far wall was the room’s only window, deep and barred, two inches wide and fifteen inches high.

The prisoner, dressed in a neatly pressed gray jumpsuit, had been sitting on the mattress for many hours in utter stillness. His slender face was pale and without expression, the silvery eyes half hooded, white-blond hair combed back. Nothing moved, not even his eyes, as he listened to the soft, rapid sounds filtering from the cell next door: solitary 45.

They were the sounds of drumming: a tattoo of extraordinary rhythmic complexity that rose and fell, sped up and slowed down, moving from metal bed rail to mattress to the walls, toilet, sink, bars, and back again. At present, the prisoner was drumming on the iron bedstead rail with an occasional slap or turn played out on the mattress, while making rapid popping and clucking sounds with his lips and tongue. The endless rhythms rose and fell like the wind, working into a machine gun-like frenzy and then dying back into a lazy syncopation. At times, it almost—but not quite—seemed to come to a stop: except that a single ostinato tap . . . tap . . . tap indicated that the beat went on.

An aficionado of rhythm might have recognized the extraordinary diversity of rhythmical patterns and styles coming from solitary 45: a kassagbe Congo beat segueing into a down-tempo funk-out and then into a pop-and-lock, moving sequentially through a shakeout, a wormhole, a glam, then into a long pseudo-electroclash riff; then a quick eurostomp ending in a nasty, followed by a hip-hop twist-stick and a tom club. A moment’s silence . . . and then a slow Chicago blues fill began, evolving into innumerable other beats both named and nameless, twining and intertwining in an eternal braid of sound.

The prisoner known as A, however, was not an aficionado of rhythm. He was a man who knew many things—but drumming was not one of them.

And yet he listened.

Finally, half an hour before lights-out, the prisoner known as A shifted on his cot. He turned toward the headrail, gave it a cautious tap with his left index finger, then another. He began tapping out a simple 4/4 beat. As the minutes went on, he tried the beat on the mattress, then the wall and the sink—as if testing them for timbre, tone, and amplitude—before moving back to the bed rail. As he continued to beat out a 4/4 time with his left finger, he began beating a second rhythm with his right. As he played this simple rhythmic accompaniment, he listened intently to the outpouring of virtuosity next door.

Lights-out arrived, and all went black. An hour went by, and another. The prisoner’s approach subtly changed. Carefully following the drummer’s lead, A picked up an unusual syncopation here, a three-against-two beat there, adding them to his simple repertoire. He meshed his own drumming ever more closely into the web of sounds coming from next door, taking cues from his neighbor, picking up the tempo or lowering it according to the drummer’s lead.

Midnight, and the drummer in cell 45 continued—and so did the prisoner named A. A found that drumming—which he had always dismissed as a crude, primitive activity—was curiously pleasing to the mind. It opened a door from the tight, ugly reality of his cell into an expansive, abstract space of mathematical precision and complexity. He drummed on, still following the lead of the prisoner in 45, all the while increasing the complexity of his own rhythmical patterns.

The night wore on. The few other prisoners in solitary—there were not many, and they were far down the hall—were long asleep. Yet still the prisoners in 44 and 45 drummed on together. As the prisoner named A explored more deeply this strange new world of external and internal rhythm, he began to understand something about the man next door and his mental illness—as had been his intent. It was not something that could be put into words; it was not accessible to language; it was not reachable by psychological theorizing, psychotherapy, or even medication.

Yet nevertheless—through careful emulation of the complex drumming—the prisoner in 44 began to reach that place, to enter the drummer’s special world. On a basic neurological level, he began to understand the drummer: what motivated him, why he did what he did.

Slowly, carefully, A took a measured foray into altering the rhythm along certain experimental pathways, to see if he could take the lead, induce the drummer to follow him for a moment. When this experiment proved successful, he very subtly began to alter the tempo, morph the rhythm. There was nothing sudden in his approach: every new beat, every altered rhythm, was carefully controlled and calculated to lead to a desired result.

Over the space of another hour, the dynamic between the two prisoners began to change. Without realizing it, the drummer became no longer the leader, but the follower.

Prisoner A continued to alter his own drumming, slowing it down and speeding it up by infinite degrees, until he was certain he was now setting the rhythm; that the Drummer in the cell next door was unconsciously following his tempo and lead. With infinite care, he then began to slow his own drumming: not in a steady way, but through speedups and slowdowns, through riffs and changeovers he had picked up from his neighbor, each time ending at a slightly slower tempo—until he was beating out a down-tempo as slow and sleepy as molasses.

And then he stopped.

The man in solitary 45, after a few tentative, lost beats, halted as well.

There was a long silence.

And then a breathy, hoarse voice came from cell 45. “Who . . . who are you?”

“I am Aloysius Pendergast,” came the reply. “And I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

An hour later, blessed silence reigned. Pendergast lay on his bunk, eyes closed but still awake. At a certain moment, he opened his eyes and scrutinized the faintly glowing dial of his watch—the one item prisoners were allowed, by law, to keep. Two minutes to four in the morning. He waited, now with his eyes open, and at exactly four o’clock a brilliant pinpoint of green light appeared on the far wall, dancing and jittering before gradually settling down. He recognized it as the output of a 532nm green DPSS laser—nothing more than the beam from an expensive laser pen, aimed through his window from some concealed spot far beyond the prison walls.

When the light had stopped trembling, it began blinking, repeating a short introduction in a simple monophonic cipher, compressed to keep transmission short. The introduction was repeated four times, to make sure Pendergast recognized the code. Then, after a pause, the actual message began.

TRANSMISSION RECEIVED

STILL ANALYZING OPTIMAL ROUTES FOR EGRESS

CHANGE OF VENUE MAY BE REQUIRED ON YOUR END

WILL ADVISE ASAP

QUESTIONS FOLLOW—COMMUNICATE VIA PRIOR PROCEDURE

DESCRIBE YARD PRIVILEGES AND SCHEDULE

OBTAIN MATERIAL SAMPLES OF GUARD UNIFORM, SLACKS AND SHIRT

The requests and questions went on, some strange, some straightforward. Pendergast made no move to take notes, committing everything to memory.

At the last question, however, he started slightly.

ARE YOU WILLING TO KILL?

With that, the laser light vanished. Pendergast rose to a sitting position. Feeling under the mattress, he extracted a hard, frayed piece of canvas and a slice of lemon from a recent meal. Removing one shoe, he carried it to the sink, ran the water, placed a few drops into the soap depression, and dipped the shoe into it. Next, he squeezed the juice of the lemon slice into the water. With the piece of canvas, he proceeded to strip the shoe of some of its polish. Soon, a small amount of dark liquid stood in the enamel depression. He paused a moment in the gloom to make sure his movements were undetected. Then he unmade the corner of his bed, tore a long strip of sheet from beneath the tuck, laid it out on the rim of the sink. He removed one shoelace, dipped its previously sharpened and split metal edge into the liquid, and began to write in a fanatically small, neat hand, leaving a pale script on the strip of cotton.

By quarter to five, he had finished answering the questions. He laid the sheet on the radiator until it was baking hot, which darkened and fixed the writing; then he began to roll it up. But as he did so, he paused, and then added one more small line at the bottom: “Continue to keep a close eye on Constance. And be of good cheer, my dear Vincent.”

He baked on this last part of the message, rolled it tight, and inserted it into the drain in his cell. Then he filled his slop bucket at the sink and poured it down the drain, repeating the process a dozen times.

One hour to wake-up. He lay down on the bed, folded his hands across his chest, and went instantly to sleep.

21

Mary Johnson swung open the oversize door to the Egyptian gallery and stepped inside, feeling around on the cold marble wall for the light switches. Although she knew the technicians had been working late hours on the tomb recently, by six in the morning they were always gone. It was her job to unlock the area for the subcontractors, turn on the lights, and make sure all was well.

She found the bank of switches and brushed them on with a plump forefinger. Rows of old glass and bronze light fixtures blazed, casting a mellow incandescent glow over the partly refurbished hall. She paused for a moment in the doorway, fists parked on bulging hips, looking around to make sure all was in order. Then she began moving down the hall, her giant butt swaying as she hummed old disco tunes to herself, twirling a ring of keys in her hand. The jangling keys, clicking heels, and off-key voice echoed through the large chamber, creating a reassuring cocoon of noise that had seen her through thirty years of nighttime employment at the New York Museum of Natural History.

She reached the annex, smacked on the bank of lights there, then crossed the echoing space and swiped her card in the new security doors leading to the Tomb of Senef. The locks disengaged and the automatic doors opened with a humming sound, revealing the tomb beyond. She stopped, frowning. Normally, the tomb should be in blackness. But despite the hour, it was brilliantly lit.

Damn techies left the lights on.

She stood in the doorway, pausing. Then she tossed her head and sniffed disdainfully at her own uncertainty. Some of the guards who’d had family working here in the thirties had begun whispering about the tomb being cursed; how it had been boarded up for good reason; how it was a big mistake reopening it. But since when was an Egyptian tomb not cursed? And Mary Johnson prided herself on her brisk, matter-of-fact approach to her job. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. No bullshit, no whining, no excuses.

Curse, hell.

With a cluck, she descended the broad stone stairs into the tomb, humming and singing, her voice echoing about the close space.

Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive . . .

She walked across the well, her immense weight swinging the bridge, and passed into the chamber beyond. Here, the computer geeks had set up tables of equipment, and Johnson was careful not to trip on the cables snaking across the floor. She glanced disapprovingly at the greasy pizza boxes carelessly stacked on one table, at the Coke cans and candy bar wrappers lying about. Maintenance wouldn’t be through until seven. Well, it wasn’t her problem.

In her three decades at the museum, Mary Johnson had seen it all. She’d seen them come and go, she’d been through the museum murders and the subway murders, the disappearance of Dr. Frock, the killing of old Mr. Puck, and the attempted murder of Margo Green. It was the biggest museum in the world and it had proved to be a challenging place to work, in more ways than one. Still, the benefits were excellent and the leave was decent. Not to mention the prestige.

She moved on, passing into the Hall of the Chariots, stopping for a cursory visual check, and then stuck her head into the burial chamber. All seemed in order. She was on the verge of turning back when she caught the whiff of something sour. Her nose wrinkled instinctively as she searched for its source. There, on one of the nearby pillars, was a splatter of something wet and chunky.

She raised her radio. “M. Johnson calling Central. Do you read?”

“This is Central. Ten-four, Mary.”

“We need a cleanup crew down here in the Tomb of Senef. Burial chamber.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Vomit.”

“Christ. Not the night guards again?”

“Who knows? Maybe the techies, having themselves a big old time.”

“We’ll get maintenance on it.”

Johnson snapped the radio off and did a brisk turn around the perimeter of the burial chamber. In her experience, piles of vomit seldom dropped alone: better to find out the rest of the bad news right away. Despite her size, she was a very fast walker, and she had completed more than half the circuit when her left shoe skidded on the slick floor and her momentum carried her sideways and down, landing her hard on the polished stone.

“Crap!”

She sat there, shaken but unhurt. She’d slipped in a puddle of something dark and coppery-smelling, and she’d broken the fall with both hands. When she held her hands up, she immediately recognized the substance as blood.

“Lord almighty.”

She rose with care, looked around automatically for something to wipe her hands on, found nothing, and decided to go ahead and wipe them on her pants, since they were already ruined. She unhooked her radio.

“Johnson calling Central, do you read?”

“Roger that.”

“Got a pool of blood here, too.”

“What’s that you say? Blood? How much?”

“Enough.”

A silence. From the large pool of blood she’d slipped in, a dribbling trail of splatters led toward the huge, open granite sarcophagus that stood in the center of the room. The flank of the sarcophagus, engraved in hieroglyphics, had a prominent smear of gore along its side, as if something had been hoisted over and dropped inside.

Suddenly, the very last thing in the world Johnson wanted to do was look inside that sarcophagus. But something—perhaps her strong sense of duty—made her walk slowly forward. Her radio, held unheeded in one hand, squawked.

“Enough?” Central squawked again in a high voice. “What’s that supposed to mean, enough?”

She reached the lip of the sarcophagus and looked inside. A body lay on its back. The body was human—that much she knew—but beyond that, she could tell nothing. The face was gashed and scored beyond recognition. The breastbone was split and the ribs yanked open like a set of double doors. Where the lungs and other organs should be was nothing but a red cavity. But what would really stick with her, and haunt her nightmares for years to come, was the pair of electric-blue Bermuda shorts the victim wore.

“Mary?” came the squawking radio.

Johnson swallowed, unable to answer. Now she noticed a smaller trail of blood and gore, dribbling its way into one of the small rooms that branched off from the burial chamber. The mouth of the room was dark and she couldn’t see inside.

“Mary? Do you read?”

She slowly lifted the radio to her lips, swallowed again, found her voice. “I read you.”

“What’s going on?”

But Mary Johnson was slowly backing away from the sarcophagus, eyes on the little dark doorway in the far corner. No need to go in there. She’d seen enough. She continued backing up, then carefully turned her bulk around. And then, as she approached the exit to the burial chamber, something seemed to go wrong with her legs.

“Mary! We’re sending security down right away! Mary!”

Johnson took another step, wobbled, then felt herself sink to the ground, as if borne down by an irresistible force. She rolled into a sitting position, then toppled backward almost in slow motion, coming to rest against the door lintel.

That was how they found her, eight minutes later, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, tears rolling out of her eyes.

22

Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward arrived after most of the crime scene investigation work had already been completed. She preferred it that way. She had come up through the homicide ranks and knew the scene-of-crime investigators didn’t need a captain breathing down their necks to do good work.

At the entrance to the Egyptian gallery, where the crime scene perimeter had been erected, she passed through a knot of police and museum security personnel, talking in hushed, funereal voices. She spotted the museum’s security director, Jack Manetti, and nodded at him to accompany her. She stepped up to the tomb’s threshold, then paused, breathing in the close and dusty air, taking stock.

“Who was here last night, Mr. Manetti?” she asked.

“I have a list of all authorized employees and subcontractors. There are quite a few, but it seems all of them checked out of the museum through security except two technicians: the victim, and the one who’s still missing. Jay Lipper.”

Hayward nodded and began walking through the tomb, making a mental note of the progression of the rooms, stairs, passageways, building a three-dimensional image in her head. In a few minutes, she arrived at a large, pillared room. She quickly took it all in: the tables laden with computer equipment, the pizza boxes, the cables and wires running in all directions. Everything was festooned with evidence tags.

A sergeant came to greet her, a man older than her by a decade. She thought his name was Eddie Visconti. He looked competent, had a bright, clear eye, dressed neatly, deferential but only to a point. She knew it was tough for some of the rank and file to report to a woman younger than they were and twice as educated. Visconti looked as if he could handle it.

“You’re the first responding officer, Sergeant?”

“Yes, ma’am. Me and my partner.”

“All right. Let’s have a quick summary.”

“Two computer technicians worked late: Jay Lipper and Theodore DeMeo. They’d been working late every night this week—lot of pressure to open the exhibit by deadline.”

She turned to Manetti. “And when’s that?”

“Eight days from today.”

“Proceed.”

“DeMeo went out for pizza at around two, leaving Lipper behind. We checked with the pizzeria—”

“Don’t tell me how you know what you know, Sergeant. Stick to the reconstruction, please.”

“Yes, Captain. DeMeo returned with pizza and drinks. We don’t know if Lipper had already left or if he was attacked in the interim, but we do know they didn’t have time to consume the food.”

Hayward nodded.

“DeMeo put down the pizzas and drinks on that table and went into the burial chamber. It appears the killer was already there, and surprised him.” He walked toward the burial chamber, Hayward following.

“Weapon?” Hayward asked.

“Unknown at this point. Whatever it was, it wasn’t sharp. The cuts and lacerations are very ragged.”

They entered the burial chamber. Hayward took in the extravagant puddle of blood, the smear on the stone coffin, the trail of gore into a side room, the bright yellow tags everywhere like fallen autumn leaves. She glanced around, locating each fleck of blood in turn, noting the shape and size of the droplets.

“A splatter analysis indicates the killer came at the victim from the left side with weapon raised, and brought it down in a way that partially cut through the victim’s neck and severed the jugular vein. The victim fell but the perp continued to slash and cut, far more than necessary to kill. There were more than a hundred cuts to the victim’s neck, head, shoulders, abdomen, legs, and buttocks.”

“Any sign of a sexual motive?”

“No semen or other bodily fluids. Sex organs untouched, anal swab clean.”

“Keep going.”

“It appears the perp half chopped, half punched through the victim’s breastbone with the weapon. Then he pulled out some of the internal organs and carried them into the Canopic Room and dumped them into a couple of very large jars.”

“Did you say pulled out?”

“The viscera were torn away, not cut.”

Hayward walked over to the small side chamber and looked in. A technician was on his hands and knees, photographing spots on the floor with a macro lens. A row of wet-evidence boxes stood against one wall, waiting to be carried away.

She looked around, trying to visualize the attack. She already knew that they were dealing with a disorganized killer, a disturbed individual, most likely a sociopath.

“After cutting out the organs,” Sergeant Visconti continued, “the perp returned to the body, dragged it to the sarcophagus, and heaved it inside. Then he left by the main tomb door.”

“He must’ve been covered with blood.”

“Yes. And in fact, using a bloodhound, we’ve followed the trail as far as the fifth floor.”

Hayward looked up sharply. This was a detail she hadn’t heard before. “Not out of the museum?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“We can’t be sure. But we found something else on the fifth floor. A shoe belonging to the missing technician, Lipper.”

“Is that so? You think the killer’s holding him hostage?”

Visconti grimaced. “Possible.”

“Carrying his dead body?”

“Lipper was a small guy, five seven, about 135. That’s also possible.”

Hayward hesitated, wondering briefly what ordeal Lipper was going through now—or perhaps had already gone through. Then she turned toward Manetti.

“I want this museum sealed,” she said.

The security director was sweating. “It’s ten minutes to opening. We’re talking two million square feet of exhibition space, two thousand staff—you can’t be serious.”

Hayward spoke softly. “If that’s a problem, I can call Commissioner Rocker. He’ll call the mayor, and the decision can come down through official channels—along with the usual shitstorm.”

“That won’t be necessary, Captain. I’ll order the museum sealed. Temporarily.”

She looked around. “Let’s order up a forensic psychological profile.”

“Already done,” said the sergeant.

Hayward gave him an appraising glance. “We haven’t worked together before, have we?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Thank you.”

She turned and walked briskly out of the room and the tomb, the others following. She crossed the length of the Egyptian gallery and approached the knot of people on the far side of the crime scene tape, gestured to Sergeant Visconti. “Are those bloodhounds still on the premises?”

“Yes.”

“I want everyone here who’s available, police and guards alike, to participate in searching this museum from attic to basement. Priority one: find Lipper. Assume he’s alive and a hostage. Priority two: I want the killer. I want them both before the end of the day. Clear?”

“Yes, Captain.”

She paused, as if remembering something. “Who’s in charge of the tomb exhibit?”

“A curator named Nora Kelly,” Manetti replied.

“Get her on the horn, please.”

Hayward’s attention was drawn to a sudden disturbance in the knot of guards and police, a voice raised in anguished pleading. A thin, slope-shouldered man in a bus driver’s uniform wrenched free of two policemen and made a beeline for Hayward, his face distorted by grief.

“You!” he cried. “Help me! Find my son!”

“And you are?”

“Larry Lipper. I’m Larry Lipper. My son is Jay Lipper. He’s missing, and a killer’s on the loose, and I want you to find him!” The man burst into sobs. “Find him!”

The very intensity of his grief halted the two policemen pursuing him.

Hayward took his hand. “That’s just what we’re going to do, Mr. Lipper.”

“Find him! Find him!”

Hayward looked around, spotted an officer she recognized. “Sergeant Casimirovic?”

The woman stepped forward.

Hayward gestured with her chin at Lipper’s father and mouthed, “Help me out here.”

The officer stepped over and, putting her arm around Larry Lipper, eased him away from Hayward. “You come with me, sir, and we’ll find someplace quiet to sit down and wait.” And Sergeant Casimirovic led him, crying loudly but unresisting, back through the crowd.

Manetti was at her side again, radio in hand. “I’ve got Kelly.”

She took the radio, nodding her thanks. “Dr. Kelly? Captain Hayward, NYPD.”

“How can I help?” came the voice.

“The Canopic Room in the Tomb of Senef. What’s that for?”

“That’s where the pharaoh’s mummified organs were stored.”

“Elaborate, please.”

“Part of the mummification process is the removal of the pharaoh’s internal organs for separate mummification and storage in canopic jars.”

“The internal organs, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Thank you.” Hayward slowly passed the radio back to Manetti, a thoughtful look on her face.

23

Wilson Bulke peered down the corridor that ran beneath the roofline of building 12. Dirty brown light struggled to penetrate the wire-mesh glass skylights, which were coated with at least a century of New York City soot. Air ducts and pipes ran in thick bundles on either side, where the rooflines almost touched the floor. Both sides of the long, low space were crammed with old collections—jars of animals floating in preservative, untidy stacks of yellowing journals, plaster models of animals—leaving a narrow passage down the center. It was a crazy, crooked space, with rooflines, pitches, and floor levels that changed half a dozen times just within eyesight. It was like a fun house at the fair, only there was nothing fun about it.

“My legs are killing me,” Bulke said. “Let’s take five.” He eased himself down on an old wooden crate, the excess adipose tissue in his thighs stretching the material with an audible creak.

His partner, Morris, sat down lightly beside him.

“This is bullshit,” said Bulke. “Day’s almost over, and we’re still at it. There’s nobody up here.”

Morris, who never saw the point in disagreeing with anybody, nodded.

“Lemme have another shot of that Jim Beam.”

Morris slipped the hip flask from his pocket and passed it over. Bulke took a slug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, passed it back. Morris took a delicate sip himself and slid it back in.

“We shouldn’t be working at all today,” said Bulke. “This is supposed to be our day off. We’re entitled to a little refreshment.”

“That’s the way I look at it, too,” said Morris.

“You were smart to bring that along.”

“Never go anywhere without it.”

Bulke glanced at his watch. Four-forty. The light filtering in through the skylights was slowly dying, the shadows deepening in the corners. Night would be coming soon. And with this section of the attics undergoing repairs and currently without electricity, that meant switching to flashlights, making their search all the more annoying.

Bulke felt the creeping warmth of the whiskey in his gut. He sighed heavily, leaned his elbows on his knees, looked around. “Look at that shit, will you?” He gestured at a series of low metal shelves beneath the eaves, filled with countless glass jars containing jellyfish. “You think they actually study this crap?”

Morris shrugged.

Bulke reached out, fished a jar off the shelf, took a closer look. A whitish blob floated in the amber liquid, amidst drifting tentacles. He gave the jar a quick shake; when the turbulence settled, the jellyfish had been reduced to swirling shreds.

“Broke into a million pieces.” He showed the jar to Morris. “Hope it wasn’t important.” He issued a guffaw and, with a roll of his eyes, shoved the jar back onto the shelf.

“In China, they eat ’em,” said Morris. He was a third-generation museum guard and considered he knew a great deal more about the museum than the other guards.

“Eat what? Jellyfish?”

Morris nodded sagely.

“Frigging Chinese’ll eat anything.”

“They say they’re crunchy.” Morris sniffed, wiped his nose.

“Gross.” Bulke looked around. “This is bullshit,” he repeated. “There’s nothing up here.”

“The thing I don’t get,” Morris said, “is why they’re reopening that tomb, anyway. I told you how my granddad used to talk about something that happened in there back in the thirties.”

“Yeah, you’ve been telling everybody and his brother about that.”

“Something real bad.”

“Tell me some other time.” Bulke glanced at his watch again. If they really thought there was something up there, they would have sent cops—not two unarmed guards.

“You don’t think the killer dragged the body up here?” Morris asked.

“No way. Why the hell would he do that?”

“But the dogs—”

“How could those bloodhounds smell anything up here? The place reeks. They lost the trail down on the fifth floor, anyway—not up here.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I am right. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done up here.” Bulke rose, slapped the dust off his butt.

“What about the rest of the attics?”

“We did ’em all, don’t you remember?” Bulke winked.

“Right. Oh, right. Yeah.”

“There’s no exit up ahead, but there’s a stairwell back a ways. We’ll go down there.”

Bulke turned, began shuffling in the direction from which they’d come. The attic corridor wandered up and down, so tight in places that he had to turn sideways to get through. The museum consisted of dozens of separate buildings joined together, and where they met the floor levels sometimes differed so greatly they had to be linked by metal staircases. They passed through a space filled with leering wooden idols, labeled Nootka Graveposts; another space filled with plaster casts of arms and legs; then yet another filled with casts of faces.

Bulke paused to catch his breath. A twilight gloom had descended. The face casts hung everywhere on the walls, white faces with their eyes closed, each one with a name attached. They all seemed to be Indians: Antelope Killer, Little Finger Nail, Two Clouds, Frost on Grass . . .

“Think all these are death masks?” asked Morris.

“Death masks? What do you mean, death masks?”

“You know. When you’re dead, they take a cast of your face.”

“I wouldn’t know. Say, how about another shot of Mr. Beam?”

Morris obligingly removed the flask. Bulke took a swig, passed it back.

“What’s that?” Morris asked, gesturing with the flask.

Bulke peered in the indicated direction. A wallet lay tossed in the corner, spread open, credit cards spilling out. He went over, picked it up.

“Shit, there must be two hundred bucks in here. What do we do?”

“Check out who it belongs to.”

“What does that matter? Probably one of the curators.” Bulke searched through, pulled out the driver’s license.

“Jay Mark Lipper,” he read, then looked at Morris. “Oh, shit. That’s the missing guy.”

Feeling a strange stickiness, he looked down at his hand. It was smeared with blood.

Bulke dropped the wallet with a jerk, then kicked it back into the corner with his foot. He felt abruptly nauseous. “Man,” he said in a high, strained voice. “Oh, man . . .”

“You think the killer dropped it?” Morris asked.

Bulke felt his heart thumping in his chest. He looked around at all the shadowy spaces, the shelves covered with the leering faces of the dead.

“We gotta call Manetti,” said Morris.

“Gimme a moment . . . Just gimme a moment here.” Bulke tried to think through a fog of surprise and rising fear. “Why didn’t we see this on the way in?”

“Maybe it wasn’t there.”

“So the killer’s up ahead.”

Morris hesitated. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Bulke felt blood pounding in his temples. “If he’s in front of us, we’re trapped. There’s no other way out.”

Morris said nothing. His face looked yellow in the dim light. He pulled out his radio.

“Morris calling Central, Morris calling Central. Do you read?”

A steady hiss of static.

Bulke tried his radio, but the result was the same. “Jesus, this frigging museum is full of dead spots. You’d think with all the money they’ve spent on security, they’d put in a few more repeaters.”

“Let’s start moving. Maybe we’ll get reception in another room.” And Morris started forward.

“Not that way!” Bulke said. “He’s ahead of us, remember?”

“We don’t know that. Maybe we missed the wallet on the way in.”

Bulke looked down at his bloody hand, the nausea growing in his gut.

“We can’t just stay here,” Morris said.

Bulke nodded. “All right. But move slowly.”

It was now twilight in the attics, and Bulke slipped his flashlight out of its holster and flicked it on. They moved through the doorway to the next attic, Bulke flashing the light around. This space was crammed with elongated heads carved from black volcanic stone, packed so tightly that the two could just squeeze down the center.

“Try your radio,” Bulke said in a low voice.

Again, nothing.

The attic corridor took a ninety-degree angle into a tight warren of cubicle-like rooms: rusted metal shelves stacked with cardboard cartons, each carton overflowing with tiny glass boxes. Bulke shone his light over them. Each contained a huge black beetle.

As they reached the end of the third cubicle, a crash came from the darkness ahead of them, dying away in a rattle of falling glass.

Bulke jumped. “Crap! What was that?”

“I don’t know,” said Morris. His voice was trembling and strained.

“He’s ahead of us.”

As they waited, another crash came.

“Jesus, sounds like someone’s trashing the place.”

More shattering glass, followed by a bestial, inarticulate scream.

Bulke backed up, groping for his own radio. “Bulke calling Central! Do you read?”

“This is Central Security, ten-four.”

Crash! Another gargled scream.

“Jesus, we got a maniac up here! We’re trapped!”

“Your location, Bulke?” came the calm voice.

“The attics, building 12! Section 5, maybe 6. Someone’s up here, tearing up the place! We found the missing victim’s wallet, too. Lipper’s. What do we do?”

A hiss of static, the reply breaking up.

“I can’t read you!”

“. . . retreat . . . do not engage . . . back . . .”

“Retreat where? We’re trapped, didn’t you hear me?”

“. . . do not approach . . .”

Another deafening crash, closer this time. The stench of alcohol and dead specimens wafted back through the darkness. Bulke backed up, screaming into the radio. “Send up the cops! Get a SWAT team up here! We’re trapped!”

More static.

“Morris, try yours!”

When Morris didn’t answer, Bulke turned. The radio lay on the floor, and Morris was running like hell down the crooked passageway, away from the noise, disappearing into the gloom.

“Morris! Wait!” Bulke tried to ship the radio, dropped it instead, and heaved along after Morris, putting one huge slow thigh after the other, desperately trying to overcome the inertia of his enormous body. He could hear the tearing, smashing, screaming thing coming up behind him, fast.

“Wait! Morris!”

A shelf covered with specimen jars went over with a massive crash behind him, and there was the sudden ripping stench of alcohol and rotting fish.

“No!”

Bulke lumbered forward as awkwardly as a walrus, groaning with both fear and effort, his fleshy arms and chest jiggling with each footfall.

Another scream, feral and chillingly inhuman, tore the darkness just behind him. He turned but could see nothing in the darkness except the flash of metal, the dim blur of movement.

“Noooo!”

He tripped and fell, the flashlight hitting the floor and rolling away, the beam wobbling crazily off the rows of jars before spotlighting a gape-mouthed fish floating upside down in a jar. He struggled, clawing the floor, trying to rise, but the screaming thing fell upon him as swiftly as a bat. He rolled, swatting feebly at it, hearing the tearing of cloth and then feeling the sudden biting sting of his flesh being slashed.

“Noooooooo—!”

24

Nora sat at a small baize-covered table in an open vault of the Secure Area, waiting. She was surprised at how easy it had been to gain access—Menzies had been instrumental in helping her with the paperwork. The fact was that very few curators, even the top ones, were allowed access without jumping through all sorts of bureaucratic hoops. The Secure Area wasn’t just used for storing the most valuable and controversial collections—it was also where some of the museum’s most sensitive papers were kept. It was a mark of how important the Tomb of Senef was to the museum that she had gotten access so quickly—and after five o’clock, at that, even while the museum was in a state of high alert.

The archivist appeared from the gloomy file room carrying a yellowing folder, placed it in front of her. “Got it.”

“Great.”

“Sign here.”

“I’m expecting my colleague, Dr. Wicherly,” she said, signing the form and handing it back to the archivist.

“I have the paperwork for him all ready to go.”

“Thank you.”

The woman nodded. “I’ll lock you in now.”

The archivist shut the vault door, leaving Nora in silence. She stared at the slender file, feeling a prickle of curiosity. It was marked simply Tomb of Senef: correspondence, documents, 1933-35.

She opened it. The first item was a typewritten letter, on elaborate stationery with a gold and red embossing. It was written by the Bey of Bolbassa, and it must have been the one described in the newspaper articles Nora had seen, full of assertions that the tomb was cursed—an obvious ploy to get the tomb back for Egypt.

She turned to the next documents: lengthy police reports from one Detective Sergeant Gerald O’Bannion, handwritten in the beautiful script once standard in America. She scanned the reports with interest, then reviewed the mass of papers beyond: memos and letters to city officials and the police in what appeared to have been a successful effort to squelch the real story described in the police reports and keep it from the press. She paged through the documents, fascinated by the tale they told, finally understanding why the museum had been so anxious to shut down the tomb.

She jumped when a faint tone announced that the vault door was opening. Turning, she saw the sleek, dapper form of Adrian Wicherly, leaning against the metal jamb, smiling.

“Hello, Nora.”

“Hi.”

He straightened up, giving his suit a little tug, adjusting his already perfect Windsor knot. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a dusty old place like this?”

“Have you signed in?”

“Je suis en règle,” he said with a little laugh, coming forward and leaning over her shoulder. She could smell expensive aftershave and mouthwashed breath. “What have we here?”

The archivist looked in. “Ready to be locked in?”

“Do. Lock us in.” And Wicherly winked at Nora.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Adrian?” she said coolly.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He pulled an old wooden chair up to the table, dusted the seat with a swipe of a silk handkerchief, and eased himself down.

“Any skeletons in the closet?” he asked Nora, leaning in.

“Definitely.”

Wicherly was a bit too close and Nora edged away as subtly as she could. Although Wicherly had initially come across as the acme of good breeding, lately his smarmy winks and fingertip caresses had led her to believe he was operating more on the glandular level than she had initially thought. Still, things had remained on a professional level and she hoped they would continue that way.

“Do tell,” Wicherly said.

“I’ve just skimmed the documents, so I don’t have the full story, but here it is in brief. On the morning of March 3, 1933, the guards arriving to open the tomb realized it had been broken into. A lot of objects were vandalized. The mummy was missing, later found in an adjacent room, badly mutilated. When they looked in the sarcophagus, they found a different body in it. A freshly murdered body, as it happened.”

“Amazing! Just like that fellow, what’s-his-name. DeMeo.”

“Sort of, except the resemblance stops there. The body belonged to Julia Cavendish, a wealthy New York socialite. She just happened to be the granddaughter of William C. Spragg.”

“Spragg?”

“He was the man who bought the tomb from the last Baron Rattray and had it shipped to the museum.”

“I see.”

“Cavendish was a patroness of the museum. She appears to have had a rather notorious reputation as—well, for want of a better term, a female rake.”

“How so?”

“She went to bars and picked up young working-class men—longshoremen, stevedores, and the like.”

“And did what with them?” Wicherly asked with a leer.

“Use your imagination, Adrian,” she said dryly. “Anyway, her body had been mutilated, but the papers don’t offer details.”

“Strong stuff for the thirties, I should say.”

“Yes. The family and the museum were desperate to cover it up—for different reasons, of course—and it seems they managed quite nicely.”

“I imagine the press was a bit more cooperative in those days. Not the muckraking chaps we have today.”

Nora wondered if Wicherly knew her husband was a reporter. “Anyway, the investigation into Cavendish’s murder was still ongoing when it happened again. This time the mutilated body belonged to Mongomery Bolt, apparently a collateral descendant of John Jacob Astor, a remittance man and a sort of black sheep in the family. The tomb was now being guarded at night, but the murderer sapped the guard before dumping Bolt’s body in the sarcophagus. A note was found on the body. There’s a copy of it in this file.”

She pulled out a yellowed sheet. On it was an Eye of Horus and several other hieroglyphs. Wicherly looked at it in bemusement.

“‘The Curse of Ammut Strikes All Who Enter,’” he intoned. “Whoever wrote this was ignorant. The chap barely knew his hieroglyphs. They aren’t even drawn properly. A crude fake.”

“Yes. They realized that right away.” She turned over some more papers. “Here’s the police report on that crime.”

“The plot thickens.” Wicherly winked, edged his seat closer.

“The police took notice of the link to John Jacob Astor. He’d helped finance the installation of the Tomb of Senef. The police began to wonder if someone wasn’t taking revenge on those responsible for bringing the tomb to the museum. Naturally, their suspicions fell on the Bey of Bolbassa.”

“The fellow who claimed the tomb was cursed.”

“Right. He’d gotten the newspapers all stirred up against the museum. Turns out he wasn’t even a real bey—whatever that is. There’s a report here on his background.”

Wicherly picked it up, sniffed. “Former carpet merchant, made a lot of money.”

“Again, the museum, along with the Astor family, was able to successfully quash any publicity—except it was impossible to stop the rumors circulating inside the museum itself. In time, the authorities established that the Bey of Bolbassa had returned to Egypt just before the killings, but they suspected he had hired operatives in New York. If he did, though, they were too clever to get caught. And when the third killing occurred—”

“Another?”

“This time it was an elderly lady who lived in the neighborhood. It took them a while to figure out the connection—turns out she was distantly descended from Cahors, the man who originally found the tomb. By now, the museum was boiling with rumors, and they were spreading to the general populace. Every crank spiritualist, medium, and tarot-card reader was converging on the museum, and New Yorkers were only too eager to believe the tomb was really cursed.”

“Credulous fools.”

“Perhaps. In any case, it just about emptied the museum. The police investigation wasn’t going anywhere, and so the museum decided to take preemptive action. Using the pretext of the construction of the 81st Street station pedestrian tunnel, they closed the tomb and sealed it up. The killings stopped, the rumors gradually died down, and the Tomb of Senef was mostly forgotten.”

“And the murder cases?”

“Never solved. Although they were convinced the bey was behind them, they couldn’t get proof.”

Wicherly rose from his chair. “That’s quite a story, Nora.”

“It certainly is.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“On the one hand, it might make an interesting sidebar to the history of the tomb. But I have a sense the museum wouldn’t be too keen on publicizing it, and I’m not sure I’d like to, either. I’d rather focus on the archaeology, on teaching people about ancient Egypt.”

“I agree with you, Nora.”

“There’s another reason, maybe even more important. This new murder in the museum—it has some resemblances to the old ones. People will talk, rumors will start.”

“Rumors have already started.”

“Well, yes. I’ve been hearing quite a few myself. At any rate, we don’t want anything derailing this opening.”

“Very true.”

“Good. I’ll write Menzies a report, with our recommendation that none of this is relevant and that it shouldn’t be publicized.” She closed the folder. “That settles it, then.”

There was a silence. Wicherly had risen from his seat and was once again standing behind her, glancing down at the scattered papers of the file. He reached over and picked one up, perused it, put it back down. She felt his hand on her shoulder and stiffened.

A moment later, she felt his lips on the nape of her neck, barely touching her skin, caressing her as lightly as a butterfly.

She rose abruptly and turned. He stood close to her, blue eyes flashing. “I’m sorry if I startled you.” He smiled, displaying his porcelain rack. “I couldn’t help myself. I find you devastatingly attractive, Nora.”

He continued smiling at her, radiating self-confidence and charm, elegant and more handsome than any man deserved to be.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m married,” she said.

“We’ll have a grand time and nobody need ever know.”

“I will know.”

He smiled, put a caressing hand on her shoulder. “I want to make love to you, Nora.”

She took a deep breath. “Adrian, you’re a charming and intelligent man. I’m sure that many women would like to make love to you, too.”

She could see his smile broadening.

“But I’m not one of them.”

“But, my lovely Nora—”

“Wasn’t that plain enough for you? I haven’t the slightest interest in making love to you, Adrian—even if I weren’t married.”

Wicherly stood there, dumbfounded, his face struggling to comprehend the sudden reversal of his expectations.

“I don’t mean to be insulting, just unambiguous, since my earlier efforts to telegraph my lack of interest don’t seem to have penetrated. Please don’t make me be any more hurtful than necessary.”

She saw the blood drain from his face. His easy self-possession vanished for a moment, exposing what Nora had begun to suspect: a spoiled child blessed with good looks and brilliance, who had developed the firm belief that whatever he wanted, he should get.

He began to stammer something that might have been intended as an apology, and Nora let her voice soften. “Look, Adrian, let’s just forget it, okay? This never happened. We’ll never mention it again.”

“Quite right, yes. Very decent of you, thank you, Nora.”

His face was now flaming with embarrassment, and he looked crushed. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. She wondered if she was perhaps the first woman ever to turn him down.

“I’ve got a report to write for Menzies,” she said as gently and lightly as possible. “And I believe you need a bit of fresh air. Why not take a brisk turn around the museum?”

“Yes, good suggestion, thank you.”

“I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Yes.”

And, moving as stiffly as a machine, Wicherly went to the intercom and pressed the button to be released. When the vault door opened, he vanished without another word, and Nora was once again left in peace to take notes and make her report.

25

D’Agosta turned the wheel of the meat van and slowed, guiding it out of the woods. Herkmoor rose ahead of him, a brilliant cluster of sodium lights bathing the maze of walls, towers, and cellblocks in an unreal topaz light. As he approached the first set of gates, he continued to slow, passing a cluster of warning signs telling drivers to have their paperwork in order and to expect a search, followed by a list of forbidden items so long it took two billboards to name them all: everything from fireworks to heroin.

D’Agosta took a deep breath, tried to calm his unsettled nerves. He’d been in prisons before, of course, but always on official business. Driving in like this, bent on some extremely unofficial business, was asking for trouble. Real trouble.

He stopped at the first chain-link gate. A guard came out of a pillbox and sauntered over, carrying a clipboard.

“You’re early tonight,” he said.

D’Agosta shrugged. “It’s my first time up here. Left early, in case I got lost.”

The guard grunted, shoved the clipboard in the window. D’Agosta attached his paperwork and handed it back. The guard flipped through it with the tip of a pencil, nodding.

“Know the drill?”

“Not really,” D’Agosta answered truthfully.

“You’ll get this back on your way out. Show your ID at the next checkpoint.”

“Gotcha.”

The chain-link gate withdrew on wheels, making a rattling noise.

D’Agosta eased forward, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. Glinn claimed to have planned everything down to the last iota—and had, with remarkable ease, secured his employment under an assumed name with the meatpacking company and arranged for him to get this route. But the fact was, you could never predict what people might do. That was where he and Glinn parted opinion. This little adventure could turn to shit in a heartbeat.

He drove the truck up to the second gate and, once again, a guard came out.

“ID?”

D’Agosta handed him the false driver’s license and permit. The man looked them over. “New man?”

“Yeah.”

“You familiar with the layout?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to hear it again.”

“Go straight through, then bear to the right. When you see the loading dock, back up to the first bay.”

“Got it.”

“You can exit the vehicle to supervise the unloading. You may not handle any of the merchandise or assist prison personnel. Stay with the vehicle at all times. As soon as you’re unloaded, you leave. Understood?”

“Sure.”

The guard spoke briefly into a radio and the final chain-link gate rolled up.

As D’Agosta eased the van through and made the right turn, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and removed a pint of Rebel Yell bourbon. He unscrewed the cap and took a slug, swishing it carefully around in his mouth before swallowing. He could feel the fiery bolus burn down his gullet into his stomach. He shook a few drops on his coat for good measure and slipped the bottle back into his jacket pocket.

In a moment, he had backed up to the loading dock. Two men in coveralls were already waiting, and as soon as he unlocked the back, they began off-loading the boxes and sides of frozen meat.

D’Agosta watched, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch, then turned to a worker. “Say, you got a restroom around here?”

“Sorry. Not allowed.”

“But I’ve gotta go.”

“It’s against the rules.” The worker hefted two boxes of meats to his shoulders and disappeared into the back.

D’Agosta buttonholed the next man. “Look, I’ve really gotta go.”

“You heard him. It’s against the rules.”

“Man, please don’t tell me that.”

The man put down his box and stared at D’Agosta with a long, tired look. “When you get out of here, you can piss in the woods. Okay?” He lifted the box.

“It ain’t pissing I got to do.”

“That’s not my problem.” He hoisted up the box and carried it off.

As the first man approached again, D’Agosta stepped in front of him, blocking his access and breathing heavily into the man’s face. “This is no joke. I need to pinch one off, and I mean now.”

The man wrinkled up his nose and stepped back. He glanced at his fellow worker. “He’s been drinking.”

“What’s that?” D’Agosta said belligerently. “What did you say?”

The man returned the look coolly. “I said, you’ve been drinking.”

“Bullshit.”

“I can smell it.” He turned to his co-worker. “Get the super.”

“What the hell for? You gonna give me a Breathalyzer?”

The other worker disappeared and a moment later he came back with a tall, grim-looking man incongruously dressed in a black blazer, with a belly that hung over his belt like a sack of grain.

“What seems to be the problem?” the supervisor asked.

“I think he’s been drinking, sir,” said the first worker.

The man hooked up his belt and stepped toward D’Agosta. “That right?”

“No, it isn’t right!” D’Agosta said, getting in his face and breathing hard with indignation.

The man backed off, unshipped his radio.

“Look, I’m leaving,” D’Agosta said, trying to make himself sound suddenly accommodating. “I’ve got a long drive to get back to the warehouse. This place is in the middle of frigging nowhere and it’s six o’clock at night.”

“You’re not going anywhere, pal.” The supervisor spoke briefly into the radio, then turned to one of the workers. “Take him into staff dining and have him wait there.”

“Come this way, sir.”

“This is bullshit. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Come this way, sir.”

Grudgingly, D’Agosta followed the guard through the loading dock and into a large pantry, empty, dark, and smelling strongly of Clorox. They passed through a door in the far wall into a smaller room where, it seemed, the kitchen staff took their own meals when they were not on shift.

“Have a seat.”

D’Agosta sat down at one of the stainless-steel tables. The man took a seat at the next table, folded his arms, looked away. A few minutes passed and the supervisor returned, an armed guard at his side.

“Stand up,” the super said.

D’Agosta complied.

The super turned toward the guard. “Search him.”

“You can’t do that! I know my rights, and—”

“And this is a federal prison. It’s all spelled out on the signs in front, if you bothered to read them. We have the right to search anyone at will.”

“Don’t you frigging touch me.”

“Sir, at the moment, you’ve got a medium-sized problem. If you don’t cooperate, you’re going to have a big problem.”

“Yeah? What kind of a problem?”

“How does resisting a federal law enforcement officer sound? Now, last time: raise your arms.”

After a moment’s hesitation, D’Agosta did as he was ordered. A pat-down quickly brought to light the pint bottle of Rebel Yell.

The guard pulled out the bottle, shaking his head sadly. He turned to the supervisor. “What now?” he asked.

“Call the local police department. Have them pick him up. A drunk driver is their problem, not ours.”

“But I just took one sip!”

The supervisor turned back. “Sit down and shut up.”

D’Agosta sat down again a little unsteadily, muttering to himself.

“And the truck?” the guard asked.

“Call his company. Have them send someone to pick it up.”

“It’s after six, there won’t be any management there, and—”

“Call them in the morning, then. The truck isn’t going anywhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

The supervisor glanced at the guard. “Stay here with him until the police arrive.”

“Yes, sir.”

The supervisor left. The guard sat down at the farthest table, eyeing D’Agosta balefully.

“I gotta go to the head,” said D’Agosta.

The guard sighed heavily but said nothing.

“Well?”

The guard rose, scowling. “I’ll take you.”

“You gonna hold my hand while I take a dump, or can I do it by myself?”

The scowl deepened. “It’s just down the hall, second door on the right. Hurry it up.”

D’Agosta rose with a flabby sigh and walked slowly to the lunchroom door, opened it, and staggered through, holding on to the doorknob for support. As soon as the door closed, he turned left and ran silently down a long, empty corridor past a series of fortified lunch-rooms, barred doors all standing open. He ducked into the last one and yanked off the white driver’s uniform, revealing a light tan shirt, which, with the dark brown pants he was wearing, gave him an uncanny resemblance to a typical Herkmoor guard. He stuffed the old shirt into a trash can at the door. Continuing down the hall, he passed a lit station. He nodded to the two officers as he walked by.

Beyond the station, he slipped a specially modified pen from his pocket, pulled off the cap, and began walking down the corridor, holding it in his hand, videotaping. He walked easily, nonchalantly, like a guard on his rounds, moving the pen this way and that, giving special attention to the placement of the security cameras and other high-tech sensing devices.

At last he ducked into a men’s room, headed to the second-to-last stall, and closed the door. Digging into the crotch of his pants, he pulled out a small, sealed plastic bag and a small roll of duct tape. He stood on the toilet, lifted a ceiling tile, and used the duct tape to affix the bag to the upper side of the tile. Then he lowered the tile back in place. Score one to Eli Glinn. The man had insisted the pat-down would stop as soon as the bottle of booze was discovered—and he had been right.

Exiting the bathroom, D’Agosta continued down the hall. Moments later, he heard an alarm go off—not a loud one, just a high-pitched beeping. He walked to the end of the empty corridor, where he was confronted by a set of double doors with a magnetic security lock. Here, he removed his wallet, took out a certain credit card, and swiped it through the door.

A light turned green and he heard the whir and click of the lock disengaging.

Score another to Glinn. He quickly ducked through.

He was now in a small exercise yard, empty at this late hour, with high cinder-block walls on three sides and a chain-link fence on the other. He looked around, verifying that there was no security camera watching him: as Glinn had pointed out, even a prison as high-tech as Herkmoor had to limit its cameras to the most vital areas.

D’Agosta strolled around the yard quickly, videotaping all the while. Then, returning the pen to his pocket, he stepped toward one wall, loosened his belt and unzipped his pants, and removed a rolled sheet of Mylar, which had been strapped to the inside of his leg. He glanced over his shoulder, then stuffed the Mylar tube into a drainpipe in the corner of the yard, hooking it in place with a bent bobby pin.

This accomplished, he moved to the chain-link fence, put a hand on it, pulled at it gingerly. This was the part he really, really wasn’t looking forward to.

Pulling a small pair of wire cutters from his socks, he snipped a three-foot vertical row of the chain links, directly behind one of the metal fence posts. He made sure the cut ends rejoined, the fence looking fully intact, and then he lobbed the wire cutters onto the nearest roof, where it would be a long time before they were found. He walked along the fence for half a dozen yards, taking a steadying breath, then another. Looking through the chain link, he could see the vague forms of the guard towers in the darkness beyond. He swallowed, rubbed his hands together. And then he hoisted himself up the chain link and began to climb.

Halfway up, he saw a colored wire strip woven through the chain link. As he passed it, a shrill alarm went off in the yard. Half a dozen sodium vapor lights snapped on around him. There was an immediate response from the guard towers along the perimeter: lights swiveled around, and in a moment they located him on the fence. He continued to climb to the top, and then, steadying himself, and concealing the movement with his arm, he pulled the pen from his pocket, aimed it through the link, and began videotaping the no-man’s-land beyond and below him, now starkly illuminated by the lights focused on him.

“You are under surveillance!” came a bullhorned voice from the nearest tower. “Stop immediately!”

From over his shoulder, D’Agosta saw six guards burst into the yard and run like hell toward him. He replaced the pen in his pocket and glanced along the top edge of the fence. Two wires ran through the chain link here, one white, the other red. He grasped the red one, yanked as hard as he could.

Another alarm went off.

“Halt!”

The guards had reached the bottom of the fence and were climbing up after him. He felt first one, then two, then half a dozen hands grasping at his feet and legs. After a brief show of struggle, he let himself be dragged back down into the yard.

Guns drawn, they surrounded him in a circle. “Who the hell is this?” one barked. “Who are you?”

D’Agosta sat up. “I’m the truck driver,” he said, slurring his words.

“The what?” another guard said.

“I just heard about this one. He did the meat delivery, got pulled off because he was drunk.”

D’Agosta groaned and cradled his arm. “You hurt me.”

“Jesus, you’re right. He’s drunk as a lord.”

“I just took one sip.”

“On your feet.”

D’Agosta tried to rise, staggered. One of them caught his forearm and helped him up. There was a snicker. “He thought he was going to escape.”

“Come on, pal.”

The guards escorted him back to the kitchen, where his guard was standing, red-faced, along with the supervisor.

The super rounded on him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

D’Agosta slurred his words. “Got lost on the way to the john. Decided to blow the joint.” He gave a drunken laugh.

More snickers.

The supervisor was not amused. “How did you get out into the yard?”

“What yard?”

“Outside.”

“I dunno. Door was unlocked, I guess.”

“That’s impossible.”

D’Agosta shrugged, slumped down in the chair, and promptly nodded off.

“Go check the yard 4 access,” the supervisor snapped at one of the guards. Then he turned back to the first guard. “You stay here with him. Do you understand? Don’t let him go anywhere. Let him shit his pants if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank Christ he didn’t make it over the fence and into no-man’s-land. Do you know what a paperwork headache that would have caused?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

D’Agosta noticed, to his great relief, that in the confusion and commotion, nobody noticed his shirt was a different color than before. Score three to Glinn.

At that moment, two local cops came in, looking bewildered. “This the guy?”

“Yeah.” The guard prodded D’Agosta with his riot stick. “Wake up, asshole.”

D’Agosta roused himself, stood up.

The policemen seemed at a loss. “So what do we do? We gotta sign something?”

The supervisor wiped his brow. “What do you do? Lock him up for drunk driving.”

One of the policemen removed a notebook. “Break any laws on the premises? You filing any charges?”

A short silence followed, the guards glancing at each other.

“No,” said the supervisor. “Just get him the hell out of here. After that, he’s your headache. I don’t want to see him around here, ever again.”

He shut the notebook. “All right, we’ll take him downtown, give him a Breathalyzer. Come on, pal.”

“I’ll pass! I only took one sip!”

“If that’s the case, you don’t have much to worry about, now, do you?” said the cop wearily as he led D’Agosta out the door.

26

Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward arrived on the scene a minute or two after the paramedics. She could hear the shrieks of the victim ringing down through the attic rooms, and they warmed her heart: nobody who was going to be dead any time soon could squall that lustily.

She ducked through a series of low doors until she arrived at the crime scene tape. With relief, she saw it was Sergeant Visconti and his partner, an officer named Martin.

“Brief me,” she said as she approached.

“We were the closest team to the attack,” Visconti replied. “We scared off the perp. He was bent over the victim, working him over. When he saw us approaching, he fled back into the attics.”

“Get a look at him?”

“Just a shadow.”

“Weapon?”

“Unknown.”

She nodded.

“We also found Lipper’s wallet.” Visconti gestured with his chin toward a plastic evidence box, lined up with several others just outside the tape.

Hayward leaned over, opened the box. “I want a full battery on the wallet and everything inside—DNA, latents, trace fibers, the works. And freeze a dozen swabs of blood and a dozen of organics for future workups.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Is the other guard around, what’s-his-name—Morris? I’d like to talk to him.”

Visconti spoke into his radio, and a moment later a cop appeared at the far edge of the scene, leading the other guard. The man’s comb-over was in disarray, hanging like a flap down the side of his head, and his clothes were disheveled. He stank of alcohol preservative.

“You okay?” she asked. “Able to talk?”

“I think so.” His voice was high and breathy.

“Did you see the attack?”

“No. I was . . . too far away, and my back was turned.”

“But you must have seen or heard something in the moments before it occurred.”

Morris struggled to concentrate. “Well, there was this . . . screaming. Like an animal. And breaking glass. Then something came rushing out from the darkness . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Something? It wasn’t a person?”

Morris’s eyes slid from side to side. “It was just, like, a screaming, rushing shape.”

Hayward turned to another of the officers. “Take Mr. Morris downstairs and have Detective Sergeant Whittier question him further.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Two EMTs came into view from behind a mountain of stacked boxes, pushing a stretcher with an enormous, groaning mound on top.

“What’s his state?” she asked.

“Lacerated with what looks like a crude knife, or maybe a claw.”

“Claw?”

The technician shrugged. “Some of the cuts are pretty ragged. Luckily, none of them reached vital organs—one advantage to being fat. Some blood loss, shock . . . He’ll recover.”

“Can he talk?”

“You’re welcome to give it a shot,” said an EMT. “He’s been sedated.”

Hayward leaned over. The guard’s damp, bulging face stared at the ceiling. The smell of liquor, formaldehyde, and dead fish assaulted her nostrils.

She spoke gently. “Wilson Bulke?”

His eyes flickered toward her, away again.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

No clear response.

“Mr. Bulke, did you see your attacker?”

The eyes gyrated in their sockets, and his wet mouth opened. “The . . . face.”

“What face? What did it look like?”

“Twisted . . . Oh, God . . .”

He groaned, mumbled something unintelligible.

“Can you be more specific, sir? Male or female?”

A whimper, a brief shake of the head.

“One, or more than one?”

“One,” came the croaked reply.

Hayward looked at the EMT. He shrugged.

She turned, gestured to a detective waiting nearby. “Stay with him on the way to the hospital. If he becomes more coherent, get a complete description of his attacker. I want to know what we’re up against.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She straightened up, looked around at the small group of police. “Whoever or whatever this is, we’ve got it cornered. I want us to go in. Now.”

“Shouldn’t we call for a SWAT team?” said Visconti.

“It would take hours before a SWAT team could gear up and get over here. And their rules of engagement are so ponderous they’d slow everything down. There was fresh blood on that wallet—there’s a chance Lipper might still be alive and a hostage.” She looked around. “I want you three to come with me: Sergeant Visconti, Officer Martin, and Detective Sergeant O’Connor.”

There was a silence. The three officers exchanged glances.

“Is there a problem? It’s four against one.”

More hesitant looks.

She sighed. “Don’t tell me you boys have bought into the rumors the museum guards are spreading? What, you think we’re going to get jammed up by a mummy?”

Visconti colored, and by way of answer removed his weapon and gave it a quick check. The others followed suit.

“Turn off your radios, cell phones, pagers, everything. I don’t want to be creeping up on the perp and suddenly hear Beethoven’s Fifth coming from your BlackBerry.”

They nodded.

Hayward took out a photocopy she’d requested of the attic layout of the museum and pressed it flat on a box. “Okay. This section of the attic is divided into sixteen narrow rooms—here—divided into two long lines under parallel roofs, with a connecting passage at the far end. Think of it as a U. Besides the stairway down, there’s only one possible escape route: a rooftop accessible through this row of windows, here. I’ve already had it covered. The skylights are supposed to be barred. Which means the only way for the killer to escape is through us . . . He’s cornered.”

She paused, looked at them each in turn. “We advance in pairs: quick observation of each room and retreat, then move and cover. I’ll partner with O’Connor. Martin, you and Visconti stay a half-room behind. Don’t overcommit. And remember: we’ve got to proceed under the assumption—the hope—that Lipper’s still alive and being held hostage. We can’t risk killing him. Only if you have verification that Lipper’s already wasted can you use deadly force—and then only if absolutely necessary. Are we clear on this?”

They all nodded.

“I’ll lead.”

When none of the three protested or made the usual faux-gallant comments about its being a job for a man, Hayward took it as a sign that women were finally being accepted in the force. Or maybe the three were just scared silent.

They stepped carefully through the crime scene, Hayward leading, O’Connor at her heels. The floor was smeared with blood, and a shelf of specimen jars lay where it had fallen, shards of glass and the broken, putrid remains of eels scattered in puddles of foul-smelling preservative. They moved past the guard at the far end of the crime scene and into the next room of the attic. The temporary lights set up around the crime scene were fainter here, cloaking the room in near-darkness.

Hayward and O’Connor moved to either side of the doorway. She gave a quick peek inside, ducked back, nodded to O’Connor, then proceeded.

Empty. More shelves had been thrown over, the glass littering the floor, filling the room with the choking stench of preservative. These jars seemed to have been filled with small rodents. A pile of papers had been dashed about and numerous stored objects flung helter-skelter. It reminded her, in a way, of the preliminary autopsy report on DeMeo: the killer had rooted about haphazardly among his internal organs, ripping and pulling stuff out with a kind of crazy, disorganized violence. A sick kind of vandalism.

She crept up to the next door, waited until the others were in position, ducked around for a visual. Another room, like the previous, completely trashed. One of the dingy skylights had been broken, but the bars above it were still intact. No escape that way.

She froze, suddenly listening. A faint sound was echoing back from the dark attics beyond.

“Hush!” she whispered. “Hear that?”

It was a strange kind of stumbling, limping gait: a dragging sound, followed by an unsettling thump: Draaag-thump. Draaag-thump.

Hayward moved into the next room, almost pitch-dark now. Pulling out her flashlight, she used it to illuminate the dark corners. The room contained thousands of plaster faces—death masks—staring at them from every square foot of wall surface. Some of the masks showed signs of recent damage: someone, apparently the killer, had slashed at the masks, gouging out their eyes, leaving smears of blood everywhere.

The lights were off in the next room. Crouching beside the door frame of the next room, Hayward gestured for the men behind to stay put.

She leaned forward, listening intently. The strange sound had ceased: the killer was waiting, listening. She sensed, rather than knew, that he was near: very near.

She could feel the level of tension within their little group rising. Better to keep going: the less thinking the better.

Hayward ducked forward, swept the room with her flashlight, then ducked back again as quickly as she could. Something was crouching in the middle of the next room—naked, bestial, bloody . . . but definitely human, and surprisingly small and thin.

She gestured to the others, held one finger upward, then rotated it slowly toward the doorway: one perp, in the room beyond.

There was a tense moment as they gathered themselves. And then Hayward spoke in a firm, clear voice: “Police officers. Do not move. We’re armed and we’ve got you covered. Walk to the doorway with your hands up.”

She heard a scrambling noise, a thumping and banging like a beast shambling on all fours.

“He’s running!”

Gun drawn, Hayward ducked around the corner just in time to see a dark figure scuttle into the darkness of the room beyond. This was followed by a tremendous crash.

“Let’s go!”

She ran across the room to the far doorway, paused, gave a quick look into the next with the flashlight. There was no sign of the figure, but there were plenty of nooks and crannies where the killer could hide.

“Again!” They charged into the next room, immediately spreading out and taking cover.

This was the largest attic room yet, filled with gray metal shelves tightly packed with jars. In each jar resided a single staring eye, the size of a cantaloupe, roots dangling like tentacles. One shelf of jars had been thrown to the ground, and the eyeballs lay ruptured, oozing jelly amid the glass and preservative.

A quick search disclosed the room was empty. Hayward gathered the team.

“Slowly but surely,” she said, “we’re driving him into a corner. Remember that people, like animals, get progressively more dangerous as they become cornered.”

Nods all around.

She glanced around. “The whale eyeball collection, it seems.”

A few nervous, steadying laughs.

“Okay. We’ll take it one room at a time. No hurry.”

Hayward moved to the edge of the next door, listened, then ducked her head around, flashed the light. Nothing.

As they moved into the room, Hayward heard a sudden, rending scream from beyond the far doorway, followed by the tremendous crash of glass and the sound of running liquid. The men jumped as if they’d been shot. A strong odor of ethyl alcohol drifted back.

“That stuff is flammable,” Hayward said. “If he’s got a match, get ready to run.”

She moved forward, raking the next room beyond with her flashlight.

“I see it!” O’Connor cried.

Draaag-thump! A shriek like a banshee, and then a dark figure, scuttling sideways but with horrifying single-mindedness, came rushing at them, gray flint knife raised in a fisted hand; Hayward jumped back as it crossed the threshold, knife slashing the air.

“Police!” she called out. “Drop your weapon!”

But the figure paid no heed, shambling crablike at them, knife still slashing the air.

“Don’t shoot!” Hayward cried. “Mace him!”

She dodged the figure, drawing it around, while the other three cops flanked it on both sides, holstering their guns and pulling out their riot sticks and Mace. Visconti jumped forward and Maced the attacker and he howled like a demon, spinning and whipping the stone knife around blindly; Hayward deftly stepped in and gave a sharp, plunging kick to the inside of one leg, sending him sprawling. A second kick sent the knife skittering across the floor.

“Cuff him!”

But Visconti had already sprung into action, slapping the cuffs on one wrist and then, with the help of O’Connor, wrestling the other flailing arm down and cuffing it as well.

He screamed and bucked maniacally.

“Do his ankles!” Hayward ordered.

A minute later, the perp lay on his stomach, still pinned, writhing and shrieking in a voice so high it cut the air like a scalpel.

“Get the EMTs in here,” Hayward said. “We need a sedative.”

Most suspects, when cuffed hand and foot and pinned to the floor, settled down. Not this one. He continued to writhe and scream, twisting, rolling, thrashing about, and, small as he was, it was all that Hayward and the cops could do to hold him down.

“Must be on angel dust,” said one of the cops.

“I’ve never seen angel dust do this.”

A minute later, an EMT arrived and plunged a needle into the shrieking man’s buttock. A few moments later, he began to quiet down. Hayward got up and dusted herself off.

“Jesus,” said O’Connor. “Looks like he’s taken a shower in gore.”

“Yeah, and it’s gone off in this heat. He stinks.”

“Fucker’s naked, too.”

Hayward stepped back. The perp was still lying on his stomach, face pressed to the floor by Visconti, whimpering and quivering in an unsuccessful attempt to fight off the sedative.

She bent down. “Where’s Lipper?” she asked him. “What did you do to him?”

More whimpering.

“Turn him over, I want to see his face.”

Visconti complied. The man’s face and hair were caked with dried blood and offal. He was grimacing strangely, his face seized by tics.

“Clean him up.”

The EMT broke out a pack of sterile gauze wipes and cleaned up his face.

“Oh, Christ,” Visconti said involuntarily.

Hayward merely stared. She could barely believe her eyes.

The killer was Jay Lipper.

27

Spencer Coffey settled himself in a chair in Warden Imhof’s office, impatiently flicking his trouser crease. Imhof sat behind his desk, looking much as he had during the first meeting: cool and neat, with the same blow-dried helmet of light brown hair on his head. Nevertheless, Coffey could see the uneasy, perhaps even defensive look in his eye. Special Agent Rabiner remained standing, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

Coffey let a strained silence build in the office before speaking.

“Mr. Imhof,” he began, “you promised you would take care of this personally.”

“As I have,” said Imhof in a coldly neutral voice.

Coffey leaned back. “S.A. Rabiner and I have just come from an interview with the prisoner. I’m sorry to say there’s been no progress—none—in teaching him the value of respect. Now, I told you earlier I wasn’t really interested in how you accomplished the task we set for you, that I was only interested in results. Whatever you’re doing, it isn’t working. The prisoner’s the same cocky, arrogant bastard who first walked in here. Refused to answer questions. Insolent as well. When I asked him how he was enjoying solitary confinement, he said, ‘I rather prefer it.’”

“Prefer it to what?”

“Being mixed in with ‘former clients’ is how he put it, the sarcastic bastard. Really emphasizing the point that he didn’t want to be mixed with the general prison population. He’s as unrepentant and combative as ever.”

“Agent Coffey, sometimes these things take time.”

“Which is exactly what we don’t have, Mr. Imhof. We’ve got a second bail hearing coming up, and Pendergast’s going to have a day in court. We can keep him from his lawyer only so long. I need him broken by then; I need a confession.” What he didn’t add were the growing problems they were having nailing down some of the evidence. That would make the bail hearing very tricky—whereas a confession would make it all so nice and clean.

“As I said, it takes time.”

Coffey took a breath, remembering Imhof’s particular buttons. A little carrot, a little stick.

“Meanwhile, our man is down there bad-mouthing you and Herkmoor to all who will listen: guards, staff, everyone. And he’s an eloquent bastard, Imhof.”

The warden remained silent, but Coffey noticed—with satisfaction—a slight twitching at one corner of his mouth. And yet the man made no move to suggest stronger measures. Maybe there weren’t any stronger measures . . .

And that’s when the idea came to him—the masterstroke. It was the “former clients” phrase that did it. So Pendergast was afraid of being mixed up with “former clients”?

“Mr. Imhof,” he said—but quietly, as if to disguise the freshness of his brainstorm—“is that computer on your desk linked to the Department of Justice database?”

“Naturally.”

“Well, then. Let’s check up on some of these ‘former clients.’”

“I don’t understand.”

“Access Pendergast’s arrest records. Run them against your current prison population, see if you can find any matches.”

“You mean, see if any of the perps Pendergast arrested are currently in Herkmoor?”

“That’s the idea, yes.”

Coffey glanced over his shoulder at Rabiner. The agent had a wolfish smirk on his face.

“Boss, I like the way you think,” he said.

Imhof pulled the keyboard toward him and began typing. Then he stared at the screen for a long moment while Coffey waited in growing impatience.

“Strange,” Imhof said. “Pendergast’s collars seem to have suffered a rather high mortality rate. Most never made it to trial.”

“Surely, there have to be some live ones who made it through the legal system and ended up in prison.”

More typing. Then Imhof leaned back from the monitor. “There are two currently residing in Herkmoor.”

Coffey looked at him sharply. “Tell me about them.”

“One is named Albert Chichester.”

“Go on.”

“He’s a serial killer.”

Coffey rubbed his hands together, glanced again at Rabiner.

“Poisoned twelve people in the nursing home where he was employed,” Imhof went on. “Male nurse. Seventy-three years old.”

As quickly as it had come, Coffey’s exhilaration fell away. “Oh,” he said.

There was a brief silence.

“What about the other one?” S.A. Rabiner asked.

“A serious felon named Carlos Lacarra. They call him El Pocho.”

“Lacarra,” Coffey repeated.

Imhof nodded. “Former drug kingpin. Real hard case. Worked his way up through East L.A. street gangs and then came east. Took over much of the Hudson County and Newark enforcement action.”

“Yeah?”

“Tortured a whole family to death, including three kids. Revenge for a deal gone bad. Says here Pendergast was the S.A. in charge on that one—funny, I didn’t remember that.”

“What’s Lacarra’s record here?”

“Leads a gang in here known as the Broken Teeth. A major pain in the rear for our guards.”

“The Broken Teeth,” Coffey murmured. The exhilaration was quickly returning. “Now, tell me, Mr. Imhof. Where does this Pocho Lacarra currently enjoy his exercise privileges?”

“Yard 4.”

“And what would happen if you transferred Agent Pendergast to, ah, yard 4 for his daily exercise period?”

Imhof frowned. “If Lacarra recognized him, it would be ugly. Or even if he didn’t.”

“How so?”

“Lacarra . . . Well, there isn’t a delicate way of putting it: he likes a white boy for his bitch.”

Coffey thought for a moment. “I see. Please give the order at once.”

Imhof’s frown deepened. “Agent Coffey, that’s a rather extreme step—”

“I’m afraid our man has left us with no choice. I’ve seen hard cases in my time, I’ve seen sullen impudence before, but nothing like this. The way he disrespects the legal process, this prison—and you, in particular—is shocking. It really is.”

Imhof drew in a breath. Coffey noticed, with satisfaction, that the man’s nostrils flared briefly.

“Stick him in there, Imhof,” Coffey said quietly. “Stick him in there, but keep an eye on the situation. Extract him if things get out of hand. But don’t extract him too soon, if you get my meaning.”

“If something does happen, there could be fallout. I’ll need you to back me up.”

“You can count on me, Imhof. I’m behind you, in all the way.” And with that, Coffey turned, nodded to the still-grinning Rabiner, and left the office.

28

Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward sat at her desk, gazing at the storm of paperwork in front of her. She hated disorder; she hated mess; she hated unsquared papers and shabby piles. And yet it seemed no matter how much she sorted and squared and organized, it ended up this way: the desk a physical manifestation of the disorder and frustration within her own mind. By rights, she should be typing up a report on the murder of DeMeo. Yet she felt paralyzed. It was damned hard to work on open cases when you felt you’d royally screwed up on a previous one; that maybe an innocent—or mostly innocent—man was in prison, unjustly charged with a crime that carried a potential death sentence . . .

She made another enormous effort to impose order on her mind. She had always organized her thoughts in lists: she was forever making lists nested within lists within lists. And she was finding it difficult to move forward with her other cases while the Pendergast case remained unresolved in her mind.

She sighed, focused, and began again.

One: a possibly innocent man was in prison, charged with a capital crime.

Two: his brother, long thought dead, had resurfaced, kidnapped a woman with apparently no connection to anything, stolen the world’s most valuable diamond collection . . . and then destroyed it. Why?

Three—

A knock on the door interrupted her.

Hayward had asked her secretary to make sure she was not disturbed, and she struggled with a momentary anger that shocked her with its intensity. She brought herself back under control and said coldly, “Come in.”

The door opened slowly, tentatively—and there stood Vincent D’Agosta.

There was a brief moment of frozen stasis.

“Laura,” D’Agosta began. Then he fell silent.

She maintained an utter coolness even as she felt the color mounting in her face. For a moment, she could think of nothing to say except “Please sit down.”

She watched him enter the office and take a seat, crushing with ruthless efficiency the emotions that welled up inside her. He was surprisingly trim and reasonably well dressed in a suit and a twenty-dollar sidewalk tie, his thinning hair combed back.

The moment of awkward silence lengthened.

“So . . . How’s everything?” D’Agosta asked.

“Fine. You?”

“My disciplinary trial is scheduled for early April.”

“Good.”

“Good? If they find me guilty, there goes my career, pension, benefits—everything.”

“I meant, it will be good to have it over with,” she said tersely. Is that what he’d come here to do—complain? She waited for him to get to the point.

“Look, Laura: first, I just want to tell you something.”

“Which is?”

She could see him struggling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I know I hurt you, I know you think I treated you like dirt . . . I wish I knew how to make it up.”

Hayward waited.

“At the time, I thought, I really thought, I was doing the right thing. Trying to protect you, keep you safe from Diogenes. I thought that by moving out I could keep the heat off you. I just didn’t figure on how it would look to you . . . I was winging it. Things were happening fast and I didn’t have time to work everything out. But I’ve had plenty of time to think about it since. I know that I looked like a cold bastard, walking out on you with no explanation. It must have seemed like I didn’t trust you. But that wasn’t it at all.”

He hesitated, chewing his lip as if working up to something. “Listen,” he began again. “I really want us to get back together. I still care about you. I know we can work this out . . .”

His voice trailed off miserably. Hayward waited him out.

“Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Consider it said.”

Another excruciating silence.

“Is there anything else?” Hayward asked.

D’Agosta shifted uncomfortably. Slats of sunlight came in through the blinds, striping his suit.

“Well, I heard . . .”

“What did you hear?”

“That you were still looking into the Pendergast case.”

“Really?” she said coolly.

“Yeah. From a guy I know, works for Singleton.” He shifted again. “When I heard that, it gave me hope. Hope that maybe I could still help you. There are things that I didn’t tell you before, things that I felt sure you wouldn’t believe. But if you’re really still on the case, after all that’s happened . . . well, I thought maybe you should hear some of these things. To, you know, give you as much ammunition as possible.”

Hayward kept her face neutral, not willing to give him anything but a thunderous silence. He was looking older, a little drawn, but his clothes were new and his shirt was well ironed. She wondered, briefly and searingly, who was taking care of him. Finally she said, “The case is settled.”

“Officially, yeah. But this friend said that you were—”

“I don’t know what you heard, and I don’t give a damn. You should know better than to listen to departmental gossip from so-called friends.”

“But, Laura—”

“Refer to me as Captain Hayward, please.”

Another silence.

“Look, this whole thing—the killings, the diamond theft, the kidnapping—was all orchestrated by Diogenes. All of it. It was his master plan. He played everyone like a violin. He murdered those people, then framed Pendergast for it. He stole the diamonds, kidnapped Viola Maskelene—”

“You’ve told me all this before.”

“Yes, but here’s something you don’t know, something I never told you—”

Hayward felt a rush of anger that almost overwhelmed her icy control. “Lieutenant D’Agosta, I don’t appreciate hearing that you’ve continued to withhold information from me.”

“I didn’t mean it that—”

“I know exactly what you meant.”

“Listen, damn it. The reason Viola Maskelene was kidnapped is that she and Pendergast—well, they’re in love.”

“Oh, please.”

“I was there when they met on the island of Capraia last year. He interviewed her as part of the investigation into Bullard and the lost Stradivarius. When they met, I could see this connection between them. Diogenes somehow learned of it.”

“They’ve been seeing each other?”

“Not exactly. But Diogenes lured her here using Pendergast’s name.”

“Funny she never mentioned that during her debriefing.”

“She was trying to protect Pendergast and herself. If it got out that they had a thing for each other—”

“From one brief meeting on an island.”

D’Agosta nodded. “That’s right.”

“Agent Pendergast and Lady Maskelene. In love.”

“I can’t speak one hundred percent about the strength of Pendergast’s feelings. But as for Maskelene—yeah, I’m convinced.”

“And how did Diogenes discover this touching bit of sentiment?”

“There’s only one possibility: while Diogenes was nursing Pendergast back to health in Italy, after rescuing him from Count Fosco’s castle. Pendergast was delirious, he probably said something. So, you see? Diogenes kidnapped Viola to ensure that Pendergast was maximally distracted at precisely the moment he undertook the diamond heist.”

D’Agosta fell silent. Hayward took the time for a long breath and another effort at control.

“This,” she said quietly, “is a story straight out of a romance novel. This isn’t the way things happen in real life.”

“What happened with us wasn’t all that different.”

“What happened with us was a mistake I’m trying to forget.”

“Listen, please, Laura—”

“Call me Laura again and I’ll have you escorted out of the building.”

D’Agosta winced. “There’s something else you ought to know. Have you heard of the forensic profiling firm of Effective Engineering Solutions, down on Little West 12th Street, run by an Eli Glinn? I’ve been spending most of my time down there recently, moonlighting.”

“Never heard of it. And I know all the legitimate forensic profilers.”

“Well, they’re more of an engineering firm, and they’re pretty secretive, but they recently did a forensic profile of Diogenes. It backs up everything I’ve told you about him.”

“A forensic profile? At whose request?”

“Agent Pendergast’s.”

“That inspires confidence,” she said sarcastically.

“The profile indicated that Diogenes isn’t through.”

“Isn’t through?”

“All of what he’s done so far—the killings, the kidnapping, the diamond theft—has been leading up to something else. Something bigger, maybe much bigger.”

“Such as?”

“We don’t know.”

Hayward picked up some files and squared them on the desk with a crack. “That’s quite a story.”

D’Agosta began to get angry. “It’s not a story. Look, this is Vinnie you’re talking to, Laura. It’s me.”

“That’s it.” Hayward pressed an intercom button. “Fred? Please come to my office and escort Lieutenant D’Agosta off the premises.”

“Don’t do this, Laura . . .”

She turned to him, finally losing it. “Yes, I will do it. You lied to me. Played me for a fool. I was willing to offer you anything. Everything. And you—”

“And I am so very sorry. God, if only I could turn back the clock, do things differently. I tried my best, tried to balance my loyalty to Pendergast with my . . . loyalty to you. I know I screwed up a wonderful thing—and I believe that what we had is worth saving. I want your forgiveness.”

The door was opened by a police sergeant. “Lieutenant?” he said.

D’Agosta rose, turned, and exited without even a look back. The sergeant shut the door, leaving Hayward behind her heaped-up desk, silent and trembling, looking at the mess but seeing nothing, nothing at all.

29

A dark, chill night had fallen over the restless streets of Upper Manhattan, but even on the brightest noon no sunlight ever penetrated the library of 891 Riverside Drive. Metal shutters were closed and fastened over mullioned windows, and drapes of rich brocade hid the shutters in their turn. The room was lit only by fire: the glow of candelabra, the flicker of embers dying on the wide grate.

Constance sat in a wing chair of burnished leather. She was very erect, as if at attention, or perhaps poised for flight. She was looking tensely at the other occupant of the room: Diogenes Pendergast, who sat on the couch across from her, a book of Russian poetry in his hands. He spoke softly, his voice as liquid as honey, the warm cadence of the Deep South strangely appropriate to the flow of the Russian. “,” he finished, then laid the book down and looked over at Constance. “‘Heart’s memory of sun grows fainter, sallow is the grass.’” He laughed quietly. “Akhmatova. No one else ever wrote about sorrow with the kind of astringent elegance she did.”

There was a short silence.

“I don’t read Russian,” Constance replied at last.

“A beautiful, poetic language, Constance. It’s a shame, because I sense hearing Akhmatova speak of her sorrow in her own tongue would help you bear your own.”

She frowned. “I bear no sorrow.”

Diogenes raised his eyebrows and laid the book aside. “Please, child,” he said quietly. “This is Diogenes. With others, you may put up a brave front. But with me, there’s no reason to hide anything. I know you. We are so very alike.”

“Alike?” Constance laughed bitterly. “You’re a criminal. And me—you know nothing about me.”

“I know a great deal, Constance,” he said, voice still quiet. “You are unique. Like me. We are alone. I know you’ve been blessed and cursed with a strange and terrible burden. How many would wish for such a gift as you were given by my great-uncle Antoine—and yet how few could understand just what it would be like. Not liberation, not at all. So many, many years of childhood . . . and yet, to be deprived of being a child . . .”

He looked at her, the fire illuminating his strange, bicolored eyes. “I have told you. I, too, was denied a childhood—thanks to my brother and his obsessive hatred of me.”

Immediately, a protest rose to Constance’s lips. But this time she suppressed it. She could feel the white mouse shifting in her pocket, contentedly curling himself up for a nap. Unconsciously she moved a hand over the pocket, stroking it with slender fingers.

“But I’ve already spoken to you about those years. About my treatment at his hands.” A glass of pastis sat at his right hand—he had helped himself from the sideboard earlier—and now he took a slow, thoughtful sip.

“Has my brother communicated with you?” he asked.

“How can he? You know where he is: you put him there.”

“Others in similar situations find ways to get word to those they care about.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to cause me further discomfort.” Her voice fell as she spoke. Her eyes dropped to her fingers, still absently stroking the sleeping mouse, then rose again to look at Diogenes’s calm, handsome face.

“As I was saying,” he went on after a pause, “there is much else we share.”

Constance said nothing, stroking the mouse.

“And much that I can teach you.”

Once again, she summoned a tart retort; once again, it remained unvoiced. “What could you possibly teach me?” she replied instead.

Diogenes broke into a gentle smile. “Your life—not to put too fine a term to it—is dull. Even stultifying. You’re trapped in this dark house, a prisoner. Why? Aren’t you a living woman? Shouldn’t you be allowed to make your own decisions, to come and go as you please? Yet you’ve been forced to live in the past. And now, you live for others who only take care of you through guilt or shame. Wren, Proctor—that busybody policeman D’Agosta. They’re your jailers. They don’t love you.”

“Aloysius does.”

A sad smile creased Diogenes’s face. “You think my brother is capable of love? Tell me: has he ever told you he loved you?”

“He doesn’t have to.”

“What evidence do you have that he loves you?”

Constance wanted to answer, but she felt herself coloring in confusion. Diogenes waved a hand as if to imply his point was made.

“And yet you don’t have to live this way. There’s a huge, exciting world out there. I could show you how to turn your amazing erudition, your formidable talents, toward fulfilling, toward pleasing, yourself.”

Hearing this, Constance felt her heart accelerate despite her best intentions. The hand stroking the mouse paused.

“You must live not only for the mind, but for the senses. You have a body as well as a spirit. Don’t let that odious Wren jail you with his daily babysitting. Don’t crush yourself any longer. Live. Travel. Love. Speak the languages you’ve learned. Experience the world directly, and not through the musty pages of a book. Live in color, not black and white.”

Constance listened intently, feeling her confusion mount. The fact was, she felt she knew so little of the world—nothing, in fact. Her entire life had been a prelude . . . to what?

“Speaking of color, note the ceiling of this room. What color is it?”

Constance glanced up at the library ceiling. “Wedgwood blue.”

“Was it always that color?”

“No. Aloysius had it repainted during—during the repairs.”

“How long do you suppose it took him to pick that color?”

“Not long, I imagine. Interior decorating is not his forte.”

Diogenes smiled. “Precisely. No doubt he made the decision with all the passion of an accountant selecting an itemization. Such an important decision, made so flippantly. But this is the room you spend most of your time in, isn’t it? Very revealing of his attitude toward you, don’t you think?”

“I don’t understand.”

Diogenes leaned forward. “Perhaps you will understand if I tell you how I choose color. In my house—my real house, the one that is important to me—I have a library like this. At first I thought of draping it in blue. And yet after some consideration and experimentation, I realized blue takes on an almost greenish tint in candlelight—which is the only light in that room after the sun has set. Further examination revealed that a dark blue, such as indigo or cobalt, appears black in such light. If pale blue, it fades to gray; if rich, like turquoise, it becomes heavy and cold. Clearly blue, though my first preference, would not work. The various pearl grays, my second choice, were also unacceptable: they lose their bluish gloss and are transformed into a dead, dusky white. Dark greens react like dark blues and turn almost black. So at length I settled on a light summery green: in shimmering candlelight, it gives the dreamy, languorous effect of being underwater.” He hesitated. “I live near the sea. I can sit in that room, all lights and candles extinguished, listening to the roar of the surf, and I become a pearl diver, within, and as one with, the lime-green waters of the Sargasso Sea. It is the most beautiful library in the world, Constance.”

He fell silent for a moment, as if in contemplation. Then he leaned forward and smiled. “And do you know what?”

“What?” she managed to say.

“You would love that library.”

Constance swallowed, unable to formulate a response.

He glanced at her. “The presents I brought you last time. The books, the other items . . . have you opened them?”

Constance nodded.

“Good. They will show you there are other universes out there—perfumed universes, full of wonder and delight, ready to be enjoyed. Monte Carlo. Venice. Paris. Vienna. Or, if you prefer: Katmandu, Cairo, Machu Picchu.” Diogenes waved his hand around the walls of leather-bound books. “Look at the volumes you’re surrounded by. Bunyan. Milton. Bacon. Virgil. Sobersided moralists all. Can an orchid flower if you water it with quinine?” He stroked the copy of Akhmatova. “That is why I’ve been reading you poetry this evening: to help you see that these shadows you surround yourself with need not be merely monochrome.”

He picked up another slender volume from the pile beside him. “Have you ever read Theodore Roethke?”

Constance shook her head.

“Ah! Then you are about to experience a most delicious, undiscovered pleasure.” He opened the book, selected a page, and began.

I think the dead are tender. Shall we kiss?—

Listening, Constance suddenly felt a strange feeling blossom deep within her: something faintly grasped at in fleeting dreams and yet still unknown, something rich and forbidden.

We sing together; we sing mouth to mouth . . .

She rose abruptly from the chair. The mouse in her frock pocket righted itself in surprise.

“It’s later than I realized,” she said in a trembling voice. “I think you had better leave.”

Diogenes glanced at her mildly. Then he closed the book with perfect ease and rose.

“Yes, that would be best,” he said. “The scolding Wren will be in shortly. It would not do for him to find me here—or your other jailers, D’Agosta and Proctor.”

Constance felt herself flush, and immediately hated herself for it.

Diogenes nodded toward the couch. “I’ll leave these other volumes for you, as well,” he said. “Good night, dear Constance.”

Then he stepped forward and—before she could react—inclined his head, took her hand, and raised it to his lips.

The gesture was executed with perfect formality and the best of breeding. Yet there was something in the way his lips lingered just out of contact with her fingers—something in the warm breath on her skin—that made Constance curl inwardly with unease . . .

And then he was gone, suddenly, wordlessly, leaving the library empty and silent, save for the low crackle of the fire.

For a moment, she remained motionless, aware of her own quickened breathing. He had left nothing of himself behind, no trace of his scent, nothing—save for the small stack of books on the couch.

She came forward and picked up the top volume. It was exquisitely bound in silk, with gilt edging and hand-marbled endpapers. She turned it over in her hands, feeling the delicious suppleness of the material.

Then, quite suddenly, she placed it back on the pile, picked up the half-finished glass of pastis, and exited the library. Making her way into the back parts of the house, she entered the service kitchen, where she rinsed and dried the glass. Then she returned to the central stairway.

The old mansion was silent: Proctor was out, as he had been so frequently on recent nights, assisting Eli Glinn in his plans; D’Agosta had looked in earlier, but only to make sure the house was secure, and had left again almost immediately. And “scolding Wren” was, as always at this hour, at the New York Public Library. His tiresome self-imposed babysitting duties were, thankfully, confined to the daylight hours. There was no point in checking to see whether the front door was still locked—she knew it would be.

Now, slowly, she ascended the stairs to her suite of rooms on the third floor. Gently removing the white mouse from her pocket, she placed him in his cage. She slipped out of her frock and undergarments and folded them neatly. Normally, she would have gone through her evening ablutions next, donned a nightgown, and read in the chair beside her bed for an hour or so before retiring—at present, she was working her way through Johnson’s Rambler essays.

But not tonight. Tonight, she drifted into her bathroom and filled the oversize marble bath with hot water. Then she turned to a beautifully papered gift box, resting on a brass server nearby. Inside the box were a dozen small glass bottles from a Parisian manufacturer of bath oils: a gift from Diogenes on his last visit. Selecting one, she poured the contents into the water. The heady scent of lavender and patchouli perfumed the air.

Constance walked over to the full-length mirror and regarded her nude form for a long moment, sliding her hands over her sides, along her smooth belly. Then, turning away, she slipped into the bath.

This had been Diogenes’s fourth visit. Before, he had often spoken of his brother and made several allusions to a particular Event—Diogenes seemed to speak the word with a special emphasis—an Event of such horror that he could not bring himself to talk of it, except to say it had left him blind in one eye. He had also described how his brother had gone out of his way to poison others against him—herself in particular—by telling lies and insinuations, making him out to be evil incarnate. At first she had objected vehemently to that kind of talk. It was a perversion of the truth, she’d protested—teased out now for some twisted end of his own. But he had been so calm in the face of her anger, so reasonable and persuasive in his rebuttals, that despite herself, she had grown confused. It was true that Pendergast was remote and aloof at times, but that was just his way . . . wasn’t it? And wasn’t it true the reason he’d never contacted her from prison was to simply spare her additional anxiety? She loved him, silently, from afar—a love he never seemed to return or acknowledge.

It would have meant so much to have heard from him.

Could there be some truth to Diogenes’s stories? Her head told her he was untrustworthy, a thief, perhaps a sadistic killer . . . but her heart told her differently. He seemed so understanding, so vulnerable. So kind. He had even shown her evidence—documents, old photographs—that seemed to undercut many of the things Aloysius had told her about him. But he hadn’t denied everything; he had also accepted a share of blame, admitted to being a less-than-perfect brother—a deeply flawed human being.

Everything was so confused.

Constance had always trusted her head, her intellect—even though, in many ways, she knew her mind was fragile and capable of betraying her. And yet now it was her heart that spoke the loudest. She wondered if Diogenes was telling the truth when he said he understood her—because, at some deep level she had yet to plumb, she believed him: she felt a connection. Most important, she was beginning to understand him as well.

At last she rose from the bath, dried herself, and completed her preparations for bed. She chose to wear not one of her cotton nightgowns, but rather one of finely milled silk that lay, unworn and half forgotten, at the bottom of a drawer. Then she slipped into bed, propped up her down pillows, and opened the collection of Rambler essays.

The words all ran together without meaning, and she grew restless. She flipped ahead to the next essay, scanned its stentorian opening, then closed the book. Getting out of bed again, she walked over to a heavy Duncan Phyfe armoire and opened it. Inside was a velvet-lined box containing a small collection of octavo books Diogenes had brought on his last visit. She carried the box back to bed and sorted through its contents. They were books she had heard about but never read, books that had never been a part of Enoch Leng’s extensive library. The Satyricon of Petronius; Huysmans’s Àu rebours; Oscar Wilde’s letters to Lord Alfred Douglas; the love poetry of Sappho; Boccaccio’s Decameron. Decadence, opulence, and passionate love clung to these pages like musk. Constance dipped into one and then another—at first gingerly, then curiously, then with something like hunger, reading late into the restless night.

30

Gerry Fecteau found a sunny spot on the walkway overlooking yard 4 and snugged up the zipper of his guard’s jacket. A late-winter light filtered down from a whiskey sky, not strong enough to melt the patches of dirty snow that still edged the yards and building corners. From where he stood, he had a good view of the yard. He glanced over at his partner, Doyle, placed strategically at the other corner.

The nature of their assignment had not been explained to them, not even hinted at. In fact, they had been given only one order: watch the yard from above. But Fecteau had been around long enough to read between the lines. The mystery prisoner, still in solitary, had been given yard privileges for good behavior—in yard 4. Obligatory yard privileges. With Pocho and his gang. Fecteau knew very well what was going to happen to the prisoner—who was about as white as a white man could get—when he was turned out in yard 4 with Lacarra and his thugs. And watching the yard from the walkway above, like he was doing, it would take a couple of minutes at least to get down to the yard if any trouble erupted.

There was only one reason for an order like that. The drummer hadn’t worked—for some inexplicable reason, he’d actually grown quiet—and now they were on to something new.

He licked his lips and scanned the empty yard: the basketball hoop with no net, the parallel bars, the quarter acre of asphalt. Five minutes until the exercise hour. Fecteau wasn’t exactly thrilled with the assignment. If anybody got killed, it would be his ass. And he sure didn’t relish the thought of pulling Lacarra off someone. On the other hand, another part of him relished the thought of violence. His heart rate accelerated with anticipation and apprehension.

At the appointed time, to the second, he heard the bolts shoot back, and the double doors to the yard opened. Two guards stepped into the weak sunlight, hooked the doors open, and stood on either side while Pocho ambled out—always first—his eyes squinting around the cement yard, stroking the tuft of hair under his lip. He was wearing the standard prison jumpsuit, no coat despite the winter temperature. He turned as he walked, twisting the tuft of hair, muscles rippling under his sleeves. His shaved head gleamed dully in the weak light and across his face, making his old acne scars look like lunar craters.

Lacarra sauntered into the center of the yard as the six other inmates filed out after him, heading off in different directions, striking casual poses as they looked around, chewing gum, walking aimlessly across the tarmac. One guard tossed out a basketball, which bounced toward one of the men; he flipped it up with his foot, caught it, then began bouncing it idly.

A moment later, the new prisoner stepped out, tall and straight. He paused just beyond the threshold, looking around, with a degree of casualness that made Fecteau tingle. The poor guy hadn’t a clue.

Pocho and his boys didn’t even seem to notice the newcomer—except that they all stopped chewing. But only for an instant. The ball continued its steady bounce, like the slow beating of a drum, bom . . . bom . . . bom. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

The mystery prisoner began to walk along the cinder-block wall of the yard. As he walked, he looked about, face neutral, his moves easy and smooth. The others followed him with their eyes.

The yard was enclosed on three sides by the cement walls of Herkmoor, with chain link topped by concertina wire forming the fourth barrier at the far end. The prisoner walked alongside the wall until he came to the chain link, then turned to follow the line of the fence, staring out through it as he walked. Prisoners, Fecteau had noticed, always looked out or up—never back in toward the grim building. A guard tower dominated the middle distance; and beyond that, the tops of the trees rose above the prison’s outer wall.

One of the delivery guards looked up, caught Fecteau’s eye, and shrugged as if to say, “What’s going on?” Fecteau shrugged back and signaled them to leave, that the transfer of prisoners to the yard was good. The two disappeared back into the building, shutting the doors behind them.

Fecteau raised the radio to his lips and spoke in a low tone. “You reading me, Doyle?”

“I read you.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yup.”

“We better be ready to run down there and break things up.”

“Ten-four.”

They waited. The sound of the bouncing ball continued steadily. Nobody moved except the mystery prisoner, who continued his slow perambulation along the fence.

Bom . . . bom . . . bom, went the ball.

Doyle’s voice crackled over the radio again. “Hey, Gerry, this remind you of anything?”

“Like what?”

“You remember the opening scene of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?”

“Yeah.”

“This is it.”

“Maybe. Except one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The outcome.”

Doyle snickered over the radio. “Don’t worry. Pocho wants his meat alive, only tenderized.”

Now Lacarra removed his hands from his pockets, straightened up, and pimp-rolled over to a point on the fence thirty feet ahead of the prisoner. He hooked a hand on the chain link and watched the prisoner come toward him. Instead of varying his route to avoid Lacarra, the prisoner continued his leisurely stroll, not pausing for an instant, until he had come right up to Lacarra. And then he spoke to him. Fecteau strained to hear.

“Good afternoon,” said the prisoner.

Lacarra looked away. “Got a cigarette?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”

Lacarra nodded, still looking off into the distance, his eyes half closed, like two black slits. He began stroking the tuft of hair, pulling his lip down with each stroke, exposing a row of yellow, broken teeth.

“You don’t smoke,” Lacarra said quietly. “Isn’t that healthy.”

“I used to enjoy the occasional cigar, but I quit when a friend of mine developed cancer. They had to cut off most of his lower jaw, poor fellow.”

At this, Lacarra’s head swiveled toward him, as if in slow motion. “He must’ve been one ugly motherfucker after that.”

“It’s amazing what they can do with plastic surgery these days.”

Lacarra turned. “Hey, you hear that, Rafe? This boy’s got a friend with no mouth.”

As if on cue, Lacarra’s gang started to move again—all except the one with the ball. They began drifting in, like wolves.

“I think I’ll continue my walk now,” said the prisoner, moving to one side.

With a casual step, Lacarra moved to block the prisoner’s path.

The prisoner paused, and fixed a pair of silvery eyes on Lacarra. He said something in a low voice that Fecteau didn’t catch.

Lacarra didn’t move, didn’t look at the prisoner. After a moment he replied, “And what’s that?”

The prisoner spoke more clearly now. “I hope you’re not going to make the second worst mistake of your life.”

“What the fuck you talking about, second mistake? What’s the first mistake?”

“Murdering those three innocent children.”

There was an electric silence. Fecteau shifted, stunned by what he had heard. The prisoner had broken one of the most sacred rules of prison life—and what was more, had done it with Pocho Lacarra. And how in hell did he even know Lacarra? The man had been in solitary since he arrived. Fecteau tensed all over. Something terrible was going to happen—and it was going to happen soon.

Lacarra smiled, looking at him for the first time, showing more yellow teeth with a gap in the top, and then, through that gap, he ejected a gobbet of phlegm which hit the toe of the prisoner’s shoe with an audible smack. “Where’d you hear that?” he asked mildly.

“You tied them up first, though—big brave macho hombre that you are. Wouldn’t want a seven-year-old girl to leave a scratch on that pretty face of yours. Eh, Pocho?”

Fecteau could hardly believe his ears. This guy had a death wish for sure. Lacarra’s gang seemed equally stupefied, unsure how to respond, waiting for some kind of signal.

Pocho began to laugh: a slow, ugly laugh, full of menace. “Hey, Rafe,” he called over his shoulder. “I don’t think this motherfucker likes me, know what I mean?”

Rafe sauntered over. “Oh, yeah?”

The prisoner said nothing. Now the others were still drifting in, like a pack of wolves. Fecteau felt his heart pounding in his chest.

“You hurt my feelings, man,” Pocho said to the prisoner.

“Indeed,” came the reply. “And what feelings are those?”

Pocho stepped back and Rafe came in, all slow and nonchalant, and then—fast as a spring-loaded trap—he swung on the prisoner’s gut.

The prisoner moved like a blur, one leg flashing out, and suddenly Rafe was doubled up, on the ground. Then, with a horrible sucking sound, he vomited.

“Knock it off!” Fecteau screamed down at them, raising his radio to call Doyle.

The others moved in fast while Pocho took another step away, letting the others do the dirty work. Watching, Fecteau was amazed, confounded, to see the prisoner move in a way he never thought possible, faster than he thought possible, some kind of martial art he wasn’t familiar with—but of course, he was up against six gang members who had spent their entire lives street-fighting and nobody could hold up to that. As for the gang itself, they were so surprised by the prisoner’s moves they had retreated, temporarily at bay. Another had fallen beside Rafe, stunned by a blow to the chin.

Fecteau turned and ran down the walkway, yelling into his radio for backup. No way was he going to break this up with just Doyle.

Lacarra’s voice rose up. “You gonna let this bitch kick your ass?”

The rest moved in and around. One lashed out and the prisoner spun, but it was a feint so another could move in while a third struck him in the gut—getting him good this time. And now they all moved in, fists flying, and the prisoner began to struggle beneath the blows.

Fecteau burst through the upper doors, no longer able to see the yard, ran down the stairs, unlocked another door, and dashed along the corridor. Doyle was just arriving, along with four other backup guards running from the station, riot sticks drawn. Fecteau unlocked the double doors to the yard and they jumped through.

“Hey! Cut the shit!” Fecteau screamed as they ran across the cement toward a small knot of Lacarra’s men, hunched over an invisible figure on the ground, kicking the crap out of it. Two others now lay on the ground nearby, while Lacarra himself seemed to have disappeared.

“Enough!” Fecteau waded in with Doyle and the others, grabbing the collar of one thug and jerking him back, whacking another across the ear with his stick.

“Cut it! Enough!”

Doyle charged in beside him, Taser in hand, and the other guards waded in as well. In less than thirty seconds, the inmates had been restrained. The special prisoner lay on his back, unconscious, the blood covering his face a striking contrast to his skin, his pants nearly torn off at the waistband, his shirt split down the side.

One of the other prisoners was screaming hysterically somewhere in the background. “You seen what that crazy fucker do? You seen that, man?”

“What’s happening, Fecteau?” came the warden’s voice over the radio. “What’s this about a fight?”

As if he didn’t know. “The new prisoner got nailed, sir.”

“What happened to him?”

“We need EMTs!” one of the other guards was calling in the background. “We got at least three prisoners hurt bad! EMTs!”

“Fecteau, are you there?” came Imhof’s strident voice.

“Yeah, the new prisoner’s hurt, don’t know how bad, though.”

“Find out!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Another thing: I want the EMTs on the new prisoner first. You understand?”

“Copy, sir.”

Fecteau looked around. Where the hell was Pocho?

Then he saw the form of Pocho huddled in a frozen corner of the yard, motionless.

“Oh, God,” he said. “Where are those EMTs? Get them here now!”

“Motherfucker!” came the hysterical voice. “You seen what he done?”

“Secure the others,” Fecteau cried. “Hear me? Cuff them and get them the hell out of here into lockdown!”

It was an unnecessary order. The gang members who could still stand were already being marched to the yard door. The shouting faded, leaving behind the high-pitched whimpering of one of the injured inmates. Lacarra lay in grotesque imitation of a supplicant, knees and face in the snow, head twisted in an unnatural angle. His motionlessness creeped out Fecteau most of all.

The EMTs arrived, two of them, followed by two more wheeling stretchers.

Fecteau pointed to the special prisoner. “Warden wants him taken care of first.”

“What about that one?” The EMTs had fixed their horrified eyes on Lacarra.

“Take care of the new prisoner first.”

Even as they worked on the new prisoner, Fecteau couldn’t take his eyes off Lacarra. And then, as if in slow motion, Lacarra’s body began to move, began to topple on its side, where it lay, again unmoving, the grinning face and wide-open eyes now turned to the sky.

Fecteau raised the radio to his lips, wondering just what to tell the warden. One thing was clear: Pocho Lacarra wasn’t likely to be making anybody his bitch, ever again.

31

On a cold March day, eastern Long Island did not much look like the playground of the rich and famous it was supposed to be. At least, that was Smithback’s impression as he cruised past yet another muddy, stubble-strewn potato field, a bedraggled flock of crows wheeling about overhead.

Since his meeting with Hayward, Smithback had tried everything in his journalistic bag of tricks to find out more about Diogenes. He’d written suggestive articles, hinting at imminent breakthroughs and soliciting tips. He’d poked around the museum, asking questions and sifting rumors. Nothing. Pendergast remained in prison on charges of murder. Just as bad, Diogenes remained utterly vanished, free. The image of Pendergast’s brother at large and no doubt hatching some fresh outrage both angered and frightened Smithback.

He wasn’t sure, exactly, when the idea had come to him. But come it had . . . and now he was driving eastward on the island, heading for a house that he hoped—rather fervently hoped—was unoccupied.

Chances were, he’d find nothing. After all, what could he find that the police hadn’t? But it was the only thing still left for him to do.

“In five hundred feet, turn right on Springs Road,” spoke a mellifluous female voice from the dashboard.

“Thanks, Lavinia darling,” Smithback said with a jauntiness he didn’t feel.

“Turn right on Springs Road.”

Smithback complied, swinging onto a cracked macadam road sandwiched between more potato fields, shuttered beach houses, and bare-limbed trees. Beyond lay a marsh of dead cattails and sawgrass. He passed a faded wooden sign in a picturesque state of dilapidation. Welcome to the Springs, it told him. This was an unpretentious corner of eastern Long Island, only faintly perfumed with the odor of quiet money.

“The town, my dear Lavinia, is small and unremarkable, but not wholly without atmosphere,” said Smithback. “Wish you could see it.”

“In five hundred feet, turn right on Glover’s Box Road.”

“Very well.”

“Turn right on Glover’s Box Road,” came the smooth response.

“With a voice like that, you could make a fortune in the phone sex business, you know that?” Smithback was glad Lavinia was only a voice in his dashboard. The GPS navigation system couldn’t know just how nervous he felt.

He now found himself on a broad sandy spit of land, beach houses on either side among scraggly pines, cattail marshes, and scrub. A gray sheet of water lay to his left: Gardiners Bay. On his right was a bedraggled harbor, shut up for the winter, the yachts gone into tender.

“In three hundred feet, you will arrive at your destination.”

Smithback slowed. Ahead, he could see a sandy driveway leading through a sparse scattering of oaks to end at a gray, shingled house. Police sawhorses had been placed across the driveway, but there was no sign of a police presence. The house was shut up and dark.

The road curved past a few more houses, then ended in a loop where the spit came to an end. A sign to one side announced a public beach. Smithback pulled the car onto the side of the loop—he was the only one there—and stepped out, inhaling the fresh cold air. He zipped his jacket against the damp wind, shrugged his arms into a backpack, picked up a rock from the ground, placed it in his pocket, and strolled out onto the beach. The small waves slopped and hissed up the strand in a regular cadence. Strolling along, he picked up a few shells, tossed them back again, scuffed his sneakers along the sand, all the time making his way down the beach.

The houses stood just beyond the beginning of the sawgrass and dunes: gray shingles and white trim, silent and boarded up for the winter. The house he wanted was easy to identify: pieces of yellow crime scene tape still fluttered from stakes driven into the unkempt yard. It was a large house from the twenties, weather-beaten, with pitched roofs, a deep sea-facing porch, and two gables. Smithback continued past the house, but still there was no sign of any official presence. Still kicking sand nonchalantly, he strolled up through the dunes and sawgrass, hopped over a split rail fence, ducked under the police tape, and scooted across the yard into the lee of the house.

He pressed himself against the wall, hidden from sight behind a half-dead yew, and slipped on a pair of leather gloves. The house would be locked, of course. He edged around until he came to a side door, then peered inside. He made out a tidy, old-fashioned kitchen, devoid of the usual utensils.

Smithback removed the rock from his pocket, along with a handkerchief. He wrapped the handkerchief around the rock, gave the window a smart rap.

Nothing happened. He struck harder, this time making a fairly audible thump, but still it did not break.

He took a closer look at the glass and noticed something unusual: it was thick and blue-green in color, and the light dividers were of painted metal, not wood.

Bulletproof glass?

Somehow, Smithback wasn’t surprised. Diogenes would have retrofitted the house to be impregnable from the outside as well as escape-proof from the inside.

He paused, hoping he hadn’t just wasted a three-hour drive. Certainly Diogenes would have thought of everything—how could he have forgotten that? There was no point in probing for weaknesses: there would be none.

On the other hand, the police might have left a door open.

Keeping hidden in the shrubbery, he crept around to the front porch. The door had crime scene tape stretched across it. He hopped onto the porch, glanced up and down the road, then turned to examine the door. This was how the cops had broken in—the door frame had been bent by crowbars and the door itself was bowed, the lock shattered. It appeared as if a remarkable amount of force had been necessary. Having destroyed the door lock, the police had affixed a padlock of their own, and this Smithback examined carefully. It was of case-hardened steel, too thick to cut with bolt cutters; but the fasteners had been screwed into fresh holes drilled in the metal door.

Smithback dipped into the leather backpack and pulled out a Phillips-head screwdriver. In five minutes, he had unscrewed one side. He pulled the fastener back and eased open the badly warped metal door. In a moment, he was inside, the door shut behind him.

He paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together. It was warm in the house—the heat was still on. He was standing in a typical beach-house living room, with comfortable wicker furniture, braided and hooked rugs scattered about the floor, a gaming table set for chess, a grand piano in one corner, and a huge fireplace built from beach stones in the far wall. The light in the house was a curious green from the thick-glassed windows.

What was he looking for? He wasn’t sure. Some clue to where Diogenes might be, perhaps, or under what other identity or identities he might be hiding. He had a moment’s feeling of dismay, wondering how he could possibly find something that the police had missed or that—even more improbably—Diogenes himself had overlooked. Of course, the man had left in a hurry, leaving behind a slew of equipment and material, enough for the police to positively identify him as the museum diamond thief. Even so, he had proved himself to be not only exceptionally intelligent but also exceptionally careful. Diogenes wasn’t the type to make mistakes.

Walking noiselessly, Smithback moved through an archway into a dining room beautifully paneled in oak, with a heavy table and Chippendale chairs. Paintings and prints hung on the dark red walls. A door in the far wall led to the tiny kitchen, also spotless. The police would not have cleaned the house: he figured this was the way Diogenes habitually kept it.

Back in the living room, Smithback wandered to the piano, hit a few keys. It was beautifully in tune, the hammers working smoothly.

Okay, that was one thing: Diogenes played the piano.

He looked at the music open on the stand: Schubert’s Impromptus, opus 90. Under that, sheet music for Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” a book of Chopin’s nocturnes. A relatively accomplished pianist at that, but probably not at the concert level.

Next to the piano was another archway, leading into the library. This room was unaccountably disordered. Books lay on the floor, some open, with gaps on the shelves. The rug was rumpled and turned up at one end, and a table lamp lay broken on the floor. A large table dominated the middle of the space, covered with black velvet; above stood a row of bright spotlights.

In one corner, Smithback saw something that sent a shiver down his spine: a large, finely machined, stainless-steel anvil. Next to it lay some rumpled rags and a strange kind of hammer made out of a gray, gleaming metal—titanium, perhaps?

Smithback backed out of the library, turned, and ascended the wooden stairs. At the top was a landing with a long hall, paintings of seascapes on both walls. A small, stuffed capuchin monkey crouched on a table, next to a glass dome under which stood a fake tree festooned with butterflies.

The doors to the rooms were all open.

Walking into the room directly at the top of the stairs, Smithback realized it must have been the one where Viola Maskelene was held prisoner. The bed was in disarray, there was a broken glass on the floor, and someone had scraped off the wallpaper on one wall, revealing metal underneath.

Metal. Smithback went over and carefully peeled off some more wallpaper. The walls were made of solid steel.

He shivered again, feeling a creeping sensation of alarm. The window was of the same thick blue-green glass as downstairs, and was barred. The door, which he examined next, was extremely heavy, also of steel, and it moved noiselessly on oversize hinges. He peered at the lock—superheavy machined brass and stainless steel.

Smithback’s feeling of nervousness increased. What if Diogenes came back? But of course he wouldn’t come back—that would be crazy. Unless there was something in the house he had forgotten . . .

He made a quick tour of the other bedrooms. On a hunch, he took his screwdriver and poked the wall of another room. It, too, was steel.

Did Diogenes plan to imprison more than one person? Or was the whole house fortified like this as a matter of course?

He skipped downstairs, heart pounding in his chest. The whole place was giving him the creeps. The day had proved a total waste: he’d come out there without a real plan, without looking for anything specific. He wondered if he should take notes—but of what? Maybe he should just forget it and go visit Margo Green. He was already out of the city. But that would be an equally useless journey—she had taken an abrupt turn for the worse, he understood, and was now comatose and unresponsive . . .

Suddenly he froze. Soft footsteps were moving across the porch.

With a sudden feeling of terror, he ducked into the coat closet at the bottom of the stairs. He pushed his way toward the back, nestling himself behind the row of cashmere, camel’s-hair, and tweed coats. He could hear the rattle of the door, and then the groan as it slowly opened.

Diogenes?

The closet was thick with the smell of wool. He could hardly breathe from fear.

Footsteps moved quietly across the carpeted entry and into the living room, then stopped. Silence.

Smithback waited.

Next, the footsteps moved into the dining room, then faded away into the kitchen.

Should he run for it?

But even before he could consider, the steps returned: slow, soft, deliberate steps. Now they moved toward the library, back out, and up the stairs.

Now. Smithback flitted out of the closet, scurried across the living room, and dashed out the open door. As he rounded the corner of the porch, he saw that a cop car was standing in the driveway, engine running, door open.

He skipped through the backyard of the house next door and ran down onto the beach, almost laughing with relief. What he had assumed was Diogenes was only a cop, coming to check on the place.

He got back in his car and spent a moment recovering his breath. A wasted day. But at least he’d exited the house in one piece.

He started the car, turned on the navigator.

“Where would you like to go?” came the smooth, sexy voice. “Please enter the address.”

Smithback punched up the menu and chose the “Office” option. He knew his way back, but he liked listening to Lavinia.

“We are going to the location called Office,” came the voice. “Proceed north on Glover’s Box Road.”

“Righty-o, darling.”

He drove slowly and nonchalantly past the house. The cop was now outside, standing next to his cruiser with a mike in his hand. He watched Smithback drive by but made no move to stop him.

“In five hundred feet, turn left on Springs Road.”

Smithback nodded. He raised a hand to brush away a wisp of tweed wool from his face. As he did so, he stiffened with an almost electric shock.

“That’s it, Lavinia!” he cried. “The coats in the closet!”

“Turn left on Springs Road.”

“There were two kinds of coats! Super-expensive cashmere and mohair, and then a bunch of heavy, hairy, itchy tweed coats. Do you know of anyone who wears both? Hell, no!”

“Proceed for one mile on Springs Road.”

“Diogenes is the cashmere-and-mohair type, for sure. That means his alter ego wears tweeds. He’s disguised as a professorial type. It’s perfect, Lavinia, it feels right. He’s a professor. No, wait! Not a professor, not exactly. After all, he knows the museum so well . . . The police are saying the diamond heist had to have had inside help—but can you imagine Diogenes enlisting help? Hell, it’s staring us right in the face. Holy shit, Lavinia: we nailed it! I nailed it!”

“In five hundred feet, take a left on the Old Stone Highway,” came the placid response.

32

What repelled Hayward most about the Bellevue psych ward wasn’t the dingy, tiled corridors, or the locked steel doors, or the mingled smell of disinfectant, vomit, and excrement. It was the sounds. They came from everywhere—a cacophony of mutterings, shrill outbursts, monotonic repetitions, glottal explosions, whining, soft high-speed babblings: a symphony of misery, now and then punctuated by a cry so hideous, so full of despair, that it wrenched her heart.

Meanwhile, Dr. Goshar Singh walked beside her, speaking in a calm, rational voice as if he heard nothing—and maybe, she thought, he didn’t. If he did, he would no longer be sane himself. It was that simple.

Hayward tried to focus on the doctor’s words. “In all my years of clinical psychiatry,” he was saying, “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. We’re trying to get a handle on it. We’ve made some progress, although not yet as much as I’d like.”

“It seems to have happened so suddenly.”

“The sudden onset is a puzzling feature, indeed. Ah, yes, Captain Hayward: here we are.”

Singh unlocked a door and held it open, ushering Hayward into an almost bare room, divided in half by a long counter, a thick plate-glass window above separating it from the other half—exactly like a visitors’ room at a prison. An intercom was set into the glass.

“Dr. Singh,” said Hayward, “I requested a face-to-face meeting.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Singh replied almost sadly.

“I’m afraid it will be possible. I can’t question a suspect under these conditions.”

Again, Singh shook his head sadly, his plump cheeks wagging. “No, no, we’re in charge here, Captain. And I think when you see the patient, you’ll realize that it wouldn’t make a difference, no difference at all.”

Captain Hayward said nothing. Now was not the time to fight with the doctors. She would evaluate the situation and, if necessary, return under her own conditions.

“If you would care to have a seat?” Singh asked solicitously.

Hayward seated herself at the counter and the doctor settled into the seat beside her. He glanced at his watch.

“The patient will be out in five minutes.”

“What kind of preliminary results do you have?”

“As I say, it is a most puzzling case. Most puzzling indeed.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“The preliminary EEG showed significant focal temporal abnormalities, and an MRI revealed a series of small lesions to the frontal cortex. It is these lesions that seem to have triggered severe cognitive defects and psychopathology.”

“Can you translate that into English?”

“The patient seems to have suffered severe damage to the part of the brain that controls behavior, emotions, and planning. The damage is most pronounced in an area of the brain we psychiatrists sometimes call the Higginbottom region.”

“Higginbottom?”

Singh smiled at what was evidently an inside psychiatric joke. “Eugenie Higginbottom worked on an assembly line in a ball-bearing factory in Linden, New Jersey. One day in 1913, there was a boiler explosion in the factory. Blew apart the stamper. It was as if a huge shotgun shell had gone off: ball bearings flew everywhere. Six people were killed. Eugenie Higginbottom miraculously survived: but with some two dozen ball bearings embedded in the frontal cortex of her brain.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the poor woman suffered a complete personality change. She was instantly transformed from a kind, gentle person to a foulmouthed slattern, given to outbursts of profanity and violence, a drunkard, and, ah, sexually promiscuous. Her friends were astounded. It underscored the medical theory that personality is hardwired in the brain and that damage can literally transform one person into another. The ball bearings, you see, destroyed Higginbottom’s ventromedial frontal cortex—the same area that is affected in our patient.”

“But there are no ball bearings in this man’s brain,” Hayward said. “What could have caused it?”

“This is the crux of the matter. Initially, I hypothesized a drug overdose, but no drug residues were found in his system.”

“A blow to the head? A fall?”

“No. No evidence of coup/contrecoup, no edema or bruising. We’ve also ruled out a stroke: the damage was simultaneous in several widely separated areas. The only possible explanation I can come up with is an electrical shock administered directly to the brain. If only we had a dead body—an autopsy would show so much more.”

“Wouldn’t a shock leave burn marks?”

“Not a low-voltage, high-amperage shock—such as one generated by electronic or computer equipment. But there’s no damage anywhere but to the brain. It’s hard to see how such a shock might have occurred, unless our patient was performing some kind of bizarre experiment on himself.”

“The man was a computer technician installing an exhibit at the museum.”

“So I’ve heard.”

An intercom chimed, and a voice sounded softly. “Dr. Singh? The patient is arriving.”

Beyond the glass window, a door opened, and a moment later Jay Lipper was wheeled in. He sat in a wheelchair, restrained. He was making slow circles with his head, and his lips were moving, but no sound came out.

His face was shocking. It was as if it had caved in, the skin gray and slack and hanging in leathery folds, the eyes jittery and unfocused, the tongue hanging out, as long and pink and wet as that of an overheated retriever.

“Oh my God . . . ,” Hayward said involuntarily.

“He’s heavily sedated, for his own safety. We’re still trying to adjust the meds, find the right combination.”

“Right.” Hayward looked at her notes. Then she leaned forward, pressed the talk switch on the intercom. “Jay Lipper?”

The head continued its slow orbit.

“Jay? Can you hear me?”

Was there a hesitation there? Hayward leaned forward, speaking softly into the intercom.

“Jay? My name is Laura Hayward. I’m here to help you. I’m your friend.”

More slow rolling.

“Can you tell me what happened at the museum, Jay?”

The rolling continued. A long gobbet of saliva, which had gathered on the tip of his tongue, dripped to the floor in a foamy thread.

Hayward leaned back and looked toward the doctor. “Have his parents been in?”

Singh bowed. “Yes, they were here. And a very painful scene it was.”

“Did he respond?”

“That was the only time he’s responded, and then only briefly. He emerged from his inner world for less than two seconds.”

“What did he say?”

“‘This isn’t me.’”

“‘This isn’t me?’ Any idea what he meant by that?”

“Well . . . I imagine he retains some faint recollection of who he was, along with a vague realization of what he’s become.”

“And then?”

Singh seemed embarrassed. “He became suddenly violent. He said he was going to kill them both and . . . rip out their guts. He had to be further sedated.”

Hayward glanced at him a moment longer. Then, thoughtfully, she turned back toward Lipper, still rolling his head, his glassy eyes a million miles away.

33

He got into a fight with Carlos Lacarra,” Imhof told Special Agent Coffey as they strode down the long, echoing corridors of Herkmoor. “Lacarra’s friends weighed in, and by the time the guards broke it up, a certain amount of damage had been done.”

Coffey listened to the public recitation of events with Rabiner at his side. Two prison guards walking behind completed the entourage. They rounded a corner and continued down another long corridor.

“What kind of damage?”

“Lacarra’s dead,” said the warden. “Broken neck. Don’t know what happened, exactly—not yet. None of the prisoners are talking.”

Coffey nodded.

“Your prisoner got pretty banged up—mild concussion, contusions, bruised kidney, a couple of cracked ribs, and a shallow puncture wound.”

“Puncture wound?”

“Seems somebody shanked him. That was the only weapon recovered at the scene of the fight. All in all, he’s lucky to be alive.” Imhof coughed delicately and added, “He certainly didn’t look like a fighter.”

“And my man is back in his cell, as per my orders?”

“Yes. The doctor wasn’t happy.”

They cleared a security gate, and Imhof keyed an elevator for them. “At any rate,” he said, “I expect he’ll be a lot more amenable to questioning now.”

“You didn’t sedate him, did you?” Coffey asked as the elevator chimed open.

“We don’t habitually dispense sedatives here at Herkmoor—potential for abuse and all that.”

“Good. We don’t want to waste our time with a nodding vegetable.”

The elevator rose to the third floor, opening onto a pair of steel doors. Imhof swiped a card and punched in a code and they slid back, revealing a cinder-block corridor, painted stark white, with white doors on either side. Each door had a tiny square window and a foot slot.

“Herkmoor Solitary,” Imhof said. “He’s in cell 44. Normally, I’d escort him to a visiting room, but in this case he’s not exactly mobile.”

“I’d rather speak to him in his cell, anyway. With the guards on hand . . . in case he should become aggressive.”

“Not much chance of that.” Imhof leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, Agent Coffey, but I would imagine that any suggestion that he might be put back in yard 4 for exercise would get him talking a mile a minute.”

Coffey nodded.

They approached the cell door and one of the guards gave it several whacks with his riot stick. “Make yourself pretty, you got a visitor!”

Whang, whang! went the nightstick against the door. The guard removed his weapon and stood aside while the other unlocked the door and glanced in. “All clear,” he said.

The first guard holstered his weapon and stepped inside.

“How much time do you need?” Imhof asked.

“An hour should do it. I’ll have the guard call you when we’re done.”

Coffey waited until Imhof was gone, then he stepped into the small immaculate cell, followed by Rabiner. The second guard closed the door from the outside and locked it, preparing to stand watch.

The prisoner lay on the narrow bed, propped up on a thin pillow, dressed in a fresh jumpsuit so orange it almost glowed. Coffey was shocked by his appearance—head bandaged, one eye swollen shut and the other dark, the entire face a palette of black, blue, and green. Behind the puffy slit in the prisoner’s good eye, Coffey could see the glitter of silver.

“Agent Coffey?” the guard asked. “Do you want a chair?”

“No, I’ll stand.” He turned to Rabiner. “Ready?”

Rabiner had removed a microcassette recorder. “Yes, sir.”

Coffey folded his arms and looked down at the battered and bandaged prisoner. He grinned. “What happened to you? Try to kiss the wrong guy?”

No answer, but then, Coffey expected none.

“Let’s get down to business.” He took out a sheet of paper with his notations. “Roll the tape. This is Special Agent Spencer Coffey, in prison cell number C3-44 at Herkmoor Federal Correctional and Holding Facility, interviewing the prisoner identified as A. X. L. Pendergast. The date is March 20.”

A silence.

“Can you talk?”

To Coffey’s surprise, the man said, “Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper and a little thick on account of his puffy lips.

Coffey smiled. This was a promising beginning. “I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.”

“Likewise.”

It seemed the softening up had worked even better than he had anticipated.

“All right, then. I’m going to return to my previous line of questioning. This time I expect a response. As I’ve already explained, the evidence puts you in Decker’s house at the time of the killing. It provides means, motive, and opportunity, and a direct link between you and the murder weapon.”

The prisoner said nothing, so Coffey continued.

“Point one: the forensic team recovered half a dozen long black fibers at the crime scene, which we found came from a highly unusual cashmere/merino blended Italian fabric made in the 1950s. An analysis of the suits in your wardrobe indicate that all of them were made from the same fabric, even the very same bolt of cloth.

“Point two: at the scene of the crime, we found three hairs, one with root. A PCR analysis proved it matched your DNA to a probability of error of one in sixteen billion.

“Point three: a witness, a neighbor of Decker’s, observed a pale-complected individual in a black suit entering Decker’s house ninety minutes before the murder. In no less than three photo lineups, he positively and categorically identified you as that person. As a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, he is about as unimpeachable a witness as you could find.”

If the prisoner sneered momentarily, it happened so fast that Coffey wasn’t sure he had seen it at all. He took a moment to read the man’s face, but it was impossible to discern any kind of emotion in a face so swollen and bandage-covered. All he could really see of the man was the silver glitter behind the slitted eye. It made him uneasy.

“You’re an FBI agent. You know the ropes.” He shook the piece of paper at Pendergast. “You’re going to be convicted. If you want to avoid the needle, you’d better start cooperating, and cooperating now.”

He stood there, breathing hard, staring at the bandaged prisoner.

The prisoner gazed back. After a moment, he spoke.

“I congratulate you,” he said. His slurred voice sounded submissive, even obsequious.

“May I make a suggestion, Pendergast? Confess and throw yourself at the mercy of the court. It’s your only option—and you know it. Confess, and save us the shame of seeing one of our own dragged through a public trial. Confess, and we’ll get you transferred out of yard 4.”

Another brief silence.

“Would you consider a plea bargain?” Pendergast asked.

Coffey grinned, feeling a flush of triumph. “With evidence like this? Not a chance. Your only hope, Pendergast—and I repeat—is to store up a bit of goodwill with a nice, round confession. It’s now or never.”

Pendergast seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he stirred on the cot. “Very well,” he said.

Coffey broke into a smile.

“Spencer Coffey,” Pendergast went on, honeyed voice dripping with obsequiousness, “I have watched your progress in the Bureau for almost ten years, and I confess I’ve been amazed by it.”

He paused to breathe in.

“I knew from the beginning you were a special, even unique individual. You—what is the term?—nailed me.”

Coffey felt his smile broaden. This was good; this was the moment of humiliation against a hated rival that most people only dreamed about.

“Remarkable work, Spencer. May I call you Spencer? Peerless, I might even say.”

Coffey waited for the confession he was now certain was coming. The poor bastard thought flattering him would gain some sympathy. That’s what they all did: Oh, you’re so clever to have caught me. He gestured behind his back for Rabiner to move closer with the recorder, not to miss a word. The beauty of it was, Pendergast was only digging his own grave deeper. There would be no mercy, even with a confession: not for the man responsible for murdering a top FBI agent. A confession would shave ten years off his death-penalty appeals—that was all.

“I’ve been lucky enough to witness some of your work in person. For example, your performance during that harrowing night of the museum massacre many years ago, manning the mobile command station. That was truly unforgettable.”

Coffey felt a stirring of unease. He didn’t remember much from that awful night—to be truthful, it hadn’t been his best moment. But then, maybe he was just being too hard on himself, as usual.

“I remember that night vividly,” Pendergast went on. “You were in the thick of it, nerves of steel, barking orders.”

Coffey shifted. He wished the man would get on with the confession. This was getting a bit maudlin. Pathetic how quickly the man had been reduced to groveling.

“I felt bad about what happened afterward. You didn’t deserve that reassignment to Waco. It wasn’t fair. And then, when you mistook that teenager carrying home a prize catfish for a Branch Davidian terrorist with an RPG—well, that could have happened to anybody. Luckily, your first shot missed and your partner was able to tackle you before you squeezed off a second—although perhaps the teenager was in little danger, since I understand you came in dead last in your Firearms Training Unit at the Academy.”

The segue had happened so smoothly, Pendergast’s tone of voice never varying from its whining submissiveness, that it took Coffey a moment to realize the effusive praise had morphed into something else. The stifled snicker of the guard stung him to the quick.

“I happened upon a Bureau study of the Waco field office while it was under your benevolent leadership. It seems your office enjoyed being at the top of several lists. For example, the smallest number of cases successfully closed for three years running. The largest number of agents requesting transfers. The most internal investigations for incompetence or ethics violations. One could argue that your being transferred back to New York could not have come at a more convenient time. So nice to have an ex-U.S. senator for a father-in-law, Spencer, is it not?”

Coffey turned to Rabiner and said, as calmly as possible, “Turn it off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pendergast didn’t pause, although his voice changed in tone to cool sarcasm. “How’s the PTSD treatment coming, by the way? I understand they’ve got a new approach that works wonders.”

Coffey gestured to the guard and said, with an effort at detachment, “I can see that further questioning of the prisoner is pointless. Open the door, please.”

Even as the guard outside fumbled with the door, Pendergast continued speaking.

“On another note, knowing your love of great literature, I recommend to you Shakespeare’s marvelous comedy Much Ado About Nothing. Particularly the character of Constable Dogberry. You could learn much from him, Spencer. Much.”

The cell door opened. Coffey glanced at the two guards, their expressions studiously neutral. Then, straightening his back, he proceeded down the corridor toward the solitary confinement security doors, Rabiner and the guards following in silence.

It took almost ten minutes of walking through endless corridors to reach Imhof’s office, located in a sunny corner of the administrative building. By that time, some of the color had returned to Coffey’s face.

“Wait outside,” he told Rabiner, then marched stiffly past the obnoxious secretary, entered Imhof’s office, and shut the door.

“How did it—?” Imhof began, but fell silent when he saw Coffey’s face.

“Put him back in yard 4,” Coffey said. “Tomorrow.”

Surprise blossomed on the warden’s face. “Agent Coffey, when I mentioned that earlier, it was suggested merely as a threat. If you put him back there, they’ll kill him.”

“Social conflicts among prisoners are their business, not ours. You assigned this prisoner to exercise in yard 4, and yard 4 is where he will stay. To move him now would be to let him win.”

Imhof began to speak, but Coffey cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Listen to me well, Imhof. I’m giving you a direct, official demand. The prisoner stays in yard 4. The FBI will take full responsibility.”

There was a silence.

“I’ll need that in writing,” said Imhof at last.

Coffey nodded. “Just tell me where to sign.”

34

Dr. Adrian Wicherly walked through the deserted Egyptian gallery, feeling a certain smug satisfaction at the special assignment Menzies had charged him with—him, and not Nora Kelly. He flushed at the thought of the way she had led him on and then humiliated him; he had heard that American women liked to burst one’s bollocks, and now he’d had a taste of it, good and proper. The woman was as common as muck.

Well, he would be back in London soon enough, his C.V. nicely buffed up from this plum little assignment. His thoughts strayed to all the young, eager docents who volunteered at the British Museum—they had already proved to be delightfully flexible in their thinking. A pox on American women and their hypocritical puritanical moralism.

On top of that, Nora Kelly was bossy. Although he was the Egyptologist, she had never relinquished the riding crop; she had always remained firmly in charge. Although he had been hired to write the script for the sound-and-light extravaganza, she had insisted on proofreading it, making changes, and in general making a bloody nuisance of herself. What was she doing working in a big museum, anyway, when she really should be tucked away in some semidetached house in the suburbs with a pack of squalling brats? Who was this husband she was allegedly so loyal to? Maybe the problem was she was rogering someone on the side already. Yes, that was probably it . . .

Wicherly arrived at the annex and paused. It was very late—Menzies had been quite insistent on the time—and the museum was almost unnaturally silent. He listened to that silence. There were some sounds—but what, exactly, he couldn’t say. A faint sighing somewhere of . . . what? Forced-air ducts? And then a slow, methodical ticking: tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . every two or three seconds, like a moribund clock. There were also faint thumps and groans, which could be ducts or something to do with the museum’s mechanical systems.

Wicherly smoothed down his thatch of hair, glancing around nervously. They had caught the killer the day before and there was nothing to worry about. Nothing. Strange, though, what had happened to Lipper . . . typical smart-arsed New Yorker, one wouldn’t have thought he would snap like that. Well, they were all a little tense. These Americans worked themselves half to death—he couldn’t believe the hours they worked. Back at the British Museum, such demands would be looked on as downright uncivilized, if not illegal. Look at him now, for example: three o’clock in the bloody morning. Of course, given the nature of Menzies’s assignment, it was understandable.

Wicherly swiped his card through the reader attached to the wall, punched in his code, and the gleaming new stainless-steel doors to the Tomb of Senef opened with a whisper of well-machined metal. The tomb exhaled the scent of dry stone, epoxy glue, dust, and warm electronics. The lights came up automatically. Nothing had been left to chance; everything was now fully programmed. A backup tech to succeed poor Lipper had already reported for duty, but so far had proved superfluous. The grand opening was only five days away, and although the tomb’s collections were only partially installed, the lighting, electronics, and the sound-and-light show were ready to go.

Still, Wicherly hesitated. His eye strayed down the long, sloping staircase to the corridor beyond. He felt a small tingle of apprehension. Trying to shake it off, he stepped inside and walked down the stairs, his oxfords making a chuff-chuff sound on the worn stones.

At the first door, he paused, almost against his will, glance arrested by the great Eye of Horus and the hieroglyphs below. To any who cross this threshold, may Ammut swallow his heart. It was a standard enough curse; he had entered a hundred tombs under a similar threat, and never once had it put the wind up him. But the image of Ammut on the far wall was unusually hideous. And then, there was the strange, dark history of the tomb, not to mention the business with Lipper . . .

The ancient Egyptians believed in the magical powers of the incantations and images written on tomb walls, especially in the Book of the Dead. These were not mere decoration: they had a power against which the living were helpless. In studying Egypt for so long, in learning to read hieroglyphics fluently, in immersing himself in their ancient beliefs, Wicherly had come to half believe them himself. Of course, they were all rubbish, but at one level he understood them so thoroughly they almost seemed real.

And never had they seemed more real than at that moment: especially the squatting, grotesque form of Ammut, its slavering crocodile jaws open and glistening, the scaly head morphing into a leopard’s spotted body, which in turn segued into the hindquarters of a hippo. Those hindquarters were the most vile of all: a bloated, slimy, misshapen fundament spreading over the ground. All three animals, Wicherly knew, were common killers of people during the time of the pharaohs, and greatly feared. A monstrous amalgamation of all three was the worst creature the ancient Egyptians could imagine.

Shaking his head and forcing a rueful chuckle, Wicherly walked on. He was letting himself get spooked by his own erudition, by all the ridiculous talk and silly rumors circulating through the museum. After all, this was not some tomb lost in the wastes of the Upper Nile: one of the biggest, most modern cities in the world was sitting right on top of him. Even as he stood there, he heard the distant, muffled rumble of a late-night subway. It annoyed him: despite all their efforts, they had been unable to block out totally the sound of the Central Park West subway.

He crossed the well and glanced up at the dense script from the Book of the Dead, his eye arrested by the odd inscription that he had so cavalierly dismissed during his first visit:

The place which is sealed. That which lieth down in the closed place is reborn by the Ba-soul which is in it; that which walketh in the closed space is dispossessed of the Ba-soul. By the Eye of Horus I am delivered or damned, O great god Osiris.

Like many inscriptions from the Book of the Dead, it was well-nigh opaque. But as he read it a second time, a glimmer of understanding came to him. The ancients believed people had five distinct souls. The Ba-soul was the ineffable power and personality each person possessed: this soul flew back and forth between the tomb and the underworld, and it was the means by which the deceased kept in touch with the underworld. But the Ba-soul had to reunite with the mummified corpse every night, or the deceased would die again: this time permanently.

The passage, it seemed to Wicherly, implied that those who invaded the place which was sealed—the tomb—would be deprived of their Ba-soul and thus damned by the Eye of Horus. In ancient Egypt, the insane were considered to be people who had somehow lost their Ba-soul. In other words, those who defiled the tomb would be driven insane.

Wicherly shivered. Isn’t that just what had happened to that poor bugger Lipper?

Suddenly he found himself laughing out loud, his voice echoing unpleasantly in the close confines of the tomb. What was the matter with him? He was becoming as superstitious as a bloody Irishman. He gave his head another, more vigorous shake and proceeded into the inner tomb. He had work to do. He had a special errand to run for Dr. Menzies.

35

Nora unlocked her office door, laid her laptop and mail on the desk, then shrugged out of her coat and hung it up. It was a cold, sunny late-March morning, and yellow light streamed in the window, making an almost horizontal bar of gold light, raking the spines of the books crowding the shelves along the opposite wall.

Four more days until the opening, she thought with satisfaction, and then she could get back to her potsherds—and her husband, Bill. Because of her long hours at the museum, their lovemaking had been so scarce of late he’d even stopped bothering to complain. Four more days. It had been a long, stressful haul—and bizarre even by museum standards—but it was almost over. And who knew? The opening might actually be fun. She’d be taking Bill, and she knew how much he liked a good gorge—and the museum, for all its shortcomings, knew how to throw a party.

She settled at her desk and had just begun slitting open the letters when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” she said, wondering who else would be in so early—it was barely eight o’clock.

The avuncular form of Menzies appeared in the doorway, his blue eyes worried, his brow furrowed with concern.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing at the guest chair.

“Please.”

He came in and sat down, folding one leg over the other and tugging at the crease in his herringbone slacks. “You haven’t seen Adrian, have you?”

“No. But it’s very early, he probably isn’t in yet.”

“That’s just the thing. He did come in: at three this morning. Checked in through security and accessed the tomb, according to the electronic security logs. Then he left the tomb at three-thirty, locked it up tight. Strange thing is, he didn’t leave the museum—he hasn’t checked out. Security shows him as still on the premises, but he’s not in his office or lab. In fact, I can’t find him anywhere. I thought perhaps he might have said something to you.”

“No, nothing. Do you know why he came in at three?”

“He might have wanted to get a head start on the day: as you know, we have to start moving in the final artifacts at nine. I’ve got the carpenters, the Exhibition Department, and the conservation staff all mobilized. But no Adrian. I can’t believe he would just vanish like this.”

“He’ll show up. He’s always been reliable.”

“I should hope so.”

“I should hope so, too,” came another voice.

Nora glanced up, startled. Wicherly stood in the doorway, looking at her.

Menzies seemed startled himself and then smiled with relief. “There you are! I was starting to get worried.”

“No need to worry about me.”

Menzies rose. “Well then, much ado about nothing. Adrian, I’d like to have a chat with you in my office about the artifact placements. We have a big day ahead of us.”

“Mind if I have a word with Nora first? I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Fine.” Menzies left and shut the door behind him.

Wicherly sat himself down, uninvited, in the wing chair Menzies had just vacated. Nora felt a twitch of annoyance. She hoped he wasn’t going to repeat his asinine behavior of the previous week.

When he spoke again, his voice was laced with sarcasm. “Worrying that I might try to slip something unwelcome into your knickers?”

“Adrian, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a busy day ahead of me, and so do you. Give it a rest.”

“Not after your abominable behavior.”

“My behavior?” Nora took a breath: this was not the time to get into it. “The door is over there. Please use it.”

“Not until we settle this thing.”

Nora looked at Wicherly more closely, feeling a twinge of alarm. She was suddenly struck by how tired he looked—wiped out, even. His face was white; gray pouches had formed under his blue eyes; and his hair was damp and disordered. Most surprising of all, his suit and tie, always immaculate, looked untidy, even disheveled. Beads of sweat stood on his brow.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine!” But as he spoke, one side of his face suddenly contracted in a grotesque twitch.

“Adrian, I honestly think you need a break. You’ve been working too hard.” She kept her voice calm and cool. As soon as he left, she would call Menzies and suggest he order Wicherly home for the day. Much as they needed his expertise—and despite his obnoxious behavior, he’d proved invaluable—they couldn’t afford a crack-up just before the opening.

His face twitched again, a horrible muscular contraction that screwed his handsome features into a brief grimace before allowing them to spring back into normalcy.

“Why did you ask me that, Nora? Don’t I seem all right?”

His voice had risen in volume. She noticed his hands were gripping the arm of the chair so hard that the fingernails were digging into the fabric.

Nora rose from her seat. “You know, with all your hard work, I really think you’ve earned a day off.” She decided she wouldn’t even check with Menzies: she was the curator of the show, and she was going to send him home. Wicherly was in no condition to be supervising the moving of millions of dollars’ worth of artifacts.

Another hideous twitch. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“You’re exhausted, that’s all. I’m giving you the day off. This is not optional, Adrian. I want you to go home and get some rest.”

“Not optional? And since when have you been my boss?”

“Since the day you arrived here. Now, please go home or I’ll be forced to call security.”

“Security? They’re a ruddy joke!”

“Please remove yourself from my office.” And Nora reached for the phone.

But suddenly Wicherly—rising—lunged forward and swept it from the desk to the floor, stomped on the cradle, yanked the wire out the back, and tossed it aside.

Nora froze. Something terrible was happening to Wicherly, something utterly beyond her experience.

“Look, Adrian,” she said calmly. “Let’s just cool down here.” She stood up, then began edging along the desk.

“You bloody tart,” he said in a low, menacing tone.

Nora could see his fingers twitching now, contracting a little more with each twitch until they formed a spastically clutching fist. She could almost smell the air of violence gathering around him. She came around the desk, not fast, but with slow determination.

“I’m leaving,” she said as firmly as she could. At the same time, she braced for a fight. If he came at her, she’d go straight for his eyes.

“The fuck you are.” Wicherly stepped across her path while at the same time reaching behind his back and turning the lock in the door.

“Get away from me now!”

He stood his ground, eyes bloodshot, pupils like tiny black bullets. She struggled against a rising panic. What would work: calm persuasion or stern command? She could smell his sweat, almost as strong as urine. His face had screwed itself up again in a series of spastic jerks, his right fist clenching and unclenching. He looked exactly as if he’d been possessed by demonic forces.

“Adrian, everything’s okay,” she said, working a soothing note into her trembling voice. “You just need help. Let me call for a doctor.”

More twitching, his neck muscles knotting and bulging.

“I think you might be having a seizure of some kind,” she said. “Do you understand, Adrian? You need a doctor immediately. Please let me help you.”

He tried to say something but instead he spluttered, spittle drooling down his chin.

“Adrian, I’m going to step outside now and call you a doctor—”

His right hand jerked up like a shot, striking her hard across the face, but she had been tensing for just such an attack and she managed to sidestep the main force of the blow. She fell backward. “Somebody help me! Guards! Call the guards!”

“Shut up, bitch!” He shuffled forward, dragging one leg, and struck at her again, wildly. She stumbled against the side of her desk, off balance, and he leaped on top of her immediately, slamming her down and sending her laptop crashing to the floor.

“Help! I’m being attacked!”

She stabbed at his eyes with the rigid fingers of her hand, but he swatted her arm away and dealt her a blow across the side of her head, while his other hand grabbed the top of her blouse and ripped downward, scattering buttons.

She screamed again and tried to twist away from his grip, but his free hand came around and wrapped around her neck with shocking force, cutting off the sound. She scrabbled with her legs, trying to find a purchase, but he scissored them in his own.

“So, you think you’re the boss?” He raised his other hand and together they began squeezing her neck harder. She flailed, tore at his hair, pounded his back, but he seemed not even to notice, so fixated was he on the grip of his hands, his sweaty, stinking, twitching face shoved into hers.

“I’ll show you who’s boss around here.”

Nora punched and clawed helplessly, her diaphragm heaving to suck in air that wouldn’t come. Her larynx felt nearly crushed under the awful pressure. He’d blocked the blood flow to her brain and she felt the strength draining away like water from a burst hose; her eyes were suddenly flecked with a million exploding stars, and a spreading stain of darkness began clouding the edges of her vision like ink poured into water.

“How does it feel, bitch?”

She heard sounds in the background, as if from far away; a violent hammering and splintering of wood; and then, from the furthest edge of consciousness, she felt the iron grip of his hands loosen and fall away. She was still swimming in a sea of dimness when she was jolted by a burst of shouting and an incredibly loud bang.

She rolled over, coughing violently and holding her bruised neck . . . and suddenly Menzies was there, cradling her in his arms and calling for a doctor. She felt utter confusion. There seemed to be a terrific commotion beyond the desk, a knot of museum guards, shouting . . . and then she saw a river of blood spreading out across the floor. What had happened?

“I had to do it, he came at me with a knife!” came a desperate voice, edging into her returning consciousness.

“. . . just a letter opener, you idiot!”

“. . . a doctor! Now!”

“. . . tried to strangle her . . .”

The cacophony of loud, panicky voices continued, the shattered phrases sounding in her head as it all began to come back . . . She coughed, trying to block it all out, trying not to think, while Menzies eased her down into the wing chair, whispering all the time: “You’re all right, my dear, everything’s fine, the doctor’s on his way. No, don’t look over there . . . Close your eyes and all will be fine . . . Don’t look, don’t look . . .”

36

Captain Hayward looked down at the huge puddle of blood on the linoleum floor of the office, all smeared about by the frantic and useless efforts of the EMTs trying to restart a heart that had been obliterated by a point-blank 9mm round fired from a Browning Hi. The scene was now being carefully examined, sorted, tagged, and bottled by the forensic teams and a variety of specialized crime scene investigators.

She backed out of the office, leaving it to the experts to make sense of what was clearly a senseless, tragic act. She had another assignment: to speak with the victim before she was taken to the hospital.

She found Nora Kelly waiting in the staff lounge, with her husband, Bill Smithback; the chairman of the Anthropology Department, Hugo Menzies; and several EMTs, police officers, and museum guards. The EMTs were arguing with Kelly about whether she would go to the hospital for a checkup and treatment.

“I want the guards and museum staff out,” said Hayward. “Except Drs. Kelly and Menzies.”

“I’m not going,” said Smithback. “I’m not leaving my wife.”

“You can stay, then,” said Hayward.

One of the EMTs, who had obviously been arguing with Nora for a while, leaned in for one last try. “Listen here, miss, your neck is bruised and you might have a concussion. The effects can be delayed. We’ve got to take you in for tests.”

“Don’t ‘miss’ me. I’m a Ph.D.”

“The paramedic’s right,” Smithback added. “You need to go for at least a quick exam.”

“Quick? I’ll be in the emergency room all day. You know what St. Luke’s is like!”

“Nora, we can get along quite well without you today,” Menzies said. “You’ve had a terrible shock—”

“With all due respect, Hugo, you know as well as I do that with Dr. Wicherly . . . Oh, God, this is terrible!” She choked up for a moment, and Hayward used the opportunity to speak.

“I know this is a bad time, Dr. Kelly, but can I ask you a few questions?”

Nora wiped her eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Can you tell me what happened leading up to the attack?”

Nora took a deep, steadying breath. Then she proceeded to relate the events that had occurred in her office just ten minutes before, as well as the pass Wicherly had made at her a few days before. Hayward listened without interrupting, as did her husband, Smithback, his face darkening with anger.

“Bastard,” he muttered.

Nora waved an impatient hand at him. “Something happened to him today. He wasn’t the same person. It was like he had . . . a seizure of some kind.”

“Why were you in the museum so early?” Hayward asked.

“I had—have—a busy day ahead of me.”

“And Wicherly?”

“I understand he came in at three A.M.”

Hayward was surprised. “What for?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Did he go into the tomb?”

It was Menzies who answered. “Yes, he did. The security log shows he entered the tomb just after three, spent half an hour in there, then left. Where he was between then and the attack, we don’t know. I looked all over for him.”

“I assume you checked his background before you hired him. Did he have a criminal record, a history of aggression?”

Menzies shook his head. “Absolutely nothing like that.”

Hayward looked around and saw to her relief that Visconti had been assigned to the museum that day. She motioned him over.

“I want you to take statements from Dr. Menzies and the guard who shot Wicherly,” she said. “We can get Dr. Kelly’s when she returns from the hospital.”

“No way,” Nora said. “I’m ready to give a statement now.”

Hayward ignored her. “Where’s the M.E.?”

“Went to the hospital with the body.”

“Get him on the radio.”

A moment later, Visconti handed her a radio. Then he led Menzies off to take a statement.

“Doctor?” Hayward spoke into the radio. “I want an autopsy performed as soon as possible. I want you to look for lesions to the temporal lobe of the brain, particularly to the ventromedial frontal cortex . . . No, I’m not a neurosurgeon. I’ll explain later.”

She handed the radio back to Visconti, then cast a firm eye on Nora. “You’re going to the hospital. Now.” She gestured to the EMTs. “Help her to her feet and get moving.”

Then she turned to Smithback. “I want to talk to you privately, in the hall.”

“But I want to go with my wife—”

“We’ll have a police car take you after we speak, sirens, the works. You’ll get there at the same time as the ambulance.”

She exchanged a brief word with Nora, gave her a reassuring pat on her shoulder, and then nodded Smithback into the hall. They found a quiet corner and Hayward faced the journalist.

“We haven’t spoken in a while,” she said. “I was hoping you might have something to share with me.”

At the question, Smithback looked a little uncomfortable. “I published that story we talked about. Two, even. They didn’t shake free any leads—at least none that I heard about.”

Hayward nodded, waiting. Smithback glanced at her, then glanced away. “Every trail I tried turned cold. That’s when I . . . paid a visit to the house.”

“House?”

“You know. His house. The one where he held Viola Maskelene.”

“You snuck in? I didn’t know they’d finished the investigation. When did the crime scene tape come down?”

Now Smithback looked even more uncomfortable. “It wasn’t down.”

“What?” Hayward raised her voice. “You trespassed on an active crime scene?”

“It wasn’t all that active!” Smithback said quickly. “I only saw one cop the whole time I was there!”

“Look, Mr. Smithback, I don’t want to hear any more. I can’t and won’t have you operating extralegally—”

“But it was in the house that I found it.”

Hayward stopped and looked at him.

“Well, it’s nothing I can prove. It’s just a theory, really. At first I really thought it was something, but later on . . . Anyway, that’s why I didn’t call you about it earlier.”

“Out with it.”

“In a coat closet, I found a bunch of Diogenes’s coats.”

Hayward crossed her arms, waiting.

“Three were very expensive cashmere or camel’s-hair, elegant, Italian-designed. Then there were a couple of big, bulky, itchy tweed jackets, also expensive but of a totally different style—you know, stodgy English professor.”

“And?”

“I know this sounds strange, but something about those tweeds—well, they almost seemed like a disguise. Almost as if Diogenes—”

“Has an alter ego,” Hayward said. She realized where this was going, and she was suddenly very interested.

“Right. And what kind of alter ego would wear tweeds? A professor.”

“Or a curator,” Hayward said.

“Exactly. And then it dawned on me he’s probably a curator in the museum. I mean, they’re all saying the diamond heist had to have been an inside job. He didn’t have a partner—maybe he himself was the inside man. I know it sounds a little crazy . . .” His voice trailed off, uncertain.

Hayward looked at him intently. “Actually, I think it’s far from crazy.”

Smithback stopped to glance at her in surprise. “You do?”

“Absolutely. It fits the facts better than any other theory I’ve heard. Diogenes is a curator in this museum.”

“But it just doesn’t make sense. Why would Diogenes steal the diamonds . . . and then pound them into dust and mail them back here?”

“Maybe he has some personal grudge against the museum. We won’t know for sure until we catch him. Good job, Mr. Smithback. There’s just one more thing.”

Smithback’s gaze narrowed. “Let me guess.”

“That’s right. This conversation never took place. And until I say otherwise, these speculations are to go no further. Not even to your wife. And certainly not to the New York Times. Are we clear?”

Smithback sighed, nodded.

“Good. Now I need to track down Manetti. But first, let me get that squad car to take you to the hospital.” She smiled. “You’ve earned it.”

37

In the great paneled office of Frederick Watson Collopy, director of the New York Museum of Natural History, a silence reigned. Everyone had arrived: Beryl Darling, the museum’s general counsel; Josephine Rocco, head of PR; Hugo Menzies. The short list of Collopy’s most trusted staff. They were all seated and looking in his direction, waiting for him to begin.

At last Collopy laid a hand on his leather-topped desk and looked around. “Never in its long history,” he began, “has the museum faced a crisis of these proportions. Never.”

He let that sink in. The silence, the immobility, of his audience held.

“In short order, we have been dealt several blows, any one of which could cripple an institution such as ours. The theft and destruction of the diamond collection. The murder of Theodore DeMeo. The inexplicable attack on Dr. Kelly, and the subsequent killing of the assailant—the very distinguished Dr. Adrian Wicherly of the British Museum—by a trigger-happy guard.”

A pause.

“And in four days, one of the biggest openings in the museum’s history is scheduled. The very opening that was to put the diamond theft behind us. The question I pose to you now is this: how do we respond? Do we postpone the opening? Do we hold a press conference? I’ve gotten calls from twenty trustees so far this morning, and every single one has a different idea. And in ten minutes, I have to face a homicide captain named Hayward who—I have no doubt—will demand that we postpone the opening. It’s up to us four, at this moment, to set a course and stick with it.”

He folded his hands on the desk. “Beryl? Your thoughts?”

Collopy knew that Beryl Darling, the museum’s general counsel, would speak with brutal clarity.

Darling leaned forward, pencil poised in her hand. “The first thing I’d do, Frederick, is disarm every museum guard in the building.”

“Already done.”

Darling nodded with satisfaction. “Next, instead of a press conference—which can spin out of control—I would immediately issue a statement.”

“Saying?”

“It will be an unvarnished recitation of the facts, followed by a mea culpa and an expression of profound sympathy to the families of the victims—DeMeo, Lipper, and Wicherly—”

“Excuse me. Lipper and Wicherly? Victims?”

“The expression of regret will be strictly neutral. The museum doesn’t want to get in the business of throwing stones. Let the police sort out the facts.”

A frosty silence.

“And the opening?” Collopy asked.

“Cancel it. Shut the museum down for two days. And make sure nobody—and I mean nobody—at the museum talks to the press.”

Collopy waited a moment, then turned to Josephine Rocco, head of public relations.

“Your comments?”

“I’m in agreement with Ms. Darling. We’ve got to show the public that it’s not business as usual.”

“Thank you.” Collopy turned to Menzies. “Do you have anything to add, Dr. Menzies?” He was amazed at how cool, collected, and composed Menzies looked. He wished he had the same sangfroid.

Menzies nodded toward Darling and Rocco. “I would like to commend Ms. Darling and Ms. Rocco for their well-considered comments, which under almost any other circumstances would be excellent advice.”

“But you differ?”

“I do. Most decidedly.” Menzies’s blue eyes, so full of calm self-assurance, impressed Collopy.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“I hesitate to contradict my colleagues, whose wisdom and experience in these matters exceeds my own.” Menzies glanced around humbly.

“I’ve asked for your unvarnished opinion.”

“Well, then. Six weeks ago, the diamond collection was stolen and destroyed. Now an outside contractor—not a museum employee—kills a co-worker. Then a museum consultant—a temporary hire, not an employee—assaults one of our top curators and is killed by a guard in the ensuing melee. Now, I ask you: what do these events have in common?” Menzies looked around inquiringly.

No one answered.

“Ms. Darling?” Menzies persisted.

“Well, nothing.”

“Exactly. During the same six-week period, New York City had sixty-one homicides, fifteen hundred assaults, and countless felonies and misdemeanors. Did the mayor shut down the city? No. What did he do instead? He announced the good news: the crime rate is down four percent from the previous year!”

“So,” drawled Darling, “what ‘good news’ would you announce, Dr. Menzies?”

“That despite recent events, the grand opening of the Tomb of Senef is still on schedule and will go off exactly as planned.”

“And just ignore the rest?”

“Of course not. By all means, issue a statement. But be sure to point out that this is New York City and that the museum is a vast place covering twenty-eight acres of Manhattan with two thousand employees and five million visitors a year, and that under these circumstances it’s surprising that more random crimes don’t happen. Be sure to emphasize the latter point: the crimes are not connected, they’re random, and they’ve all been solved. The perpetrators have been caught. A run of bad luck, that’s all.”

He paused. “And there’s one final point to consider.”

“What’s that?” Collopy asked.

“The mayor is coming and plans to give an important speech. It’s possible he might just use the auspicious occasion to announce his bid for re-election.”

Menzies smiled and fell silent, his bright blue eyes surveying the room, challenging them all to respond.

The first to stir was Beryl Darling. She uncrossed her legs, tapped the pencil on the table. “I must say, Dr. Menzies, that’s a rather interesting take on things.”

“I don’t like it,” said Rocco. “We can’t just dismiss all this, sweep it under the rug. We’ll be crucified.”

“Who suggested sweeping anything under the rug?” said Menzies. “On the contrary, we’ll release all the facts. We’ll hide nothing. We’ll beat our breasts and take full responsibility. The facts work in our favor because they clearly demonstrate the random nature of the crimes. And the perpetrators are either dead or behind bars. Case closed.”

“What about the rumors?” asked Rocco.

Menzies turned a pair of surprised blue eyes on her. “Rumors?”

“All the talk about the tomb being cursed.”

Menzies chuckled. “The mummy’s curse? It’s marvelous. Now everyone will want to come.”

Rocco’s bright red lips tightened, cracking her heavy lipstick.

“And let’s not forget the original purpose of the Tomb of Senef—to remind the city that we are still the greatest natural history museum in the world. We need this distraction more than ever.”

A long silence settled on the group. Collopy finally stirred. “That’s damned persuasive, Hugo.”

“I find myself in the curious position of changing my mind,” said Darling. “I believe I concur with Dr. Menzies.”

Collopy looked at the PR head. “Josephine?”

“I still have my doubts,” she replied slowly. “But it’s worth a try.”

“Then that’s settled,” said Collopy.

As if on cue the door opened, with no knock, no announcement. A policewoman stood there, dressed in a smart gray suit, brass on her collar. Collopy glanced at his watch—she was on time to the second.

He rose. “May I introduce Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward. This is—”

“We’re all acquainted,” she said crisply. She turned a pair of violet eyes on him. She was disconcertingly young and attractive. Collopy wondered if she was some kind of affirmative-action type, advanced beyond her competence. Somehow, looking at those eyes, he doubted it.

“I’d like to speak with you privately, Dr. Collopy,” she said.

“Of course.”

The door closed after Menzies—the last to leave—had said his good-byes. Collopy turned his attention on Hayward. “Would you like to take a seat, Captain?”

After the briefest of hesitations, she nodded. “I think I will.” She sank down in a wing chair and Collopy noted that her skin was pale and she looked exhausted. And yet her violet eyes were anything but dull.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” he asked.

She withdrew a sheaf of folded papers from her pocket. “I’ve got here the results of the autopsy on Wicherly.”

Collopy raised his eyebrows. “Autopsy? Is there some mystery about how he died?”

By way of answer, she withdrew another piece of paper. “And here’s a diagnostic report on Lipper. The bottom line is they both suffered identical, sudden brain damage to the ventromedial cortex of the brain.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. In other words, they both went insane in exactly the same way. The damage produced a sudden, violent psychosis in each of them.”

Collopy felt a cold sensation along the base of his spine. This was exactly what they had dismissed—that the incidents were somehow connected. This could ruin everything.

“The evidence suggests there’s some kind of environmental cause, and that it may be in or around the Tomb of Senef.”

“The tomb? Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s where both of them were immediately prior to the onset of symptoms.”

Collopy swallowed painfully, pulled at his collar. “This is astonishing news.”

“The M.E. thinks the cause could be anything: electrical shock to the head, poison, fumes or perhaps a malfunction in the ventilation system, an unknown virus or bacterium . . . We don’t know. This is, by the way, confidential information.”

“I’m glad of that.” Collopy felt the sensation of cold begin to spread. If this got out, it could put the lie to their statement and destroy all they had worked so hard for.

“Since I received this information two hours ago, I’ve put a special toxicological forensic team into the tomb. They’ve been at it for an hour and so far haven’t found anything. Of course, it’s early in their search.”

“This is very disturbing, Captain,” Collopy replied. “Is there any way the museum could be of assistance?”

“That’s exactly why I’m here. I want you to postpone the opening until we can locate the source.”

This was precisely what Collopy had been afraid of. He let a beat pass. “Captain, forgive me for saying so, but it seems you’ve jumped to two huge conclusions here: first, that the brain damage was caused by a toxin, and second, that this toxin is present in the tomb. It could have been anything—and happened anywhere.”

“Perhaps.”

“And you forget that others—many others—have spent significantly more time in the Tomb of Senef than Lipper and Wicherly. They’ve manifested no symptoms.”

“I didn’t forget that, Dr. Collopy.”

“In any case, the opening isn’t for four days. Surely, that’s enough time to check out the tomb.”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

Collopy took a long, deep breath. “I understand what you’re saying, Captain, but the fact is, we simply can’t delay the opening. We’ve invested millions. I’ve got a new Egyptologist arriving in less than an hour, flown in all the way from Italy. The invitations have been mailed and acceptances returned, the catering paid for, the musicians hired—everything’s done. To back out now would cost a fortune. And it would send the wrong message to the city: that we’re frightened, that we’re stymied, that the museum is a dangerous place to visit. I can’t allow that.”

“There’s something else. It’s my belief that Diogenes Pendergast, the person who attacked Margo Green—and who stole the diamond collection—has a second identity as a museum employee. Most likely a curator.”

Collopy looked at her, shocked. “What?”

“I also believe this person is somehow connected with what’s happened to Lipper and Wicherly.”

“These are very serious accusations. Who’s your suspect?”

Hayward hesitated. “I don’t have one. I asked Mr. Manetti to comb the personnel records—without telling him what I was looking for, of course—but no criminal histories or any other red flags came to light.”

“Naturally not. Our employees all have spotless records, especially the curatorial staff. I find this whole line of speculation to be personally offensive. And it certainly doesn’t change my position about the opening. A postponement would be fatal to the museum. Absolutely fatal.”

Hayward looked at him a long time, her violet eyes weary yet alert. They seemed almost sad, as if she had already known the conclusion was foregone. “By not postponing, you risk putting many lives in danger,” she said quietly. “I must insist on it.”

“Then we are at an impasse,” said Collopy simply.

Hayward rose. “This isn’t over.”

“Correct, Captain. A higher power than us will have to make the decision.”

She nodded and left the office without further comment. Collopy watched the door close behind her. He knew, and she knew, that it would boil down to a decision by the mayor himself. And in that case, Collopy knew exactly how the chips would fall.

The mayor wasn’t one to miss the opportunity for a good party and speech.

38

Mrs. Doris Green paused at the open doorway to the intensive-care room. The afternoon light filtered through the partly screened windows, throwing peaceful stripes of light and shadow across her daughter’s bed. Her eye moved across the bank of medical equipment, which sighed and beeped softly in a regular cadence, and came to rest on her daughter’s face itself. It was pale and thin, a stray lock of hair running over the forehead and cheek. Mrs. Green took a few steps inside and gently moved the lock to its proper place.

“Hello, Margo,” she said softly.

The machines continued to beep and sigh.

She eased herself down on the side of the bed and took her daughter’s hand. It was cool and light as a feather. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

“It’s a beautiful day outside. The sun’s shining, and the cold weather seems to have broken. The crocuses are already coming up in my garden, just poking their little green shoots out of the ground. Do you remember when you were a little girl, just five years old—you couldn’t resist picking them? You brought me a fistful of half-crushed flowers one day, cleaned out the whole garden. I was so upset at the time . . .”

Her voice faltered and she fell into silence. A moment later, the nurse entered, her cheerful, rustling presence adding a sudden efficiency to the gauzy atmosphere of bittersweet memory.

“How are you, Mrs. Green?” she asked, straightening up some flowers in a vase.

“All right, thank you, Jonetta.”

The nurse checked the machines, jotting quick notes on a clipboard. She adjusted the IV, examined the breathing tube, then bustled about, plumping up more flowers and adjusting some of the get-well cards that covered the table and shelves.

“The doctor should be in at any moment, Mrs. Green,” she said, smiling and heading for the door.

“Thank you.”

Peace descended once more. Doris Green stroked her daughter’s hand ever so lightly. The memories came back, crowding in with no discernible order: diving with her daughter off the dock at the lake; opening the envelope containing her SAT scores; roasting Thanksgiving turkey; standing hand in hand beside her husband’s grave . . .

She swallowed, continued to stroke Margo’s hand. And then she felt a presence behind her.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Green.”

She turned. Dr. Winokur was standing there, a dark, handsome man in crisp white, exuding self-confidence and sympathy. Doris Green knew it wasn’t just his bedside manner: this doctor really cared.

“Would you care to talk in the waiting room?” he asked.

“I’d prefer to stay here. If Margo could hear—and who knows, maybe she can—she’d want to know everything.”

“Very well.” He paused, seated himself in the visitor’s chair, rested his hands on his knees. “The bottom line is this: we simply don’t have a diagnosis. We’ve performed every test we can think of and then some; we’ve consulted with the country’s top coma and neurology specialists, at Doctors’ Hospital in New York and Mount Auburn Hospital in Boston—and we just don’t have a handle on it yet. Margo is in a deep coma, and we don’t know why. The good news is that there’s no evidence of permanent brain damage. On the other hand, her vital signs are not improving, and some important ones are slowly declining. She simply isn’t responding to the normal treatments and therapies. I could load you down with a dozen theories we’ve had, a dozen treatments we’ve tried, but they all add up to one fact: she’s not responding. We could move her to Southern Westchester. But to tell you the truth, there isn’t anything down there that we don’t have here, and the move might not be good for her.”

“I’d prefer she stay here.”

Winokur nodded. “I have to say, Mrs. Green, you’ve been a wonderful patient’s mother. I know this is extremely hard on you.”

She shook her head slowly. “I thought I had lost her. I thought I’d buried her. After that, nothing could be worse. I know she’s going to recover—I know it.”

Dr. Winokur gave a small smile. “You could be right. Medicine doesn’t have all the answers, especially in a case like this. Doctors are more fallible—and illness a great deal more complex—than most people realize. Margo is not alone. There are thousands like her all over the country, very ill and without a diagnosis. I’m not telling you this to comfort you so much as to give you all the information I have. I sense that is how you’d prefer it.”

“It is.” She glanced from the doctor to Margo and back again. “Funny, I’m not much of a religious person, but I find myself praying for her every day.”

“The longer I’m a doctor, the more I believe in the healing power of prayer.” He paused. “Do you have any questions? Is there anything I can do?”

She hesitated. “There is one thing. I got a call from Hugo Menzies. Do you know him?”

“Yes, of course—her employer at the museum. He was with her when she had her seizure?”

“That’s right. He called me to tell me what had happened, what he’d seen—he knew I’d want to know.”

“Of course.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes, certainly. He’s been very good—he’s dropped in to check on Margo’s condition more than once since her relapse. He seems most concerned.”

Mrs. Green smiled faintly. “Having such a caring employer is a blessing.”

“It most certainly is.” The doctor rose.

“I’ll just stay here a little while with her, Doctor, if you don’t mind,” Doris Green said.

39

Thirty hours before the grand opening, the Tomb of Senef was boiling like a nest of angry hornets. And the swarm was no longer comprised of simply curators, electricians, carpenters, and technicians: a new element had been added to the mix. As Nora walked down the God’s Second Passage toward the Hall of the Chariots, she was met with the glare of television lights and a knot of men setting up cameras and mikes at the far end of the hall.

“Over there, dear boy, over there!”

A slender man with clenched buttocks, wearing a camel’s-hair sport jacket and yellow pinpoint bow tie, stood to one side. He was gesturing furiously with slender hands toward a burly soundman. Nora realized he must be the director Randall Loftus, whom Menzies had recently spoken to her about. He had won huge acclaim for his documentary series The Last Cowboy on Earth, and since then had produced a string of award-winning documentaries for public television.

As she approached, the babel of overlapping voices grew more shrill. “Testing. Testing . . .”

“Ugh! We’ve got the acoustics of a barn in here!”

Loftus and his crew were setting up to broadcast the premiere of the sound-and-light show on the night of the opening. The local PBS station planned to cover the opening live, and they had energetically syndicated the show to ensure it would not only go out to most PBS affiliates across the nation, but also be carried by the BBC and the CBC. It was a public relations coup that Menzies himself had worked hard to arrange. The resulting international attention, Nora knew, could go a long way toward saving the museum’s bacon. But at the moment, they were causing utter chaos—and at the worst possible time. Their cables lay all over the ground, tripping up assistants carrying priceless Egyptian antiquities. The brilliant lights only added to the heat generated by hot electronics and the dozens of frantic people rushing about in a kind of controlled panic: the air-conditioning system ducts were roaring in a futile effort to lower the exhibit’s temperature.

“I want two six-inch, one-kilowatt Mole Babies in the corner, there,” Loftus was saying. “Will somebody move that jar?”

Nora quickly stepped up. “Mr. Loftus?”

He turned to her, squinting over the tops of his John Mitchell glasses. “Yes?”

She gamely stuck out her hand. “I’m Dr. Nora Kelly, curator of the exhibition.”

“Oh! Of course. Randall Loftus. Delighted.” He began to turn away.

“Excuse me, Mr. Loftus? You mentioned something about moving a jar. I’m sure you’ll understand that nothing can be moved—or even touched—except by museum staff.”

“Nothing moved! How am I supposed to set up?”

“You’ll just have to work around things, I’m afraid.”

“Work around things! I’ve never been asked to perform in such conditions. This tomb is like a straitjacket. I can’t get any good angles or distance. It’s impossible!”

She gave him a brilliant smile. “I’m sure, with your talent, you’ll find a way to make it work.”

The smile had no effect, but at the word talent Loftus seemed to pause.

“I’ve admired your work,” Nora continued, sensing her opening. “I’m personally thrilled that you agreed to direct the show. And I know that, if anyone can make it work, you can.”

Loftus touched his bow tie. “Thank you indeed. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I wanted to introduce myself, see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Loftus spun abruptly, shouted to someone in a dim corner teetering on a ladder, “Not that one, the other light, the LTM Pepper spot! I want it mounted on that ceiling rack on a three-sixty.”

He turned back to her. “You’re a dear, but we simply must move that jar.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nora. “There’s no time to move anything even if we wanted to. That jar is three thousand years old and invaluable—you can’t just pick it up and move it. It takes special equipment, specially trained conservators . . . As I said, you’ll just have to work with what’s here. I’ll help you any way I can, but that’s one thing I can’t do. I’m sorry.”

Loftus drew in a long breath. “I can’t work around that jar. It’s so fat and horrible.”

When Nora didn’t reply, the director waved his hand. “I’ll talk to Menzies about it. Really, this is impossible.”

“I’m sure you’re as busy as I am, so I’ll leave you,” she replied. “As I said, if you need anything, let me know.”

He turned away instantly, zeroing in on another hapless production assistant laboring in the shadows. “The low crankovator goes where the tape is. On the floor. You’re standing on it! Look down, it’s between your legs, for heaven’s sake!”

Nora moved out of the Hall of the Chariots toward the burial chamber, leaving the gesticulating Loftus behind. The conservators had finished placing all the objects in the chamber—the last to be done—and Nora wanted to check the label copy against her master design. A knot of technicians was working on the fog machines inside the great stone sarcophagus. Earlier in the day, they’d run through a dress rehearsal of the entire sound-and-light show, and Nora had to admit that it was more than good. Wicherly may have been an ass, and possibly deranged, but he was also a brilliant Egyptologist and—what was more—an excellent writer. The script was an amazing tour de force; and the finale, when Senef came suddenly to life, rising out of a bubbling pool of mist, hadn’t seemed hokey at all. Wicherly had managed to slip quite a lot of good, solid information into the show. People would leave not just entertained, but educated.

She paused. It was strange how such a competent archaeologist could crack up so quickly. Unconsciously, she rubbed her throat, still raw and bruised. She still felt uncomfortable going back into her lab after what had happened. It was bizarre, tragic, inexplicable . . . But once again, she tried to push the attack from her mind. She would digest it all after the opening.

She felt a light tap on her shoulder.

“Dr. Kelly, I presume?” The voice was a dusky, cultured English contralto.

She turned to find herself face-to-face with a tall woman with long, glossy black hair, dressed in old canvas pants, sneakers, and a dusty work shirt. One of the workers, evidently, but one she hadn’t seen before: she would have remembered someone with such striking looks. And yet, as she looked at this stranger, she sensed she had seen her before.

“That’s me,” Nora said. “And you are—?”

“Viola Maskelene. I’m an Egyptologist and the new visiting curator for the show.” She stuck out her hand, seized Nora’s, and gave it a very vigorous shake. The grip was strong, the hand a little callused. This was someone who spent a lot of time outdoors—judging from her tan and her lean, one might even say weather-beaten, look.

“Very glad to meet you,” Nora said. “I hadn’t expected you so soon.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Maskelene said. “Dr. Menzies has spoken so highly of you, and everyone just adores you! Dr. Menzies is tied up at present, but I wanted to come down and meet you right away . . . and see this marvelous exhibit!”

“As you can see, we’re down to the wire.”

“I’m sure you’ve got everything under control.” Maskelene looked around with relish. “I was so surprised to receive the museum’s invitation, and I can’t tell you how delighted I am to be here. XIX Dynasty tombs are my specialty. And, incredibly, the Tomb of Senef has never been studied or published, although it apparently contains one of the most complete texts to the Book of the Dead ever found. Very few scholars even knew it existed! I’d always thought it was mere rumor, an urban myth like the alligators in your sewers. This is an incredible opportunity.”

Nora smiled and nodded, studying the woman intently. The speed with which Wicherly had been replaced—he’d been dead only a few days—surprised her. But then, she reflected, the opening was looming and the museum absolutely had to have an Egyptologist in residence for the run of the show.

Viola, oblivious to the sound and chaos beyond, was looking around at the tomb with wonder. “What a treasure!”

Nora found herself liking the woman’s high-spirited attitude. Her open, frank enthusiasm was infinitely preferable to the pontifications of some dusty old professor.

“I’ve just been checking the placement of the artifacts and doing a final run-through on the label copy,” she said. “Care to come along? You might catch some errors.”

“I’d adore it,” she said, practically beaming. “Although with Adrian having done the work, I’m sure it’s solid.”

Nora turned. “You knew him?”

Viola’s face clouded. “We Egyptologists are a rather small club. Dr. Menzies told me what happened. I can’t understand it. How terribly frightening for you.”

Nora simply nodded.

“I knew Adrian professionally,” Viola said, her voice more quiet now. “He was a brilliant Egyptologist, although he rather fancied himself God’s gift to women. Still, I never would have thought that . . . What a terrible shock.” She broke off.

For a moment, an awkward silence settled over them. Then Nora roused herself.

“He left a fine legacy behind him,” she said. “In his work for the exhibition. And I know it sounds crass, but the show must go on.”

“I suppose so,” Viola replied. Then she brightened a little. “I hear the sound-and-light show is quite spectacular.”

“It has just about everything, even a talking mummy.”

Viola laughed. “That sounds delicious!”

They walked on, Nora checking her clipboard. She took the opportunity to examine Viola Maskelene more closely out of the corner of her eye as the Egyptologist looked over the cases full of antiquities.

They paused at one spectacular canopic jar. “I’m afraid this is XVIII Dynasty,” Viola said. “It’s a bit anachronistic, compared to the other objects.”

Nora smiled. “I know. We didn’t quite have all the XIX Dynasty objects we needed, so we expanded—fudged—the time period a bit. Adrian explained that antiques, even at the time of the pharaohs, were often put in burials.”

“Quite true! Sorry for bringing it up—I’m a bit of a stickler for details.”

“Being a stickler for details is exactly what we need.”

They circled the burial chamber, Nora checking items off her list, Viola parsing the label copy and examining the objects.

“Can you read hieroglyphics?” Nora asked.

Viola nodded.

“What do you make of the curse above the door, the one with the Eye of Horus?”

A laugh. “One of the nastiest I’ve ever seen.”

“Really? I thought they were all nasty.”

“On the contrary. Many Egyptian tombs aren’t even protected with curses. They didn’t need to be—everyone knew that to rob a pharaoh’s tomb was to steal from the gods themselves.”

“So why put a curse in this tomb?”

“I imagine it was because, unlike a pharaoh, Senef wasn’t a god. He may have felt that the additional protection of the curse might be warranted. That painting of Ammut . . . whew!” Viola shuddered. “Goya couldn’t do better.”

Nora glanced at the painting, nodding grimly.

“I understand word of this curse has gotten around,” Viola said.

“The guards started it. Now the whole museum is abuzz. A few of the maintenance staff flat-out refuse to go into the tomb after hours.”

They came around a pilaster, only to find a woman in a gray suit kneeling on the stone floor, scraping dust out of a crack and putting it in a test tube. Nearby, a man in a white lab coat was organizing what looked like samples in a portable chemical laboratory.

“What in the world is she doing?” Viola whispered.

Nora had never seen the woman before. She certainly didn’t look much like a museum employee. In fact, she looked like a cop.

“Let’s find out.” Nora walked over. “Hello. I’m Nora Kelly, curator of the exhibition.”

The woman rose. “I’m Susan Lombardi, with the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.”

“May I ask what you’re doing?”

“We’re testing for any environmental hazards—toxins, microbes, that sort of thing.”

“Really? And why is that necessary?”

She shrugged. “All I know is, the request came from the NYPD. A rush job.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Nora turned away and the woman went back to work.

“That’s odd,” said Viola. “Are they worried about some kind of infectious disease, perhaps, endemic to the tomb itself? Some Egyptian tombs have been known to harbor ancient viruses and fungus spores.”

“I suppose so. Strange that no one told me.”

But Viola had turned away. “Oh, look—what a fabulous unguent container! It’s better than anything in the British Museum!” And she rushed over to a large glass case containing an artifact carved in white alabaster and decorated with paint, a lion crouching on the lid. “Why, it has the cartouche of Thutmosis himself on it!” She knelt, examining it with rapt attention.

There was something refreshingly spontaneous, even rebellious, about Viola Maskelene. Nora took in the woman’s beaten-up canvas pants, lack of makeup, and dusty work shirt, wondering if this was going to be her standard museum uniform. She looked just the opposite of a stuffy British archaeologist.

Viola . . . Viola Maskelene. It was a strange name, and it rang a bell . . . Had Menzies mentioned her before? No, not Menzies . . . somebody else . . .

And then, quite suddenly, she remembered.

“You were the one kidnapped by the jewel thief!” It came out in a rush, before she’d had time to think, and Nora immediately colored.

Viola rose quietly from the case and brushed off her knees. “Yes. That was me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fling it out like that.”

“Actually, I’m glad you mentioned it. Better to get it out in the open and get past it.”

Nora felt her cheeks flaming.

“It’s fine, Nora—really. Actually, all that was just another reason I was glad to take this job and return to New York.”

“Really?”

“To me, it’s sort of like falling off a horse—you’ve got to get right back on if you ever hope to ride again.”

“That’s a good way to look at it.” Nora paused. “So you’re Agent Pendergast’s friend.”

Now it was time for Viola Maskelene to color. “You might say that.”

“My husband, Bill Smithback, and I are well acquainted with Special Agent Pendergast.”

Viola looked at her with fresh interest. “Really? How did you meet?”

“I helped with a case of his a few years ago. I feel terrible about what’s happened to him.” She didn’t mention her husband’s activities, which he had insisted on keeping confidential.

“Agent Pendergast is the other reason I returned,” Viola said in a low voice. Then she fell into silence.

After they had finished up in the burial chamber, they followed with a quick check of the side chambers. Then Nora glanced at her watch. “One o’clock. You want some lunch? We’re going to be here until after midnight, and you don’t want to be caught running on empty. Come on—the shrimp bisque in the staff cafeteria is actually worth making a trip for.”

At this, Viola Maskelene brightened. “Lead the way, Nora.”

40

In the close darkness of cell 44, high within the isolation cellblock of Herkmoor Federal Correctional Facility, Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast lay at rest, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. The dark was not absolute: an unchanging bar of light from the lone window streaked across the ceiling, formed by the harsh glare of the illuminated yards and grounds outside. From the next cell, the soft sounds of the drummer continued, muted and thoughtful now, a mournful adagio which Pendergast found curiously conducive to concentration.

Other sounds reached his sensitive ears: the clang of steel against steel; a distant gargled cry of anger; the endless repetition of a cough, coming in groups of three; footsteps of a guard on his rounds. The great prison of Herkmoor was resting but not sleeping—a world unto its own, with its own rules, food chain, rituals, and customs.

As Pendergast lay there, a trembling green dot appeared on the opposite wall: the beam of a laser, shot in through the window from a great distance. It quickly steadied itself. Then, after a moment, the dot began to blink off and on. Pendergast watched as it spelled out its coded message. The only sign of his comprehension was a slight quickening of breath toward the end of the message.

And then, as abruptly as it had come, the dot vanished. The faintly murmured word “Excellent” could be heard in the darkened cell.

Pendergast closed his eyes. Tomorrow at two o’clock he would once again have to face Lacarra’s gang, the Broken Teeth, in yard 4. And then—assuming he survived the encounter—an even greater task would follow.

Right now, he required sleep.

Employing a specialized and secretive form of meditation known as Chongg Ran, Pendergast identified and isolated the pain in his broken ribs; then he turned the pain off, one rib at a time. His consciousness moved to the torn rotator cuff in his shoulder, the puncture wound in his side, the dull ache of his cut and bruised face. One by one, with cold mental discipline, he isolated and extinguished the pain in each part.

Such discipline was necessary. A most challenging day lay ahead.

41

The ancient Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside Drive boasted many spacious halls, but none were grander than the broad gallery that ran across the entire front portion of the second floor. The wall facing the street was composed of a series of floor-to-ceiling windows, sealed and shuttered. At each end of the hall, arched doorways led back to other parts of the mansion. Between the two doors, along the inside wall, stretched an unbroken succession of life-sized oil portraits. The gallery was lit by dim electric candelabra, which threw lambent light over the heavy gilt frames. Piano music sounded from hidden speakers: dense, lush, and demonically complex.

Constance Greene and Diogenes Pendergast walked slowly down the gallery, pausing at each portrait while Diogenes murmured the history of its subject. Constance wore a pale blue dress, set off by a black lace front whose buttons ran up to the low neckline that surrounded her throat. Diogenes wore dark trousers and a silver-gray cashmere jacket. Both held tulip-shaped cocktail glasses.

“And this,” Diogenes said as he stopped before a portrait of a splendidly dressed nobleman whose air of dignity was strangely offset by a rakish mustache, “is le Duc Gaspard de Mousqueton de Prendregast, the largest landholder in Dijon during the late sixteenth century. He was the last respectable member of the noble line which began with Sieur de Monts Prendregast, who won his title fighting in England with William the Conqueror. Gaspard was something of a tyrant: he was forced to flee Dijon when the peasants and villeins working his lands revolted. He took his family to the royal court, but a scandal ensued and they were forced to leave France. Exactly what next happened to the family remains something of a mystery, but there was a dreadful split. One branch moved to Venice, while the other—those left without favor, title, or money—fled to America.”

He moved to the next portrait, of a young man with flaxen hair, gray eyes, and a weak chin, whose full and sensual lips seemed almost the mirror of Diogenes’s own. “This is the scion of the Venice branch of the family, the duke’s son, Comte Lunéville—the title was by this point, alas, already honorary. He sank into idleness and dissipation, and for several generations his descendants followed suit. For a time, in fact, the lineage was sadly reduced. It did not regain its full flower for another hundred years, when the two family lines were reunited by marriage in America . . . but even that, of course, proved a fleeting glory.”

“Why fleeting?” Constance asked.

Diogenes looked at her a moment. “The Pendergast family has been in a long, slow decline. My brother and I are the last. Although my brother married, his charming wife . . . met an untimely end before she could reproduce. I have neither wife nor child. If we die without issue, the Pendergast line will vanish from the earth.”

They proceeded to the next painting.

“The American branch of the family ended up in New Orleans,” he continued. “They moved comfortably in the wealthy circles of antebellum society. There, the last of the Venetian branch of the family, il Marquese Orazio Paladin Prendergast, married Eloise de Braquilanges in a wedding so lavish and brilliant it was talked about for generations. Their only child, however, became fascinated with the peoples, and the practices, of the surrounding bayous. He took the family in a wholly unexpected direction.” He gestured at the portrait, displaying a tall, goateed man in a brilliant white suit with a blue ascot. “Augustus Robespierre St. Cyr Pendergast. He was the first fruit of the reunited family lines, a doctor and a philosopher, who dropped an r from the last name to make it more American. He was the cream of old New Orleans society—until he married a ravishingly beautiful woman from the deep bayou who spoke no English and was given to strange nocturnal practices.” Diogenes paused a moment, as if reflecting on something. Then he chuckled.

“It’s remarkable,” Constance breathed, fascinated despite herself. “All these years I’ve stared at these faces, trying to put names and histories to them. A few of the most recent ones I could guess at, but the rest . . .” She shook her head.

“Great-Uncle Antoine never told you of his ancestry?”

“No. He never spoke of it.”

“I’m not surprised, really—he left the family on bad terms. As, in fact, did I.” Diogenes hesitated. “And it’s clear my brother never spoke much of the family to you, either.”

Constance took a sip from her glass in lieu of reply.

“I know a great deal about my family, Constance. I have taken pains to learn their secret histories.” He glanced at her again. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to be able to share this with you. I feel I can talk to you . . . like no other.”

She met his eyes only briefly before returning them to the portrait.

“You deserve to know it,” he continued. “Because after all, you’re a member of the family, too—in a way.”

Constance shook her head. “I’m only a ward,” she said.

“To me, you are more than that—much more.”

They had hesitated before the portrait of Augustus. Now, to break a silence that threatened to grow awkward, Diogenes said, “How do you like the cocktail?”

“Interesting. It has an initial bitterness that blossoms on the tongue into . . . well, something else entirely. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

She looked at Diogenes for approval and he smiled. “Go on.”

She took another small sip. “I detect licorice and aniseed, eucalyptus, fennel perhaps—and notes of something else I can’t identify.” She lowered the glass. “What is it?”

Diogenes smiled, sipped from his own glass. “Absinthe. Hand-macerated and distilled, the finest available. I have it flown in from Paris for my personal consumption. Diluted slightly with sugar and water, as is the classic preparation. The flavor you can’t identify is thujone.”

Constance stared at the glass in surprise. “Absinthe? Made from wormwood? I thought it was illegal.”

“We should not be concerned with such trifles. It is powerful, mind-expanding: which is why great artists from Van Gogh to Monet to Hemingway made it their drink of choice.”

Constance took another, cautious sip.

“Look into it, Constance. Have you ever seen a drink of such a pure and unadulterated color? Hold it up to the light. It’s like gazing at the moon through a flawless emerald.”

For a moment, she remained motionless, as if searching for answers in the green depths of the liqueur. Then she took another, slightly less tentative sip.

“How does it make you feel?”

“Warm. Light.”

They continued slowly down the gallery.

“I find it remarkable,” she said after a moment, “that Antoine fitted up this interior into a perfect replica of the family mansion in New Orleans. Down to the last detail—including these paintings.”

“He had them re-created by a famous artist of the day. He worked with the artist for five years, reconstructing the faces from memory and a few faded engravings and drawings.”

“And the rest of the house?”

“Almost identical to the original, save for his choice of volumes in the library. The use he devoted all the sub-basement chambers to, however, was . . . unique, to say the least. The New Orleans mansion was effectively below sea level and so had its basements lined with sheets of lead: that wasn’t necessary here.” He sipped his drink. “After my brother took over this house, a great many changes were made. It is no longer the place Uncle Antoine called home. But then, you know that all too well.”

Constance did not reply.

They reached the end of the gallery, where a long, backless settee awaited, cushioned in plush velvet. Nearby lay an elegant English game bag by John Chapman in which Diogenes had brought the bottle of absinthe. Now he lowered himself gracefully onto the settee and motioned for Constance to do the same.

She sat down beside him, placing the glass of absinthe on a nearby salver. “And the music?” she asked, nodding as if to indicate the shimmering piano scales that freighted the air.

“Ah, yes. That is Alkan, the forgotten musical genius of the nineteenth century. You will never hear a more luxuriant, cerebral, technically challenging artist—never. When his pieces were first played—a rare event, by the way, since few pianists are up to the challenge—people thought them to be diabolically inspired. Even now Alkan’s music inspires strange behavior in listeners. Some think they smell smoke while listening; others find themselves trembling or growing faint. This piece is the Grande Sonate, ‘Les Quatre Âges.’ The Hamelin recording, of course: I’ve never heard more assured virtuosity or more commanding finger technique.” He paused, listening intently a moment. “This fugal passage, for instance: if you count the octave doublings, it has more parts than a pianist has fingers! I know you must appreciate it, Constance, as few do.”

“Antoine was never a great appreciator of music. I learned the violin entirely on my own.”

“So you can appreciate the intellectual and sensual heft of the music. Just listen to it! And thank God the greatest musical philosopher was a romantic, a decadent—not some smug Mozart with his puerile false cadences and predictable harmonies.”

Constance listened a moment in silence. “You seem to have worked rather hard to make this moment agreeable.”

Diogenes laughed lightly. “And why not? I can think of few pastimes more rewarding than to make you happy.”

“You seem to be the only one,” she said after a pause, in a very low voice.

The smile left Diogenes’s face. “Why do you say that?”

“Because of what I am.”

“You are a beautiful and brilliant young woman.”

“I’m a freak.”

Very quickly—yet with exceptional tenderness—Diogenes took her hands. “No, Constance,” he said softly and urgently. “Not at all. Not to me.”

She looked away. “You know my history.”

“Yes.”

“Then surely you, of all people, would understand. Knowing how I’ve lived—the way in which I’ve lived, here in this house, all these years . . . don’t you find it bizarre? Repugnant?” Suddenly she looked back at him, eyes blazing with strange fire. “I am an old woman, trapped in the body of a young woman. Who would ever want me?”

Diogenes drew closer. “You have acquired the gift of experience—without the awful cost of age. You are young and vibrant. It may feel a burden to you now, but it doesn’t have to be. You can be free of it anytime you choose. You can begin to live whenever you want. Now, if you choose.”

She looked away again.

“Constance, look at me. No one understands you—except me. You are a pearl beyond price. You have all the beauty and freshness of a woman of twenty-one, yet you have a mind refined by a lifetime . . . no, lifetimes . . . of intellectual hunger. But the intellect can take you only so far. You are like an unwatered seed. Lay your intellect aside and recognize your other hunger—your sensual hunger. The seed cries for water—and only then will it sprout, rise, and blossom.”

Constance, refusing to look back, shook her head violently.

“You have been cloistered here—shut up like a nun. You’ve read thousands of books, thought deep thoughts. But you haven’t lived. There is another world out there: a world of color and taste and touch. Constance, we will explore that world together. Can’t you feel the deep connection between us? Let me bring that world here, to you. Open yourself to me, Constance: I am the one who can save you. Because I’m the only person who truly understands you. Just as I am the one person who shares your pain.”

Now, abruptly, Constance tried to pull her hands away. They remained gently—but firmly—clasped in Diogenes’s own. But in the brief struggle, her sleeve drew back from her wrist, exposing several slashing scars: scars that had healed imperfectly.

Seeing this secret revealed, Constance froze: unable to move, even to breathe.

Diogenes also seemed to go very still. And then he gently released one hand and held out his own arm, sliding up the cuff from his wrist. There lay a similar scar: older but unmistakable.

Staring at it, Constance drew in a sharp breath.

“You see now,” he murmured, “how well we understand each other? It is true—we are alike, so very alike. I understand you. And you, Constance—you understand me.”

Slowly, gently, he released her other hand. It fell limply to her side. Now, raising his hands to her shoulders, he turned her to face him. She did not resist. He raised a hand to her cheek, stroking it very lightly with the backs of his fingers. The fingers drifted softly over her lips, then down to her chin, which he grasped gently with his fingertips. Slowly, he brought her face closer to his. He kissed her once, ever so lightly, and then again, somewhat more urgently.

With a gasp that might have been relief or despair, Constance leaned into his embrace and allowed herself to be folded into his arms.

Adroitly Diogenes shifted his position on the settee and eased her down onto the velvet cushions. One of his pale hands strayed to the lacy front of her dress, undoing a row of pearl buttons below her throat, the slender fingers gliding down, gradually exposing the swelling curve of her breasts to the dim light. As he did so, he murmured some lines in Italian:

Ei s’immerge ne la notte,

Ei s’aderge in vèr’ le stelle ...

As his form moved over her, nimble as a ballet dancer, a second sigh escaped her lips and her eyes closed.

Diogenes’s eyes did not close. They remained open and fixed upon her, wet with lust and triumph—

Two eyes: one hazel, one blue.

42

Gerry sheathed his radio and cast a disbelieving look in Benjy’s direction. “You won’t frigging believe this.”

“What now?”

“They’re still bringing that special prisoner into yard 4 for the two o’clock exercise shift.”

Benjy stared. “Bringing him back? You’re shittin’ me.”

Gerry shook his head.

“It’s murder. And they’re doing it on our watch.”

“Tell me about it.”

“On whose orders?”

“Straight from the horse’s ass: Imhof.”

A silence gathered in the long empty hall of Herkmoor’s building C.

“Well, two o’clock is in fifteen minutes,” Benjy said at last. “We’d better get our butts in gear.”

He led the way as they exited the cellblock into the weak sunlight of yard 4. A smell of springlike decay and dampness drifted on the air. The sodden grass of the outer yards was still matted and brown, and a few bare branches could be seen rising beyond the perimeter walls. They took up positions, not on the catwalk above this time, but in the actual yard.

“I’m not going to see my corrections career get flushed down the toilet,” said Gerry darkly. “I swear, if any of Pocho’s gang makes a move toward the guy, I’ll use the Taser. I wish to hell they gave us guns.”

They took up positions on either side of the yard, waiting for the prisoners in isolation to be escorted out for their lone hour of exercise. Gerry checked his Taser, his pepper spray, adjusted his side-handle baton. He wouldn’t wait to see what happened, like he’d done last time.

A few minutes later, the doors opened and the escort guards filed out with their prisoners, who sidled out into the yard, blinking in the bright light, looking as shit-stupid as they were.

The last prisoner to come out was the special one. He was as pale as a maggot and looked a mess: face bruised and bandaged, one eye nearly swollen shut. Despite being numbed by years of working in pens, Gerry felt a creeping sense of outrage that the man had been put back in the yard. Pocho was dead, true enough; but that had been an open-and-shut case of self-defense. This was different. This was cold-blooded murder. And if it didn’t happen today, it would happen tomorrow or the next day, on their watch or someone else’s. It was one thing to stick the guy in a cell next to the drummer, or put him in solitary, or take away his books, but this was out of line. Way out of line.

He braced himself. Pocho’s boys were spreading out, doing their slow pimp-roll, hands in their pockets. The tall one, Rafael Borges, was bouncing the usual basketball, moving in a slow arc toward the hoop. Gerry glanced at Benjy and saw his partner was equally on edge. The escort guards made a gesture toward him and he gestured back, signifying the handoff was complete: they would take over the prisoners. The escort guards filed out, closing the double metal doors behind them.

Gerry kept his eye on the special prisoner. The man was strolling along the brick wall toward the chain-link fence, moving alertly but without undue alarm. Gerry wondered if he was all right in the head. If it were him out there, he’d have stained his shorts by now.

He watched as the special prisoner sidled over behind the basketball backboard and placed a casual hand on the chain-link fence, leaning against it. He looked up, then peered from side to side, almost as if waiting for something. The other prisoners slowly circled, none even looking in his direction, acting as if he didn’t exist.

When a call came over his radio with a burst of static, Gerry jumped. “Fecteau here.”

“This is Special Agent Spencer Coffey, FBI.”

“Who?”

“Wake up, Fecteau, I don’t have all day. As I understand it, you and the other one, Doyle, are in yard 4 on exercise duty.”

“Yes, yes, sir,” Gerry stammered. Why the hell was Agent Coffey talking directly to him? It must be true what they were whispering, that the special prisoner was a fed—although he sure didn’t look like one.

“I want both of you up here in Main Security, on the double.”

“Yes, sir, as soon as we hand over yard duty—”

“I said, on the double. That means right now.”

“But, sir, there’s just the two of us guarding the yard—”

“I gave you a direct order, Fecteau. If I don’t see you in ninety seconds, I swear to God you’ll be in North Dakota tomorrow, on the midnight shift at Black Rock.”

“But you’re not—”

His reply was drowned out by a short blast of static as the FBI agent signed off. He looked over at Benjy, who had, of course, heard everything over his own radio. Benjy walked over, shrugging his shoulders faintly.

“We don’t report to that bastard,” Gerry said. “Do you think we have to do what he says?”

“You want to take that kind of chance? Let’s get going.”

Gerry replaced the radio, feeling sick to his stomach. It was murder, pure and simple. But at least they wouldn’t be there when it happened—and they couldn’t be blamed for that, now, could they?

Ninety seconds . . . He moved swiftly across the yard and opened the metal doors. Then he turned and threw one last glance back at the special prisoner. The man was still leaning against the chain-link fence behind the backboard. Pocho’s gang was already starting to close in, packlike.

“God help him,” he murmured to Benjy as the doors swung shut behind them with a deep metallic boom.

43

Juggy” Ochoa sauntered across the asphalt of the yard, glancing at the sky, the fence, the basketball backboard, his brothers scattered about. His eye turned back to the metal doors that had just clanged shut. The two guards had split. Just like that. He could hardly believe they’d put “Albino” back in the yard—and left him there.

There the sucker was, leaning against the fence, coolly returning his gaze.

Ochoa glanced around again through slitted eyes. His prison instincts told him something was going on. It was some kind of setup. Ochoa knew the others felt the same way. They didn’t need to talk; everyone knew already what everyone else was thinking. The guards hated Albino as much as they did. Somebody in high places wanted him dead.

Ochoa was only too eager to oblige.

He spit on the asphalt and scuffed it in with his shoe while he watched Borges pound the basketball on the ground with his fist, once, twice, as he made a slow round toward the hoop. Borges was going to reach Albino first, and Ochoa knew Borges could be relied on to be cool and sit tight. There would be plenty of time to take care of the problem, nice and quiet, in a way that nobody got singled out. Sure, it would mean a few months in solitary, loss of privileges—but they were all lifers, anyway. And this was sanctioned. Whatever the consequences, they’d be mild.

He glanced up at the distant tower. Nobody was looking their way: the tower guards mostly looked to the side and out, toward the perimeter fences. Their view of the interior of yard 4 was limited.

He turned his gaze back to Albino, disconcerted to see the man was still staring at him. Let him stare. In five minutes, he’d be dead, ready to be rinsed off and shipped out.

Juggy glanced around at the hermanos. They, too, were taking it slow. Albino was a fighter, a motherfucking dirty fighter, but this time they’d be more careful. And he was banged up; he’d be slower. They’d take him down as a pack.

They continued to slide in, tightening the ring.

Borges had reached the three-point line. With a smoothly practiced motion, he tossed the ball up and it swished through the hoop, dropping down—into the waiting hands of the Albino, who had stepped forward with a sudden deft movement to catch it.

They all stood and stared at him, hard. He held the ball, returning their looks, his stitched-up face utterly neutral. Juggy felt a surge of rage at the raw challenge in his look.

He glanced over his shoulder. Still no guards.

Borges stepped forward and the Albino said something to him, talking in a rapid undertone, so low Juggy couldn’t hear what he said. As he approached, Juggy reached down and pulled the little shank out of the crotch seam of his underwear. The time was now: shank the bastard and have it done.

“Hold on, man,” said Borges, gesturing with his palm out as Ochoa stepped forward. “I want to hear this.”

“Hear what?”

“You know you’re being set up,” Albino was saying. “They want you to kill me. And you know it—every single one of you. Do you know why?”

He stared in turn at the group that now encircled him.

“Who the fuck cares?” said Juggy, taking a step forward and readying the shank.

“Why?” said Borges, holding his arm out toward Juggy again.

“Because I know how to escape from here.”

An electric silence.

“Bullshit,” said Juggy, darting forward with the shank. But the Albino was ready and shot the ball at him, taking him by surprise, and in dodging it Juggy lost his stride. The ball bounced off and rolled away.

“Are you going to kill me and then spend the rest of your lives in here, never knowing if I was telling the truth?”

“He’s full of shit,” said Juggy. “He did Pocho, remember?” He lunged forward again, but the Albino skipped sideways and turned, like a matador. Borges grabbed Juggy’s arm with a grip of steel.

“He fucking did Pocho!”

“Let the man talk.”

“Freedom,” Albino continued, his drawling accent making the word sound delicious. “Have you been caged up so long you’ve forgotten what the word means?”

“Borges, nobody gets out of here,” Juggy said. “Let’s finish this.”

“Jug, don’t fucking do anything.”

Juggy looked around and saw that the others were staring at him. He felt incredulous: the Albino was sweet-talking his way out of a shank.

“Hear the man out,” said another gang member, Roany. The others nodded.

“This is the guy that waxed Pocho,” Juggy said again, feeling the conviction begin to drain out of his voice.

“So?” said Borges. “Maybe Pocho needed a little waxing.”

The Albino continued, speaking in a low voice. “Borges is going out first,” he said. “He believed me first. Jug, if you’re ready, you’re next.”

“Going out? When?” Borges asked.

“Right now, while the guards are gone.”

“The hell with this,” Juggy snarled.

“Okay, instead of Jug, I’ll take you.” And the Albino pointed to Roany. “Are you ready?”

“You know I am.”

“Wait a goddamn minute.” Ochoa took another lunge with the shank, but there was a sudden flashing movement that took him utterly by surprise, and when it was over, Albino held the shank.

Ochoa backed up. “You son of a bitch—”

“He’s just wasting our time,” said Albino. “Another word out of him and I’ll cut out his tongue. Any objections?” He looked around the group.

Nobody responded.

Ochoa stood there, breathing hard, saying nothing. The bastard had killed Pocho and taken over, just like that. How could it have happened so fast?

“Anyone who doubts me, look at this.” Albino reached over to the fence and grasped the links at a welded seam at a post, giving a sharp tug. The links parted effortlessly. He drew them back a bit more, stretching out an opening just large enough to admit a human being.

They stared in disbelief.

“Follow my instructions and you’ll all get out of here—even you, Mr. Jug. To prove my sincerity, I’ll go last. I’ve worked it out to the final detail. On the far side of the fence, you will scatter, each going out by a different route. Here’s the plan . . .”

44

Pendergast waited until the last one, Jug, had climbed through the slit in the fence and disappeared, all of them tumbling through the gap so quickly they hardly cared whether he followed or not—which was precisely what Pendergast had hoped. They would each be following separate escape routes, exquisitely choreographed by Eli Glinn to create a maximal uproar and response.

After Jug had disappeared, Pendergast grasped the cut fence, which had sprung back into place, and pulled it as wide as he could, stretching and bending the metal to leave the gap obvious for the guards who would soon be coming. He stepped back and examined the digital watch on his wrist, which in Pendergast’s case had far more sophisticated guts inside than its cheap plastic casing suggested. Those guts included a receiver unit that downloaded ACTS satellite time signals, which would be of the utmost importance for the impending operation. He waited until the precise appointed time, then pressed a button on the watch, activating a timer. The display began counting down from 900 seconds.

Pendergast stepped back and waited.

At 846 seconds, the sudden howl of emergency sirens filled the air. Pendergast turned and walked swiftly across the yard into the angle of the building closest to the door, where two shabby cement walls came together at a right angle. There, he reached down into a drainpipe and retrieved a long, thin tube: the same tube D’Agosta had placed inside it a few days earlier. He released the catches at both ends, unrolled it like a flag, and gave it a sharp shake. Immediately, it popped out into its intended shape: two equal squares of fabric about three feet per side, joined along one edge by plastic stays to create a V shape. The squares were coated in very thin sheets of brilliantly reflective Mylar. The entire construction, in fact, had been modified by Glinn from a standard portable light reflector such as those used in outdoor advertising shoots.

Now Pendergast moved into the corner, putting his back against the bricks and crouching low to the ground. He positioned the device in front, snugging it up close to him and making sure the outer two edges of the V-shaped reflector were tight against the walls on each side, forming a ninety-degree angle.

It was a simple but highly refined application of one of the oldest stage illusions of magic: using carefully angled mirrors to make someone vanish. It had been used as early as the 1860s, when Professor John Pepper’s “Proteus Cabinet” and Colonel Stodare’s “Sphinx” act—in which a woman was placed in a box that was subsequently shown to be empty—were the rage of Broadway. Pressed into the corner of the prison yard, the reflector accomplished the same effect: creating in essence a mirrored box that Pendergast could hide behind. Its mirrored surfaces reflected the cement walls on either side, creating the illusion of a vacant corner where the two walls came together. Only someone actually walking over to examine the corner would discover the deception—and the current panic was calculated to prevent that.

At 821, Pendergast heard the electronic bolts disengage; the doors were flung open, and four “first responder” guards from nearby guard station 7 charged into yard 4, Tasers at the ready.

“Fence is cut!” one cried, pointing to the gaping hole at the far end.

As the four sprinted across the asphalt toward the gap, Pendergast stood, snapped the two sides of the Mylar reflector together, rolled it back into a compact tube, and returned it to the drainpipe. Then he slipped through the doors into the prison, sprinting around a corner and into the nearby bathroom. Quickly, he entered the second-to-last stall, stood on the toilet, and lifted the acoustic ceiling tile overhead. There, taped to the upper side, he found a plastic bag containing a slim four-gigabyte flash-memory chip, a credit card, a small hypodermic needle and syringe, some duct tape, and a tiny capsule of brown liquid. Pocketing the items, he exited the bathroom and darted down the hall to guard station 7. Just as Glinn had predicted: of the five guards on duty, four had responded to the escape call, leaving the lone commanding guard at the console, surrounded by a wall of live video feeds. The man was shouting orders into a microphone and punching up feed after feed, frantically searching for the loose inmates. An overwhelming response had been mobilized to deal with the mass escape attempt. Based on the guard’s excited chatter, already one of the inmates had been run down and recaptured.

As Glinn had anticipated, the door to guard station 7 had been left unlocked in the hasty departure of the first responders.

Pendergast slipped inside, then threw an arm around the guard’s neck and injected him. The guard slumped without a word and Pendergast laid him out on the floor, then half covered the guard’s comm mike with his hand and yelled hoarsely into it, “I see one of them! I’m going after him!”

He quickly undressed the unconscious guard while a burst of shouted countermands came over the speaker, ordering him to remain at his station. In less than a minute, Pendergast was dressed in the guard’s uniform, equipped with badge, Mace, Taser, stick, radio, and emergency call unit. He was more slender than the unconscious guard, but a few minor adjustments rendered the disguise quite acceptable.

Next, he reached behind the large rack of servers until he had located the correct port. Then, taking the flash drive from the plastic bag, he inserted it into the port. He then turned his attention back to the guard, taping his mouth shut, his hands behind his back, and his knees together. He dragged the drugged guard back to the nearby men’s room, seated him on a toilet, taped his torso to the toilet tank to keep him from falling over, locked the stall, and crawled out beneath the door.

Moving to a mirror, Pendergast pulled the bandages from his face and stuffed them into the waste can. He broke the glass capsule over a sink and massaged the dye into his hair, turning it from white blond to an unremarkable dark brown. Exiting the men’s room, he walked down the hall, made a right turn, and—just before coming to the first video camera—he paused to glance at his watch: 660 seconds.

He waited until the display read 640, then continued on, moving at an easy pace, all the while keeping one eye fixed on his watch. He knew that many eyes would be watching the video feeds. Even though he was dressed in a guard’s uniform, he was walking in the wrong direction—away from the breakout—and his face was still battered and bruised. They knew him well in building C. Anyone catching a glimpse of him would recognize him.

But he also knew that for ten seconds—from 640 to 630—this particular video feed would be controlled by the flash drive he had plugged into the security computer. The drive would temporarily store the previous ten seconds of feed from that camera and play it back again. It would then leapfrog to the next video camera in the chain and repeat the process. The loop would run only once for each camera: Pendergast had a ten-second window, no more, to pass through each field of view. The timing had to be perfect.

He walked past the camera without incident and continued down the long, vacant corridors of building C—the guards had been drawn off to other areas by the escapees. Sometimes he quickened his step, sometimes he slowed it, passing each camera at the precise moment in which its video signal would be replayed. Frequently his radio blared. Once, he was passed by a knot of running guards, and he quickly dropped to tie a shoe, turning his swollen, bruised face away from them. They tore by without a glance, their interest otherwise engaged.

He passed the dining hall and kitchen of building C, the smell of disinfectant strong in the air. He took another turn, then another, at last reaching the final stretch of corridor before the checkpoint and security door between Herkmoor Building C/Federal and Herkmoor Building B/State.

Pendergast’s face was well known in building C. He was not known at all in building B.

He approached the security door, swiped the credit card, placed his hand on the fingermatrix screen, and waited.

His heart was beating at rather more than its customary rate. This was the moment of truth.

At exactly 290 seconds, the security light glowed green and the metal locks disengaged.

Pendergast stepped through into building B. He walked around the first bend in the corridor, then paused in the dark corner made by the dogleg of the hallway. He reached up to the deepest cut on his cheek and, with a vicious tug, pulled out the row of stitches. When the warm blood began to run, he smeared it over his face, neck, and hands. Then he pulled up his shirt, examining the stitched wound in his side where the shank had penetrated. He took a deep breath. Then he yanked that wound open as well.

They had to look as fresh as possible.

At 110 seconds, he heard running footsteps, and, as previously planned, one of the escapees ran by—Jug—who had dutifully followed the escape plan laid out for him by Glinn. Of course, it would not be successful—he would be apprehended at the exit to building B if not before—but this, too, was part of the plan. Pocho’s gang was a smoke screen—that was all. None would actually escape.

As soon as Jug passed him, Pendergast screamed and threw himself down onto the floor of the corridor, while at the same time pressing the emergency button on his comm unit:

“Officer down! Immediate response! Officer down!”

45

Staff Nurse Ralph Kidder kneeled over the supine form of the guard—who was sobbing like a baby, babbling about being attacked, being afraid of dying—and tried to focus on the problem at hand. He checked the man’s heart with a stethoscope—strong and fast—examined the neck and limbs for any broken bones, took the blood pressure—excellent—examined the cut on the face: nasty but superficial.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked again, exasperated. “Where are your injuries? Talk to me!”

“My face, he cut my face!” the man shrieked, finally gaining a measure of coherence.

“I see that. Where else?”

“He stabbed me! Oh, my chest, it hurts!”

The nurse gently felt the ribs, noting the swelling and faint gravelly feel of a couple of broken ones, not displaced. There was indeed a stab wound, bleeding copiously, but a quick check indicated a rib had deflected the blade and prevented it from piercing the pleura.

“It’s nothing that a convalescence won’t fix,” Kidder said sharply, turning to the two responding EMTs. “Load him and take him down to infirmary B. We’ll do a blood workup, an X-ray series, stitch up a few of those cuts. Tetanus booster and a course of amoxicillin. I don’t see anything so far that’ll require a transfer to an outside hospital.”

One of the EMTs snorted. “Nothing’s going in or out until the escapees are apprehended and all prisoners accounted for, anyway. They’ve had a morgue-mobile idling outside the gate for half an hour already.”

“The morgue-mobile’s never in a rush,” said Kidder dryly. He wrote down the guard’s name and badge number on his clipboard. He didn’t recognize the man—but then, he was from building C and his face was cut up pretty bad.

As they were loading the patient onto the stretcher, Kidder heard a sudden uproar of shouting from down the corridor as another prisoner was apprehended. Kidder had been working at Herkmoor for almost twenty years and this was the biggest escape attempt yet. Of course it had no chance of succeeding. He just hoped the guards weren’t beating hell out of too many would-be escapees.

The EMTs raised the stretcher and trundled the whimpering guard off to the infirmary, Kidder following. These guards acted so tough when everything was under control, he thought, but knock them around a bit and they fell apart like so much overcooked meat.

The infirmary in building B, like the other infirmaries in Herkmoor, was divided into two completely separate, walled-off areas: the free area for staff and guards, and the incarceration area for prisoners. They wheeled the guard to the free area and covered him with a blanket. Kidder worked up the man’s chart, ordered some X-rays. He was starting to prep the guard for stitching when his radio beeped. He lifted it to his ear, listened, spoke briefly. Then he turned to the patient. “I’ve got to leave you for a while.”

“Alone?” the injured guard cried in a panic.

“I’ll be back in about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, with the radiologist. We have some injured inmates—”

“Taking care of inmates before me?” the man whined.

“They’re in need of rather more urgent care.” Kidder didn’t tell him about the call he’d just received. It was as he feared: the guards had beat the crap out of several of the escapees.

“How long will I have to wait?”

Kidder sighed irritably. “Like I said, maybe forty-five minutes.” He readied a needle with a mild sedative and painkiller.

“Don’t stick me with that!” the man cried. “I’ve an awful fear of needles!”

Kidder made an effort to control his annoyance. “This’ll ease the pain.”

“It’s not that bad! Turn on the TV for me. That’ll distract me.”

Kidder shrugged. “Have it your way.” He put away the syringe and handed the patient the remote. The man immediately turned it to an asinine game show and cranked up the volume. Kidder left, shaking his head, his already low opinion of prison guards having sunk even lower.

Fifty minutes later, Kidder returned to the infirmary in a ferociously bad mood. Some of the guards had jumped at the chance to settle scores with a particularly unsavory group of inmates, breaking half a dozen bones in the process.

He checked his watch, wondering about the guard he’d left behind. Fact was, in any of the big New York emergency rooms the man would have had to wait at least twice as long. He pulled back the curtain and gazed at the guard, all bundled up and turned toward the wall, sleeping heavily despite the excessively loud game show playing on the television.

Are you sure, Joy, that door number 2 is your choice? All right, then, let’s open it up! Behind door number 2 is . . . (huge groan from the audience) . . .

“Time for your X-rays, Mr.—” Kidder glanced at the clipboard. “Mr. Sidesky.”

No response.

. . . a cow! Now, isn’t that the most beautiful Holstein cow you’ve ever seen, ladies and gentlemen? Fresh milk every morning, Joy, think of it!

“Mr. Sidesky?” Kidder said, raising his voice. He reached for the remote, turned off the TV. A sudden, blessed silence.

“X-ray time!”

No response.

Kidder reached over and gave the man’s shoulder a gentle push—then jerked back with a muffled cry. Even through the covers, the body felt cold.

It wasn’t possible. The man had been brought in an hour ago, alive and healthy.

“Hey, Sidesky! Wake up!” With a trembling hand, he reached out again, pressed on the shoulder—and once again felt that hideous muffled cold.

With a feeling of dread, he grasped the corner of the covers and drew them back, exposing a naked corpse, purple and grotesquely bloated. The stench of death and disinfectants rose up, enveloping him like a miasma.

He staggered, hand over his mouth, choking, mind reeling in confusion and disbelief. The man had not only died, he had started to decay. How was it possible? He looked around wildly but there was no other patient in the ward. There had been some terrible mistake, some crazy mix-up . . .

Kidder took a steadying breath. Then he grasped the figure by the shoulder and pulled him over onto his back. The head flopped around, eyes staring, tongue lolling like a dog, face horribly blue and bloated, mouth draining some kind of yellow matter.

“God!” he moaned, backing up. It wasn’t the injured guard at all. It was the dead prisoner he had worked on just the day before, helping the radiologist produce a series of forensic X-rays.

Trying to keep his voice normal, he paged the Herkmoor chief physician. A moment later the man’s irritated voice came over the intercom.

“I’m busy, what is it?”

For a moment, Kidder didn’t quite know what to say. “You know that dead prisoner in the morgue—”

“Lacarra? They carted him away fifteen minutes ago.”

“No. No, they didn’t.”

“Of course they did. I signed the transfer myself, I saw them load the body bag into the morgue-mobile. It was waiting outside the gate for the all-clear so it could come in for the corpse.”

Kidder swallowed. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think what? What the hell are you talking about, Kidder?”

“Pocho Lacarra . . .” He swallowed, licked dry lips: “. . . is still here.”

Twenty miles to the south, the mortuary vehicle was on the Taconic State Parkway, heading toward New York City through light traffic. Within minutes, it pulled over at a rest area and cruised to a stop.

Vincent D’Agosta tore off his white morgue uniform, climbed into the rear, and unzipped the body bag. Inside was the long, white, nude form of Special Agent Pendergast. The agent sat up, blinking.

“Pendergast! Damn, we did it! We frigging did it!”

The agent held up a hand. “My dear Vincent, please—no effusive demonstrations of affection until I am showered and dressed.”

46

At 6:30 that evening, William Smithback Jr. stood on the sidewalk of Museum Drive, looking up at the brilliantly lit facade of the New York Museum of Natural History. A broad velvet carpet had been unrolled down the great granite steps. A seething crowd of rubberneckers and journalists was held back by velvet ropes and phalanxes of museum guards, while one limousine after another rolled up, disgorging movie stars, city officials, kings and queens of high finance, society matrons, gaunt vacant-eyed fashion models du jour, managing partners, university presidents, and senators—a stupendous parade of money, power, and influence.

The great and powerful ascended the museum steps in a measured flow of black, white, and glitter, looking neither left nor right, heading through the pillared facade and vast bronze doors into a great blaze of light—while the rabble, held back by velvet and brass, gaped, squealed, and photographed. Above, a four-story banner draped over the museum’s neoclassical facade billowed in a light breeze. It depicted a gigantic Eye of Horus with words in faux Egyptian script written underneath:

GRAND OPENING

THE GREAT TOMB OF SENEF

Smithback adjusted the silk tie of his tuxedo and smoothed his lapels. Having arrived in a cab instead of a limo, he had been forced to get out a block shy of the museum and had pushed his way through the crowd until he’d arrived at the ropes. He showed his invitation to a suspicious guard, who called over another, and after several minutes of confabulation they grudgingly allowed him through—right in the perfumed wake of Wanda Meursault, the actress who had made such a fuss at the Sacred Images opening. Smithback considered how distressing it must have been when she lost out in her bid for Best Actress at the recent Academy Awards. With a thrill of pleasure, he marched in the parade of power and passed through the shining gates.

This was going to be the mother of all openings.

The velvet carpet led across the Great Rotunda, with its brace of mounted dinosaurs, through the magnificent African Hall, and from there wound its way through half a dozen musty halls and half-forgotten corridors to arrive at a set of elevators, where the crowd had backed up. It was quite a distance from the entrance, Smithback thought as he waited in line for the next elevator—but the Tomb of Senef was located in the very bowels of the museum, about as far from the front entrance as you could get. He adjusted the knot of his tie. The hike might just pump a little blood through some of these dried-out old husks, he thought. Do them good.

A chime announced the arrival of the next car and he filed in with the rest of them, packed in like black and white sardines, waiting for the elevator to make the crawl to the basement. The doors opened again at last and they were greeted with another blaze of light, the swirling sounds of an orchestra, and beyond, the great Egyptian Hall itself, its nineteenth-century murals beautifully restored. Along the walls, gold, jewels, and faience glittered from every case, while exquisitely laid tea tables and dining tables, flickering with thousands of candles, covered the marble floors. Most important, Smithback thought as his eye roved about, were the long tables along the walls groaning with smoked sturgeon and salmon, crusty homemade breads, huge platters of hand-cut San Daniele prosciutto, silver tubs of pearly-gray sevruga and beluga caviar. Massive silver cauldrons heaped with shaved ice stood at either end, bristling with bottles of Veuve Clicquot like so many batteries of artillery, waiting to be fired and poured.

And these, Smithback thought, were merely the hors d’oeuvres—the dinner was yet to come. He rubbed his hands together, savoring the splendid sight and looking about for his wife, Nora, whom he had hardly seen in the past week, and shivering slightly at the thought of other, more intimate pleasures to be enjoyed later, once this party—and this whole hectic and dreadful week—had finally come to a close.

He was contemplating which of the food tables to assault first when he felt an arm slip through his from behind.

“Nora!” He turned to embrace her. She was dressed in a sleek black gown, tastefully embroidered with silver thread. “You look ravishing!”

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” Nora reached up and smoothed his unrepentant cowlick, which promptly sprang up again, defying gravity. “My handsome overgrown boy.”

“My Egyptian queen. How’s your neck feeling, by the way?”

“It’s fine, and please stop asking.”

“This is amazing. Oh, God, what a spread.” Smithback looked around. “And to think—you’re the curator. This is your show.”

“I had nothing to do with the party.” She glanced over at the entrance to the Tomb of Senef, closed and draped with a red ribbon, waiting to be cut. “My show’s in there.”

A slim waiter came sweeping by, bearing a silver tray loaded with flutes of champagne, and Smithback snagged two as the man passed, handing one to Nora.

“To the Tomb of Senef,” he said.

They clinked glasses and drank.

“Let’s get some food before the crush,” said Nora. “I’ve only got a few minutes. At seven, I’ve got to say a few words, and then there’ll be other speeches, dinner, and the show. You won’t see much of me, Bill. I’m sorry.”

“Later, I’ll see more.”

As they approached the tables, Smithback noticed a tall, striking, mahogany-haired woman standing nearby, dressed incongruously in black slacks and a gray silk shirt, open at the neck, set off by a simple string of pearls. It was down-dressing in the extreme, and yet somehow she managed to pull it off, make it look classy, even elegant.

“This is the museum’s new Egyptologist,” said Nora, turning to the woman. “Viola Maskelene. This is my husband, Bill Smithback.”

Smithback was taken aback. “Viola Maskelene? The one who . . . ?” He quickly recovered, extending his hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“Hullo,” the woman said in a cultured, faintly amused accent. “I’ve enjoyed working with Nora these past few days. What a museum!”

“Yes,” said Smithback. “Quite the noble pile. Viola, tell me . . .” Smithback could hardly restrain his curiosity. “How, er, did you happen to end up here in the museum?”

“It was a last-minute thing. With Adrian’s tragic death, the museum needed an Egyptologist right away, someone with expertise on the New Kingdom and the tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Hugo Menzies knew of my work, it seems, and suggested my name. I was delighted to take the job.”

Smithback was about to open his mouth to ask another question when he caught Nora casting him a warning look: now was not the time to start pumping her for information about the kidnapping. Still, he reflected, it was mighty strange that Maskelene was so suddenly back in New York—and at the museum, no less. All Smithback’s journalism bells were ringing: this was far too much a coincidence. It bore looking into . . . tomorrow.

“Quite a spread,” Viola said, turning to the food tables. “I’m starving. Shall we?”

“We shall,” said Smithback.

They elbowed up to the teeming tables, and Smithback, gently easing aside a meek curator, reached out and loaded up a plate with a good two ounces of caviar, a tall stack of blinis, and a dollop of crème fraîche. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw, with surprise, that Viola was heaping her plate with an even more unseemly amount of food, apparently as dismissive of decorum as he was.

She caught his eye, colored slightly, then winked. “Haven’t eaten since last night,” she said. “They’ve had me working nonstop.”

“Go right ahead!” Smithback said, scooping up a second mound of caviar, delighted to have a partner in crime.

A sudden burst of music came from the small orchestra at the end of the hall, and there was a smattering of applause as Hugo Menzies, magnificent in white tie and tails, mounted a podium next to the orchestra. A hush fell on the hall as his glittering blue eyes surveyed the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “I won’t inflict a long speech on you tonight, because we have far more interesting entertainment planned. Let me just read you an e-mail I received from the Count of Cahors, who made this all possible with his extraordinarily generous donation:

My dear Ladies and Gentlemen,

I am desolate not to join you in these festivities celebrating the reopening of the Tomb of Senef. I am an old man and can no longer travel. But I shall raise a glass to you and wish you a spectacular evening.

With kindest regards,

Le Comte Thierry de Cahors

A thunder of applause greeted this short missive from the reclusive count. When it died down, Menzies resumed.

“And now,” he said, “I have the pleasure of introducing to you the great soprano Antonella da Rimini as Aïda, joined by tenor Gilles de Montparnasse as Radamès, who will sing for you arias from the final scene of Aïda, ‘La fatal pietra sovra me si chiuse,’ which will be sung in English, for the benefit of those of you who do not speak Italian.”

More applause. An enormously fat woman, heavily painted and eyelined, and squeezed to bursting into a faux Egyptian costume, stepped onto the stage, followed by an equally large man in similar garb.

“Viola and I have to go,” Nora whispered to Smithback. “We’re on next.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then left with Viola Maskelene in tow, disappearing into the crowd.

Another round of applause shook the hall as the conductor mounted the stage. Smithback marveled at the enthusiasm of the guests—they had hardly had time to get lubricated. Glancing around while munching a blini, he was surprised at the number of notable faces: senators, captains of industry, movie stars, pillars of society, foreign dignitaries, and of course, the full spread of museum trustees and assorted bigwigs. If somebody nuked the joint, he reflected ghoulishly, the repercussions wouldn’t be just national—they’d be global.

The lights dimmed and the conductor raised his baton, the audience falling into silence. Then the orchestra began a dolorous motif as Radamès sang:

The fatal stone above has sealed my doom,

Here is my tomb! The light of day

I shall never see again . . . Nor shall I see Aïda.

Aïda, my love, where are you? May you live happily,

My hideous fate forever unknown!

But what is that sound? A slithering serpent? A ghoulish vision?

No! A dim human form I see.

By the gods! Aïda!

And now the diva sang out:

Yes, it is I.

Smithback, a confirmed opera-hater, made an effort to shut out the shrieking voice while he returned his attention to the loaded tables. Shouldering his way through the crowd, he took advantage of the temporary lull in the feeding frenzy to scoop up half a dozen oysters; on top of this, he laid two thick slabs cut from an ancient, moldy round of French cheese, added a stack of paper-thin slices of prosciutto and two slices of tongue. Balancing the tottery stack, he moved to the next table and snagged a second flute of champagne, asking the bartender to top it off for efficiency’s sake so he wouldn’t have to return as quickly for a refill. Then he made his way to one of the candlelit tables to enjoy his booty.

A free feed like this came only rarely, and Smithback was determined to make the most of it.

47

Eli Glinn was waiting for the morgue vehicle at the anonymous door to the EES building. Sending someone to deal with the vehicle, he whisked Pendergast off for a shower and change of clothes and assigned D’Agosta to a robotically silent, white-coated technician. The technician had D’Agosta wait while he made a few brief phone calls; then he led the way through the cavernous, echoing space that comprised the heart of the Effective Engineering Solutions building. The large room was quiet, as one would expect at half past seven on a weeknight: even so, several scientists could be seen scribbling on whiteboards or peering at computer monitors, amidst an air of studious efficiency. As he walked past the lab tables, the scientific equipment, and the models, he wondered just how many of the employees knew that their building currently harbored one of the fed’s top fugitives.

D’Agosta followed the technician into a waiting elevator in the rear wall. The man inserted a key into a control panel and pressed the down button. The car descended for a surprisingly long interval before the doors opened onto a pale blue corridor. Motioning D’Agosta to follow, the technician strode down it, stopping at last before a door. He smiled, nodded, then turned and walked back in the direction of the elevator.

D’Agosta stared at the retreating form. Then he glanced back at the unmarked door. After a moment, he gave a tentative knock.

It was immediately opened by a short, cheerful-looking man with a florid face and a closely cropped beard. He ushered D’Agosta in and closed the door behind him.

“You are Lieutenant D’Agosta, yes?” he asked in an accent D’Agosta assumed to be German. “Please have a seat. I am Dr. Rolf Krasner.”

The office had the spare, clinical air of a doctor’s consultation room, with gray carpets, white walls, and anonymous furnishings. A rosewood table stood in the middle, brilliantly polished. In its center sat what looked like a technical manual—thick as the Manhattan telephone book and bound in black plastic. Eli Glinn had already wheeled himself into position at the far side of the table. He nodded silently to D’Agosta and gestured toward an empty chair.

As D’Agosta seated himself, a door in the back of the room opened and Pendergast appeared. His wounds had been freshly dressed and his hair, still damp from being washed, had been combed back. He was dressed, most incongruously, in a white turtleneck and gray wool pants, which—different as they were from his habitual black suit—almost had the effect of a disguise.

D’Agosta rose instinctively.

Pendergast’s eyes met his, and after a moment he smiled. “I fear I neglected to express my gratitude to you for freeing me from prison.”

“You know you don’t have to do that,” said D’Agosta, coloring.

“But I will. Thank you very much, my dear Vincent.” He spoke softly, taking D’Agosta’s hand in his own and giving it a curt shake. D’Agosta felt strangely moved by this man who sometimes found even the simplest human courtesies awkward.

“Please sit down,” said Glinn in the same neutral voice—devoid of any human feeling—that had so annoyed D’Agosta on their first meeting.

He complied. Pendergast slipped into a seat opposite—a little stiffly, D’Agosta thought, yet with his usual feline grace. “And I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to you as well, Mr. Glinn,” Pendergast went on. “A most successful operation.”

Glinn nodded curtly.

“Although I deeply regret having to kill Mr. Lacarra to do so.”

“As you know,” Glinn replied, “there was no other way. You had to kill an inmate in order to escape in his body bag, and that inmate, furthermore, had to take his exercise in yard 4, the ideal spot for an abortive escape. We were fortunate—if I may be permitted that expression—to identify a yard 4 inmate who was so thoroughly evil that some might say he deserved to die: a man who tortured three children to death in front of their mother. It was then a simple matter to hack into the Justice Department database and change Lacarra’s arrest records to identify him as one of your ‘collars’—thus baiting the trap for Coffey. Finally, I might point out that you were forced to kill him: it was self-defense.”

“No amount of sophistry will change the fact it was a premeditated killing.”

“Strictly speaking, you are correct. But as you know yourself, his death was necessary to save more lives—perhaps many more lives. And our model indicated his death sentence appeals would have been denied, anyway.”

Pendergast silently inclined his head.

“Now, Mr. Pendergast, let us lay trivial ethical dilemmas aside. We have urgent business to take care of, relating to your brother. I assume no news from the outside world reached you while in solitary confinement?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then it would be a surprise to learn that your brother destroyed all the diamonds he stole from the museum.”

D’Agosta saw Pendergast stiffen visibly.

“That’s right. Diogenes pulverized the diamonds and returned them to the museum as a sack of powder.”

After a silence, Pendergast said, “Once again, his actions were beyond my ability to predict or comprehend.”

“If it’s any consolation to you, they surprised us as well. It meant our assumptions about him were wrong. We believed that after being cheated of Lucifer’s Heart—the one diamond he most desired—your brother would go to ground for a period, lick his wounds, plot his next move. Clearly, that was not the case.”

Krasner broke in, his cheerful voice in stark contrast to Glinn’s monotone. “By destroying the very diamonds he had spent many years planning to steal, diamonds that he both desired and needed, Diogenes was destroying a part of himself. It was a suicide of sorts. He was abandoning himself to his demons.”

“When we learned what happened to the diamonds,” Glinn went on, “we realized our preliminary psychological profile was woefully insufficient. And so we went back to the drawing board, reanalyzed existing data, gathered additional information. That is the result.” He nodded to the thick volume. “I’ll spare you the details. It boils down to one thing.”

“And that is?”

“The ‘perfect crime’ which Diogenes spoke of was not the theft of the diamonds. Nor was it the outrage he perpetrated on you: killing your friends and then framing you for the crimes. Whatever his original intent was we are in no position to speculate. But the fact remains that his ultimate crime has yet to be committed.”

“But the date in his letter?”

“Another lie, or at least diversion. The theft of the diamonds was part of his plan, but their destruction was apparently a more spontaneous act. That doesn’t change the fact that his series of crimes was carefully planned to keep you occupied, to mislead you, to stay one step ahead of you. I must say, the depth and complexity of your brother’s plan is quite breathtaking.”

“So the crime is yet to come,” Pendergast said in a dry, quiet voice. “Do you know what it is, or when it will take place?”

“No—except that all indications are that this crime is imminent. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps tonight. Hence the need for your immediate liberation from Herkmoor.”

Pendergast was silent a moment. “I fail to see how I can be of any help,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “As you see, I’ve been wrong at every turn.”

“Agent Pendergast, you are the one person—the only person—who can help. And you know how.”

When Pendergast did not immediately respond, Glinn went on. “We had hoped our forensic profile would have predictive power—that it would provide a sense of what Diogenes’s future action would be. And it has . . . to a point. We know he’s motivated by a powerful feeling of victimization, the sense that a terrible wrong was done to him. We believe his ‘perfect crime’ will attempt to perpetrate a similar wrong on a large number of people.”

“That is correct,” Krasner broke in. “Your brother wants to generalize this wrong, to make it public, to force others to share his pain.”

Glinn leaned over the table and stared at Pendergast. “And we know something else. You are the person who inflicted this pain on your brother—at least, that’s how he perceives it.”

“That is absurd,” said Pendergast.

“Something happened between you and your brother at an early age: something so dreadful it twisted his already warped mind and set in motion the events he’s playing out now. Our analysis is missing a vital piece of information: what happened between you and Diogenes. And the memory of that event is locked up there.” Glinn pointed at Pendergast’s head.

“We’ve been through this before,” Pendergast replied stiffly. “I’ve already told you everything of importance that has passed between my brother and myself. I even submitted to a rather curious interview with the good Dr. Krasner here—without result. There is no hidden atrocity. I would remember: I have a photographic memory.”

“Forgive my disagreeing with you, but this event happened. It must have. There’s no other explanation.”

“I’m sorry, then. Because even if you’re right, I have no recollection of any such event—and there’s clearly no way for me to recall it. You’ve already tried and failed.”

Glinn tented his hands, looked down at them. For a moment, the room went still.

“I think there is a way,” he said without looking up.

When there was no response, Glinn raised his head again. “You’re schooled in a certain ancient discipline, a secret mystical philosophy practiced by a tiny order of monks in Bhutan and Tibet. One facet of this discipline is spiritual. Another is physical: a complex series of ritualized movements not unlike the kata of Shotokan karate. And still another is intellectual: a form of meditation, of concentration, that allows the practitioner to unleash the full potential of the human mind. I refer to the secret rituals of the Dzogchen and its even more rarefied practice, the Chongg Ran.”

“How did you come by this information?” Pendergast asked in a voice so cold D’Agosta felt his blood freeze.

“Agent Pendergast, please. The acquisition of knowledge is our primary stock-in-trade. In trying to learn more about you—for purposes of better understanding your brother—we have spoken to a great many people. One of them was Cornelia Delamere Pendergast, your great-aunt. Current residence: the Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Then there was a certain associate of yours, Miss Corrie Swanson, enrolled as a senior at Phillips Exeter Academy. She was a rather more difficult subject, but we ultimately learned what we needed to.”

Glinn regarded Pendergast with his Sphinx-like gaze. Pendergast returned the look, his pale cat’s eyes hardly blinking. The tension in the conference room increased rapidly; D’Agosta felt the hairs on his arms standing on end.

At last Pendergast spoke. “This prying into my private life goes far beyond the bounds of your employ.”

Glinn did not reply.

“I use the memory crossing in a strictly impersonal way—as a forensic tool, to re-create the scene of a crime or a historical event. That is all. It would have no value with such a . . . personal matter.”

“No value?” A dry tone of skepticism crept into Glinn’s voice.

“On top of that, it is a very difficult technique. Attempting to apply it here would be a waste of time. Just like the little game that Dr. Krasner tried to play with me.”

Glinn leaned forward again in his wheelchair, still staring at Pendergast. When he spoke, his voice carried a sudden urgency.

“Mr. Pendergast, isn’t it possible that the same event which has marred your brother so terribly—which turned him into a monster—scarred you as well? Isn’t it possible you have walled up its memory so completely that you no longer have any conscious recollection of it?”

“Mr. Glinn—”

“Tell me,” Glinn said, his voice growing louder. “Isn’t it possible?”

Pendergast looked at him, gray eyes glinting. “I suppose it is remotely possible.”

“If it is possible, and if this memory does exist, and if this memory will help us find that last missing piece, and if by doing so we can save lives and defeat your brother . . . isn’t it at least worth trying?”

The two men held each other’s gaze for less than a minute, but to D’Agosta it seemed to last forever. Then Pendergast looked down. His shoulders slumped visibly. Wordlessly he nodded.

“Then we must proceed,” Glinn went on. “What do you require?”

Pendergast did not reply for a moment. Then he seemed to rouse himself. “Privacy,” he said.

“Will the Berggasse studio suffice?”

“Yes.”

Pendergast placed both hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself upright. Without a glance at the others in the room, he turned and made his way back toward the room from which he’d emerged.

“Agent Pendergast . . . ?” Glinn said.

Hand on the doorknob, Pendergast half turned.

“I know how difficult this ordeal will be. But this is not the time for half measures. There can be no holding back. Whatever it is, it must be faced—and confronted—in its totality. Agreed?”

Pendergast nodded.

“Then good luck.”

A wintry smile passed briefly over the agent’s face. Then, without another word, he opened the door to the study and slipped out of sight.

48

Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward stood to the left of the Egyptian Hall entrance, gazing dubiously over the crowd. She had dressed in a dark suit, the better to blend in with the crowd, the only sign of her authority the tiny gold captain’s bars pinned to her lapel. Her weapon, a basic Smith & Wesson .38, was in its holster under her suit jacket.

The scene that greeted her eyes was one of textbook security. Her people, plainclothed and uniformed, were all at their appointed stations. They were the best she had—truly New York’s finest. The museum guard presence was there as well, deliberately obtrusive, adding at least a psychological sense of security. Manetti had so far been fully cooperative. The rest of the museum had been painstakingly secured. Hayward had run dozens of disaster scenarios through her head, drawing up plans to deal with every contingency, even the most unlikely: suicide bomber, fire, security system malfunction, power failure, computer failure.

The only weakness was the tomb itself—it had only one exit. But it was a large exit, and at the insistence of the NYC fire marshals, the tomb and all its contents had been specially fireproofed. She herself had made sure the tomb’s security doors could be opened or closed from the inside or outside, manually or electronically, even in the case of a total power failure. She had stood in the control room, occupying the empty room next to the tomb, and had operated the software that opened and closed the doors.

The toxicological teams had made not one sweep, not two, but three—the results uniformly negative. And now she stood, surveying the crowd, asking herself, What could possibly go wrong?

Her intellect answered loud and clear: Nothing.

But her gut sensed otherwise. She felt almost physically sick with unease. It was irrational; it made no sense.

Once more, she delved deep into her cop instincts, trying to discover the source of the feeling. As usual, her thoughts formed almost automatically into a list. And this time the list was all about Diogenes Pendergast.

Diogenes was alive.

He had kidnapped Viola Maskelene.

He had attacked Margo.

He had stolen the diamond collection—and then destroyed it.

He had probably been responsible for at least some of the killings ascribed to Pendergast.

He spent a great deal of time in the museum in some unknown capacity, most likely posing as a curator.

Both perps—Lipper and Wicherly—had been involved with the Tomb of Senef, and both had suddenly gone mad after being in the tomb. And yet a meticulous examination of the tomb and the hall had produced no evidence whatsoever of any kind of environmental or electrical problem—certainly nothing that could trigger psychotic breaks or brain damage. Was Diogenes somehow to blame? What on earth was he planning?

Against her will, her mind returned to the conversation she’d had with D’Agosta in her office days before. All of what he’s done so far—the killings, the kidnapping, the diamond theft—has been leading up to something else. Those had been his words. Something bigger, maybe much bigger.

She shivered. Her conjectures, her questions about Diogenes—it was all linked, it had to be. It was part of a plan.

But what was the plan?

Hayward hadn’t the slightest idea. And yet her gut told her it would happen tonight. It couldn’t be coincidence. This was the “something else” D’Agosta had talked about.

Her eyes traveled around the room, making contact with her people, one by one. As she did so, she picked out the many famous faces in the hall: the mayor, the speaker pro tem of the House, the governor, at least one of the state’s two senators. And there were many others: CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, Hollywood producers, a smattering of actors and television personalities. Then there were the museum staff she knew: Collopy, Menzies, Nora Kelly . . .

Her eyes moved to the PBS television crew, which had set up at one end of the hall and was filming the gala live. A second crew had set up inside the as-yet-unopened tomb, ready to film the first VIP tour of the exhibition and the sound-and-light show that would be part of it.

Yes—that would be part of the plan. Whatever was going to happen would happen live, with millions watching. And if Diogenes’s alter ego was a curator, or somebody else highly placed in the museum, he would have the power and the access necessary to engineer almost anything. But who could he be? Manetti’s careful probing of the museum’s personnel files turned up nothing. If only they had a picture of Diogenes that was less than twenty-five years old, a fingerprint, a bit of DNA . . .

What was the plan?

Her eye ended up at the closed door to the tomb, the steel now covered with a faux stone finish, a huge red ribbon stretched across its front.

Her feeling of sickness increased. And along with it came a desperate feeling of isolation. She had done everything in her power to stop, or at least postpone, this opening. But she had convinced nobody. Even Police Commissioner Rocker, her ally in the past, had demurred.

Was it all in her mind? Had the pressure finally gotten to her? If only she had someone who saw things her way, who understood the background, the true nature of Diogenes. Someone like D’Agosta.

D’Agosta. He had been ahead of her at every step of the investigation. He knew what was going to happen before it happened. Long before anyone else, he’d known the kind of criminal they were up against. He had insisted Diogenes was alive even when she and everyone else had “proved” he was dead.

And he knew the museum—knew it cold. He’d been involved in cases connected to the museum going back half a dozen years or more. He knew the players. God, if only he were here now . . . Not D’Agosta the man—that was over—but D’Agosta the cop.

She controlled her breathing. No point wishing for the impossible. She had done all she could. There was nothing left now but to wait, watch, and be ready to act.

Once again her eye roved the crowd, gauged the flow, examined each face for unnatural tension, excitement, anxiety.

Suddenly she froze. There, standing by the group of dignitaries near the podium, stood the tall figure of a woman: a woman she recognized.

All her alarm bells went off. Making an effort to control her voice, she raised her radio. “Manetti, Hayward here, do you read?”

“Copy.”

“Is that Viola Maskelene I’m looking at? Over by the podium.”

A pause. “That’s her.”

Hayward swallowed. “What’s she doing here?”

“She was hired to replace that Egyptologist, Wicherly.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. A day or two ago.”

“Who hired her?”

“Anthropology, I think.”

“Why wasn’t her name on the guest list?”

A hesitation. “I’m not sure. Probably because she was such a recent hire.”

Hayward wanted to say more. She wanted to curse into the radio. She wanted to demand to know why she hadn’t been told. But it was too late for all that. Instead, she merely said, “Over and out.”

The profile indicated that Diogenes isn’t through.

The whole gala opening looked like a meticulous setup—but for what?

D’Agosta’s words rang in her ears like a Klaxon. Something bigger, maybe much bigger.

Jesus, she needed D’Agosta—she needed him right now. He had the answers she didn’t.

She pulled out her personal phone, tried his cellular. No response.

She glanced at her watch: 7:15. The evening was still young. If she could find him, get him back here . . . Where the hell could he be? Once again, his words echoed in her mind:

There’s something else you ought to know. Have you heard of the forensic profiling firm of Effective Engineering Solutions, down on Little West 12th Street, run by an Eli Glinn? I’ve been spending most of my time down there recently, moonlighting . . .

It was just a chance—but it was better than nothing. It sure beat waiting here, twiddling her thumbs. With luck, she could be there and back in less than forty minutes.

She lifted her radio again. “Lieutenant Gault?”

“Copy.”

“I’m heading out briefly. You’re in charge.”

“There’s somebody I need to speak with. If anything—anything—out of the ordinary happens, you have my authority to shut this down. Totally. You understand?”

“Yes, Captain.”

She pocketed the radio and walked briskly out of the hall.

49

Pendergast stood in the small study, back pressed against the door, motionless. His eyes took in the rich furnishings: the couch covered with Persian rugs, the African masks, the side table, bookshelves, curious objets d’art.

He took a steadying breath. With a great effort of will, he made his way to the couch, lay down upon it slowly, folded his hands over his chest, crossed his ankles, and closed his eyes.

Over his professional career, Pendergast had found himself in many difficult and dangerous circumstances. And yet none of these equaled what he now faced in this little room.

He began with a series of simple physical exercises. He slowed his breathing and decelerated his heartbeat. He blocked out all external sensation: the rustle of the forced-air heating system, the faint smell of furniture polish, the pressure of the couch beneath him, his own corporeal awareness.

At last—when his respiration was barely discernible and his pulse hovered close to forty beats per minute—he allowed a chessboard to materialize before his mind’s eye. His hands drifted over the well-worn pieces. A white pawn was moved forward on the board. A black pawn responded. The game continued, moving to stalemate. Another game began, ending the same way. Then another game, and another . . .

. . . but without the expected result. Pendergast’s memory palace—the storehouse of knowledge and information in which he kept his most personal secrets, and from which he carried out his most profound meditation and introspection—did not materialize before him.

Mentally, Pendergast switched games, moving from chess to bridge. Now, instead of setting two players against each other, he posited four, playing as partners, with the infinity of strategy, signals both missed and made, and plays of the hand that could result. Quickly he played through a rubber, then another.

The memory palace refused to appear. It remained out of reach, shifting, insubstantial.

Pendergast waited, reducing his heartbeat and respiration still further. Such a failure had never occurred before.

Now, delving into one of the most difficult of the Chongg Ran exercises, he mentally detached his consciousness from his body, then rose above it, floating incorporeal in space. Without opening his eyes, he re-created a virtual construct of the room in which he lay, imagining every object in its place, until the entire room had materialized in his mind, complete to the last detail. He lingered over it for several moments. And then, piece by piece, he proceeded to remove the furnishings, the carpeting, the wallpaper, until at last everything was gone once again.

But he did not stop there. Next, he proceeded to remove all the bustling city that surrounded the room: initially, structure by structure, then block by block, and then neighborhood by neighborhood, the act of intellectual oblivion gaining speed as it raced outward in all directions. Counties next; then states; nations, the world, the universe, all fell away into blackness.

Within minutes, everything was gone. Only Pendergast himself remained, floating in an infinite void. He then willed his own body to disappear, consumed by darkness. The universe was now entirely empty, stripped clean of all thought, all pain and memory, all tangible existence. He had reached the state known as Sunyata: for a moment—or was it an eternity?—time itself ceased to exist.

And then at last, the ancient mansion on Dauphine Street began to materialize in his mind: the Maison de la Rochenoire, the house in which he and Diogenes had grown up. Pendergast stood on the old cobbled street before it, gazing through the high wrought-iron fence to the mansion’s mansard roofs, oriel windows, widow’s walk, battlements, and stone pinnacles. High brick walls on one side hid lush, interior parterre gardens.

In his mind, Pendergast opened the huge iron gates and walked up the front drive, pausing on the portico. The whitewashed double doors lay open before him, giving onto the grand foyer.

After a moment of uncharacteristic indecision, he stepped through the doors and onto the marble floor of the hall. A huge crystal chandelier sparkled brilliantly overhead, hovering beneath the trompe l’oeil ceiling. Ahead, a double curved staircase with elaborately beaded newels swept up toward the second-floor gallery. On the left, closed doors led into the long, low-ceilinged exhibition hall; on the right lay the open doorway into a dim, wood-paneled library.

Although the real family mansion had been burned to the ground by a New Orleans mob many years before, Pendergast had retained this virtual mansion within his memory ever since: an intellectual artifact, perfect down to the last detail; a storehouse in which he kept not only his own experiences and observations, but innumerable family secrets as well. Normally, entering into this palace of memory was a tranquilizing, calming experience: each drawer of each cabinet of each room held some past event, or some personal reflection on history or science, to be perused at leisure. Today, however, Pendergast felt a profound unease, and it was only with the greatest mental effort he was able to keep the mansion cohesive in his mind.

He crossed the foyer and mounted the stairs to the wide second-floor hallway. Hesitating only briefly at the landing, he moved down the tapestried corridor, the broad sweep of the rose-colored walls broken at intervals by marble niches or ancient gilt frames containing portraits in oils. The smell of the mansion now swept over him: a combination of old fabric and leather, furniture polish, his mother’s perfume, his father’s Latakia tobacco.

Near the center of this hallway lay the heavy oak door to his own room. But he did not proceed that far. Instead, he stopped at the door just before it: a door that, strangely, had been sealed in lead and covered with a sheet of hammered brass, its edges nailed into the surrounding door frame.

This was the room of his brother, Diogenes. Pendergast himself had mentally sealed this door years before, locking the room forever inside the memory palace. It was the one room into which he had promised himself never again to enter.

And yet—if Eli Glinn was right—he must enter it. There was no choice.

As Pendergast paused outside the door, hesitating, he became aware that his pulse and respiration were increasing at an alarming rate. The walls of the mansion around him flickered and glowed, growing brighter, then fading, like the filament of a lightbulb failing under too much current. He was losing his elaborate mental construct. He made a supreme effort to concentrate, to calm his mind, and managed to steady the image around him.

He had to move quickly: the memory crossing could shatter at any moment under the force of his own emotions. He could not maintain the necessary concentration indefinitely.

He willed a pry bar, chisel, and mallet to appear in his hands. He wedged the pry bar under the brass sheet, pulling it away from the door frame, moving around the four sides until he had pried it off. Dropping the bar, he took up the chisel and mallet and began hammering loose the soft lead that had been packed in the cracks between the door and the frame, digging and carving it out in chunks. He worked rapidly, trying to lose himself in the task, thinking of nothing but the job at hand.

Within minutes, curls of lead lay over the carpeting. Now the only impediment to what lay on the far side of the door was its heavy lock.

Pendergast stepped forward, tried the handle. Normally, he would have picked it with the set of tools he always carried with him. But there was no time even for this: any pause, however brief, might be fatal. He stepped back, raised his foot, aimed at a point just below the lock, and gave the door a savage kick. It flew back, slamming against the interior wall with a crash. Pendergast stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. The room of Diogenes, his brother, lay beyond.

And yet there was nothing visible. The mellow light of the hallway did not penetrate the infinite gloom. The doorway was a rectangle of blackness.

Pendergast tossed aside the chisel and mallet. A moment’s thought brought a powerful flashlight into his hand. He snapped on the light and pointed the beam into the gloom, which seemed to suck the very light out of the air.

Pendergast tried to take a step forward but found he could not will his limbs to move. He stood there, on the threshold, for what seemed like an eternity. The house began to wobble, the walls evaporating as if made of air, and he realized he was once again losing the memory palace. He knew if he lost it now, he’d never return. Ever.

It was only by a final act of supreme will—the most focused, draining, and difficult moment he had ever faced—that Pendergast forced himself over the threshold.

He stopped again just beyond, prematurely exhausted, playing the flashlight around, forcing the beam to lick ever farther into the darkness. It was not the room he expected to find. Instead, he was at the top of a narrow stairway of undressed stone, winding down into the living rock, twisting deeply into the earth.

At this sight, something dark stirred within Pendergast’s mind: a rough beast that had slumbered, undisturbed, for over thirty years. For a moment, he felt himself falter and his will fail. The walls trembled like a candle flame in the wind.

He recovered. He had no choice now but to go forward. Taking a fresh grip on the flashlight, he began to descend the worn, slippery steps of stone: deeper, ever deeper, into a maw of shame, regret—and infinite horror.

50

Pendergast descended the staircase, the smell of the sub-basement coming up to him: a cloying odor of damp, mold, iron rust, and death. The staircase ended in a dark tunnel. The mansion had one of the few belowground basements in New Orleans—created at great expense and labor by the monks who originally built the structure, and who had lined the walls with sheets of hammered lead and carefully fitted stone to make cellars for aging their wines and brandies.

The Pendergast family had converted it to another use entirely.

In his mind, Pendergast made his way down the tunnel, which opened onto a broad, low open space, the irregular floor part earth, part stone, with a groined ceiling. The walls were encrusted with niter, and dim marble crypts, elaborately carved in Victorian and Edwardian style, filled the expanse, separated from one another by narrow walkways of brick.

Suddenly he became aware of a presence in the room: a small shadow. Then he heard the shadow speak with a seven-year-old voice: “Are you sure you want to keep going?”

With another shock, Pendergast realized there was a second figure in the dim space: taller, more slender, with white-blond hair. He felt chilled to the bone—it was himself, nine years old. He heard his own smooth, childish voice speak: “You’re not afraid?”

“No. Of course not,” came the small, defiant return—the voice of his brother, Diogenes.

“Well, then.”

Pendergast watched as the two dim figures made their way through the necropolis, candles in hand, the taller one leading the way.

He felt a rising dread. He didn’t remember this at all—and yet he knew something fearful was about to happen.

The fair-haired figure began examining the carved fronts of the tombs, reading the Latin inscriptions in a high, clear voice. They had both taken to Latin with great enthusiasm. Diogenes, Pendergast remembered, had always been the better Latin student; his teacher thought him a genius.

“Here’s an odd one,” said the older boy. “Take a look, Diogenes.”

The smaller figure crept up and read:

ERASMUS LONGCHAMPS PENDERGAST

1840 - 1932

De mortiis aut bene aut nihil

“Do you recognize the line?”

“Horace?” said the younger figure. “‘Of the dead’ . . . hmmm . . . ‘speak well or say nothing.’”

After a silence, the older boy said, with a touch of condescension, “Bravo, little brother.”

“I wonder,” asked Diogenes, “what it was about his life he didn’t want talked about?”

Pendergast remembered his youthful rivalry with his brother over Latin . . . one in which he was eventually left far behind.

They moved on to an elaborate double crypt, a sarcophagus in the Roman style topped with a man and woman in marble, both laid out in death with hands crossed on their breasts.

“Louisa de Nemours Prendergast. Henri Prendergast. Nemo nisi mors,” read the older boy. “Let’s see . . . That must be ‘Till death do us part.’”

The smaller boy had already moved to another tombstone. Crouching, he read, “Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum, Multa recedentes adimiunt.” He looked up. “Well, Aloysius, what do you make of that?”

A silence followed, and then the response came, bravely but a little uncertain. “‘Many years come to make us comfortable, many receding years diminish us.’”

The translation was greeted with a sarcastic snicker. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Of course it does.”

“No, it doesn’t. ‘Many receding years diminish us’? That’s nonsense. I think it means something like ‘The years, as they come, bring many comforts. As they recede, they . . .’” He paused. “Adimiunt?”

“Just what I said: diminish,” said the older boy.

“‘As they recede, they diminish us,’” finished Diogenes. “In other words, when you’re young, the years bring good. But as you grow old, the years take it all away again.”

“That makes no more sense than mine,” said Aloysius, annoyance in his voice. He moved on toward the back of the necropolis, down another narrow row of crypts, reading more names and inscriptions. At the end of the cul-de-sac, he paused at a marble door set into the back wall, a rusted metal grate over it.

“Look at this tomb,” he said.

Diogenes came up close, peered at it with his candle. “Where’s the inscription?”

“There isn’t one. But it’s a crypt. It’s got to be a door.” Aloysius reached up, gave the grate a pull. Nothing. He pushed at it, pulled it, and then picked up a stray fragment of marble and began tapping around its edges. “Maybe it’s empty.”

“Maybe it’s meant for us,” the younger boy said, a ghoulish gleam appearing in his eyes.

“It’s hollow back there.” Aloysius redoubled his tapping and gave the grate another tug—and then suddenly, with a grinding sound, it opened. The two stood there, frightened.

“Oh, the stink!” said Diogenes, backing up and holding his nose.

And now Pendergast, deep within his mental construct, smelled it, too—an indescribable odor, foul, like a rotten, fungus-covered liver. He swallowed as the walls of the memory palace wavered, then came back into solidity.

Aloysius shone his candle into the freshly exposed space. It wasn’t a crypt at all, but rather a large storage room, set into the rear of the sub-basement. The flickering light played off an array of strange contraptions made of brass, wood, and glass.

“What’s in there?” Diogenes said, creeping back up behind his brother.

“See for yourself.”

Diogenes peered in. “What are they?”

“Machines,” the older brother said positively, as if he knew.

“Are you going in?”

“Naturally.” Aloysius stepped through the doorway and turned. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I guess so.”

Pendergast, from the shadows, watched them go in.

The two boys stood in the room. The lead walls were streaked with whitish oxides. The space was packed floor-to-ceiling with contraptions: boxes painted with grimacing faces; old hats, ropes, and moth-eaten scarves; rusted chains and brass rings; cabinets, mirrors, capes, and wands. Cobwebs and thick layers of dust draped everything. At one end, propped up sideways, stood a sign, painted in garish colors and embellished with curlicues, a pair of pointing hands, and other nineteenth-century American carnival flourishes.

Late from the Great Halls of Europe

The Illustrious and Celebrated Mesmerist

PROFESSOR COMSTOCK PENDERGAST

Presents

THE GRAND THEATRE AND ILLUMINATED PHANTASMAGORIA

Of

Magick, Illusion, and Prestidigitation

Pendergast stood in the shadows of his own memory, filled with the helpless foreboding of nightmare, watching the scene unfold. At first the two boys explored cautiously, their candlelight throwing elongated shadows among the boxes and piles of bizarre devices.

“Do you know what all this is?” whispered Aloysius.

“What?”

“We’ve found all the stuff from Great-Grand-Uncle Comstock’s magic show.”

“Who’s Great-Grand-Uncle Comstock?”

“Only the most famous magician in the history of the world. He trained Houdini himself.”

Aloysius touched a cabinet, ran his hand down to a knob, and cautiously pulled out a drawer: it contained a pair of manacles. He opened another drawer, which seemed to stick, and then it gave with a sudden pop! A pair of mice shot out of the drawer and scurried off.

Aloysius moved on to the next item, his younger brother following close behind. It was a coffin-like box standing upright, with a screaming man painted on the lid, numerous bloody holes piercing his body. He opened it with a groan of rusty hinges to reveal an interior studded with wrought-iron spikes.

“That looks more like torture than magic,” said Diogenes.

“There’s dried blood on those spikes.”

Diogenes peered closely, fear temporarily overcome by a strange eagerness. Then he stepped back again. “That’s just paint.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know dried blood when I see it.”

Aloysius moved on. “Look at that.” He pointed to an object in the far corner. It was a huge box, much larger than the others, rising from floor to ceiling, the size of a small room itself. It was garishly painted in red and gold with a grinning demon’s face on the front. Flanking the demon were odd things—a hand, a bloodshot eye, a finger—floating against the crimson background almost like severed body parts loosed in a tide of blood. Arched over a door cut into the side was a legend painted in gold and black:

The Doorway to Hell

“If it were my show,” said Aloysius, “I would have given it a much grander name, something more like ‘The Gates of the Inferno.’ ‘The Doorway to Hell’ sounds boring.” He turned to Diogenes. “Your turn to go first.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I went first last time.”

“Then you can go first again.”

“No,” said Aloysius. “I don’t care to.” He put his hand on the door and gave Diogenes a nudge with his elbow.

“Don’t open it. Something might happen.”

Aloysius opened it to reveal a dim, stifling interior, lined with what looked like black velvet. A brass ladder stood just inside, disappearing up through a hatch in a low false ceiling set into the box.

“I could dare you to go in there,” Aloysius went on, “but I’m not going to. I don’t believe in childish games. If you want to go in, go in.”

“Why don’t you go in?”

“I freely admit it to you: I’m nervous.”

With a creeping feeling of shame, Pendergast could see his knack for psychological persuasion, already developed as a boy, coming into play. He wanted to see what was in there—but he wanted Diogenes to go in first.

“You’re scared?” Diogenes asked.

“That’s right. So the only way we’re ever going to know what’s in there is if you go in first. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Scared?”

“No.” The quaver in his high-pitched voice said otherwise.

Pendergast reflected bitterly that Diogenes, who was only seven, hadn’t yet learned that truth is the safest lie.

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“I . . . I don’t feel like it.”

Aloysius snickered dryly. “I admitted I was scared. If you’re scared, say so, and we’ll go back upstairs and forget all about it.”

“I’m not scared. It’s just some stupid fun house.”

Pendergast watched, horrified, as his childish doppelganger reached over and grasped Diogenes by the shoulders. “Go ahead, then.”

“Don’t touch me!”

Firmly and gently, Aloysius urged him through the little doorway of the box and crowded in behind him, blocking his retreat. “As you said, it’s just some stupid fun house.”

“I don’t want to stay in here.”

They were both inside the first compartment in the box, jammed up against each other. Clearly, the fun house was meant to admit one adult at a time, not two half-grown children.

“Get going, brave Diogenes. I’ll be right behind.”

Wordlessly, Diogenes began to climb the little brass ladder, and Aloysius followed.

Pendergast watched them disappear as the hinged box door closed automatically behind them. His heart was beating so hard in his chest he thought it might explode at any moment. The walls of his memory construct flickered and shook. It was almost unbearable.

But he could not stop now. Something terrible was about to happen, but what exactly he still hadn’t the slightest idea. He had not yet excavated that deeply into old, repressed memories. He had to keep going.

In his mind, he opened the box door and climbed the brass ladder himself, passing into a crawl space above, which turned horizontally and gave onto a low chamber above the false ceiling but below the top of the box. The two boys were there ahead of him, Diogenes in the lead. He was crawling toward a circular porthole in the far wall of the crawl space. Diogenes hesitated at the entrance to the porthole.

“Go on!” Aloysius urged.

The little boy glanced back once at his brother, a strange expression in his eyes. Then he crawled through the porthole and disappeared.

Moving toward the porthole himself, Aloysius paused, peering round with the candle, apparently noticing for the first time that the walls seemed to be covered with photographs shellacked to the wood.

“Aren’t you coming?” came a small, scared, angry voice from the darkness beyond. “You promised you would stay right behind me.”

Pendergast, watching, felt himself begin to shake uncontrollably.

“Yes, yes. I’m coming.”

The young Aloysius crept up to the round, dark portal, looked inside—but went no farther.

“Hey! Where are you?” came the muffled cry from the darkness beyond. Then suddenly: “What’s happening? What’s this?” A shrill boyish scream cut through the little chamber like a scalpel. Ahead, through the porthole, Pendergast saw a light appear; saw the floor tip; saw Diogenes slide to the far end of a small room and tumble into a lighted pit below. There was a sudden low sound, like the rumble of an animal—and dreadful, unspeakable images appeared within the pit—and then with a swift thunk! the porthole snapped shut, blocking his view.

“No!” screamed Diogenes from deep within. “Nooooooo!”

And then quite suddenly, Pendergast remembered all. It came rushing back in perfect, exquisite detail, every hideous second, every moment of the most terrifying experience in his life.

He remembered the Event.

As the memory crashed over him like a tidal wave, he felt his brain overload, his neurons shut down—and he lost control of the memory crossing. The mansion trembled, shivered, and exploded in his mind, the walls igniting and flying apart, a huge roar filling his head, the great palace of memory blazing off into the darkness of infinite space, dissolving into glittering shards of light like meteors streaking into the void. For a brief moment, the anguished cries of Diogenes continued from out of the limitless gulf—then they, too, fell away and all was quiet once again.

51

Warden Gordon Imhof glanced around the table of the spartan conference room deep within Herkmoor’s Command Block, microphone clipped to his lapel. All things considered, he felt good. The response to the breakout had been immediate and overwhelming. Everything had worked like clockwork, by the book: as soon as the Code Red was given, the entire complex had been electronically locked down, all ingress and egress halted. The escapees had run around for a time like headless chickens—theirs had been a totally senseless escape plan—and within forty minutes they had all been rounded up and put back either in their cells or in the infirmary. The obligatory anklet sensor check, which ran automatically every time a Code Red was suspended, confirmed that all prisoners in the complex were accounted for.

In the corrections business, Imhof mused, the way to get noticed was through a crisis. A crisis created visibility. Depending on how the crisis was handled, it created an advancement opportunity or a ruined career. This particular one had been handled flawlessly: a single guard hurt (and not badly at that), no hostages taken, nobody killed or seriously injured. Under his leadership, Herkmoor had retained its flawless no-escape record.

Imhof glanced at the clock, waited for the second hand to sweep around to exactly 7:30. Coffey hadn’t shown up, but he wasn’t going to wait. The truth was, the smug FBI agent and his lackey had really begun to get on his nerves.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “let me start this meeting by saying to all of you: well done.”

A murmuring and a vague shifting greeted this opening.

“Today, Herkmoor faced an extraordinary challenge—a mass escape attempt. At two-eleven P.M., nine inmates cut the fence in one of the building C exercise yards and fanned out through the inner perimeter fields. One got as far as the security station at the south end of building B. The cause of the breakout is still under investigation. Suffice to say, it appears that the prisoners in yard 4 were not under direct guard supervision at the time of the escape, for reasons that remain unclear.”

He paused, giving the group around the table a stern look. “We will be addressing that failure in the course of this debriefing.”

Then he relaxed his features. “Overall, the response to the escape attempt was immediate and by the book. First responders were at the scene at two-fourteen and a Code Red was immediately sounded. More than fifty guards were mobilized for the response. In well under an hour, every single escapee had been recaptured and all prisoners had been accounted for. By three-oh-one, the Code Red had ended. Herkmoor returned to business as usual.”

He paused for a moment. “Once again, I offer my congratulations to all involved. Everyone can relax, this is merely a pro forma meeting—as you know, a formal debriefing is required by regulation to occur within twelve hours of any Code Red. I apologize for keeping you here past your normal workday: let’s see if we can’t tie up any loose ends quickly so we can all get home to dinner. I urge any of you with questions to ask them as we proceed. Do not stand on ceremony.”

He looked around the room. “I call first on building C security manager James Rollo. Jim, could you talk about the role of Officer Sidesky? There seems to be some confusion about that.”

A man with a pour-over belly arose with the sound of jingling keys, adjusted his belt with more jingling. His face had assumed a stolid look of high seriousness.

“Thank you, sir. As you mentioned, the Code Red was sounded at two-fourteen. The first responders came from guard station 7. Four responded, leaving Officer Sidesky to man the guard station. It appears one of the escapees overpowered Officer Sidesky, drugged him, tied him up, and left him in the nearby men’s room. He’s still disoriented, but as soon as he is lucid we’ll get a statement.”

“Very well.”

At this point, a restless-looking man in a nurse’s uniform rose. “I’m Staff Nurse Kidder, sir, in charge of the building B infirmary.”

Imhof looked at him. “Yes?”

“There seems to have been some kind of mix-up. Early in the escape attempt, the EMTs brought down an injured guard claiming to be Sidesky, in uniform with his badge and ID. He then disappeared.”

“That’s easily explained,” said Rollo. “We found Sidesky without his uniform and badge. He must have left the infirmary. And then, evidently, one of the prisoners must have stripped Sidesky after knocking him out.”

“That sounds logical to me,” said Imhof. He hesitated. “Only thing is, all the escapees were apprehended in their prison garb. None were wearing uniforms.”

Rollo rubbed his wattle. “The prisoner who stripped Sidesky probably didn’t have time to put on the uniform.”

“That must be it,” said Imhof. “Mr. Rollo, please record those items as missing: uniform, badge, and ID belonging to Sidesky. I expect they’ll be found in the trash or in a dark corner somewhere. Can’t have them falling into prisoner hands.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mystery solved. Continue, Mr. Rollo.”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” said Kidder, “but I’m not sure the mystery is solved. This man claiming to be Sidesky was left in the infirmary awaiting the radiologist while I attended to some of the escapees. He had several broken ribs, contusions, a facial laceration, a—”

“We don’t need the complete diagnosis, Kidder.”

“Right, sir. Anyway, he was in no condition to go anywhere. And when I returned, Sidesky—I mean, the guy claiming to be Sidesky—had disappeared, and in his bed was the corpse of the prisoner, Carlos Lacarra.”

“Lacarra?” Imhof frowned. He hadn’t heard this part before.

“That’s right. Someone had moved his cadaver and stuck him in Sidesky’s bed.”

“Somebody’s idea of a joke?”

“I don’t know, sir. I was wondering if . . . well, if it could be involved with the escape attempt somehow.”

There was a silence.

“If so,” Imhof finally said, “then we’re dealing with a more sophisticated plan than we initially assumed. But the bottom line is this: every single escapee was recaptured and is accounted for. We’ll be interrogating them in the days ahead to unravel exactly what happened.”

“One other thing troubles me,” Kidder went on. “During the escape, a morgue-mobile arrived to take Lacarra’s body away. It was kept waiting outside the gates until the Code Red came down.”

“And?”

“When the code was called off, the ambulance came in and loaded the body. The chief physician witnessed the loading and signed the papers.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem, sir, is that it wasn’t until fifteen minutes later that I found Lacarra’s body in Sidesky’s bed.”

Imhof raised his eyebrows. “So the wrong stiff got picked up in the confusion. That’s understandable. Don’t be too hard on yourself, Kidder. Just call the hospital and sort it out.”

“I did that, sir. And when I called the hospital, they said our call to pick up the body this morning was canceled right after it came in. They swear they never even sent a morgue-mobile.”

Imhof snorted. “That damn hospital is always screwing up, a dozen layers of administrators who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. Call them back in the morning, tell them we sent them the wrong stiff and they should go look for it.” He shook his head in disgust.

“But that’s just the problem, sir. We didn’t have any other corpse at Herkmoor. I can’t figure out what cadaver went to the hospital.”

“You say the chief physician signed the papers?”

“Yes. He went home at the end of his shift.”

“We’ll get a statement from him tomorrow. No doubt we’ll straighten out this confusion in the morning. Anyway, it’s tangential to the escape attempt. Let’s get on with the debriefing.”

Kidder fell silent, his face troubled.

“All right. The next question is why the yard seemed to have no supervision at the time of the breakout. My time sheets show Fecteau and Doyle were on yard 4 duty at the time of the escape. Fecteau, could you please explain your absence?”

A very nervous guard at the far end of the table cleared his voice. “Yes, sir. Officer Doyle and I had yard duty that day—”

“The nine prisoners were escorted to the yard on schedule?”

“Yes, sir. They arrived at two P.M. sharp.”

“Where were you?”

“At our yard posts, just as required.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, about five minutes later, we got the call from Special Agent Coffey.”

“Coffey called you?” Imhof was truly astonished. This was way out of line. He glanced around: Coffey still hadn’t shown up.

“Tell us about the call, Fecteau.”

“He said he needed us right away. We explained we were on yard duty, but he insisted.”

Imhof felt his anger rising. Coffey had told him nothing about this. “Tell us Agent Coffey’s exact words, please.”

Fecteau hesitated, colored. “Well, sir, he said something like ‘If you’re not here in ninety seconds, I’ll have you transferred to North Dakota.’ Something like that, sir. I tried to explain that we were the only two on yard duty, but he cut me off.”

“He threatened you?”

“Basically, yes.”

“And so you left the yard unattended, without checking with either the chief of security or me?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought he must have authorized it with you.”

“Why in hell, Fecteau, would I authorize the removal of the only two guards on yard duty, leaving a gang of prisoners to their own devices?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I assumed it was . . . because of the special prisoner.”

“The special prisoner? What are you talking about?”

“Well . . .” Fecteau had begun to stumble over his words. “The special prisoner who had exercise privileges in yard 4.”

“Yes, but he never made it to yard 4. He remained in his cell.”

“Um, no, sir. We saw him in yard 4.”

Imhof took a deep breath. Things were more screwed up than he had thought. “Fecteau, you’re getting confused. The prisoner remained in his cell all day and was never escorted to yard 4. I checked on it personally during the code—I have the electronic logs right here. The anklet scans show he never left solitary.”

“Well, sir, my best recollection is that the special prisoner was there.” He cast an inquiring glance toward the other guard, Doyle, who looked equally flummoxed.

“Doyle?” Imhof asked sharply.

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t ‘yes, sir’ me, I want to know: did you see the special prisoner in yard 4 today?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, that’s my recollection, sir.”

A long silence. Imhof screwed his eye around to Rollo, but the man was already murmuring into his radio. It took only moments for the security manager to put it aside and look up again. “According to the electronic monitor, the special prisoner’s still in his cell. Never left it.”

“Better send someone to do a cell check, just to make sure.” Imhof boiled with fury at Coffey. Where the hell was he? This was all his fault.

As if on cue, the door flew open and there was Special Agent Coffey, trailed by Rabiner.

“It’s about time,” said Imhof darkly.

“It certainly is about time,” said Coffey, striding into the room, face red. “I left specific orders for the special prisoner to be put into yard 4, and now I find out it was never done. Imhof, when I give an order, I expect it to be—”

Imhof rose. He’d had it with this asshole, and he wasn’t going to let him bully him, especially in front of his staff. “Agent Coffey,” he said in an icy voice, “we had a serious escape attempt today, as you surely know.”

“That’s no concern of—”

“We are conducting a debriefing related to said escape. You are interrupting. If you will sit down and await your turn to speak, we will continue.”

Coffey remained standing, looking at him, face turning red. “I don’t appreciate being addressed in that tone of voice.”

“Agent Coffey, I am asking you one more time to sit down and allow this debriefing to continue. If you continue to speak out of turn, I will have you removed from the premises.”

A thunderstruck silence ensued. Coffey’s face contorted with fury and he turned to Rabiner. “You know what? I think our presence at this meeting is no longer required.” He swiveled back to Imhof. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

“Your presence certainly is required. I have two guards here who say you gave them orders and threatened them with termination if they didn’t obey—despite the fact that you have absolutely no authority here. As a result, prisoners were left unattended and attempted escape. You, sir, are responsible for the escape attempt. I make this statement for the record.”

Another electric silence. Coffey looked around, the imperious look on his face softening as he began to absorb the seriousness of the accusation. His eyes locked on the tape recorder in the middle of the table, the microphones in front of each seat.

Stiffly Coffey sat down, swallowed. “I’m sure we can straighten out this, ah, misunderstanding, Mr. Imhof. There’s no need to make rash accusations.”

In the ensuing silence, Rollo’s radio chimed—he was receiving the callback about the cell check for the special prisoner. As Imhof watched, the security manager lifted the radio to his ear and listened, his face gradually turning a slack, dead white.

52

Glinn glanced down at Special Agent Pendergast. He lay unmoving on the couch of burgundy-colored leather, arms over his chest, ankles crossed. He had been like that for almost twenty minutes. With his unnaturally pale complexion and gaunt features, the man looked remarkably like a corpse. The only signs of life were the beads of sweat that had sprung out across Pendergast’s forehead and a faint trembling in his hands.

His body jerked once, suddenly, then fell still. The eyes slowly opened—remarkably bloodshot, the pupils like pinpricks in the silvery irises.

Glinn wheeled forward, leaned close. Something had happened. The memory crossing was over.

“You stay. Alone,” Pendergast said in a husky whisper. “Send Lieutenant D’Agosta and Dr. Krasner away.”

Glinn closed the door quietly behind him, turned the lock. “Done.”

“What is to come . . . must take the form of an interrogatory. You will ask questions. I will answer them. There is no other way. I . . .” And here the whisper stopped for a long moment. “I am unable to speak about what I have just witnessed—voluntarily.”

“Understood.”

Pendergast lay silent. After a moment, Glinn spoke again. “You have something to tell me.”

“Yes.”

“About your brother, Diogenes.”

“Yes.”

“The Event.”

A pause. “Yes.”

Glinn glanced at the ceiling, where a tiny camera and high-gain microphone were concealed. Reaching into his pocket, he pressed a small remote control, deactivating them. Some inner sense told him that whatever was to come should remain solely the province of their collective memory.

He inched his wheelchair forward. “You were there.”

“Yes.”

“You and your brother. No others.”

“No others.”

“What was the date?”

Another pause. “The date is not important.”

“Let me decide that.”

“It was spring. The bougainvillea was in bloom outside. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“And your brother must have been seven, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Location?”

“Maison de la Rochenoire, our ancestral home on Dauphine Street, New Orleans.”

“And what were you doing?”

“Exploring.”

“Go on.”

Pendergast was silent. Glinn remembered his words: You will ask questions. I will answer them.

He cleared his throat quietly. “Did you frequently explore the house?”

“It was a large mansion. It had many secrets.”

“How long had it been in the family?”

“It had originally been a monastery, but an ancestor purchased it in the 1750s.”

“And which ancestor was that?”

“Augustus Robespierre Pendergast. He spent decades refashioning it.”

Glinn knew most of this, of course. But it had seemed better to keep Pendergast talking for a bit—and answering the easy questions—before venturing deeper. Now he would penetrate.

“And where were you exploring on this particular day?” he asked.

“The sub-basements.”

“Were they one of the secrets?”

“My parents didn’t know we had found our way into them.”

“But you had discovered a way.”

“Diogenes did.”

“And he shared it with you.”

“No. I—followed him once.”

“That’s when he told you.”

A pause. “I made him tell me.”

The sweat was thicker on Pendergast’s brow now, and Glinn did not press this point. “Describe the sub-basements to me.”

“They were reached through a false wall in the basement.”

“And beyond, a staircase leading down?”

“Yes.”

“What was at the bottom of the staircase?”

Another pause. “A necropolis.”

Glinn paused a moment to master his surprise. “And you were exploring this necropolis?”

“Yes. We were reading inscriptions on the family tombs. That is how . . . how it started.”

“You found something?”

“The entrance to a secret chamber.”

“And what was inside?”

“The magical equipment of my ancestor, Comstock Pendergast.”

Glinn paused again. “Comstock Pendergast, the magician?”

“Yes.”

“So he stored his stage equipment in the sub-basement?”

“No. My family hid it there.”

“Why did they do that?”

“Because much of the equipment was dangerous.”

“But while you were exploring the room, you didn’t know that.”

“No. Not at first.”

“At first?”

“Some of the devices looked strange. Cruel. We were young, we didn’t fully understand . . .” Pendergast hesitated.

“What happened next?” Glinn asked gently.

“In the back, we found a large box.”

“Describe it.”

“Very large—almost the size of a small room itself—but portable. It was garish. Red and gold. The face of a demon was painted on its side. There were words above the face.”

“What did the words say?”

“‘The Doorway to Hell.’”

Pendergast was trembling slightly now, and Glinn let some more time pass before speaking again. “Did the box have an entrance?”

“Yes.”

“And you went inside.”

“Yes. No.”

“You mean, Diogenes went first?”

“Yes.”

“Willingly?”

Another long pause. “No.”

“You goaded him,” Glinn said.

“That, and . . .” Pendergast stopped once more.

“You used force?”

“Yes.”

Glinn now kept utterly still. He did not allow even the slightest squeak of the wheelchair to break the tense atmosphere.

“Why?”

“He had been sarcastic, as usual. I was angry with him. If there was something a little frightening . . . I wanted him to go first.”

“So Diogenes crawled inside. And you followed him.”

“Yes.”

“What did you find?”

Pendergast’s mouth worked, but it was some time before the words emerged. “A ladder. Leading up to a crawl space above.”

“Describe it.”

“Dark. Stifling. Photographs on the walls.”

“Go on.”

“There was a porthole in the rear wall, leading into another room. Diogenes went first.”

Watching Pendergast, Glinn hesitated, then said, “You made him go first?”

“Yes.”

“And you followed.”

“I . . . I was about to.”

“What stopped you?”

Pendergast gave a sudden, spasmodic twitch, but did not answer.

“What stopped you?” Glinn pressed suddenly.

“The show began. Inside the box. Inside, where Diogenes was.”

“A show of Comstock’s devising?”

“Yes.”

“What was its purpose?”

Another twitch. “To frighten someone to death.”

Glinn leaned back slowly in his wheelchair. He had, as part of his research, studied Pendergast’s ancestry, and among his many colorful antecedents Comstock stood out. He had been the agent’s great-grand-uncle, in his youth a famed magician, mesmerist, and creator of illusions. As he grew old, however, he became increasingly bitter and misanthropic. Like so many of his relatives, he ended his days in an asylum.

So this was where Comstock’s madness had led.

“Tell me how it began,” he said.

“I don’t know. The floor tilted or collapsed beneath Diogenes. He fell into a lower chamber.”

“Deeper into the box?”

“Yes, back down to the first level. That was where the . . . show took place.”

“Describe it,” Glinn said.

Suddenly Pendergast moaned—a moan of such anguish, such long-repressed suffering, that Glinn was for a moment left speechless.

“Describe it,” he urged again as soon as he could speak.

“I only had a glimpse, I didn’t really see it. And then . . . they closed around me.”

“They?”

“Mechanisms. Driven by secret springs. One behind me, shutting off escape. Another that locked Diogenes inside the inner chamber.”

Pendergast fell silent again. The pillow beneath his head was now soaked in perspiration.

“But for a moment . . . you saw what Diogenes saw.”

Pendergast lay still. Then—very slowly—he inclined his head. “Only for a moment. But I heard it all. All of it.”

“What was it?”

“A magic-lantern show,” Pendergast whispered. “A phantasmagoria. Operated by voltaic cell. It was . . . Comstock’s specialty.”

Glinn nodded. He knew something of this. Magic-lanterns were devices that passed light through sheets of glass onto which images had been etched. Projected onto a slowly rotating wall with uneven surfaces to reinforce the illusion, and supplemented by sinister music and repetitious voices, it was the nineteenth-century equivalent of the horror movie.

“Well then, what did you see?”

Abruptly the agent leaped from the couch, suddenly full of feverish action. He paced the room, hands clenching and unclenching. Then he turned toward Glinn. “I beg you, do not ask me that.”

He mastered himself with a supreme effort, still pacing the room like a caged beast.

“Go on, please,” said Glinn tonelessly.

“Diogenes shrieked and screamed from within the inner chamber. Again and again . . . and again. I heard a terrible scrabbling as he tried to claw his way out—I could hear his nails breaking. Then there was a long silence . . . And then—I don’t know how much later—I heard the shot.”

“Gunshot?”

“Comstock Pendergast had furnished his . . . house of pain with a single-shot derringer. He gave his victim a choice. You could go mad; you could die of fright—or you could take your life.”

“And Diogenes chose the last.”

“Yes. But the bullet didn’t . . . didn’t kill him. It only damaged him.”

“How did your parents react?”

“At first they said nothing. Then they pretended Diogenes was sick, scarlet fever. They kept it secret. They were afraid of the scandal. They told me the fever had altered his vision, his sense of taste and smell. That it deadened one eye. But now I know it must have been the bullet.”

Glinn felt a chill horror settle over him, and he felt an illogical need to wash his hands. The thought of something so awful, so utterly terrifying, that a seven-year-old could possibly be induced to . . . He forced the thought away.

“And the small chamber you were imprisoned in,” he said. “These photographs you mention—what were they of?”

“Official crime scene photographs and police sketches of the world’s most terrible murders. Perhaps a way to prepare for the . . . the horror beyond.”

An awful silence settled over the small room.

“And how long was it before you were rescued?” Glinn asked at last.

“I don’t know. Hours, a day perhaps.”

“And you awakened from this living nightmare under the impression Diogenes had become sick. And that accounted for his long absence.”

“Yes.”

“You had no idea of the truth.”

“No, none.”

“And yet Diogenes never realized that you had repressed the memory.”

Abruptly Pendergast stopped in his pacing. “No. I suppose he didn’t.”

“As a result, you never apologized to your brother, tried to make it up to him. You never even mentioned it, because you had utterly blocked out all memory of the Event.”

Pendergast looked away.

“But to Diogenes, your silence meant something else entirely. A stubborn refusal to admit your mistake, to ask forgiveness. And that would explain . . .”

Glinn fell silent. Slowly he pushed his wheelchair back. He did not know everything—that would await the computer analysis—but he knew enough to see it now, clearly, in its broadest brushstrokes. Almost from birth, Diogenes had been a strange, dark, and brilliant creature, as had many Pendergasts before him. He might have swung either way, if the Event had not occurred. But the person who emerged from the Doorway to Hell—ravaged emotionally as well as physically—had turned into something else entirely. Yes, it all made sense: the gruesome images of crime, of murder, that Pendergast had endured . . . Diogenes’s hatred of the brother who refused to speak of the ordeal he had caused . . . Pendergast’s own unnatural attraction to pathological crimes . . . Both brothers now made sense. And Glinn now knew why Pendergast had repressed the memory so utterly. It was not simply because it was so awful. No—it was because the guilt was so overwhelming it threatened his very sanity.

Remotely, Glinn became aware that Pendergast was looking at him. The agent was standing as stiff as a statue, his skin like gray marble.

“Mr. Glinn,” he said.

Glinn raised his eyebrows in silent query.

“There is nothing more I can or will say.”

“Understood.”

“I will now require five minutes alone, please. Without interruptions of any kind. And then we can . . . proceed.”

After a moment, Glinn nodded. Then he turned the wheelchair around, opened the door, and exited the studio without another word.

53

With sirens shrieking, Hayward was able to get down to Greenwich Village in twenty minutes. On the way, she had tried the few other contact numbers she had for D’Agosta—none connected. She had tried to find a listing for Effective Engineering Solutions or Eli Glinn, without success. Even the NYPD telephone and Manhattan business databases didn’t have a number, although EES was registered as a legitimate business, as required by law.

She knew the company existed, and she knew its address on Little West 12th Street. Beyond that, nothing.

Sirens still blaring, she pulled off the West Side Highway onto West Street, and from there turned into a narrow lane, crowded on both sides by dingy brick buildings. She shut off her sirens and crawled along, glancing at the building numbers. Little West 12th, once the center of the meatpacking district, was a single block in length. The EES building had no number, but she deduced it must be the correct one by the numbers on either side. It was not exactly what she imagined: perhaps a dozen stories tall, with the faded name of some long-defunct meatpacking company on the side—except it betrayed itself by tiers of expensive new windows on the upper floors and a pair of metal doors at the loading dock that looked suspiciously high-tech. She double-parked in front, blocking the narrow street, and went up to the entrance.

A smaller door sat beside the loading dock, an intercom with a buzzer its only adornment. She pressed the intercom and waited, her heart racing with frustration and impatience.

Almost immediately a female voice answered. “Yes?”

She flashed her badge, not sure where the camera was but certain there was one. “Captain Laura Hayward, NYPD Homicide. I demand immediate access to these premises.”

“Do you have a warrant?” came the pleasant answer.

“No. I’m here to see Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta. I’ve got to see him immediately—it’s a matter of life and death.”

“We don’t have a Vincent D’Agosta on staff here,” came the female voice, still maintaining a tone of bureaucratic pleasantness.

Hayward took a breath. “I want you to carry a message to Eli Glinn. If this door isn’t opened within thirty seconds, here’s what’ll happen: the NYPD will stake out the entrance, we’ll photograph everyone coming in or out, and we’ll get a search warrant looking for a meth lab and bust a lot of glass. You understand me? The countdown just began.”

It took only fifteen seconds. There came a faint click and the doors sprang open noiselessly.

She stepped into a dimly lit corridor that ended in doors of polished stainless steel. They opened simultaneously, revealing a heavily muscled man in a warm-up suit emblazoned with the logo of Harvey Mudd College. “This way,” he said, and turned unceremoniously.

She followed him through a cavernous room to an industrial elevator, which led via a short ascent to a maze of white corridors, finally ending up at a pair of polished cherry doors. They opened onto a small, elegant conference room.

Standing at the far end was Vincent D’Agosta.

“Hi, Laura,” he managed after a moment.

Hayward suddenly found herself at a loss for words. She’d been so intent on getting to see him that she hadn’t thought ahead to what she would say if she succeeded. D’Agosta, too, was silent. It seemed that beyond a greeting, he was also unable to speak.

Hayward swallowed, found her voice. “Vincent, I need your help.”

Another long silence. “My help?”

“At our last meeting, you spoke about Diogenes planning something bigger. You said, ‘He’s got a plan which he’s put in motion.’”

Silence. Hayward found herself coloring; this was a lot harder than she’d thought. “That plan is tonight,” she went on. “At the museum. At the opening.”

“How do you know?”

“Let’s call it a gut feeling—a pretty damn strong gut feeling.”

D’Agosta nodded.

“I think Diogenes works at the museum, in some kind of alter ego. All the evidence shows the diamond theft had inside help, right? Well, he was the inside help.”

“That isn’t what you and Coffey and all the others concluded—”

She waved her hand impatiently. “You said Viola Maskelene and Pendergast were romantically involved. That’s why Diogenes kidnapped her. Right?”

“Right.”

“Guess who’s at the opening.”

Another silence—this one not awkward, but surprised.

“That’s right. Maskelene. Hired at the last minute to be Egyptologist for the show. To replace Wicherly, who died in the museum under very strange circumstances.”

“Oh, Jesus.” D’Agosta glanced at his watch. “It’s seven-thirty.”

“The opening’s going on as we speak. We need to go right now.”

“I—” D’Agosta hesitated again.

“Come on, Vinnie, there’s no time to waste. You know the place better than I do. The brass isn’t going to do anything—I have to do it myself. That’s why I need you there.”

“You need more than me,” he said, his voice now quiet.

“Who else did you have in mind?”

“You need Pendergast.”

Hayward laughed mirthlessly. “Brilliant. Let’s send a chopper up to Herkmoor and see if we can’t borrow him for the evening.”

Another silence. “He isn’t at Herkmoor. He’s here.”

Hayward stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Here?” she repeated at last.

D’Agosta nodded.

“You busted him out of Herkmoor?”

Another nod.

“My God, Vinnie. Are you frigging crazy? You’re already hip-deep in shit . . . and now this?” Without thinking, she sank into one of the chairs at the conference table, then sprang immediately back to her feet. “I can’t believe it.”

“What are you going to do about it?” D’Agosta asked.

Hayward stood there, staring at him. Slowly the enormity of the choice she had to make became clear to her. It was a choice between playing it by the book—taking Pendergast into custody, calling in backup and transferring custody, then getting back to the museum—or . . .

Or what? There was no other option. That was what she should do—what she had to do. Everything she had learned as a cop, every fiber of her cop’s soul, told her so.

She took out her radio.

“Calling for backup?” D’Agosta asked in a low voice.

She nodded.

“Think about what you’re about to do, Laura. Please.”

But fifteen years of training had already thought for her. She raised the radio to her lips. “This is Captain Hayward calling Homicide One, come in.”

She felt D’Agosta’s hand gently touch her shoulder. “You need him.”

“Homicide One? This is a Code 16. I’ve got a fugitive and need backup . . .” Her voice trailed off.

In the silence, she could hear the dispatcher’s inevitable question. “Your location, Captain?”

Hayward said nothing. Her eyes met D’Agosta’s.

“Captain? I need your location.”

There was a silence broken only by the crackle of the radio.

“I read you, over,” Hayward said.

“Your location?”

Another silence. Then she said, “Cancel that Code 16. Situation resolved. This is Captain Hayward, over and out.”

54

Hayward tore away from the curb, made a U-turn, and drove the wrong way down Little West 12th, peeled right onto West Street, and rocketed uptown, cars braking and pulling off to the left and right as she flashed past, sirens screaming. If all went well, they would be at the museum no later than 8:20 P.M. D’Agosta sat in the passenger’s seat next to her, saying nothing. She glanced at Pendergast in the rearview mirror—face badly bruised, a freshly dressed cut along one cheek. He wore a ghostly expression, one she had never seen on his face before—or anybody else’s, for that matter. He had the look of somebody who had just peered into his own personal hell.

Hayward returned her gaze to the street ahead. She knew, in some profound way, that she had just crossed the Rubicon. She had done something that went against all her training, everything she knew about what it meant to be a good cop.

Funny how, at the moment, she didn’t seem to care.

A strange, uncomfortable silence hung over the three. She would have expected Pendergast to be peppering her with questions, or at least thanking her for not turning him in. Instead, he sat there wordlessly, the same awful expression on his bruised features.

“Okay,” she said. “Here it is. Tonight’s the big opening of the new exhibition at the museum. Everyone’s there: top museum brass, mayor, governor, celebrities, tycoons. Everyone. I tried to stop it, postpone it, but I got vetoed. Problem is, I didn’t—still don’t—have any really hard information. All I know is this: something’s coming down. And your brother, Diogenes, is behind it.”

She glanced at Pendergast again. But he did not respond, did not return the glance. He just sat there, withdrawn, detached. He might have been a million miles away.

The wheels squealed a little as she negotiated a city bus, then accelerated onto the West Side Highway.

“After the diamond heist,” she went on, “Diogenes vanished. I figure he already had an alter ego prepared and just stepped into it. I’ve done some sniffing around, and so has that journalist Smithback. We’re both convinced Diogenes’s alter ego is a staff member of the museum, probably a curator. Think about it: the diamond heist had to be an inside job, but he’s not the kind of guy to take in partners. That’s also how he managed to penetrate the security of the Sacred Images exhibition and attack Margo Green. Vinnie, you’d told me from the start Diogenes was working up to something big. You were right all along. And it’s going to happen tonight, at the opening.”

“You’d better bring Pendergast up to speed on the new exhibition,” D’Agosta said.

“After the fiasco with the diamonds, the museum announced it was going to reopen an old Egyptian tomb in its basement—the Tomb of Senef. Some French count gave them a ton of money to do it. It was obviously a way to distract public attention from the destruction of the diamond collection. Tonight’s the opening gala.”

“Name?” Pendergast asked. His voice was barely audible, as if emerging from deep within a sepulcher.

It was the first word Hayward had heard him utter. “I’m sorry?” she replied.

“The name of the count?”

“Thierry de Cahors.”

“Did anyone actually meet this count?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

When Pendergast lapsed back into silence, she continued. “Over the past six weeks, there’ve been two deaths associated with the reopening of the tomb, supposedly unconnected with each other. The first was a computer technician working inside the tomb, killed by his partner. The guy went crazy, murdered his pal, stuffed his organs into nearby ceremonial jars, and fled to the museum attics. Attacked a guard when they tried to flush him out. The second death was a curator named Wicherly, a Brit brought in specially to curate the show. He went nuts, tried to strangle Nora Kelly—you know her, Vinnie, right?”

“She all right?”

“She’s fine—in fact, she’s handling the opening tonight. Wicherly, on the other hand, was shot and killed by a panicked museum guard during the attack on Kelly. Now here’s the kicker: autopsies showed both aggressors suffered the exact same kind of brain damage.”

D’Agosta looked over at her. “What?”

“Both were working in the tomb just before they went psycho. But we went over everything with a fine-tooth comb, found nothing—no environmental or other cause. As I said, the official line is that the two deaths are unconnected. But I’m not buying the coincidence. Diogenes is planning something—I’ve felt it all evening. And when I saw her at the opening, I knew I was right.”

“Who?” Pendergast murmured.

“Viola Maskelene.”

Hayward sensed a sudden stillness behind her.

“Did you inquire as to how she happened to be there?” came the very cool voice from the backseat.

Hayward swerved around a lumbering garbage truck. “She was hired by the museum at the last minute to replace Wicherly.”

“Hired by whom?”

“The head of the Anthropology Department. Menzies. Hugo Menzies.”

Another pause, much briefer, before Pendergast spoke again. “Tell me, Captain, what’s the program for this evening?”

Pendergast seemed, in a way, to be waking up.

“Hors d’oeuvres and cocktails, seven to eight. The ribbon cutting and opening of the tomb, eight to nine. Dinner at nine-thirty.”

“Opening of the tomb—I assume that includes a tour?”

“A tour with a sound-and-light show. Nationally televised.”

“A sound-and-light show?”

“Yes.”

Pendergast’s voice—which had been so hollow and remote—was now laced with urgency. “For God’s sake, Captain, hurry!”

Hayward shot between two cabs that were stubbornly refusing to let her pass, clipping one bumper in the process. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw it fly upward, bouncing and flipping in a shower of sparks.

“What am I missing here?” D’Agosta asked.

“Captain Hayward is right,” Pendergast said. “This is it—the ‘perfect crime’ Diogenes boasted about.”

“Are you sure?”

“Listen carefully,” Pendergast said. He hesitated briefly. “I will only speak of this once. A wrong was done to my brother, many years ago. He was exposed—inadvertently, but exposed nevertheless—to a sadistic device. It was a ‘house of pain,’ its sole purpose to drive its victim insane or kill him from sheer fright. And now Diogenes—in the person of Menzies, whom he is no doubt posing as—will, through some hidden means of his own, re-create this at the opening tonight. Eli Glinn said it: Diogenes is motivated by a feeling of victimization. My brother wants to perpetrate the wrong done to him, but on a large scale. And, with a live television broadcast, the scale could be large indeed. This is what he has been building up to. All the rest was merely sideshow.”

He sank back in the rear seat and fell silent once again.

The car careened off the West Side Highway at the 79th Street exit ramp, then accelerated eastward toward the rear of the museum. In the distance ahead, all seemed calm—there were no flashing police lights, no hovering helicopters.

Maybe it hasn’t happened yet.

She tore right on Columbus, made the dogleg around 77th Street with a screeching of rubber, and flew onto Museum Drive, jamming on her brakes before a crush of idling limousines, taxis, and spectators. The squad car slewed sideways before the crowd and she leaped out, waving her badge, D’Agosta already in the lead, a one-man flying wedge.

“Captain Hayward, NYPD Homicide!” she cried. “Make way!”

The crowds parted in confusion, the slower ones scattered by D’Agosta, and in a moment they were at the velvet ropes. Without even pausing, D’Agosta knocked down a guard who had stepped in front of them. Hayward flashed her shield at the astonished police officers on duty and they sprinted up the carpeted steps toward the huge bronze doors of the museum.

55

Nora Kelly stepped down from the podium into a sea of applause, enormously relieved that her short speech had gone well. She had been the last speaker, directly following George Ashton, the mayor, and Viola Maskelene, and now the main event was about to begin: the cutting of the ribbon and the opening of the Tomb of Senef.

Viola joined up with her. “Brilliant speech,” she said. “You were actually interesting.”

“As were you.”

She saw Hugo Menzies gesturing for them to come over. She pushed through the crowd, Viola following. Menzies’s face was florid, his blue eyes sparkling, his white tie and tails giving him the air of an impresario. His arm was linked with that of the mayor of New York, Simon Schuyler, a balding, owlish man with spectacles, whose appearance belied an interior of slick and utterly lethal political genius. He was scheduled to give a short speech at dinner, and he looked the part. He was standing next to a brunet who was so well put together she could only have been a politician’s wife.

“Nora, my dear, you know Mayor Schuyler, of course,” Menzies said. “And this is Mrs. Schuyler. Simon, this is Dr. Nora Kelly, head curator of the Tomb of Senef and one of our most brilliant and interesting young scientists. And this is Dr. Viola Maskelene, the formidable British Egyptologist.”

“I’m delighted to meet you,” said Schuyler, eyeing Viola with interest through his thick lenses, then transferring that interest to Nora and back again, highly approving. “Marvelous talk you gave, Ms. Maskelene, especially that part about weighing the heart after death. I’m dreadfully afraid my heart has gotten rather heavy these last few years, thanks to New York City politics.” He laughed merrily and Nora and Viola dutifully laughed along with him, joined by Menzies. Schuyler was known for his huge appreciation of his own wit, an appreciation not shared by many of his acquaintances. Tonight he seemed in high good humor. Funny how, just six weeks ago, he’d been calling for Collopy’s resignation. So it was in big-city politics.

“Nora,” said Menzies, “the mayor and his wife would love to have you and Dr. Maskelene accompany them in the tomb.”

“Delighted,” said Viola, smiling.

Nora nodded. “It would be our pleasure.” It was standard museum practice, she knew, for VIP guests at openings to get museum staff as private tour guides. And while Mayor Schuyler was not the highest-ranking politician at the opening, he was the most important, holder of the museum’s purse strings, who had been loudest in decrying the destruction of the diamonds.

“Yes, how lovely,” said his wife, who seemed less than enthusiastic about being escorted by two such attractive guides.

Menzies bustled off. Nora watched as he paired up the governor with the museum’s associate director, a New York senator with George Ashton, and various VIPs with other staff to ensure that everyone felt special.

“That fellow’s a regular matchmaker,” said the mayor, following him with his eyes, chuckling. “I could use him on my staff.” The hall’s warm overhead lighting shone off his bald pate, illuminating it like a billiard ball.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention!” came the rich, aristocratic voice of Frederick Watson Collopy, the museum’s director, who had positioned himself in front of the tomb doors, wielding the same tiresome pair of gigantic scissors that were trotted out at every opening. With a little help from an assistant, he got them positioned and ready to cut.

The tympanist in the small orchestra let fly a tolerable drumroll.

“I hereby officially reopen, after more than half a century of darkness, the Grand Tomb of Senef!”

With a mighty heave, Collopy shut the scissors, and the two ends of the cut ribbon fluttered to the floor. With a rumble, the faux stone doors slid open. The orchestra immediately sounded the famous theme of Aïda once again and those in the crowd with passes to the first of the two shows surged toward the dimly lit rectangle of darkness.

The mayor’s wife shivered. “I don’t like tombs. Is it really three thousand years old?”

“Three thousand three hundred and eighty,” said Viola.

“My goodness, you know so much!” said Mrs. Schuyler, turning to her.

“We Egyptologists are veritable founts of useless knowledge.”

The mayor chuckled at this.

“Is it true what they say, that it’s cursed?” Mrs. Schuyler went on.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Viola. “Many Egyptian tombs had inscriptions that threatened harm to those who disturbed them. This one has a stronger curse than most—but that’s probably because Senef wasn’t a pharaoh.”

“Oh, dear, I hope nothing happens to us. Who was this Senef?”

“They don’t really know—probably the uncle of Thutmosis IV. Thutmosis became pharaoh at age six, and Senef acted as regent while Thutmosis grew up.”

“Thutmosis? You mean King Tut?”

“Oh, no,” said Viola. “Tut was Tutankhamen, another pharaoh—far less important than Thutmosis.”

“I get so confused,” said the wife.

They passed through the doors, into the sloping corridor.

“Watch your step, dear,” said the mayor.

“This is the God’s First Passage,” said Viola, and launched into a brief description of the tomb’s layout. As she listened, Nora recalled the enthusiastic tour Wicherly had given only a few weeks before. Despite the warmth, she shivered.

They moved forward slowly toward the first stop on the sound-and-light show, hemmed in on all sides by the crowd. In a few minutes, the three hundred guests were all inside and she heard the rumble as the tomb doors closed, ending with a hollow clang. A sudden silence fell on the crowd and the lights dimmed even further.

Out of the darkness came the faint sound of a shovel digging in sand. Then another—and then a chorus of picks, all striking the soil. Then came the furtive voices of the tomb robbers, speaking in tense, muffled tones. Nora glanced over and saw, in the far corner, the PBS camera crew filming.

The sound-and-light show had begun, and millions were watching.

56

Hayward arrived in the hall just behind D’Agosta, stepping into a blaze of light and color. To her dismay, she saw that the doors to the Tomb of Senef were closed, the decorative red ribbon lying cut on the floor. The most important guests were already inside, while the others were scattered about the hall, seated at cocktail tables or clustered in knots by the food and liquor.

“We’ve got to get those doors open—now,” said Pendergast, coming up beside her.

“The computer control room is this way.”

They ran across the hall—receiving startled glances from some of the guests—and burst through a door at the far end.

The computer control room for the Tomb of Senef was small. At one end was a long table on which stood several computer monitors and keyboards. On either side rose up racks of equipment: hard drives, controllers, synthesizers, video equipment. A muted television was tuned to the local PBS affiliate, currently simulcasting the opening. Two technicians sat at the table, observing a brace of monitors displaying video feeds from inside the tomb, as well as a third monitor, on which scrolled a long series of numbers. They turned, surprised at the sudden entry.

“What’s the status of the sound-and-light show?” Hayward asked.

“Going like clockwork,” said one of the technicians. “Why?”

“Shut it down,” Hayward said. “Open the tomb doors.”

The technician removed a pair of earphones. “I can’t do that without authorization.”

Hayward stuck her badge in his face. “Captain Hayward, NYPD Homicide. How’s that?”

The technician hesitated, staring at the badge. Then he shrugged and turned to the other. “Larry, initiate the door release sequence, please.”

Hayward glanced at the second technician and noted it was Larry Enderby, a staff member she had questioned about the attempted murder of Margo Green, and again about the diamond theft. He seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time a lot these days.

“If you say so,” Enderby said a little dubiously.

He had just begun to type when Manetti charged in, his face red, followed by two guards.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“We’ve got a problem,” said Hayward. “We’re stopping the show.”

“You aren’t stopping anything without a damn good reason.”

“No time to explain.”

Enderby had paused in his typing, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, looking from Hayward to Manetti and back.

“I’ve been as accommodating as I can, Captain Hayward,” Manetti said. “But now you’ve gone too far. This opening is critical to the museum. Everyone who counts is here and we’ve got a live audience of millions. No way am I going to allow anything or anybody to disrupt that.”

“Stand down, Manetti,” Hayward said in a clipped voice. “I’ll take full responsibility. Something is about to go terribly wrong.”

“No go, Captain,” Manetti said brusquely. He gestured at the television. “See for yourself. Everything’s fine.” He reached over and turned up the sound:

In the fifth year of the reign of the pharaoh Thutmosis IV . . .

Hayward turned back to Enderby. “Open those doors now.”

“Hold off on that order, Enderby,” Manetti said.

The technician’s hands, still poised above the keyboard, began to tremble.

Manetti glanced past Hayward and abruptly caught sight of Pendergast. “What the hell? Aren’t you supposed to be in prison?”

“I said, open the goddamn doors,” Hayward barked.

“Something’s not right.” Manetti began to fumble for his radio.

Pendergast moved smoothly forward. He turned his bruised face to Manetti and said in a courteous voice, “My sincerest apologies.”

“What for?”

The blow came so fast that it was little more than a blur, and with a muffled oof! Manetti doubled over. With a smooth, swift gesture, Pendergast whisked Manetti’s sidearm out of its holster and pointed it at the two guards.

“Weapons, batons, pepper spray, radios, on the floor,” he said.

The two guards obeyed.

Pendergast plucked one of their guns from its holster and handed it to D’Agosta. “Watch them.”

“Right.”

Pendergast took the second guard’s gun and tucked it in his waistband as a spare. Then he turned back to Manetti, who was on his knees, one hand cradling his midriff, trying to suck in air.

“I am truly sorry. There’s a conspiracy under way to destroy everybody in the tomb. We’re going to try to stop it, whether you like it or not. Now: where is Hugo Menzies?”

“You’re in big trouble, pal,” Manetti gasped. “Even bigger than you were before.” And he began to rise.

D’Agosta raised the gun threateningly, and Manetti froze. “Menzies is in the tomb with the rest,” he said after a moment.

Pendergast turned to the technicians and spoke, his voice icy and laced with menace. “Mr. Enderby? You heard the order: open the doors.”

The technician, thoroughly frightened, nodded and began to type on the keyboard. “No problem, sir, I’ll have them open in a jiffy.”

A momentary silence.

Another staccato bunch of keystrokes, then another pause. Enderby frowned.

“Seems we got a glitch here . . .”

57

In the fifth year of the reign of the pharaoh Thutmosis IV, Senef—the grand vizier and former regent to the young pharaoh—died of unknown causes. He was buried in a grand tomb in the Valley of the Kings that had been under construction for twelve years. Although Senef had never been a pharaoh himself, he was buried in the Valley of the Kings as befitted one who acted as regent to a pharaoh and who probably retained pharaonic-like power after the assumption to the throne of his former ward. The Great Tomb of Senef was filled with all the riches ancient Egypt could provide: grave goods in gold and silver, lapis, carnelian, alabaster, onyx, granite, and adamant, as well as furniture, foodstuffs, statues, chariots, games, and weapons. No expense was spared.

In the tenth year of his reign, Thutmosis fell ill. His son, Amenhotep III, was declared pharaoh by a faction of the army, opposed by the priesthood. There was a rebellion in Upper Egypt, and the Land of the Two Kingdoms fell into strife and chaos.

It was a good time to rob a tomb.

And so, one morning at dawn, the high priests assigned to guard the Great Tomb of Senef began to dig . . .

The voice-over paused. Nora stood in the darkened corridor of the God’s Second Passage, shoulder-to-shoulder with the mayor and his wife. Viola Maskelene stood just beyond them. The sounds of digging grew louder, the chuff-chuff of the shovels rising in crescendo with the excited voices of the tomb robbers. A muffled cheer, the scraping of shovel on stone, and then the sharp crack of plaster seals being struck off with a pick, one by one. All around her, the audience—three hundred handpicked VIPs, the movers and shakers of New York—watched, enthralled.

As the show continued, there was a rumble and grinding of stone: the robbers were dragging aside the outer tomb door. A crack of light appeared, throwing a brilliant beam into the dim space. A moment later, the digitized faces of the tomb robbers appeared, eagerly scurrying in and lighting torches. They were dressed in the garb of ancient Egyptians. Although Nora had seen this all before, she was still amazed at how realistic the holographic robbers looked.

A new set of projectors took over seamlessly, throwing images onto artfully placed screens, and the tomb robbers appeared to creep fearfully along the passageway ahead of the visitors. With gestures and hisses, the ghostly robbers turned and urged the audience to follow along behind them—including them as accomplices. This helped assure that the crowd would now move on to the next stage of the sound-and-light show—which took place in the Hall of the Chariots.

As she moved with the crowd, Nora felt a shiver of pride. It was an excellent script—Wicherly had done a masterful job. For all his personal failings, he had been abundantly talented. She was also proud of her own creative contribution. Hugo Menzies had guided the overall project with a subtle and sure hand, while proving equally clever with the nuts and bolts of bringing the show together. The technicians and A/V crew had done a splendid job with the visuals. Judging from the mesmerized audience, so far it was going very well.

As the crowd walked down the corridor toward the well, following the video images of the tomb robbers, lights placed behind hidden panels flickered, simulating the effect of torchlight on the walls. The crowd flow was working perfectly, the audience automatically moving at the pace of the robbers.

At the well, the robbers paused, their voices raised in discussion of how to bridge the dangerous pit. Several of them carried thin tree trunks over their shoulders, which they proceeded to lash together. Using a crude pulley and winch system, they lowered the logs and swung them across the well to make a bridge. The projected images then inched across the swaying, creaking bridge as if on a tightrope. A cry rang out as one of the figures slipped from the bridge, plunging with a hideous scream into the darkness of the pit—cut off suddenly in a sickening smack of meat hitting stone. The audience gasped.

“Goodness,” said the mayor’s wife. “That was rather . . . realistic.”

Nora glanced around. Initially, she had been against that little piece of drama, but she had to admit that—judging by the excited murmurs and gasps of the audience—it had been effective. Even the mayor’s wife, despite her faint objection, seemed enthralled.

More invisible holographic screens now descended as others rose, and the computer-controlled video projectors seamlessly transferred the images of the robbers from one screen to the next, giving them the illusion of three-dimensional motion. The effect was extraordinarily real. And yet—the moment the last visitor left the tomb—the screens would all retract and the images of death and destruction would be cut off, leaving the hall in its original pristine shape and ready for the next performance.

The guests followed the holographic figures into the Hall of the Chariots. Here, the robbers fanned out, awestruck at the incredible wealth spread out before them—heaped-up gold and silver, lapis, and gemstones, all gleaming dully by torchlight. The audience itself was halted by a lowered barrier at the far end of the hall, and the second section of the show began with another voice-over:

The Tomb of Senef, like many ancient Egyptian tombs, contained an inscription that cursed those who would despoil it. But an even greater deterrent than a curse was the robbers’ own terror of the power of the pharaoh. For these high priests, although greedy and corrupt, were also believers. They believed in the divinity of the pharaoh and in his everlasting life. They believed in the magical properties which had been invested in the objects buried in the tomb with him. The magic in these objects was extremely dangerous and would do the robbers great harm if it were not canceled.

For this reason, the first thing the robbers did was destroy all the grave goods in the tomb, as a way to expunge their magical powers.

The robbers, having recovered from their initial awe, began to pick up objects and hurl them about—tentatively at first, then working up to an orgy of destruction, smashing furniture, vases, armor, and statues, hurling them against the walls, dashing them onto the stone floors, or swinging them into square pillars, sending ghostly projections of gemstones, gold, and fragments of alabaster skittering and rattling everywhere. They screamed and cursed as they worked. Other robbers scrambled about on their hands and knees, sorting through the destruction for things of value and stuffing them into sacks.

Once again, the illusion was remarkable.

Everything would be destroyed. The only things of value taken from the tomb would be taken in pieces and further reduced as soon as possible. Metals would be melted down into bullion; jewels, inlaid lapis, turquoise, and jasper would be pried from their settings and recut. All this treasure would then be quickly exported from Egypt, where any residual power of the godlike pharaoh still residing in the objects would be lost.

That would be the fate of all the beautiful and precious objects in the tomb—total annihilation. The work of thousands of craftsmen over years, reduced in a single day to broken shards.

The frenzy of cursing, screaming, and destruction grew. Nora glanced at the mayor and his wife; both were staring at the scene, mouths open, astonished and utterly captivated. It was the same for the rest of the crowd. Even the police officers and the camera crew looked spellbound. Viola Maskelene caught her eye. The Egyptologist nodded and gave her a thumbs-up.

Nora shivered once again. The Tomb of Senef was going to be a success—a huge success. And—she couldn’t help but think—she was the chief curator of the tomb. This was to her credit. Menzies had been right: this would make her career.

The voice-over resumed:

And now, having destroyed the Hall of the Chariots and gleaned all treasure of value, the robbers moved into the deepest section of the tomb: the so-called House of Gold, the burial chamber itself. This was the richest—and most dangerous—part of the tomb. Because here is where the pharaoh himself rested, his body—it was believed—mummified but not dead.

Still clutching their torches, sweaty and frenzied from their spree of destruction, the holographic figures moved through the far archway and into the burial chamber. The retaining gates opened and the crowd followed them across the Hall of the Chariots and into the burial chamber, gathering behind another barrier that descended from the ceiling. The voice-over continued as the show began to move toward its climax:

The burial chamber was the resting place of the mummified body of the pharaoh, which contained the pharaoh’s Ba-soul, one of the five souls of the dead.

The robbery was planned for broad daylight. That was deliberate: according to Egyptian belief, the pharaoh’s Ba-soul was absent from the tomb during the day, journeying with the sun across the sky. At sunset, the Ba-soul would reunite with the pharaoh’s mummy. Woe to the robber caught in the tomb after dark, when the mummy came back to life!

But these robbers have not been careful. Clocks did not yet exist, and in the darkness of the tomb a sundial was useless. They have no way of keeping track of time. And little do they know that, outside the tomb, the sun is already setting . . .

Once again, the robbers flung themselves into an orgy of violence, smashing the canopic jars, scattering Senef’s mummified organs, breaking open baskets of grains and breads, tossing about mummified foodstuffs and pets, decapitating statues. Then they set to work on the great stone sarcophagus itself, jamming cedar poles under one side, slowly dislodging the one-ton lid and wedging it back, millimeter by millimeter, until it toppled from the sarcophagus and broke in two on the floor. Through the magic of holographic projection, the effect was again remarkably real.

Nora felt somebody touch her elbow, and she glanced down to see the mayor smiling at her. “This is utterly fantastic,” he whispered with a wink. “It looks like the curse of Senef has finally been lifted.”

Looking at his bald pate and round, shiny face, Nora had to smile to herself. He was eating it up, just like an overgrown kid. They all were.

There was no longer any doubt in her mind: the show was a huge—a monster—success.

58

D’Agosta watched in sick disbelief as the technicians, both of them now working frantically, continued to type commands on their keyboards.

“What’s wrong?” Hayward demanded.

Enderby wiped his forehead nervously. “I don’t know. The terminal isn’t accepting my commands.”

“Manual override?” Hayward asked.

“Tried that already.”

Hayward turned to Manetti. “Notify the guards in the tomb. Tell them we’re shutting down the show.” She pulled out her radio, preparing to talk to her own officers on the inside. Then she paused, staring at Manetti, who had gone pale. “What is it?”

“That’s just it. I’m trying to contact my men in the tomb. There’s no communication. None.”

“How can that be? They’re less than fifty yards away!”

“The tomb has been shielded against radio frequencies,” said Pendergast quietly.

Hayward put down her radio. “Use the P.A. system. It’s hardwired, right?”

More furious typing from Enderby. “That’s down, too.”

Hayward stared at him. “Cut power to the doors. In the event of a total power failure, they can be levered open by hand.”

Enderby typed some more, then raised his hands in a gesture of futility.

Suddenly, Pendergast pointed at one of the monitors displaying a live feed of the hall. “Did you see that? Rewind it, please.”

One of the technicians digitally rewound the image.

“There.” And Pendergast indicated the blurry outline of a figure, off to one side in the shadows.

“Can you sharpen the image?” he asked urgently. “Magnify it?”

D’Agosta stared as the feed jumped into clearer focus. They all watched as the man slipped a hand inside his dinner jacket, casually extracted a black eye-mask, and put it on. A pair of earplugs followed.

“Menzies,” Hayward murmured.

“Diogenes,” Pendergast said, almost to himself, his voice as cold as ice.

“We need to call for backup,” said Manetti. “Get a SWAT team in here, and—”

“No!” Pendergast broke in. “We don’t have time. That will delay everything—they’ll want to set up a mobile command unit, there will be rules of engagement to follow. We’ve got ten minutes—at the outside.”

“I can’t believe these doors won’t open!” Enderby said, banging at the keyboard. “We programmed two completely independent backups. This doesn’t make sense. Nothing’s responding—”

“And nothing will respond,” said Pendergast. “Those doors aren’t going to open no matter what you do. Menzies—Diogenes—has no doubt hijacked the systems controlling both the show and the hall.” Pendergast turned back to Enderby. “Can you get a list of all running processes?”

“Yes.” Enderby typed a series of commands. D’Agosta glanced over: a small window had opened on the screen, filled with a list of mysterious lowercase words like asmcomp, rutil, syslog, kcron.

“Examine all the process names,” Pendergast said. “Especially the system processes. See anything unusual?”

“No.” Enderby peered at the screen. “Yes. This one called kernel_con_fund_o.”

“Any idea what it’s for?”

Enderby blinked. “Judging by the name, it’s some kind of console file that accesses the system kernel. That zero at the end also implies it’s a beta version.”

“Reverse-engineer the code if you can, get a sense of what it does.” Pendergast turned toward Hayward and D’Agosta. “Although I’m afraid I already know the answer.”

“What’s that?” Hayward asked.

“That’s not a zero at the end—it’s the letter o. Confundo in Latin means to trouble, distress, throw into confusion. It’s no doubt a system routine added by Diogenes to hijack the show.” He gestured at the room full of equipment. “I would guess all this equipment—everything—is now under Diogenes’s control.”

Meanwhile, Enderby was peering at his screen. “There seems to be another server actually running the show, and it’s inside the tomb itself. All the systems in the control room, here, are slaved to it.”

Pendergast leaned over the technician’s shoulder. “Can you attack it, disable it?”

More furious typing. “No. Now it isn’t even accepting my input anymore.”

“Cut all power to the tomb,” Pendergast said.

“It’ll just switch to backup—”

“Cut that, too.”

“That’ll leave them in darkness.”

“Do it.”

More typing, followed by a frustrated curse. “Nothing.”

Pendergast looked around. “In that case, the breaker box.” He strode over, flung open the box, and threw the main circuit breaker.

Although the little room was immediately plunged into darkness, the computers remained online. Within seconds, there was a sharp click as the backup power system kicked in, rows of emergency fluorescent tubes flicking on.

Enderby stared at the monitors in disbelief. “Incredible. There’s still full power in the tomb. The show’s going on like nothing’s happened. There must be an internal generator somewhere inside. But that wasn’t on any of the plans I—”

“Where’s the backup power source for this room?” Pendergast interrupted.

Manetti nodded toward a large gray metal cabinet in the corner. “That contains the relays connecting the tomb’s main power cables to the museum’s auxiliary generator.”

Pendergast stepped back and pointed Manetti’s weapon at the cabinet. He emptied a full clip into it—the gunshots incredibly loud in the soundproofed space—walking the rounds from one side of the cabinet to the other, each round punching a large dark hole in the metal and sending chips of gray paint flying. There was a sound of crackling electricity, a massive blue arc, and the lights flickered and went out—leaving only the glow of the computer screens and the stench of cordite and melted insulation.

“These computers are still on,” said Pendergast. “Why?”

“They’ve got their own local battery backup.”

“Force a hard reboot, then. Pull the power cords and plug them back in.”

Enderby crawled under the table and began yanking out cords, throwing the room into utter darkness and silence. There was a snap, then a sudden glow of light as Hayward switched on her flashlight.

The door was abruptly flung open and a tall man with a red ascot and round black glasses advanced. “What is going on here?” he asked in a shrill voice. “I’m directing a live simulcast to millions of people, and you can’t even keep the power on? Listen, my backup power won’t last more than fifteen minutes.”

D’Agosta recognized Randall Loftus, the famous director, his face mottled with anger.

Pendergast turned to D’Agosta, leaned in close. “You know what has to be done, Vincent?”

“Yes,” D’Agosta said. Then he turned toward the director. “Let me help you.”

“I should hope so.” And Loftus turned and walked stiffly out of the room, D’Agosta following.

In the hall beyond, guests were milling around in a darkness relieved only by the glow from hundreds of tea candles set on the tables, excited but not yet alarmed, apparently treating it as an adventure. Museum guards were circulating, reassuring people that the power would be restored at any moment. D’Agosta followed the director to the far end of the hall, where his crew was set up. They were all working quickly and efficiently, murmuring into mikes or observing small camera-mounted monitors.

“We’ve lost touch with the crew inside,” said one. “But it seems their power is still on. They’re still broadcasting, and the feed to the uplink is good. In fact, I don’t even think they know we’ve lost power out here.”

“Thank God for that,” said Loftus. “I’d rather die than deliver dead airtime.”

“This feed you mention,” D’Agosta asked. “Where is it?”

Loftus nodded toward a thick cable that snaked its way out of the hall, covered with a strip of rubber and secured by gaffer tape.

“I see,” said D’Agosta. “And if that cable got cut?”

“God forbid,” said Loftus. “We’d lose our simulcast. But it won’t be cut, believe me. It would take more than an accidental kick to damage that cable.”

“You don’t have a backup cable?”

“No need. That cable’s got a rubber-and-epoxy-clad sheath, with woven steel—it’s indestructible. Well, Officer . . . ?”

“Lieutenant D’Agosta.”

“It appears we don’t need you, after all.” Loftus turned his back and pointed to another crew member. “You ninny, never leave an open monitor unattended like that!”

D’Agosta looked around. At the far end of the hall, near the entrance, was the obligatory fire station case, containing a coiled hose and a massive Pulaski axe behind a sheet of breakable glass. He strode over, gave the glass a sharp kick, and extracted the Pulaski. Then he walked over to where the taped-down cable turned the corner, braced himself, and raised the axe above his head.

“Hey!” called one of the crew members. “What the hell!”

D’Agosta brought the axe down smartly, neatly chopping the cable in half with a shower of sparks.

An inarticulate howl of rage went up from Randall Loftus.

A moment later, D’Agosta was back in the control room. Pendergast and the technicians were still laboring over the newly rebooted computer system, which was still refusing to accept commands.

Pendergast turned toward him. “Loftus?”

“Beside himself with anger at the moment.”

Pendergast nodded, his lips twitching in a brief semblance of a smile.

Suddenly a barrage of flashing lights on one of the live monitors attracted D’Agosta’s notice.

“What’s that?” Pendergast asked sharply.

“The strobes are firing up,” said Enderby, hunched over the keyboard.

“There are strobe lights in the show?”

“In the later part, yeah. You know, for special effects.”

Pendergast turned his attention to the monitor, the blue glow reflecting his intense gray eyes. More strobe lights flashed on, followed by a strange rumble.

Enderby suddenly sat up. “Wait. That’s not how it’s supposed to go.”

The audio feed from the tomb continued over the monitor, carrying a rising murmur from the audience along with it. Pendergast turned to Hayward. “Captain, during your security review, you consulted a set of plans to the tomb and adjacent areas, I assume?”

“I did.”

“If you had to, what would the best point be to force an entry into the tomb from outside?”

Hayward thought for a moment. “There’s a corridor that connects the 81st Street subway station to the museum’s subway entrance. It goes behind the back of the tomb, and there’s a point where the masonry’s only twenty-four inches thick between the walkway and the burial chamber.”

“Twenty-four inches of what?”

“Concrete and rebar. It’s a load-bearing wall.”

“Twenty-four inches of concrete,” D’Agosta murmured. “Might as well be a hundred feet. We can’t shoot through that, and we can’t chop through it. Not in time.”

A dreadful hush fell over the little room, punctuated only by the strange booming from inside the hall, and the accompanying murmur of the crowd. As D’Agosta watched, Pendergast’s shoulders sank visibly. It’s happening, he thought with a thrill of horror. Diogenes is winning. He’s thought of everything and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.

But then, as he watched, he saw Pendergast start visibly. The agent’s eyes grew bright, and he breathed in sharply. Then he turned toward one of the guards.

“You—your name?”

“Rivera, sir.”

“You know where the Taxidermy Department is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go down there and find me a bottle of glycerol.”

“Glycerol?”

“It’s a chemical used for softening animal skins—there’s certain to be some down there.” Next, Pendergast turned to Manetti. “Send a couple of your guards down to the chemistry lab. I need bottles of sulfuric acid and nitric acid. They’ll find them where the hazardous chemicals are stored.”

“May I ask—?”

“No time to explain. I’m also going to need a separation funnel with a stopcock on the bottom, as well as distilled water. And a thermometer, if they can find one.” Pendergast looked around, found a sheet of paper and a pencil, scribbled some quick notes, and handed the paper to Manetti. “Have them ask a lab technician if they have any problems.”

Manetti nodded.

“In the meantime, clear the hall, please. I want everyone out except NYPD and museum guards.”

“Done.” Manetti motioned to the two guards and they exited the control room.

Pendergast turned to the technicians. “There’s nothing more you can do here. Evacuate with the others.”

They both jumped up, only too eager to get out.

Now Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “Vincent? I have a job for you and Captain Hayward. Go to the subway station. Help her identify that weak point in the wall.”

D’Agosta exchanged glances with Hayward. “Right.”

“And Vincent? That cable you just cut?” Pendergast gestured toward one of the screens. “Diogenes must have arranged a hidden backup: the simulcast is continuing. Please take care of it.”

“We’re on it.” And D’Agosta left the room, Hayward at his side.

59

This is just marvelous!” said the mayor, whispering loudly in Nora’s ear. The holographic tomb robbers, having trashed the burial chamber, were now approaching the open sarcophagus itself. They trembled, hesitated—until one finally dared look in.

“Gold!” the man’s recorded voice gasped. “Solid gold!”

The voice-over intoned:

And now comes the moment of truth. The robbers are gazing inside the sarcophagus at the solid gold coffin of Senef. To the ancient Egyptians, gold was more than a precious metal. They worshiped it as sacred. It was the only substance they knew that didn’t tarnish, fade, or corrode. They considered it to be immortal, the substance making up the very skin of the gods themselves. The coffin represented the immortal pharaoh, resurrected in his skin of gold: the same skin that Ra, the Sun God, wore on his journey across the sky, showering his golden light over the earth.

Everything else they have stolen is merely a prelude to this: the heart of the tomb.

The show continued as the robbers threw up a makeshift tripod of wooden timbers over the sarcophagus, rigged with a block and tackle, to lift off the top of the heavy gold coffin. Two of them climbed into the sarcophagus and began affixing ropes to the coffin inside—and then, with a shout of triumph, the others began to heave and the huge gold coffin lid rose into the light, glittering and magnificent. The audience gasped.

The narrator’s recorded voice began again:

Unbeknownst to the robbers, the sun has now set. The Ba-soul of Senef will be returning to inhabit his mummy for the night, where it will reanimate his dry bones during the hours of darkness.

Here it was: the unleashing of the Ba-soul, the culmination of the curse of Senef. Nora, knowing what was about to come, braced herself.

There was a noise from inside the coffin—a muffled groan. The robbers paused in their work, the gold coffin lid swinging from the ropes. And then the fog machines kicked in and a whitish mist began bubbling up out of the sarcophagus and sliding down its sides. A gasp went up from the audience. Nora smiled to herself. A trifle hokey, perhaps, but effective.

Now a roll of thunder sounded, and through the rising fog the strobes in the corners of the ceiling began to flash, to the accompaniment of ominous rumblings. The strobes began to speed up . . . and then all four went out of sync, flashing at different rates.

Damn, a glitch. Nora looked around for a technician before realizing they were, of course, all in the control room, monitoring the show by remote. No doubt they would fix it in a moment.

As the strobes continued to accelerate and decelerate at opposing rates, a second rumble sounded—an incredibly low and deep vibration, just at the threshold of human hearing. Now it seemed the sound system was malfunctioning, too. The deep sound was joined by another, and then another: more like physical vibrations in the gut than actual sound.

Oh, no, she thought. The computers are royally messing up. And it was all going so well . . .

She glanced around again, but the crowd hadn’t noticed the glitch—they assumed it was just part of the show. If the technicians could fix it soon, maybe nobody would know. She hoped they were on the ball.

Now the strobes were speeding up even further, except for one—particularly bright—that kept flashing, not quite in time . . . the lights blended to form a kind of visual Doppler effect that almost made Nora dizzy.

With a deep groaning sound, the mummy abruptly rose from the sarcophagus. The holographic robbers fell back with shrieks of terror—at least that part of the show was still working—some dropping their torches in fright, the light flickering off their staring faces as they cringed in fear.

Senef!

But somehow the mummy didn’t look right to Nora—it was bigger, darker, somehow more menacing. Then a bony arm broke free of its bandages—something not even in the script—and, clawing and twitching, reached up to its own swathed face. The arm was distorted, as elongated as an ape’s. The bony fingers sank into the linen wrappings and ripped them away, revealing a visage of such horror that Nora gasped, backing up instinctively. This was over-the-top—way over-the-top. Was this some joke of Wicherly’s? Obviously, something this dreadful, this effective, had to be carefully programmed—it wasn’t a mere glitch.

There were audible gasps from the audience. “Oh, my goodness!” the mayor’s wife said.

Nora looked around. The crowd continued to stare at the still-rising mummy as if mesmerized, swaying, uncomfortable now. She could feel their fear rising like a miasma, their voices tight and hushed. Viola caught her eye, gave her a questioning frown. Beyond, Nora could make out the face of Collopy, the museum director. He looked pale.

The malfunctioning strobe lights kept flashing, flashing, flashing in her peripheral vision, so very brightly, and Nora felt a real twinge of dizziness. Another gut-twisting low note sounded, and she closed her eyes momentarily against the combined assault of the brilliant lights and the deep sounds. She heard more gasps around her, then a scream, choked off almost before it started. What the hell was this? Those sounds—she had never heard anything like them. They were like the sounding of the last trump, full of dread and horror, so loud it seemed to violate her very being.

The mummy now began to open its jaw, the dry lips cracking and flaking off as they drew back from a rack of brown, rotting teeth. The mouth became a sinkhole of black slime, which began to seethe and wriggle. Then, as she watched in horror, it morphed into a swarm of greasy black cockroaches, which began rustling and crawling their way out of the ruined orifice. Another horrible groaning, and then there was a second explosion of strobe flashes of such incredible intensity that, when she closed her eyes, she could still see them flashing through her eyelids . . .

. . . but a hideous buzzing sound forced her to open her eyes again. It now looked as if the mummy were vomiting blackness—the swarm of insects had taken flight, the cockroaches morphing into fat lubricious wasps, their mandibles clicking like knitting needles as they flew toward the audience with a horrible believability.

She felt a sudden wave of vertigo, and she swayed, instinctively grabbing the person next to her—the mayor—who was himself stumbling and unsteady.

“Oh my God—!”

She heard someone vomiting, a cry for help—and then a flurry of short screams as the crowd surged back, trying to escape the insects. Although Nora knew they had to be holographically generated, like everything else, they looked amazingly real as they came straight at her, each with a vicious stinger extruded from its abdomen, gleaming with venom. She stumbled backward instinctively, felt herself falling, with no bottom, falling like the robber in the well, to a chorus of wails around her like the shrieks of the damned being sucked into hell itself.

60

Constance was awakened by a discreet rapping on her bedroom door. Without opening her eyes, she turned over with a sigh, nuzzling gently at the down pillow.

The knock came again, a little louder now. “Constance? Constance, is everything all right?” It was the voice of Wren—shrill, worried.

Constance stretched languorously—deliciously—then sat up in bed. “I’m fine,” she said with a twinge of irritation.

“Is anything the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter, thank you.”

“You’re not ill?”

“Certainly not. I’m fine.”

“You’ll forgive my intrusion. It’s just that I’ve never known you to sleep all day like this. It’s eight-thirty, past time for supper, and you’re still abed.”

“Yes,” was all Constance said in return.

“Would you care for your usual breakfast, then? Green tea and a piece of buttered toast?”

“Not the usual breakfast, thank you, Wren. If you could manage it, I’d like poached eggs, cranberry juice, kippers, half a dozen rashers of bacon, a grapefruit half, and a scone with a pot of jam, please.”

“I—very well.” She heard Wren fussing his way back down the hall toward the stairs.

Constance settled back into the pillows, closing her eyes again. Her sleep had been long and deep and completely dreamless—most unusual for her. She recalled the bottomless emerald green of the absinthe, the strange feeling of lightness it gave her—as if she were watching herself from a distance. A private smile flitted across her face, vanished, then returned again, as if prompted by some recollection. She settled deeper into the pillows, letting her limbs relax beneath the soft sheets.

Gradually, very gradually, she became aware of something. There was a scent in the room, an unusual scent.

She sat up in bed again. It was not the scent of—of him; it was something she didn’t think she’d ever smelled before. It was not unpleasant, really . . . just different.

She looked around for a moment, trying to trace the source. She checked the bedside table without success.

It was only as an afterthought that she slipped a hand beneath the pillows.

There she found something: an envelope, and a long box, wrapped in an antique paper and tied with a black ribbon. These were the source of the scent: a musky smell redolent of the deep woods. Quickly, she pulled them out.

The envelope was of cream-laid linen paper, and the box was just large enough to hold a diamond choker, or perhaps a bracelet. Constance smiled, then flushed deeply.

She opened the envelope eagerly. Out fell three pages of dense, elegant handwriting. She began to read.

I hope you slept well, my dearest Constance: the sweet sleep of the innocent.

There is a good chance it will be your last such sleep for some time. Then again—if you take the advice in this letter—sleep may come again, and very soon.

As I’ve whiled away these pleasant hours with you, I must admit to having wondered something. What has it been like, all these many years, to live under the same roof as Uncle Antoine, the man you called Enoch Leng: the man who brutally murdered your sister, Mary Greene?

Did you know this, Constance? That Antoine killed and vivisected your sister? Surely you must have. Perhaps at first it was just a supposition, a strange twinge of dark fancy. No doubt you ascribed it to your own perverse cast of mind. But over time—and you two had so very much time—it must have come to seem, first a possibility, then a certainty. Yet no doubt this was all subconscious, buried so deep as to be almost undiscoverable. And yet you knew it: of course you did.

What a deliciously ironic situation. This man, Antoine Pendergast, killed your very own sister—for the furthering of his own mortal life . . . and ultimately yours as well! This is the man to whom you owe everything! Do you know how many children had to die so that he could develop his elixir, so that you could enjoy your abnormally extended childhood? You were born normal, Constance; but thanks to Uncle Antoine, you became a freak of nature. That was your word, wasn’t it? Freak.

And now, my dear, duped Constance, you can no longer shove this idea aside. You can no more dismiss it as a flight of imagination, or a dark irrational fear on those nights when the thunder rumbles and you cannot sleep. Because the worst is, in fact, true: this is precisely what happened. Your sister was murdered to prolong your life. I know, because before he died, Uncle Antoine told me so himself.

Oh, yes: I had several chats with the old gentleman. How could I not seek out a dear relative with such a colorful history, with a worldview so similar to my own? The very possibility that he might still be alive after all those decades added excitement to my search, and I did not rest until I at length tracked him down. He quickly sensed my own true nature, and naturally became most anxious that your path should never cross mine—but in return for my promise never to meet you, he seemed happy enough to discuss his, shall we say, unique solution for a broken world. And he confirmed everything: the existence of his concoction for the prolongation of life—although he withheld from me the manner of its preparation. Dear Uncle Antoine, I was sorry to see him go; the world was a most interesting place with him in it. But at the time of his murder, I was too closely involved in my own plans to help him escape his fate.

So I ask one more time: what was it like for you to live in this house for so many, many years as helpmate to your sister’s killer? I can’t even begin to imagine it. No wonder your psyche is so frail—no wonder my brother fears for the soundness of your mind. Together, alone, in this house: was it possible that you even grew to become, shall we say, on intimate terms with Antoine? But no, not that: I am the first man to become master of that shrine, dearest Constance: the physical evidence was incontrovertible. But you loved him—no doubt you loved him.

And so what now is left for you, my poor pitiable Constance? My precious fallen angel? Handmaiden to fratricide, consort to your sister’s murderer? The very air you breathe you owe to her, and to Antoine’s other victims. Do you deserve to continue this perverse existence? And who will mourn your passing? My brother, surely not: you would be a guilty burden to him no more. Wren? Proctor? How risible. I shall not mourn you: you were a toy; a mystery easily solved; a dull box forced and found empty; an animal spasm. So let me give you a piece of advice, and please believe this to be the one honest, altruistic thing I have ever told you.

Do the noble thing. End your unnatural life.

Ever your

P.S. I was surprised to see how juvenile your earlier attempt at suicide was. Surely, you now know not to slash willy-nilly across your wrists; the knife is arrested by the tendons. For a more satisfactory result, cut lengthwise, between the tendons: just one cut: slow, forceful, and above all, deep. As for my own scar: isn’t it remarkable what one can do with a bit of greasepaint and wax?

A long, unfathomable moment passed.

Then, Constance turned her attention to the small present. She picked it up and unwrapped it, slowly, gingerly, as one might a bomb. Inside was a hinged box of beautifully polished rosewood.

Just as slowly, she opened the box. Within, nestled on purple velvet, rested an antique scalpel. The handle was of yellowed ivory; the blade itself was polished to great brilliance. Extending an index finger, she stroked the handle of the scalpel. It was cool and smooth. Carefully she drew the scalpel out of the box, balancing it in the palm of her hand, turning it in the light, staring at the mirrored blade that flashed like a diamond in the firelight.

61

When the lights went out, Smithback paused, a raw oyster halfway to his mouth. There was a millisecond of utter darkness before a deep clunk sounded somewhere and the emergency lights came on, rows of fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, bathing everything in a hideous greenish-white light.

He looked around. Most of the VIPs in the crowd had gone into the tomb, but the second shift remained, with plenty of serious drinkers and eaters, standing around or sitting at tables. They remained calm, taking the power failure in stride.

Shrugging, he tipped the oyster shell into his mouth and sucked in the briny, still-living slithery bolus, smacked his lips in enjoyment, and plucked a second oyster from the plate, readying it for the same operation.

And then he heard the shots: six muffled reports from the darkness beyond the far end of the hall: a heavy-caliber handgun firing in a measured cadence, one shot after another. With a dying crackle, the emergency lights went out—and Smithback knew immediately that something big was going down, that there was a story happening. The only light in the hall now came from the hundreds of tea candles spread out on the dinner tables. There were murmurings from the remaining crowd, a rising sense of alarm.

Smithback looked in the direction of the gunshots. He recalled seeing various technicians and staff going in and out of a door in the rear of the hall as the evening progressed, and he figured it must lead to the control room for the Tomb of Senef. As he watched, somebody he recognized—Vincent D’Agosta—came through that door. Not in uniform at the moment, but still looking every inch the cop. With him was somebody else Smithback recognized: Randall Loftus, the well-known director. He watched them make their way toward the small knot of television cameras.

A stab of uneasiness struck Smithback as he realized his wife, Nora, was inside the tomb. Probably stuck in utter darkness. But the tomb had a full complement of guards and cops, so she was certainly safe. Something was happening here, and it was his job as a reporter to find out just what it was. He watched D’Agosta cross the hall, break the glass in an emergency fire station, and remove an axe.

He pulled out his notebook and pencil, noted the time, and jotted down what he was seeing. D’Agosta walked over to a cable, positioned the axe, and brought it down with a clunk, eliciting a roar of protest from Loftus and the PBS technicians. Ignoring them, D’Agosta walked calmly back, axe in hand, to the small door in the rear of the hall, which he then closed behind him.

The tension in the hall increased by an order of magnitude.

Whatever was happening, it was big.

Smithback swiftly followed in D’Agosta’s wake. Reaching the door to the control room, he put his hand on the knob. Then he paused. If he barged in there, he was likely to be ejected. Better to hang back, mingle with the crowd, and wait for the other shoe to drop.

It didn’t take long. Within minutes, D’Agosta, still carrying the axe, and Captain Hayward burst out the door, jogged down the hall, and disappeared out the main exit. A moment later, Manetti, the director of security, came out, climbed onto the darkened podium, and addressed the remaining partygoers.

Again, Smithback noted the time and began to take notes.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he cried out, his voice barely penetrating the vast murky interior.

A hush fell.

“We’re experiencing some power problems, some technical problems. Nothing to be alarmed about, but we’re going to have to clear the hall. The guards will escort you out the way you came in and up to the rotunda. Please follow their instructions.”

A murmur of disappointment rose up. Someone shouted out, “What about the people in the tomb?”

“The people in the tomb will be escorted out as soon as we open the doors. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“Are the doors stuck?” Smithback yelled.

“Momentarily, yes.”

More restlessness. It was clear people did not want to go, leaving their friends or loved ones behind in the tomb.

“Please move toward the exit!” Manetti shouted. “The guards will escort everyone out. There is nothing to be alarmed about.” There were some murmurs of protest from guests clearly unused to being told what to do.

Bullshit, thought Smithback. If there was nothing to be alarmed about, why was there a quaver in Manetti’s voice? There was no way in hell he was going to allow himself to be “escorted” out of the building just as the story was breaking—and especially with Nora still stuck in the tomb.

He looked around, then ducked outside the hall. The velvet ropes ran down the basement corridor, lit only by the battery-operated exit signs. Another corridor sat at right angles to the main hallway, roped off, running into darkness. Guards with flashlights were already herding groups of protesting people toward the exit.

Smithback sprinted on ahead to where the corridor branched off, vaulted the velvet rope, ran through the darkness, and ducked into an entryway marked Alcoholic Storage, Genus Rattus.

He flattened himself against the shallow door frame and waited.

62

Vincent D’Agosta and Laura Hayward sprinted between the velvet ropes, down the front steps of the museum, and along Museum Drive. The entrance to the subway stood at the corner of 81st Street, a dingy metal kiosk with a copper roof, perched on the corner. Parked near it, just beyond the seething crowd of rubberneckers, D’Agosta spotted the PBS television van, cables snaking from it across the lawn and through a window into the museum. A white satellite dish was set atop the van.

“Over here!” D’Agosta began to push his way through the crowd toward the van, gripping the axe. Hayward was at his side, hand up displaying her shield.

“NYPD!” she cried. “Make way, please!”

When the crowd seemed reluctant to part, D’Agosta raised the axe over his head with both hands and began to pump it up and down. The crowd parted before them, exposing a thin path to the van.

They ran around to the rear of the vehicle. Hayward held back the crowd while D’Agosta stepped up onto the bumper. Grasping the rack on top of the van, he pulled himself onto the roof.

A man leaped out of the van. “What the hell are you doing?” he cried. “We’ve got a live broadcast in session!”

“NYPD Homicide,” said Hayward, positioning herself between him and the bumper.

D’Agosta steadied himself on top of the van, legs apart. Then he raised the axe above his head again.

“Hey! You can’t do that!”

“Watch me.” With one tremendous swing, D’Agosta struck through the metal posts supporting the satellite dish, popping the bolts and sending them flying. Then he swung the flat end of the axe against the dish: once, twice. With a creaking groan of metal, it toppled over the edge of the roof and crashed to the street below.

“Are you crazy—?” the technician began.

Ignoring him, D’Agosta leaped off, tossed the axe aside, and he and Hayward shoved their way through the fringes of the crowd, heading for the subway entrance.

Dimly, D’Agosta was aware it was Laura Hayward at his side: his own Laura, who’d had him escorted out of her office just days before. He thought he had lost her irretrievably—and yet, she had sought him out.

She had sought him out. It was a delicious thought. He reminded himself to return to it if he survived the rest of the night.

Reaching the entrance to the subway, they ran down the stairs and sprinted over to the ticket booth. Hayward flashed her shield at the woman inside.

“Captain Hayward, NYPD Homicide. There’s a situation in the museum and we need to clear this station. Call Transit Authority HQ and have them flag the station as a skip until further notice. I don’t want any trains stopping. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They jumped the turnstiles, ran down the corridor, and entered the station proper. It was still early—not yet nine—and there were several dozen people waiting for the train. Hayward trotted along the platform, and D’Agosta followed. At the far end, a corridor branched off, with a large tiled sign above:

New York Museum of Natural History

Walkway to Entrance

Open During Museum Hours Only

An accordion grille of dingy, rusted metal sealed off the corridor, secured with a massive padlock.

“Better talk to those people,” murmured Hayward, pulling out her gun and pointing it at the lock.

D’Agosta nodded. He walked back along the platform, waving his shield. “NYPD! Clear the station! Everybody out!”

People looked over at him disinterestedly.

“Out! Police action, clear the station!”

The sound of two gunshots thundered down the platform, waking everyone up. They began to move back toward the exits, suddenly alarmed, and amidst the confused hubbub of the increasingly rapid retreat D’Agosta heard the words terrorist and bomb drifting toward him.

“I want everyone to leave in a calm and orderly fashion!” he called after them.

A third ripping gunshot cleared the station completely. D’Agosta ran back to find Hayward wrestling with the grille. He helped push it back and together they ducked through.

Ahead of them, the corridor stretched for a hundred yards before taking a sharp turn toward the museum’s subway entrance. Tilework along the walls showed images of mammal and dinosaur skeletons, and there were framed posters announcing upcoming museum exhibitions, including several for the Grand Tomb of Senef. Hayward pulled a small set of plans from her pocket and unrolled them on the cement floor. The plans were covered with scribbled notations—it looked to D’Agosta as if she had gone over them many times.

“That’s the tomb,” said Hayward, pointing at the map. “And there’s the subway tunnel. And look—right over here, there’s only about two feet of concrete between the corner of the tomb and this tunnel.”

D’Agosta squatted, examined the plat. “I don’t see any exact measurements on the subway side.”

“There aren’t any. They only surveyed the tomb, estimating the rest.”

D’Agosta frowned. “The scale is ten feet to the inch. That doesn’t give us much precision.”

“No.”

She consulted the map a moment longer, then, gathering it up, she paced off about a hundred feet down the corridor before stopping again. “My best guess is that this is the thin spot, right here.”

The rumble of a subway car began to fill the air, followed by a roar as it passed the station without stopping, the noise quickly fading.

“You’ve been in the tomb?” said D’Agosta.

“Vinnie, I’ve practically been living in the tomb.”

“And you can hear the subway in there?”

“All the time. They couldn’t get rid of it.”

D’Agosta pressed his ear to the tiled wall. “If they can hear out, we should be able to hear in.”

“They’d have to be making a lot of noise in there.”

He straightened up, looked at Hayward. “They are.”

Then he pressed his ear to the wall again.

63

From his hiding place in the dim doorway, Smithback watched the murmuring, complaining crowds being ushered out of the hall toward the elevators. He lingered a few minutes after the last had passed by, then crept forward, ducked under the velvet rope, and inched along the wall to the corner, where he could peer into the Egyptian Hall. It wasn’t difficult to stay hidden: the only light came from the hundreds of candles still flickering in the hall, leaving much of the antechamber in darkness.

Pressed into the shadows beside the entrance, he watched a small knot of people emerge from the side door leading to the control room. He recognized Manetti, in his usual ugly brown suit, sporting an impressive comb-over. The rest were museum guards except for one man who, in particular, attracted his attention. He was tall and brown-haired, wearing a white turtleneck and slacks. Although his face was turned away, a large bandage was clearly visible on one cheek. What attracted Smithback’s attention wasn’t so much the man’s appearance as the way he moved: so smoothly and gracefully it seemed almost feline. It reminded him of someone . . .

He watched as the man strode to a huge silver cauldron of crushed ice. Dozens of champagne bottles had been pressed into the ice, their snouts pointing upward.

“Help me get rid of these bottles,” Smithback heard the man say to Manetti—and the instant he spoke, Smithback recognized that honeyed voice.

Special Agent Pendergast. Out of prison? What’s he doing here? He felt a sudden thrill of excitement and surprise: here was the man whose name he’d been working to clear, walking around as casually as if he owned the place. But along with the excitement came a sudden sinking feeling—in his experience, Pendergast appeared only when the shit was really hitting the fan.

Two of the guards jogged up to the tomb entrance, and Smithback watched as they made an attempt to lever open the doors with a wrecking bar and a sledgehammer, without success.

Smithback felt the sinking feeling increase. People were trapped inside the tomb—he knew that—but why this sudden desperate effort to get them out? Was something going wrong inside?

His blood ran cold with speculation. Fact was, the tomb presented a perfect opportunity to launch a terrorist attack. An incredible concentration of money, power, and influence was inside: dozens of political bigwigs, along with an elite slice of the country’s corporate, legal, and scientific leadership—not to mention everybody of importance at the museum itself.

He returned his attention to Pendergast, who was pulling the bottles of champagne out of the ice and hurling them into a trash can. In another moment, he’d emptied the cauldron, leaving only a heap of crushed and melting ice. Now he stepped to an adjoining food table and, with a great sweep of his hand, cleared it of its contents, sending platters of oysters, mounds of caviar, cheeses, prosciutto, and breads crashing to the floor. Aghast, Smithback watched a massive Brie roll like a white wheel all the way across the hall before coming to a gluey rest in a dark corner.

Next, Pendergast went from table to table, collecting dozens of tea candles and arranging them in a circle around the cleared area to provide illumination.

What the hell is he doing?

A man came into the hall at a dead run, carrying a bottle of something, which Pendergast immediately snatched up, checked, then shoved into the mound of crushed ice. Two more men arrived, one pushing a cart crammed with bottles and laboratory equipment—beakers and flasks—which were also shoved into the ice.

Pendergast straightened and, his back to Smithback’s hiding place, began rolling up his sleeves. “I need a volunteer,” he said.

“What exactly are you doing?” asked Manetti.

“Making nitroglycerin.”

There was a silence.

Manetti cleared his throat. “This is crazy. Surely there’s a better way to get into the tomb than blowing your way in.”

“No volunteers?”

“I’m calling for a SWAT team,” said Manetti. “We need professionals to break in there. We can’t just blow it up willy-nilly.”

“Well, then,” said Pendergast, “how about you, Mr. Smithback?”

Smithback froze in the blackness, hesitated, looked around. “Who, me?” he said in a small voice.

“You’re the only Smithback here.”

Smithback emerged from the shadows of the doorway and stepped into the hall, and only now did Pendergast turn and look him in the eye.

“Well, sure,” Smithback stammered. “Always happy to help a— Wait. Did you say nitro?”

“I did.”

“Will it be dangerous?”

“Given my inexperience at the synthesis, and the impurity of the formulation that will inevitably result, I’d estimate our chances are slightly better than fifty percent.”

“Chances at what?”

“Enduring a premature detonation.”

Smithback swallowed. “You must . . . be worried about what’s happening in the tomb.”

“I am, in fact, terrified, Mr. Smithback.”

“My wife’s in there.”

“Then you have a special incentive to help.”

Smithback stiffened. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Thank you.” Pendergast turned to Manetti. “See to it that everyone leaves the hall and takes cover.”

“I’m calling for a SWAT team, and I strongly suggest—”

But the look on Pendergast’s face silenced the security director. The guards hastened out of the hall, Manetti following, his radio crackling.

Pendergast glanced back at Smithback. “Now, if you will kindly follow my instructions to the letter, we will have a fair chance of pulling this off.”

He went back to setting up the equipment: rotating the bottles in the ice to chill them more quickly; taking a flask, shoving it deep into the ice, setting a glass thermometer within it. “The problem, Mr. Smithback, is that we have no time to do this properly. We need to mix the chemicals quickly. And that sometimes provokes an undesirable result.”

“Look, what’s happening in the tomb?”

“Let us concentrate on the problem at hand, please.”

Smithback swallowed again, trying to get a grip on himself. All thought of a big story had vanished. Nora is in there, Nora is in there—the phrase pounded in his head like a drumbeat.

“Hand me the bottle of sulfuric acid, but wipe it off first.”

Smithback located the bottle, pulled it out of the ice, wiped it down, and handed it to Pendergast, who poured it carefully into the chilled flask. A nasty, acrid smell arose. When the agent was satisfied he had poured in the requisite amount, he stepped back and capped the bottle. “Check the temperature.”

Smithback peered down at the glass thermometer, pulled it from the flask, held it close enough to a candle to read.

“Needless to say,” said Pendergast dryly, “you will take exquisite care with that candle flame. I should also mention these acids will dissolve human flesh in a matter of seconds.”

Smithback’s hand jerked away.

“Give me the nitric acid. Same procedure, please.”

Smithback wiped off the bottle and handed it to Pendergast. The agent unscrewed the top and held it up, examining the label.

“As I pour this in, I want you to stir the solution with the thermometer, reading off the temperature at thirty-second intervals.”

“Right.”

Pendergast measured the acid into a graduated cylinder, then began pouring it, a tiny amount at a time, into the chilled flask while Smithback stirred.

“Ten degrees,” said Smithback.

More exquisitely slow pouring.

“Eighteen . . . twenty-five . . . Going up fast . . . Thirty . . .”

The mixture began to foam and Smithback could feel the heat of it on his face, along with a hideous stench. The ice began melting around the beaker.

“Don’t breathe those fumes,” said Pendergast, pausing in his pouring. “And keep stirring.”

“Thirty-five . . . thirty-six . . . thirty-four . . . thirty-one . . .”

“It’s stabilizing,” said Pendergast, relief audible in his voice. He resumed pouring in the nitric acid, a tiny bit at a time.

In the silence, Smithback thought he could hear something. He listened intently: it was the sound of distant screaming, muffled to a faint whisper. And then a thud sounded from the direction of the tomb, and then another, which rapidly became a dull pounding.

He straightened suddenly. “Jesus, they’re pounding on the tomb door!”

“Mr. Smithback! Continue reading the temperatures.”

“Right. Thirty . . . twenty-eight . . . twenty-six . . .”

The muffled pounding continued. Pendergast was pouring so slowly Smithback thought he would be driven mad.

“Twenty.” Smithback tried to concentrate. “Eighteen. Please, hurry.” He found his hand shaking, and as he removed the thermometer to read it, he fumbled and splashed some drops of the sulfuric-nitric acid mix on the back of his hand.

“Oh, shit!”

“Keep stirring, Mr. Smithback.”

It felt like his hand had been splattered with molten lead, and he could see smoke rising from the black spots where the acid had fallen on his skin.

Pendergast finished pouring. “I’ll take over. Put your hand in the ice.”

Smithback plunged his hand into the ice while Pendergast grabbed a small box of baking soda, ripped off the top. “Give me your hand.”

He extracted it from the ice. Pendergast shook baking powder over the burn marks with one hand while stirring with the other. “The acids are neutralized now. It’ll be a nasty scar—no more. Please resume stirring while I prepare for the next addition.”

“Right.” Smithback’s hand felt like it was on fire, but the thought of Nora trapped in the tomb reduced the pain to insignificance.

Pendergast removed another bottle from the ice, wiped it off, and measured some of the contents carefully into a small beaker.

The pounding, the screaming, seemed to be getting even more frantic.

“While I pour, you slowly rotate the flask in its ice bath like a cement mixer, keeping it tilted, and read off the temperature every fifteen seconds. Do not stir—don’t even knock the thermometer against the glass. Understand?”

“Yes.”

With excruciating slowness, Pendergast poured while Smithback kept rotating.

“The temperature, Mr. Smithback?”

“Ten . . . twenty . . . It’s shooting up . . . Thirty-five . . .” The sweat appearing now on Pendergast’s forehead frightened Smithback almost more than anything else. “Thirty-five still . . . Hurry, please, for God’s sake!”

“Keep rotating,” the agent said, his calm voice in sharp contrast to his damp brow.

“Twenty-five . . .” The distant pounding continued unabated. “Twenty . . . twelve . . . ten . . .”

Pendergast poured another small amount in, and once again, the temperature shot up. They waited for what seemed an eternity.

“Look, can’t you just mix it all up now?”

“If we blow ourselves up, there’s no hope for them, Mr. Smithback.”

Smithback forced down his impatience, reading off the temperature and rotating the flask, while Pendergast continued pouring bit by bit, pausing between pours. At last he tipped up the beaker.

“First stage complete. Now grab that separatory funnel and pour in some distilled water from that jug, there.”

Smithback picked up the funnel, which looked like a drawn-out glass bulb, a long glass tube with a stopcock angling away from its bottom. Taking the glass plug from its top, he filled the funnel with water from a jug sitting in the ice.

“Shove it upright into the ice, if you please.”

Smithback pushed the funnel into the ice.

Pendergast picked up the flask and, with infinite care, poured the contents into the separatory funnel. As Smithback looked on apprehensively, the agent performed the last several steps. Now a white paste lay in the beaker. Pendergast held up the beaker, examined it briefly, then turned to Smithback. “Let’s go.”

“That’s it? We’re done?” Smithback could still hear the pounding: rising to a crescendo now, backed up by ever-more-hysterical screaming.

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s hurry up and blow the door!”

“No—that door’s too heavy. Even if we could, we’d kill people: they’re all assembled just on the other side, by the sound of it. I’ve got a better entry point.”

“Where?”

“Follow me.” Pendergast had already turned and was heading out the door, breaking into a catlike run, cradling the beaker protectively. “It’s outside, in the subway station. To get there, we’ll have to leave the museum and run the gauntlet of bystanders outside. Your job, Mr. Smithback, is to get me through that crowd.”

64

With a superhuman effort, Nora steadied herself, tried to focus her mind. She realized she was not falling into the well: that the sensation of falling was, in fact, an illusion. The holographic insects had scattered the crowd, inducing a growing panic. The dreadful low throbbing sounds were getting louder, like an infernal drumbeat, and the strobe lights were brighter and more painful than any she had ever experienced. These were not the strobes she had seen in the equipment tests: these flashed so violently that they seemed to be penetrating into her very brain.

She swallowed, looked around. The holographic image of the mummy had vanished, but the fog machines had accelerated and mist was boiling out of the sarcophagus, filling the burial chamber like rising water. The strobes were flashing into the rising fog with extreme rapidity, and each flash blossomed horribly in the mist.

Beside her, Nora felt Viola stumble, and she reached out and grasped the Egyptologist’s hand. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“No, I’m not. What in bloody hell is going on, Nora?”

“I . . . I don’t know. Some kind of terrible malfunction.”

“Those insects were no malfunction. Those had to be programmed. And these lights . . .” Viola winced, averting her eyes.

The fog had reached their waists and was still rising. Staring into it, Nora felt an indescribable panic welling up in her. Soon it would fill the room, engulfing them all . . . It felt as if they were about to drown in the mist and the welter of flashing lights. There were shouts, scattered screams, as the crowd panicked.

“We’ve got to get this crowd out,” she gasped.

“Yes, we must. But, Nora, I can hardly think straight . . .”

Not far away, Nora saw a man gesticulating madly. In one hand, he held a shield that flashed brilliantly in the winking strobes. “If everybody would please stay calm!” he cried. “I’m a New York City police officer. We’re going to get you out of here. But please, everybody, stay calm!”

Nobody paid the slightest attention.

Closer at hand, Nora heard a familiar voice cry out for help. Turning, she saw the mayor a few feet away, bent over, groping downward into the fog. “My wife—she fell! Elizabeth, where are you?”

The crowd suddenly surged backward in a violent crush, accompanied by a ripple of screams, and Nora felt herself borne along against her will. She saw the undercover cop go down beneath the press of bodies.

“Help!” cried the mayor.

Nora struggled to reach him, but the enormous press of the crowd carried her farther away, and a fresh rumble from the sound system drowned out the mayor’s frantic calls.

I’ve got to do something.

“Listen!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “Listen to me! Everyone listen!”

A lessening of the cries close around her proved that at least some people had heard.

“We have to work together if we’re going to get out. Understand? Everyone join hands and move toward the exit! Do not run or push! Follow me!”

To her amazement and relief, her little speech seemed to have a calming effect. The cries lessened further, and she felt Viola grasp her hand.

The fog was now up to her chest, its surface roiled and tendril-strewn. In a moment, they would be covered, blinded.

“Pass the word along! Keep holding hands! Follow me!”

Nora and Viola moved forward, guiding the crowd. Another enormous boom that was more a sensation than sound—and the crowd surged again in utter panic, abandoning any pretense to order.

“Hold hands!” she cried.

But it was too late: the crowd had lost its mind. Nora felt herself borne along, crushed in the press, the air literally squeezed from her lungs.

“Stop pushing!” she cried, but no one was listening any longer. She heard Viola beside her, also calling for calm, but her voice was swallowed up in the panic of the crowd and the deep booming sounds that filled the tomb. The strobes kept flashing, each flash causing a brief, brilliant explosion of light in the fog. And with each flash, she seemed to feel stranger, heavy . . . almost drugged. This wasn’t just fear she was feeling: it was something else. What was happening to her head?

The crowd surged toward the Hall of the Chariots, possessed by a mindless, animal panic. Nora clung to Viola’s hand with all her might. Suddenly a new sound cut in over the deep booming—a high keening at the threshold of audibility, rising and falling like a banshee. The razor-sharp shriek seemed to riddle her consciousness like a shotgun blast, increasing the strange sensation of alienness. Another surge in the crowd caused her to lose her grip on Viola’s hand.

“Viola!”

If there was an answering cry, it was lost in the tumult.

All of a sudden, the pressure around her relented, as if a cork had been released. She gasped, sucking air into her lungs, shaking her head in an attempt to clear it. The fog without seemed mirrored by another fog, growing within her mind.

A pilaster loomed into view through the gloom ahead. She clung to it, recognized a bas-relief: and suddenly knew where she was. The door to the Hall of the Chariots was just up ahead. If they could just get through it and away from the infernal fog . . .

She flattened herself against the wall, then felt her way along it, keeping out of the panicked crowd, until she could make out the door ahead. People were squeezing through, fighting and clawing, ripping at one another’s clothes, forming a bloody bottleneck of insanity and panic. More grotesque, deep groaning from the hidden speakers, along with an intensification of the bansheelike wail. Under this assault of noise, Nora felt a sudden vertigo, as if she were sinking; the kind of awful swoon she sometimes experienced in the throes of a fever. She staggered, fought to keep her feet: to fall now might mean the end.

She heard a cry and saw, through the swirling mist, a woman nearby, lying on one side, being trampled by the crowd. Instinctively, she bent forward, grabbed an upraised hand, and hauled her to her feet. The woman’s face was bloody, one leg crooked and obviously broken—but she was still alive.

“My leg,” the woman groaned.

“Put your arm around my shoulder!” Nora yelled.

She forced herself into the stream of people and the two were borne along through the doorway into the Hall of the Chariots. A dreadful, growing pressure . . . and then suddenly there was space, people milling about, disoriented, their clothes torn and bloody, weeping, shrieking for help. The woman sagged on her shoulder like a dead weight, whimpering. At least here they would be rid of the murderous barrage . . .

And yet, strangely, they were not. She had not escaped the sound, or the fog, or the strobe lights. Nora looked around, disbelieving. The fog was still rising fast, and more lights flashed from the ceiling—relentless, blinding bursts that each seemed to cloud her brain a little further.

Viola’s right, she thought in a vague, confused way. This was no malfunction. The script didn’t call for strobes or fog in the Hall of the Chariots; only in the burial chamber itself.

This was something planned—deliberate.

She clutched her throbbing head with one hand, urging the woman along, plodding slowly forward toward the God’s Second Passage and the tomb exit that lay beyond. But once again, a seething mass blocked the narrow door at the far end.

“One at a time!” Nora screamed.

Directly ahead of her, a man was trying to beat his way through the crowd. With her free arm, she seized him by his tuxedo collar, yanking him off balance. He looked around wildly, took a swing at her.

“Bitch!” he yelled. “I’ll kill you!”

Nora backed off in horror and the man turned back, grabbing and tearing at the people before him. But it wasn’t just him: all around, people were screaming, boiling with rage, eyes rolling in their sockets—utter bedlam, a Boschean vision of hell.

She felt it even within herself: overwhelming agitation; a muddy, unfocused fury; an impending sense of doom. Yet nothing had actually happened. There was no fire, no mass murder—nothing to justify this kind of mass insanity . . .

Nora spotted the museum’s director, Frederick Watson Collopy. His face looked shattered and he was staggering forward toward the doorway, one dead-looking leg trailing behind him: Draaaag-thump! Draaaag-thump!

He spied her and his ravaged face grew bright and hungry. He staggered toward her through the crush. “Nora! Help me!”

He seized the injured woman. Nora was about to thank him for his help, when he tossed her roughly to the ground.

Nora looked at him in horror. “What the hell are you doing?” She stepped forward to help the woman but Collopy seized her with incredible force, his hands clawing and grasping at her like a drowning man. She tried to twist free, but his desperate strength was shocking. In his frenzy, he twisted one arm around her neck.

“Help me!” he screamed again. “I can’t walk!”

Nora jabbed him in the solar plexus with her elbow and he staggered, but still clung to her.

There was a sudden flash by her side and Nora saw Viola, kicking Collopy fiercely in the shins. With a shriek, Collopy released his grip and collapsed to the floor, writhing and spitting curses.

Nora grabbed Viola and together they backed away from the writhing crowd, staggered toward the rear wall of the Hall of the Chariots. There was a crash and the sound of shattering glass as a display case toppled over.

“My head, my head!” Viola groaned, pressing her hands to her eyes. “I can’t think straight.”

“It’s like everyone’s gone crazy.”

“I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“I think it’s the strobe lights,” Nora said, coughing. “And the sounds . . . or maybe some chemical in the fog.”

“What do you mean?”

And then a swirling image appeared above them—a huge three-dimensional spinning spiral. With a thudding groan of sound, it twisted slowly . . . and then a piercing tone sounded, and another a quarter tone away, and another, throbbing and beating in dissonance, as the spiral began to rotate faster. Nora stared at it, instantly mesmerized. It was a holographic projection, it had to be. And yet it was real . . . it was like nothing she had ever seen before. It drew her forward, sucking her in, pulling her down into a maelstrom of insanity.

With a huge effort, she tore her eyes away. “Don’t look at it, Viola!”

Viola trembled all over, her eyes still fixated on the swirling image.

“Stop it!” Nora slapped her across the face with her free hand.

Viola just shook her head to clear the blow, her eyes wild, still staring.

“The show!” Nora said, shaking her. “It’s doing something to our minds!”

“What . . . ?” Viola’s voice sounded drugged. And when she looked at Nora, her eyes were bloodshot—just like Wicherly’s had been.

“The show. It’s affecting our minds. Don’t look at it, don’t listen!”

“I don’t . . . understand.” Viola’s eyes rolled backward in her head.

“Down on the floor! Cover your eyes and your ears!”

Nora tore a strip off her gown and blindfolded Viola. Just as she was about to blindfold herself, she caught a glimpse of a man standing in an alcove in the far corner, dressed in white tie and tails, utterly calm, an eye-mask over his face, head tilted up, hands clasped in front, standing stock-still, as if waiting. Menzies.

Another illusion?

“Fingers in your ears!” Nora cried, hunching down next to Viola.

They huddled in the corner, eyes squeezed shut, ears stopped, trying to shut out the hideous, grotesque show of death.

65

Smithback followed Pendergast at a dead run through the emptied museum halls, the beam from the agent’s flashlight licking its way along the velvet ropes. Within minutes, they had reached the rotunda, their footsteps clattering on the white marble, and seconds later, they emerged onto the grand, red-carpeted staircase before the museum. Police cars were arriving in force along Museum Drive now, sirens wailing and brakes screeching. Smithback could hear the thudding of helicopters overhead.

Many of the police were engaged in crowd control, trying to clear Museum Drive of the panicked guests, onlookers, and press. Numerous other police officers were clustered together at the foot of the great steps, where they were setting up a mobile command center. There was pushing and shoving, and a hubbub of shouting filled the air. The flashes of photographers exploded like a fireworks display.

Pendergast hesitated at the top of the stairs, then turned to Smithback. “That’s the subway entrance we need,” he said, pointing to the far end of Museum Drive. Their route was blocked by a seething mass of guests and onlookers.

“It’s going to take twenty minutes to force our way through that crowd,” Smithback said. “And for sure somebody’s going to knock that beaker out of your hands along the way.”

“That would be unacceptable.”

A hell of an understatement, Smithback thought. “What do you plan to do about it, then?”

“We shall simply have to part the crowds.”

“How?” But even as he asked the question, Smithback saw a gun appear in Pendergast’s hand. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’re going to use that.”

“I’m not going to use it. You are. I wouldn’t dare fire a gun while carrying this—the proximity of the discharge could set it off.”

“But I’m not going to—”

Smithback felt the gun placed in his hand. “Fire into the air, high up into the air. Aim out over Central Park.”

“But I’ve never used this model—”

“All you need to do is pull the trigger. It’s a Colt .45 Model 1911, kicks like a mule, so wrap both hands on the grip and keep your elbows slightly bent.”

“Look, I’ll carry the nitro.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Smithback. Now, get moving, if you please.”

Reluctantly, Smithback advanced toward the crowd. “FBI!” he said unconvincingly. “Make way!”

The crowds didn’t even notice him.

“Make way, damn it!”

Now some of the crowd stared back at him like a herd of cows, placid, unmoving.

“The sooner you fire, the sooner you will have their attention,” Pendergast said.

“Make way!” Smithback raised the gun. “Emergency!”

A few at the front perceived what was coming, and there was a flurry of action, but the mass of the crowd between them and the subway entrance just stood there dumbly.

Bracing himself, Smithback squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He squeezed harder—and the gun went off with a terrific boom, jolting him.

A chorus of screams erupted and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.

“What the hell you think you’re doing?” Two cops started running toward them from where they’d been pushing back the crowd nearby, their own guns drawn.

“FBI!” Pendergast shouted as they rushed forward into the breach. “This is an emergency federal action. Do not interfere!”

“Let’s see your shield, sir!”

The back of the crowd was already coalescing and Smithback realized his mission was not yet accomplished. “Make way!” he yelled, firing the gun again while walking forward, to dramatic effect.

A series of screams, and a fresh pathway appeared almost miraculously before them.

“You crazy bastard!” somebody shouted. “Firing a gun like that!”

Smithback broke into a run, Pendergast following as quickly as he dared behind him. The cops attempted to give chase, but the crowd had already drawn together behind them. Smithback could hear the cops cursing as they tried to fight their way through.

A minute later, they’d reached the entrance to the subway, and here Pendergast went ahead, taking the stairs quickly yet with remarkable smoothness, still cradling the small flask. They trotted along the deserted platform, ducked around a corner at the far end, into the museum’s subway entrance. Halfway down it, Smithback could see two figures: D’Agosta and Hayward.

“Where’s our entry point?” Pendergast called out as he arrived.

“Between those lines,” said Hayward, indicating two lines that had been marked on the tiles with lipstick.

Pendergast knelt and placed the flask carefully against the wall, positioning it between the lines. Then he stood and turned to face the little group. “If you would all please withdraw around the corner? My sidearm, Mr. Smithback?”

As Smithback handed the gun to the agent, he heard the sound of feet charging down the stairwell into the station. He followed Pendergast back around the corner onto the platform proper, where they crouched against the wall.

“NYPD!” came a shouted command from the far end of the station. “Drop your weapons and freeze!”

“Stay back!” Hayward shouted, waving her badge. “Police action in progress!”

“Identify yourself!”

“Captain Laura Hayward, Homicide!”

That seemed to flummox them.

Smithback saw Pendergast taking careful aim. He shrank closer to the wall.

“Stand down, Captain!” one of the policemen yelled.

“Take cover now!” came Hayward’s reply.

“Ready?” Pendergast asked quietly. “On the count of three. One . . .”

“I repeat, Captain, stand down!”

“Two . . .”

“And I repeat, you idiots: take cover!”

“Three.”

There was another gunshot, followed immediately by a terrific, earthshaking roar, and then a concussive blast that smacked Smithback hard against the chest and knocked him to the cement floor. Instantly the entire station filled with cement dust. Smithback lay on his back, dazed, the wind temporarily knocked from him. Chips of cement pattered down around him like rain.

“Holy shit!” It was D’Agosta’s voice, but the man himself was invisible in the sudden gloom.

Vaguely, Smithback could hear confused shouting from the other end of the station. He pulled himself to a sitting position, choking and spluttering, ears ringing, and felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Then Pendergast’s voice was in his ear.

“Mr. Smithback? We’re going in now, and I’ll need your help. Stop the show—rip out wires, rip down screens, smash lights, but stop the show. We must do that before we do anything else—even before we help the people. Do you understand?”

“Call for backup!” came the choking cry from somewhere at the far end of the platform.

“Do you understand?” Pendergast asked urgently.

Smithback coughed, nodded. The agent pulled him to his feet.

“Now!” Pendergast whispered.

They bolted around the corner, D’Agosta and Hayward at their heels. The dust had cleared just enough to show a gaping hole in the wall. From it gushed billows of fog, brilliantly illuminated by the maniacal flashing of strobe lights.

Smithback held his breath, readied himself. Then he ducked inside.

66

Just inside the breach, they paused. The heavy mist was pouring out of the gap like water from a broken dam, filling the tunnel and the subway station beyond; within the tomb itself, it was already subsiding below eye level, allowing them to see the upper portions of the tomb. Smithback immediately recognized it, from Nora’s descriptions, as the burial chamber. Strobe lights of extraordinary, even painful intensity were flashing from every corner, and an unholy rumble filled the tomb, overlaid by a throbbing, nerve-shredding, high-pitched shriek.

“What the hell is going on?” D’Agosta asked behind him.

Pendergast moved forward without answering, waving away the swirling tendrils of fog. As they approached the huge stone sarcophagus in the center of the chamber, the agent paused, looked around at the ceiling, took aim, and fired: a fixture in the corner exploded in a flash of sparks and streamers of glass. He rotated his stance, fired again, and then again, until all the strobes were dead—although flashing could still be seen coming through the doorway to the next room of the tomb, and the hideous sounds continued.

They moved forward again. Smithback felt a sudden lurch in his gut: as the fog cleared, he could see bodies on the ground, moving feebly. The floor was slick with blood.

“Oh, no.” Smithback looked around wildly. “Nora!”

But it was impossible to hear anything over the maddening wall of noise that seemed to penetrate his very bones. He took a few more steps, frantically waving away the mist. Another explosion from Pendergast’s gun, followed by the hollow screech of feedback and an electric arc as an audio speaker crashed to the floor. Still, the sound throbbed on, unabated. Smithback grabbed some loose wires, yanked.

A plainclothes policeman approached them, staggering as if half drunk. His face was scratched and bleeding, and his shirt was torn and hanging in strips. His shield flapped on his belt as he moved, and his service piece dangled from one hand like a forgotten appendage.

Hayward frowned in surprise. “Rogerson?” she asked.

The cop’s eyes swiveled toward her briefly, then swiveled away. After a second, he turned his back on them and began staggering off. Hayward reached over and plucked the gun from the man’s unresisting hand.

“What the hell happened here?” D’Agosta cried, looking around at the scattering of torn clothes, shoes, blood, and injured guests.

“There’s no time to explain,” Pendergast said. “Captain Hayward, you and Lieutenant D’Agosta head up to the front of the tomb. You will find most of the guests up there, clustered at the entrance. Lead them back here and out through the gap in the wall. But be careful: many of them have undoubtedly become unhinged as a result of this sound-and-light show. They may be violent. Take care not to cause a stampede.” He turned to Smithback. “We must find that generator.”

“The hell with that. I’m finding Nora.”

“You won’t be able to find anyone until we stop this infernal show.”

Smithback stopped. “But—”

“Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Smithback hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.

Pendergast slipped a second flashlight out of his pocket and handed it to him, and they moved forward into the fog, side by side. It was a horrifying scene of carnage—wounded were sprawled across the marble floor, groaning, and more than one body lay motionless in a grotesque, unnatural position . . . apparently trampled to death. The floor was littered with shards of pottery. Smithback swallowed and tried to control his wildly beating heart.

Pendergast shone his light across the ceiling, the beam finally coming to rest on a long stone molding. He aimed his gun, fired, and blew off a corner of the molding, exposing a power cable that smoked and sparked.

“They would not have been allowed to bury the cables in the walls of the tomb,” he explained. “We need to search for more false moldings.”

Slowly, he traced his light along the molding, which had been plastered, textured, and painted to look like stone. It ran to a corner, where it was joined by a second molding, and from there a larger molding headed through the doorway to the adjoining room.

They picked their way over several bodies piled before the door and entered the next chamber of the tomb. Smithback winced at the blinding strobes, which Pendergast dispatched with four well-placed shots.

As the last shot reverberated through the gloom, a figure emerged from the dissipating fog, shambling, picking up and dropping its feet as if shackled with heavy weights. The mouth moved as if in violent speech, but Smithback could hear nothing over the thundering sound.

“Look out!” Smithback cried as the man abruptly lunged at Pendergast. The agent stepped aside deftly, tripping the stumbling figure and pushing him to one side. The man fell heavily to the ground and rolled, unable to get up.

They moved into a third room, Pendergast following the lines of molding with his flashlight. They appeared to all converge at a fake half-pilaster set into the far wall. Beneath stood a large XX Dynasty chest, gilded and intricately carved. It was set within a glass display case, unbroken despite the carnage.

“There!” Pendergast walked over, picked up a broken chariot wheel, and swung it into the case, shattering the glass. He stepped back and, raising his gun again, shot the ancient bronze lock off the chest. After holstering his weapon, he swept away the lock and the broken glass and lifted the lid from the heavy chest. Inside, a large generator hummed and vibrated. Pendergast slipped a knife out of his pocket, reached in, and cut a wire; the generator coughed, choked, and died—plunging the tomb into utter darkness and silence.

And yet the silence was not complete. Smithback could now hear a cacophony of cries and shrieks from the front section of the tomb: a moblike hysteria. He stood up, probing the darkness with his own flashlight.

“Nora!” he cried out. “Nora!”

Suddenly the beam of his light was arrested by a figure standing, half hidden, in a far alcove. Smithback stared in surprise. Although the man was dressed in impeccable white tie and tails, he wore a black mask over his face, and a set of headphones covered his ears. A small device that looked like a remote control was in his hand. He was standing so still Smithback wondered if perhaps he was just another holographic projection, but then, as if on cue, he reached up and pulled off the mask.

Pendergast had been staring at the man, and the effect of his unmasking was remarkable. He stiffened and jerked, like a man who has received an electric shock. His face, normally so pale, flushed crimson.

It seemed to Smithback that the tuxedoed figure’s reaction was even stronger. He went into a sudden, instinctive crouch, like a man poised to spring. Then he gathered himself together and slowly rose to his full height.

“You!” he said. For a moment, he went still again. And then—with a long, spidery hand—he removed the headphones and earplugs, and slowly and deliberately dropped them to the floor.

Fresh surprise blossomed over Smithback. He recognized this man: it was Nora’s boss, Hugo Menzies. And yet he looked so different. His eyes were flaming red, his limbs quivered. His face was flushed as deeply as Pendergast’s was—he was filled with rage.

Pendergast’s hand went for his gun. Then he stopped, weapon half drawn, as if paralyzed.

“Diogenes . . . ,” he said in a strangled voice.

At the same time, Smithback heard his own name being called from a far corner. He looked over to see Nora staggering to her feet, supported by Viola Maskelene. Pendergast glanced over, noticing them as well.

In that moment, Menzies darted to one side with incredible speed and vanished into the darkness. Pendergast turned, tensed for pursuit—and then he turned back again toward Viola, face contorted with indecision.

Smithback dashed over to the two women and helped them to their feet. A moment later, Pendergast was beside him, taking Viola into his arms.

“Oh my God,” she said, gasping and half weeping. “Oh my God, Aloysius . . .”

But Smithback barely heard. His arms were around Nora, one hand caressing her smudged and bloodied face. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She winced. “A headache. A few scratches. It was so horrible.”

“We’ll get you out.” Smithback turned back to Pendergast. The agent was still holding Viola in his embrace, his hands resting on her shoulders, but again, his gaze had darted toward the darkness into which Hugo Menzies had vanished.

Behind, from the burial chamber, Smithback heard the muffled blaring of police radios. Flashlight beams lanced through the murk, and the police were there, a dozen or more uniformed officers looking confused, moving into the Hall of the Chariots, guns drawn.

“What the hell’s going on?” said the commander, a lieutenant. “What is this place?”

“You’re in the Tomb of Senef,” said Pendergast.

“What about the explosion?”

“Necessary to gain entry, Lieutenant,” said Captain Hayward, walking toward them and showing her shield. “Now, listen carefully. We have injured in here, and a lot more up ahead. We’re going to need EMTs, mobile first-aid stations, ambulances. Do you understand? Lieutenant D’Agosta is in the front of the tomb, about to escort the trapped victims back here to the exit. He needs help.”

“Understood, Captain.” The lieutenant turned to his officers and began barking orders. Several of them holstered their weapons and began moving deeper into the tomb, flashlight beams bobbing. Beyond them, Smithback could hear the approach of the crowd, the sounds of moaning, sobbing, and coughing, punctuated now and again by angry, incoherent cries. It sounded like an insane asylum on the move.

Pendergast was already helping Viola toward the exit. Smithback put his arm around Nora, and they fell in behind, headed for the gap blown in the corner of the burial chamber. Moments later, they were out of the mephitic tomb and inside the brightly lit subway station. A group of EMTs came running down the platform toward them, some carrying collapsible stretchers.

“We’ll take them, gentlemen,” one of the medical technicians said as they came up, while the rest rushed through the gap into the tomb.

In moments, Viola and Nora were strapped into stretchers and being carried up the stairs. Pendergast led the way. The flush had gone from his face, leaving it ashen and unreadable. Smithback walked beside Nora.

She smiled and reached up to grasp his hand. “I knew you’d come,” she said.

67

We serve breakfast beginning at six, sir,” the porter said to the handsome, impeccably dressed gentleman in the private compartment.

“I would prefer to be served in my bedroom. Thank you in advance for obliging me.”

The porter glanced down at the twenty-dollar bill being pressed into his hand. “No problem, sir, not a problem at all. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes. You could bring me a chilled glass, some crushed ice, a bottle of cold spring water, and a tin of sugar cubes.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” The man stepped out of the compartment, smiling and bowing, and shut the door with almost reverential caution.

Diogenes Pendergast watched the dwarfish man disappear down the corridor and out of sight. He heard the footsteps patter away, heard the clunk of the heavy door at the end of the railroad car. He heard the myriad sounds of Penn Station, commingled and yet disparate in his mind: the ebb and flow of conversation outside the train, the sonorous droning of the stationmaster’s announcements.

He shifted his gaze to the window, looked idly out at the platform. A landscape in shades of gray greeted him. A portly conductor stood there, patiently giving directions to a young woman, baby in her arms. A commuter trotted by, briefcase in hand, hurrying to catch the last Midtown Express to Dover on the adjoining track. An elderly woman tottered slowly by, frail and thin. She stopped to stare at the train, then at her ticket, before continuing on her precarious way.

Diogenes saw them all, yet he paid them little heed. They were simply visual ephemera, a distraction for his mind . . . to keep it from drifting toward other, more maddening thoughts.

After the first few minutes—moments of anguish, disbelief, and white-hot rage—he had more or less managed to keep the thought of his failure at arm’s length. The fact was, under the circumstances he had managed quite well: he always had multiple exit plans in place, and this evening he’d followed the most appropriate one to the letter. Barely half an hour had passed since he’d fled the museum. And yet already he was safely aboard the Lake Champlain, the overnight Amtrak train to Montreal. It was an ideal train for his purposes: it stopped at Cold Spring, on the Hudson, to change from electric to diesel, and all passengers were given thirty minutes to stretch their legs.

Diogenes would use the time to pay a final visit to his old friend Margo Green.

The hypo was already filled and lovingly nestled in its gift box, beautifully wrapped and beribboned. It was tucked safely away in his valise along with his most precious items—his scrapbooks, his personal pharmacopoeia of hallucinogens and opioids, his ghastly little trinkets and playthings of which nobody who’d ever caught sight had been permitted to live—all stowed in the overhead compartment. Enough clothing and disguises to get him safely home were hanging in the garment bag inside the small closet by the door. And safely tucked into his pocket were his documents and passports.

Now all that remained was to think as little as possible about what had happened. He did this by turning again, contemplatively, to Margo Green.

In his exhaustive, disciplined preparations for the sound-and-light show, she was the one indulgence he allowed himself. She was the only carryover from the earlier stage of his plan. Unlike the others, she was a sitting duck, to be played with and dispatched with little risk, time, or effort.

What about her, in particular, had drawn him back—more than, say, William Smithback, Nora Kelly, Vincent D’Agosta, or Laura Hayward? He wasn’t sure, but he guessed it was her long connection to the museum—to the pontificating, pedestrian, whoreson, didactic, beggarly, jejune, ossified, shit-encrusted minds amongst whom he had been buried—as Hugo Menzies—for more years than he cared to count. It had been an insufferably extended torture. The whole lot of them would have been dispatched by the sound-and-light show—except for her. He had failed with the others, but he would not fail with her.

It had pleased him to pay her frequent sympathetic visits in her comatose state—which he had been at pains to extend, keeping her on the brink of expiration, teasing out her widowed mother’s pain to the greatest possible extent. It was a brew of suffering from which he drank deep, and whose astringent taste renewed his own thirst for the living death that was his life.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Diogenes said.

The porter entered rolling a portable bar, which he set up on an adjoining table. “Anything else, sir?”

“Not at the moment. You may make up my bed in an hour.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll get your breakfast order then.” The man retreated with another deferential bow.

Diogenes sat for a moment, once again glancing out at the platform. Then, slowly, he drew a silver flask from his breast pocket. Opening it, he poured several ounces of a brilliant green liquid—which to him looked pale gray—into the glass on the portable bar. Then he retrieved a spoon from his leather valise: a silver spoon with the Pendergast family crest stamped on its handle, somewhat melted at one corner. He handled it as one might handle one’s newborn child. Carefully, lovingly, he laid the spoon across the top of the glass and placed a sugar cube inside it. Then, taking the chilled water, he poured it onto the cube, drop by drop. Spilling over the edges of the spoon like a sugary fountain, the sweetened water fell into the liqueur below, turning it first a milky green, then a beautiful opalescent jade—if his eyes could only see in color.

All of this was done without the slightest trace of hurry.

Diogenes put the spoon carefully aside and lifted the glass to his lips, savoring the faintly bitter taste. He screwed the cap back on the flask and returned it to his pocket. It was the only modern absinthe he had found that had the same high proportion of essences of wormwood as the old nineteenth-century brands. As such, it deserved to be drunk in the traditional manner.

He took another sip, settling back comfortably into the chair. What was it Oscar Wilde had said of drinking absinthe? “The first stage is like ordinary drinking, the second when you begin to see monstrous and cruel things, but if you can persevere you will enter in upon the third stage, where you see things that you want to see, wonderful curious things.”

Strange how, no matter how much he drank, Diogenes never seemed to get past the second stage—nor did he particularly care to.

A small speaker set high up in the wall came to life.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the conductor speaking. Welcome aboard the Lake Champlain, making stops at Yonkers, Cold Spring, Poughkeepsie, Albany, Saratoga Springs, Plattsburg, St.-Lambert, and Montreal. This is your final boarding call. All visitors, please exit the train at this time . . .

Listening, Diogenes smiled faintly. The Lake Champlain was one of only two luxury passenger trains still operated by Amtrak. By taking two adjoining first-class bedrooms and having the partition between them unlocked, Diogenes had secured himself a passably comfortable suite. It was a criminal disgrace the way politicians had allowed America’s passenger train system, once the envy of the world, to fall into insolvency and disrepair. But this, too, was but a passing inconvenience: he would soon be back in Europe, where people understood how to travel in dignity and comfort.

Outside the window, a heavyset woman wobbled quickly by, a porter burdened down with suitcases trotting in her wake. Diogenes held up his glass, stirring the pearly liquid gently. The train would depart within moments. And now for the first time—cautiously, like a man approaching a dangerous animal—he allowed himself a brief moment of reflection.

It was almost too dreadful to contemplate. Fifteen years of planning, careful disguise, artful intrigue, ingenious contrivance . . . all for naught. The thought of all the work and time he had put into Menzies alone—fashioning his backstory, learning his trade, obtaining employment, working for years and years, attending vapid meetings and listening to the asinine mutterings of desiccated curators—was almost enough to send him spiraling into a pit of madness. And then there was the final extravaganza, in all its intricate and fearsome glory: the meticulous medical research into how one could contrive to transform ordinary people into murderous sociopaths using nothing more than sound and light—the ablation of the inhibitory cerebral pathway by laser light, traumatizing the entorhinal cortex and amygdala and allowing for disinhibition of rudimentary function . . . And then, there had been the painstaking implementation of his own special sound-and-light show hidden within the multimedia presentation everybody else had slaved over—and the testing of it on the technician and that ass, Wicherly . . .

It had all been so perfect. Even the tomb’s curse, which he’d exploited so beautifully, added an exquisite touch: softening people up, preparing them psychologically for the terror of his sound-and-light show. It would have worked. In fact, it did work—except for the one element he could never have predicted: his brother escaping from Herkmoor. How had he managed that? And then he had appeared on the scene just in time to once again ruin everything.

How very like Aloysius. Aloysius, who—as the less gifted brother—had always taken grim pleasure in tearing down those things he himself lovingly constructed. Aloysius who, realizing he would always be bested intellectually, had taken the ultimate step of subjecting him to an Event that would ensure . . .

But here the hand holding the glass began to shake, and Diogenes immediately shut down this line of thought. Never mind: he would leave his brother one more gift for the delectation of his conscience: the gruesome death of Margo Green.

There was a hiss of brakes; another announcement from the conductor; and then, with a squealing of metal wheels, the train began to creep forward along the platform. He was on his way: Cold Spring, Canada, Europe, and home.

Home. Just the thought of being back in his library, among his treasured possessions, within the embrace of a structure lovingly designed to spoil his every whim, helped restore his equanimity. It was from home that, over many years, he’d planned his perfect crime. From there he could do it again. He was still relatively young. He had many years left, more than enough to develop a plan—a better plan.

He took a deeper sip of absinthe. In his rage and shock, he was forgetting something. He had succeeded, at least in part. He had hurt his brother terribly. Aloysius had been publicly humiliated, charged with the murders of his own friends, sent to prison. He might be free, temporarily, but he was still a wanted man: the prison break would only deepen the hole he was in. He could never rest, never take an easy breath. He would be hunted endlessly. For somebody so private, the prison ordeal must have been mortifying.

Yes, he had accomplished much. He had struck his brother in a most vital, most sensitive spot. While Aloysius had been languishing in prison, he had seduced his brother’s ward. What an abominable, delicious pleasure it had been. Remarkable: a hundred years of childhood . . . and yet still so fresh, so innocent and naive. Every web he had spun, every cynical lie he had told, had been a joy: especially his long and windy disquisitions on color. She would be dead by now, lying in a pool of her own blood. Yes, murder was one thing: but suicide, genuine suicide, struck the hardest blow of all.

He took another slow sip and watched the platform glide by over the rim of the glass. He was approaching Oscar Wilde’s second stage of absinthe drinking, the contemplation of monstrous and cruel things—and he wanted to hold in his mind, like a soothing balm, one particular image: his brother standing over the dead body of Constance, reading the letter. This was the image that would comfort, nourish, and sustain him until he reached home . . .

The door to his stateroom rolled back with a clatter. Diogenes sat up, smoothing his shirtfront and slipping a hand into his jacket pocket for the ticket. But it was not the conductor who stood in the corridor beyond: it was the frail old woman he had seen walk past on the platform a few minutes earlier.

He frowned. “This is a private room,” he said in a clipped tone.

The woman did not answer. Instead, she took a step forward into the compartment.

Instantly, Diogenes grew alarmed. It was nothing he could immediately put his finger on, but some sixth sense abruptly screamed danger. And then, as the woman reached into her handbag, he realized what it was: these were no longer the slow, hesitant movements of an old lady. They were lithe and quick—and they seemed to have a dreadful purpose. But before he could move, the hand came out of the bag holding a gun.

Diogenes froze. The gun was ancient, practically a relic: dirty, webbed with rust. Almost against his will, Diogenes found his eyes traveling up the woman’s form until they reached her face—and he recognized the bottomless, expressionless eyes that looked back at him from beneath the wig. Recognized them well.

The barrel rose toward him.

Diogenes leaped to his feet, absinthe sloshing over his shirt and spattering the front of his pants, and flung himself backward as she squeezed the trigger.

Nothing.

Diogenes straightened, heart beating madly. It dawned on him that she had never fired a weapon before—she did not know how to aim, she had not yet turned off the safety. He sprang at her, but even as he did so, he heard the click of a safety being released, and a shattering explosion filled the compartment. A bullet punched a hole in the skin of the train car above his head as he twisted and fell sideways.

He scrambled to his feet as the woman took a step forward, wraithlike in the billows of cordite and dust. Once again—with perfect, terrible composure—she leveled the gun, took aim.

Diogenes threw himself at the door to the adjoining compartment, only to find that the porter had not yet unlocked it.

Another deafening explosion, and splinters flew from the molding mere inches from his ear.

He turned around to face her, his back against the window. Perhaps he could rush her, knock her from the door . . . But once again, with a deliberation so slow it was unspeakably awful, she leveled the old pistol, took aim.

He jerked to one side as a third bullet shattered the window where just a moment before he had been standing. As the echoes of the shot died away, the clank of the train wheels drifted in. There were shouts and screams in the corridor of the train now. Outside, the end of the platform was in sight. Even if he overcame her, wrestled away the gun—it would be all over. He would be caught, exposed.

Instantly, without conscious thought, Diogenes whirled around and dived out through the shattered window, landing heavily on the concrete platform and rolling once, twice, a confused welter of dust amidst bits of safety glass. He picked himself up, half dazed, heart beating madly, just in time to see the last car of the train disappear beyond the platform and into the dark mouth of the tunnel.

He stood there, stunned. And yet, through his daze, through his shock and pain and fear, an image persisted: the terrible calm with which she—Constance—had corrected her aim. There had been a lack of emotion, expression, anything, in those strange eyes . . .

Except utter conviction.

68

Anyone observing the gentleman going through security at terminal E in Boston’s Logan Airport would have noticed a dapper man in his mid-sixties, with brown hair graying at the temples, a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, wearing a blue blazer with a white shirt open at the collar and a red silk handkerchief poking from his breast pocket. His eyes were a sparkling blue, his cheekbones broad, and his face open, ruddy, and cheerful. A black cashmere overcoat was slung over his arm, and he laid it on the security belt along with his shoes and watch.

Past security, the gentleman strode vigorously down the terminal corridor, pausing only at a Borders near gate 7. He ducked inside, perused the shelves of thrillers, and was delighted to find that a new James Rollins had been published. He took up the book, plucked a Times from the rack, and brought them to the cashier, greeting her with a cheery “Good day,” betraying in accent and diction his Australian origins.

The gentleman then chose a seat near the gate, seated himself, and unfolded the paper with a snap. He took in the world and national news, turning the pages with a crisp, practiced motion. In the New York Report, his notice fell on a small item: Mysterious Shooting on Amtrak Train.

A sweep of his eyes took in the salient details: a man had been shot at on the Lake Champlain out of Penn Station; witnesses described the shooter as an elderly woman; the would-be target threw himself off the train and disappeared in the tunnels underneath Penn Station; a thorough search failed to identify the assailant or recover the weapon. The police were still investigating.

He turned the page and scanned the editorials, a slight frown gathering over some point he apparently disagreed with, soon clearing up.

A meticulous observer—and, in fact, there was one—would have seen nothing more remarkable than a wealthy Australian reading the Times while waiting for his flight. But the pleasant, somewhat vacant expression on his face was no more than skin-deep. Inside, his head was a boiling stew of fury, disbelief, and savage self-reproach. His world was upended, his careful planning destroyed. Nothing had succeeded. The Doorway to Hell: ruined. Margo Green: still alive. His brother: free. And most unacceptable of all: Constance Greene, undead.

Smiling, he turned to the sports section.

Constance, unsuicided. With her, he had miscalculated disastrously. Everything he knew of human nature indicated that she would take her own life. She was a freak, mentally unstable—hadn’t she been stumbling blindfolded along the cliff’s edge of sanity for decades? He had given her a push—a hard shove. Why hadn’t she fallen? He had destroyed every pillar in her life, every support she had—undermined her every belief. He had drowned her existence with nihilism.

With rude haste the bloomy girl deflow’r’d,

Tender, defenceless, and with ease o’erpower’d.

In her long, sheltered, uneventful life, Constance had always drifted hesitantly, uncertain what she was intended for, confused about the meaning of her life. With bitter clarity, Diogenes now saw that he had cleared up her confusion and given her the one thing no one else could have: something to live for. She had found a new, shining purpose in life.

To kill him.

Normally, this would not be a problem. Those who interfered with him—there had been several—hadn’t survived long enough to make a second attempt. He had washed away his sins in their blood. But already he could see that she was not like the others. He could not understand how she had identified him on the train—unless she had somehow physically followed him from the museum. And he was still unnerved from the utter self-possession of mind with which she had shot at him. She had forced him to leap out a window, flee in undignified panic, abandoning his valise with its treasured contents.

Fortunately, he had retained his various passports, wallet, credit cards, and identifications. The police would trace the valise and luggage back to Menzies; but they could not identify his traveling alter ego from them: Mr. Gerald Boscomb of South Penrith, Sydney, NSW. Now it was time to put aside all extraneous thoughts, all the little voluntary and involuntary mental tics and flourishes and whispered voices that made up his internal landscape—and identify a plan of action.

Closing the sports section, he turned to business.

No thought of right and wrong—only her fury

With all her being speeded toward revenge.

Constance Greene alone could identify him. She was an unacceptable danger. As long as she pursued him, he could not retreat to his bolt-hole and regroup. And yet all was not lost. He had failed this time, at least in part, but he had many years of life left to establish and execute a new plan, and he would not fail a second time.

But as long as she lived, he would never be safe.

Constance Greene had to die.

Mr. Gerald Boscomb picked up the novel he’d purchased, cracked it, and began reading.

Killing her would require a finely tuned plan. His thoughts turned to the Cape buffalo—the most dangerous animal hunted by man. The Cape buffalo employed a peculiar strategy when hunted: alone among animals, it knew how to turn the hunter into the hunted.

As he read, a plan formed in his mind. He thought it over, considered various locations for its execution, and discarded each in turn, before arriving—at chapter 6—at the perfect setting. The plan would work. He would turn Constance’s very hatred for him against her.

He placed a bookmark in the novel, shut it, and tucked it under his arm. The first part of the plan was to show himself to her, to be intentionally seen—if she had managed to follow him here. But he could take no more chances, make no more assumptions.

He rose, slung his coat over his arm, and strolled down the terminal, glancing casually left and right, observing the masses of humanity as they ebbed and flowed on their futile business, a tidal flow of grays and more grays: layers of gray, an infinitude of gray. As he passed the Borders once again, his eye paused fleetingly on a dowdy woman buying a copy of Vogue; she was dressed in a brown woolen skirt of African design with a white shirt, a cheap scarf wrapped around her neck. Her brown, unwashed hair fell limply to her shoulders. She carried a small black leather backpack.

Diogenes passed slowly by the bookstore and went into the Starbucks next door, shocked that Constance had made such a poor effort to disguise herself. Shocked, also, that she had managed to follow him.

Or had she?

She must have. To find him any other way would take a mind reader.

He purchased a small organic green tea and croissant and made his way back to his seat, taking care not to look at the woman again. He could kill her here—it would be easy—but he would not be able to escape the layers of airport security. Would she make an attempt on his life in this exposed place? Did she care enough about her own life to take greater care—or was her sole aim to end his?

He had no answer.

Mr. Gerald Boscomb finished his tea and croissant, brushed the crumbs off the tips of his fingers, dusted his coat, and resumed reading his newly acquired thriller. A moment later, the first-class cabin of his flight was called to board. As he proffered his boarding pass to the gate attendant, his eye swept the terminal aisle again, but the woman had disappeared.

“G’day,” he said cheerily, as he took the ticket stub and entered the jetway.

69

Vincent D’Agosta entered the library of 891 Riverside Drive, pausing in the doorway. A fire blazed on the hearth, the lights were up, and the room was a hive of concentrated activity. The chairs had been pushed back against the bookcases, and a large table covered with papers dominated the center of the room. Proctor was at one side, murmuring into a cordless phone, while Wren, his hair even wilder than usual, pored over a stack of books at a desk in the corner. The little man looked pinched and ancient.

“Vincent. Please come in.” Pendergast called D’Agosta over with a curt gesture.

D’Agosta complied, shocked at the agent’s uncharacteristically haggard appearance. It was the only time he remembered ever seeing Pendergast unshaven. And, for once, the man’s suit jacket was unbuttoned.

“I got the details you wanted,” D’Agosta said, holding up a manila folder. “Thanks to Captain Hayward.” He dropped it on the table, flipped it open.

“Proceed.”

“Witnesses say the shooter was an old woman. She got on the train with a first-class ticket to Yonkers, paid in cash. Gave the name Jane Smith.” He snorted. “Just as the train was pulling out of Penn Station, while it was still underground, she entered the first-class berth of a passenger named . . . Eugene Hofstader. Pulled a gun and fired four shots. Forensics recovered two .44-40 rounds embedded in the walls and another on the tracks outside. Get this: they were antique rounds—probably shot from a nineteenth-century revolver, a Colt perhaps.”

Pendergast turned to Wren. “Check to see if we’re missing a Colt Peacemaker or similar revolver from the collection, along with any .44-40 rounds, please.”

Wordlessly, Wren stood up and left the room. Pendergast glanced back at D’Agosta. “Go on.”

“The old woman vanished, although no one saw her get off the train, which was sealed almost immediately following the shooting. If she was wearing a disguise and discarded it, it was never found.”

“Did the man leave anything behind?”

“You bet: a valise and a garment bag full of clothes. No papers or documents, or even a clue to his true identity. All labels had been carefully razored off the clothing. But the valise . . .”

“Yes?”

“They brought it into the evidence room, and when the warrant came down, they opened it up. Apparently, the evidence officer took one look and, well, whatever happened next he had to be sedated. A hazmat team was called in, and the stuff is now under lock and key—nobody seems to know where.”

“I see.”

“I guess we’re talking about Diogenes here,” said D’Agosta, slightly annoyed that he’d been sent out on the assignment with less-than-complete information.

“That is correct.”

“So who’s this old lady who shot at him?”

The agent gestured toward the table at the center of the room. “When Proctor returned here last night, he found Constance missing, along with a few articles of clothing. In her room, he found her pet mouse, its neck broken. Along with that note and the rosewood box.”

D’Agosta walked over, picked up the indicated note, read it quickly. “Jesus. Oh, Jesus, what a sick fuck . . .”

“Open the box.”

He opened the small antique box a little gingerly. It was empty, a long dimple left in the purple velvet interior by some object, now gone. A faded label on the inside cover read Sweitzer Surgical Instrument Company.

“A scalpel?” he asked.

“Yes. For Constance to cut her wrists with. She seems to have taken it for another purpose.”

D’Agosta nodded. “I think I’m getting the picture. The old woman was Constance.”

“Yes.”

“I hope she succeeds.”

“The thought of their meeting again is too terrible to contemplate,” Pendergast replied, his face grim. “I must catch up with her—and stop her. Diogenes has been preparing for this escape for years, and we have no hope of tracing him . . . unless, of course, he wishes to be traced. Constance, on the other hand, will not be trying to conceal her tracks. I must follow her . . . and there is always a chance that, in finding her, I will find him as well.”

He turned to an iBook sitting open on the table, began typing. A few minutes later, he looked over. “Constance boarded a flight to Florence, Italy, at five o’clock this afternoon, out of Logan Airport in Boston.” He turned. “Proctor? Pack my things and book a ticket to Florence, if you please.”

“I’m coming with you,” said D’Agosta.

Pendergast looked back at him, his face gray. “You may accompany me to the airport. But as for going with me—no, Vincent, you will not. You have a disciplinary hearing to prepare for. Besides, this is a . . . family matter.”

“I can help you,” said D’Agosta. “You need me.”

“Everything you say is true. And yet I must, and I will, do this alone.”

His tone was so cold and final that D’Agosta realized any reply was useless.

70

Diogenes Pendergast, a.k.a. Mr. Gerald Boscomb, passed the Palazzo Antinori and turned into the Via Tornabuoni, breathing in the damp winter air of Florence with a certain bitter nostalgia. So much had happened since he was last here, mere months ago, when he had been filled with plans. Now he had nothing—not even his clothes, which he had abandoned on the train.

Not even his treasured valise.

He strolled pass Max Mara, remembering with regret when it was once the fine old Libreria Seeber. He stopped in at Pineider, bought some stationery, purchased luggage at Beltrami, and picked up a raincoat and umbrella at Allegri—all of which he had sent over to his hotel, keeping only the raincoat and umbrella, for which he had paid cash. He stopped at Procacci, settled himself at a tiny table in the crowded shop, and ordered a truffle sandwich with a glass of vernaccia. He sipped his drink thoughtfully, watching passersby through the window.

Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves

Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant

The sky was threatening rain, the city dark and narrow. Perhaps that was why he had always liked Florence in winter—it was monochromatic, the buildings pale, the surrounding hills gray humps spiked with cypress trees, the river a sluggish ripple of dull iron, its bridges almost black.

He dropped a bill on the table and left the café, continuing his stroll down the street. He paused to examine the display window at Valentino, using the reflection of the glass to observe the other side of the street. He went inside and purchased two suits, one in silk and the other a black double-breasted completo with a broad pinstripe, which he favored because of its faint thirties gangsterish flavor—and had them, as well, sent to his hotel.

Back on the street, he turned his footsteps toward the grim medieval facade of the Palazzo Ferroni, an imposing castle of dressed stone with towers and crenellated battlements, now the world headquarters of Ferragamo. He crossed the small piazza in front of the castle, past the Roman column of gray marble. Just before he entered the castle proper, a swift, sidelong glance identified the dowdy woman with brown hair—her—just at that moment entering the church of Santa Trinità.

Satisfied, he entered Ferragamo and spent a good deal of time looking over shoes, buying two pairs, and then completing his wardrobe with purchases of underwear, socks, nightshirt, undershirts, and bathing suit. As before, he sent his purchases over to his hotel and exited the store, encumbered with nothing more than the furled umbrella and the raincoat.

He walked toward the river and paused along the lungarno, contemplating the perfect curve of the arches of the Ponte Santa Trinità, designed by Ammanati: curves that had confounded the mathematicians. His yellowed eye examined the statues of the four seasons that crowned both ends.

None of it gave him pleasure anymore. It was all useless, futile.

The Arno below, swollen by winter rains, shuddered along like the back of a snake, and he could hear the roar of water going over the pescaia a few hundred yards downriver. He felt a faint raindrop on his cheek, then another. Black umbrellas immediately began appearing among the bustling crowds, and they bobbed over the bridge like so many black lanterns . . .

e dietro le venìa sì lunga tratta
di gente, ch’i’ non averei creduto
che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta.

He put on his own raincoat, belted it tightly, unfurled the umbrella, and experienced a certain nihilistic frisson as he joined the crowds crossing the bridge. On the far side, he paused at the embankment, looking back over the river. He could hear the tick-tick of raindrops on the fabric of the umbrella. He could not see her, but he knew she was there, somewhere under that moving sea of umbrellas, following him.

He turned and strolled across the small piazza at the far end of the bridge, then took a right on Via Santo Spirito and an immediate left onto Borgo Tegolaio. There he paused to look in the rear display window of one of the fine antique shops that fronted on Via Maggio, stuffed with gilt candlesticks, old silver saltcellars, and dark still lifes.

He waited until he was sure that she had observed him—he caught just a glimpse of her through a double reflection in the shop window. She was carrying a Max Mara bag, and for all the world looked like one of the swinish American tourists who visited Florence in mindless shopping herds.

Constance Greene, just where he wanted her.

The rain slackened. He furled his umbrella but remained at the shop window, examining the objects with apparent interest. He watched her distant, almost unreadable reflection, waiting for her to move forward into the sea of umbrellas and thus lose sight of him for a moment.

As soon as she did so, he burst into a run, sprinting silently up Borgo Tegolaio, his raincoat flying behind him. He ducked across the street and darted into a narrow alley, Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti; tore along its length; then took another left, racing down Via Toscanella. Then he ran across a small piazza and continued down Via dello Sprone until he had made a complete circuit and come back around to Via Santo Spirito, some fifty yards below the antique shop where he had dallied moments earlier.

He paused just short of the intersection with Via Santo Spirito, catching his breath.

Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves

In a field

He forced his mind back to business, angry at the whispered voice that never gave him peace. When she saw he was no longer on the street, she would assume—she would have to assume—that he had taken a right turn down the tiny alley just beyond the antique shop: Via dei Coverelli. She would think him ahead of her, walking in the opposite direction toward her. But, like the Cape buffalo, he was now behind her, their positions reversed.

Diogenes knew Via dei Coverelli well. It was one of the darkest, narrowest streets in Florence. The medieval buildings on both sides had been built out over the street on arches of stone, which blocked the sky and made the alley, even on a sunny day, as dim as a cave. The alley made a peculiar dogleg as it wormed past the back of the Santo Spirito church, two ninety-degree turns, before joining Via Santo Spirito.

Diogenes trusted in Constance’s intelligence and her uncanny research abilities. He knew she would have studied a map of Florence and considered deeply the momento giusto in which to launch her attack on him. He felt sure that she would see the Coverelli alleyway as an ideal point of ambush. If he had turned down Coverelli, as she must believe, then this would be her chance. All she had to do was backtrack, enter Coverelli from the other end, and then wait in the crook of the dogleg for Diogenes to arrive. A person lurking in that dark angle could not be seen from either opening of the alleyway.

All this Diogenes had already thought out, the day before, on the plane ride to Italy.

She did not know that he had already anticipated her every action. She did not know that his flanking dash in the other direction would turn the tables. He would now be approaching her from behind, instead of from the front.

The hunter is now the hunted.

71

The Rolls tore across the upper deck of the Triborough Bridge, the skyline of Manhattan rising to the south, slumbering in the predawn. Proctor drove effortlessly through the traffic—heavy even at 4:00 A.M.—leaving drivers in his wake, their angry horns Doppler-shifting downward as he passed.

Pendergast sat in the back, in disguise as an investment banker on a business trip to Florence, equipped with the appropriate documents supplied by Glinn. Next to him sat D’Agosta, silent and grim.

“I don’t get it,” D’Agosta said at last. “I just don’t understand how Diogenes could call this a perfect crime.”

“I do understand—and rather too late,” Pendergast replied bitterly. “It’s as I explained on the ride to the museum last night. Diogenes wanted to inflict on the world the pain that had been inflicted on him. He wanted to re-create the . . . the terrible Event that ruined his life. You recall I mentioned he had been victimized by a sadistic device, a ‘house of pain’? The Tomb of Senef was nothing less than a re-creation of that house of pain. On a grand and terrible scale.”

The Rolls slowed for the tollbooth, then accelerated again.

“So what was going on in the tomb, then? What happened to all those people?”

“I’m not yet sure precisely. But did you notice that some of the victims were walking with a peculiar, shuffling gait? It put me in mind of the neurological effect known as drop foot, which sometimes afflicts people suffering from brain inflammation. Their ability to walk is impaired in a very specific manner, making it difficult to lower their feet smoothly to the ground. And if you ask Captain Hayward to inspect the tomb, I feel certain she will find powerful lasers hidden among the strobe lights. Not to mention a superfluity of fog machines and subwoofers far beyond anything the original design called for. It seems Diogenes engineered a combination of strobe light, laser, and sound to induce lesions in a very particular part of the brain. The flashing lasers and sound overwhelmed the ventromedial cortex of the brain, which inhibits violent and atavistic behavior. Victims would lose all inhibition, all sense of restraint, prey to every passing impulse. The id unleashed.”

“It’s hard to believe that light and sound could actually cause brain damage.”

“Any neurologist will tell you that extreme fear, pain, stress, or anger can damage the human brain, kill brain cells. Post-traumatic stress disorder in its extreme form does, in fact, cause brain damage. Diogenes simply brought that to its ultimate conclusion.”

“It was a setup from the very beginning.”

“Yes. There was no Count of Cahors. Diogenes fronted the money for the restoration of the tomb. And the ancient curse itself provided just the kind of flourish that Diogenes delights in. Clearly, he secretly installed his own version of the show, a hidden version unknown to the technicians and programmers. He tested it first on Jay Lipper, then on the Egyptologist, Wicherly. And recall, Vincent, his ultimate aim was not just the people in the tomb: a live feed was going out over public television. Millions could have been affected.”

“Unbelievable.”

Pendergast bowed his head. “No. Utterly logical. His aim was to re-create the terrible, unforgivable Event . . . for which I was responsible.”

“Don’t start blaming yourself.”

Pendergast looked up again, the silvery eyes suddenly dark in his bruised face. He spoke in a low voice, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I am my brother’s creator. And all this time, I never knew it—I never apologized or atoned for what I did. That is something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.”

“Forgive me for saying it, but that’s a load of crap. I don’t know much about it, but I do know what happened to Diogenes was an accident.”

Pendergast went on, voice even lower, almost as if he hadn’t heard. “Diogenes’s entire reason for existence is I. And, perhaps, my reason for existence is him.”

The Rolls entered JFK Airport and drove along the circulation ramp toward terminal 8. As it pulled up to the curb, Pendergast leaped out and D’Agosta followed.

Pendergast hefted his suitcase, grasped D’Agosta’s hand. “Good luck on the hearing, Vincent. If I don’t return, Proctor will handle my affairs.”

D’Agosta swallowed. “Speaking of returning, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“It’s . . . a difficult question.”

Pendergast paused. “What is it?”

“You realize there’s only one way to take care of Diogenes.”

Pendergast’s silvery eyes hardened.

“You know what I’m talking about, right?”

Still, Pendergast said nothing, but the look in his eyes was so cold that D’Agosta almost had to look away.

“When the moment comes, if you hesitate . . . he won’t. So I need to know if you’ll be able to . . .” D’Agosta couldn’t finish the sentence.

“And your question, Vincent?” came the icy reply.

D’Agosta looked back at him, saying nothing. After a beat, Pendergast turned abruptly and disappeared into the terminal.

72

Diogenes Pendergast strolled around the corner of the Via dello Sprone and back into Via Santo Spirito. Constance Greene was gone, having ducked into the Via dei Coverelli as he’d anticipated. And now she would be waiting for him, in ambush, to round the corner.

To confirm this, he walked briskly down Via Santo Spirito and paused just before the entrance to Coverelli, flattening himself against the ancient sgraffito facade of some long-forgotten palace. With enormous caution, he peered around the corner.

Excellent. She was still not to be seen—she had already turned the first angle of the dogleg and was no doubt waiting for him to come from the opposite direction.

His hand slipped into his pocket and removed a leather case, from which he took an ivory-handled scalpel identical to the one he had left beneath her pillow. The cool weight of it comforted him. Counting out the seconds, he opened his umbrella and made the turn. Then he began walking boldly down Via dei Coverelli, his shoes echoing on the cobblestones in the confined alleyway, his upper body hidden beneath the black umbrella. Disguise was unnecessary: she would not look back around the corner to see who was coming from the other direction. She would not expect his approach from that side.

He strode on boldly, inhaling the scent of urine and dog feces, of vomit and wet stone—the ancient alleyway retained even the smell of medieval Florence. Keeping the scalpel poised in his gloved hand, he approached the first corner of the dogleg. As he did so, he previsualized his strike. She would have her back to him; he would come up from the side, grab her neck with his left arm while aiming the scalpel for that sweet spot just below the right clavicle; the length of the scalpel blade would be sufficient to sever the brachiocephalic artery at the point where it divided into the carotid and subclavian arteries. She would not even have time to cry out. He would then hold her while she died; he would cradle her; he would allow her blood to flow over him as it had done once before . . . under very different circumstances . . .

. . . and then he would leave both her and his raincoat in the alley.

He approached the corner. Fifteen feet, ten, eight, now . . .

He turned the corner and paused, tense and then astonished. There was no one there. The dogleg was empty.

He quickly looked around, forward and back: no one. And now he was in the dogleg, blind, unable to see who was coming from either direction.

He felt a twinge of panic. Somewhere he had miscalculated. Where had she gone? Had she tricked him in some way? It didn’t seem possible.

He paused, realizing that he was now stuck in the blind spot. If he walked around the corner ahead of him, out into Borgo Tegolaio, a much broader and more visible street, and she was there, she would see him—and all his advantage would be lost. On the other hand, if she was behind him, and he went back, that would also destroy his advantage.

He stood motionless, thinking furiously. The sky continued to darken, and now he realized that it wasn’t merely the rain, but the evening was falling like a dead hand over the city. He couldn’t stay there forever: he would have to move, to turn either one corner or the other.

Despite the chill, he felt himself growing warm under the raincoat. He had to abandon his plan, turn around, and walk back the way he had come—to unwind, so to speak, his flanking maneuver as if it had never happened. That would be best. Something had happened. She had taken another turn somewhere and he had lost her—that was it. He would then have to think of another attack. Perhaps he should go to Rome and allow her to follow him into the Catacombs of St. Callixtus. That popular tourist site, with its anonymous dead ends and doubling-backs, would be an excellent place to kill her.

He turned and walked back along Via dei Coverelli, cautiously rounding the first dogleg. The alleyway was empty. He strode down it—and then suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement from one of the archways above; he instinctively threw himself sideways even as a shadow dropped upon him and he felt the resistless swipe of a scalpel cutting through the layers of his raincoat and suit, followed by the searing burn of cut flesh.

With a cry, he twisted around and—even as he fell—drove his own scalpel in a glittering arc toward her, aiming for the neck. His greater experience with the blade, combined with superior speed, paid off as his scalpel met flesh in a mist of blood; but as he continued to fall, he realized she had twisted her head at the last moment and his blade, instead of cutting her throat, had merely slashed the side of her head.

He fell hard onto the cobblestones, his mind swept clean by astonishment, rolled over, and leaped up, scalpel in hand—but she was already gone, vanished.

In that moment, he understood her plan. Her poor disguise had been no accident. She had been showing herself to him, just as he had been revealing himself to her. She had allowed him to lead her to a point of ambush, and she had then used it against him. She had countered his countermove.

The simple brilliance of it astounded him.

He stood there, looking up at the crowded stone arches above him. He made out the crumbling ledge of pietra serena from which she had no doubt launched her attack. Far above he could see the tiniest sliver of steel-gray sky, out of which were spinning raindrops.

He took a step, staggered.

He felt a wave of faintness as the burning sensation in his side increased. He dared not open his coat and inspect; he could not afford to get blood on the outside of his clothing—it would draw attention. He belted his raincoat as tightly as possible, trying to bind the wound.

Blood would draw attention.

As the feeling of faintness receded and his brain emerged from the shock of the attack, he realized that an opening had presented itself to him. He had cut her head, and no doubt it was bleeding copiously, as all such cuts did. She could not hide such a cut and the blood, not even with a scarf. She could not pursue him around Florence with blood pouring down her face. She would have to retreat somewhere, clean herself up. And that gave him the window of opportunity he needed to escape from her, to shake her off—forever.

Now was the moment. If he could escape from her cleanly, he could assume another identity, and from there proceed to his final destination. She would never find him there—never.

He strolled as casually as possible through the streets toward the taxi stand at the end of Borgo San Jacopo. As he walked, he could feel the blood soaking through his clothes, trickling down his leg. The pain was minor, and he was sure the cut had merely sliced along his rib cage without penetrating his vitals.

He had to do something about the blood, however—and fast.

He turned into a little café at the corner of Tegolaio and Santo Spirito, went up to the bar, and ordered an espresso and a spremuta. He downed both, one after the other, dropped a five-euro bill on the zinc, and went into the bathroom. He locked the door and opened his raincoat. The amount of blood was shocking. He quickly probed the wound, confirming that it hadn’t pierced his peritoneum. Using paper towels, he mopped up as much blood as he could; and then, tearing away the lower half of his blood-soaked shirt, he tied the strips around his torso, closing the wound and stanching the flow of blood. Then he washed his hands and face, put on his raincoat, combed his hair, and left.

He felt the blood pooling now into his shoe, and he looked down to see that his heel was leaving a bloody quarter-moon on the sidewalk. But it was not fresh blood, and he could sense that the bleeding had slowed. A few more steps and he arrived at the taxi stand, slid into the backseat of a Fiat.

“Speak English, mate?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes,” came the gruff reply.

“Good man! The railroad station, please.”

The cab shot forward and he lay back in the seat, feeling the blood sticky in his groin, his mind suddenly loosening itself in a tumult of thoughts, a shower of broken memories, a cacophony of voices:

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

73

In the convent of the Suore di San Giovanni Battista in Gavinana, Florence, twelve nuns presided over a parochial school, a chapel, and a villa with a pensione for religious-minded visitors. As night gathered over the city, the suora behind the front desk noted with unease the return of the young visitor who had arrived that morning. She had come back from her tour of the city cold and wet, her face bundled up in a woolen scarf, body hunched against the weather.

“Will the signora be having dinner?” she began, but the woman silenced her with a gesture so brusque the suora closed her mouth and sat back.

In her small, simply furnished room, Constance Greene furiously flung off her coat on her way to the bathroom. She bent over the sink, turning on the hot water tap. As the sink filled, she stood before the mirror and unwound the woolen scarf from her face. Beneath it was a silk scarf, stiff with blood, which she gingerly unwrapped.

She peered closely at the wound. She could not see much; her ear and the side of her head were crusted with clotted blood. She dipped a washcloth in the warm water, wrung it out, and gently placed it over her skin. After a moment, she removed, rinsed, and reapplied it. Within minutes, the blood had softened enough for her to cleanse the cut and examine it more clearly.

It wasn’t as bad as it had looked at first. The scalpel had scored deeply across her ear but had only nicked her face. She gently probed with her fingers, noting that the cut was exceedingly sharp and clean. It was nothing, although it had bled like a stuck pig—it would heal with hardly a scar.

Scar. She almost laughed out loud as she threw the bloody washcloth into the sink.

She leaned over and examined her face in the mirror. It was thin and haggard, her eyes hollow, lips cracked.

The novels she had read made pursuit sound easy. Characters followed other characters halfway around the world, all the while remaining well rested, fed, refreshed, and groomed. In reality, it was an exhausting, brutal business. She had hardly slept since she first picked up his trail at the museum; she had barely eaten; she looked like a derelict.

On top of that, the world had proved to be a nightmare beyond all imagining: noisome, ugly, chaotic, and brutally anonymous. It was not at all like the comfortable, predictable, moral world of literature. The great welter of human beings she had encountered were hideous, venal, and stupid—indeed, mere words failed to describe their true loathsomeness. And chasing Diogenes had proved expensive: through inexperience, being cheated, and rash expenditure, she had run through almost six thousand euros in the past forty hours. She had only two thousand left—and no way of getting more.

For forty hours, she had followed him relentlessly. But now he had escaped her. His wound would not slow him down: it was undoubtedly a trifle, like hers. She was certain she had lost his trail for good—he would see to that. He was gone, on to a new identity, and no doubt heading for the safe place he had prepared for just such a flight, years ago.

She had come so close to killing him—twice. If she had a better handgun . . . if she had known how to shoot . . . if she had been a millisecond quicker with the blade . . . he would be dead.

But now he had escaped her. She had lost her chance.

She gripped the sink, staring into her bloodshot eyes. She knew with a certainty the trail would end here. He would flee by taxi, train, or plane, cross a dozen borders, crisscross Europe, before ending up in a place and in a persona he had carefully cultivated. It would be somewhere in Europe, she was sure of that—but the certainty was of little help. It might take a lifetime to find him—or even more.

Nevertheless, a lifetime was what she had. And when she found him, she would know him. His disguises had been good—but no disguise would deceive her. She knew him. He could alter everything possible about his appearance: his face, clothes, eyes, voice, body language. But there were two things he could not alter. His stature was the first. The second, the more important, was something she was sure Diogenes had not thought of: and that was his peculiar scent. That scent she remembered so well, strange and heady, like a mixture of licorice underscored by the keen, dark smell of iron.

A lifetime . . . She felt a wave of despair so overwhelming that she swayed over the sink.

Could he have left some clue behind in his hasty departure? But that would mean returning to New York, and by the time she did so, the trail would have grown too cold.

Perhaps he had dropped some unconscious reference, then, in her presence? It seemed most unlikely—he had been so careful. But perhaps, because he had expected her to die, he might have been less than vigilant.

She walked out of the bathroom, sat down on the edge of the bed. She paused a moment to clear her mind as best she could. Then she thought back to their earliest conversations in the library of 891 Riverside. It was a mortifying exercise, excruciatingly painful, like peeling back a raw bandage of memory: and yet she forced herself to continue, summoning up their first exchanges, his whispered words.

Nothing.

She then went over their later meetings, the books he had given her, his decadent disquisitions on sensual living. But there was still nothing, not even the hint of a geographical location.

In my house—my real house, the one that is important to me—I have a library . . . That was what he had told her once. Was it, like everything else, just a cynical lie? Or was there perhaps a glimmer of truth?

I live near the sea. I can sit in that room, all lights and candles extinguished, listening to the roar of the surf, and I become a pearl diver . . .

A library, in a house by the sea. That wasn’t much help. She ran over the words again and again. But he had been so careful to hide any personal details, except for those lies he had so carefully crafted, such as the suicide scars.

The suicide scars. She realized that, in her recollections, she had been unconsciously avoiding the one event that held out the greatest chance of revealing something. And yet she could not bear to think of it again. Reliving those final hours together—the hours in which she gave herself to him—would be almost as painful as first reading the letter . . .

But once again a coldness descended over her. Slowly she lay back on the bed and stared upward into the darkness, remembering every exquisite and painful detail.

He had murmured lines of poetry in her ear as his passion mounted. They had been in Italian:

Ei s’immerge ne la notte,

Ei s’aderge in vèr’ le stelle.

He plunges into the night,

He reaches for the stars.

She knew that the poem was by Carducci, but she had never made a careful study of it. Perhaps it was time that she did.

She sat up too quickly and winced from a sudden throbbing in her ear. She went back into the bathroom and went to work on the injury, cleaning it thoroughly, covering it with antibiotic ointment, and then bandaging it as unobtrusively as possible. When she was done, she undressed, took a quick bath, washed her hair, put on fresh clothes. Next, she stuffed the washcloth, towel, and bloody clothes into a garbage bag she found stored in the back of the room’s armoire. She gathered up her toiletries and returned them to her suitcase. Pulling out a fresh scarf, she wrapped it carefully around her face.

She closed the suitcase, buckled and strapped it. Then she took the garbage bag and descended to the greeting room of the convent. The sister was still there, and she looked almost frightened by this sudden reappearance.

“Signora, is there something not to your liking?”

Constance opened her wallet. “Quanto costa? How much?”

“Signora, if there is a problem with your room, surely we can accommodate you.”

She pulled out a rumpled hundred-euro bill, placed it on the counter.

“That is too much for not even one night . . .”

But Constance had already vanished into the cold, rainy dark.

74

Two days later, Diogenes Pendergast stood on the port rail of the traghetto as it plowed through the heaving blue waters of the southern Mediterranean. The boat was passing the rocky headland of Capo di Milazzo, crowned by a lighthouse and a ruined castle; behind him, sinking into the haze, stood the great hump of Sicily, the blue outline of Mount Etna thrusting into the sky, a plume of smoke trailing off. To his right lay the dark spine of the Calabrian coast. Ahead lay his destination, far, far out to sea.

The great eye of the setting sun had just dipped behind the cape, casting long shadows over the water, limning the ancient castle in gold. The boat was heading north, toward the Aeolian islands, the most remote of all the Mediterranean islands—the dwelling place, or so the ancients believed, of the Four Winds.

Soon he would be home.

Home. He rolled the bittersweet word around in his mind, wondering just what it meant. A refuge; a place of retreat, of peace. He removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, took shelter in the lee of the deck cabin, and lit one, inhaling deeply. He had not smoked in more than a year—not since he had last returned home—and the nicotine helped calm his agitated mind.

He thought back to the two days of hectic traveling he had just completed: Florence, Milan, Lucerne—where he’d had his wound stitched at a free clinic—Strasbourg, Luxembourg, Brussels, Amsterdam, Berlin, Warsaw, Vienna, Ljubljana, Venice, Pescara, Foggia, Naples, Reggio di Calabria, Messina, and finally Milazzo. A forty-eight-hour ordeal of train travel that had left him weak, sore, and exhausted.

But now, as he watched the sun dying in the west, he felt strength and presence of mind returning. He had shaken her in Florence; she had not, could not have, followed him. From there, he had changed identities several times, confused his trail to such an extent that neither she nor anyone else could hope to untangle it. The open borders of the EU, combined with the crossing into Switzerland and re-entry into the EU under a different identity, would confound even the most persistent and subtle pursuer.

She would not find him. Nor would his brother. Five years, ten years, twenty—he had all the time in the world to plan his next—his final—move.

He stood at the rail, inhaling the breath of the sea, feeling a modicum of peace steal over him. And for the first time in months, the interminable, dry, mocking voice in his head fell to a susurrus, almost inaudible amid the sound of the bow plowing the sea:

Goodnight Ladies: Goodnight sweet Ladies: Goodnight, goodnight.

75

Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast got off the bus at Viale Giannotti and walked through a small park of sycamore trees past a shabby merry-go-round. He was dressed as himself—now that he was safely out of the United States, there was no need for disguise. At Via di Ripoli, he took a left, pausing before the huge iron gates that led into the convent of the Sisters of San Giovanni Battista. A small sign identified it only as Villa Merlo Bianco. Beyond the gates, he could hear the mingled cries of schoolchildren at recess.

He pressed the buzzer and, after a moment, the gates opened automatically, leading into a graveled courtyard before a large ocher villa. The side door was open, and a small sign identified it as guest reception.

“Good morning,” he said in Italian to the small, plump nun at the desk. “Are you the Suor Claudia I spoke to?”

“Yes, I am.”

Pendergast shook her hand. “Pleased to know you. As I mentioned over the phone, the guest we spoke of—Miss Mary Ulciscor—is my niece. She has run away from home, and the family is extremely worried about her.”

The plump nun was almost breathless. “Yes, signore, in fact I could see she was a very troubled young lady. When she arrived, she had the most haunted look in her face. And then she didn’t even stay the night—arrived in the morning, then returned that evening and insisted on leaving—”

“By car?”

“No, she came and left on foot. She must have taken the bus, because taxis always come in through the gates.”

“What time would that have been?”

“She returned about eight o’clock, signore. Soaking wet and cold. I think she might have been sick.”

“Sick?” Pendergast asked sharply.

“I couldn’t be sure, but she was hunched over a bit, and her face was covered.”

“Covered? With what?”

“A dark blue woolen scarf. And then not two hours later, she came down with her luggage, paid too much money for a room she hadn’t even slept in, and left.”

“Dressed the same?”

“She’d changed her clothes, had on a red woolen scarf this time. I tried to stop her, I really did.”

“You did all you could, Suora. Now, may I see the room? You needn’t bother coming—I’ll take the key myself.”

“The room’s been cleaned, and there’s nothing to see.”

“I would prefer to check it myself, if you don’t mind. One never knows. Has anyone else stayed there?”

“Not yet, but tomorrow a German couple . . .”

“The key, if you would be so kind.”

The nun handed him the key. Pendergast thanked her, then walked briskly through the piano nobile of the villa and mounted the stair.

He found the room at the end of a long hall. It was small and simple. He closed the door behind him, then immediately dropped to his knees. He examined the floor, searched under the bed, searched the bathroom. To his great disappointment, the room had been fanatically cleaned. He stood up, looked around thoughtfully for a minute. Then he opened the armoire. It was empty—but a careful look revealed a small, dark stain in the far corner. He dropped to his knees again, reached in, and touched it, scratching a bit up with his fingernail. Blood—dry now, but still relatively fresh.

Back in the reception room, the nun was still deeply concerned.

“She seemed troubled, and I can’t imagine where she went at ten o’clock at night. I tried to talk to her, signore, but she—”

“I’m sure you did all you possibly could,” Pendergast repeated. “Thank you again for your help.”

He exited the villa onto Via di Ripoli, deep in thought. She had left at night, in the rain . . . but for where?

He entered a small café at the corner of Viale Giannotti, ordered an espresso at the bar, still pondering. She had encountered Diogenes in Florence, that much was certain. They had fought; she had been wounded. It seemed incredible that she was only hurt, for normally, those who came within Diogenes’s orbit did not leave it alive. Clearly, Diogenes had underestimated Constance. Just as he himself had done. She was a woman of vast, unexpected depths.

He finished the coffee, bought an ATAF ticket at the bar, and stepped across the viale to wait for the bus into the city center. When it arrived, he made sure he was the last one on. He held up a fifty-euro note to the driver.

“You don’t pay me, stamp your ticket at the machine,” the driver said crossly, pulling roughly out of the bus stop, his hammy arms swinging the wheel around.

“I want information.”

The driver continued to ignore the money. “What kind of information?”

“I’m looking for my niece. She got on this bus around ten o’clock two nights ago.”

“I drive the day bus.”

“Do you have the name of the night driver and his cell number?”

“If you weren’t a foreigner, I’d say you were a sbirro, a cop.”

“It’s not a police matter. I’m just an uncle looking for his niece.” Pendergast softened his voice. “Please help me, signore. The family is frantic.”

The driver negotiated a turn, then said, his tone more sympathetic, “His name is Paolo Bartoli, 333-662-0376. Put your money away—I don’t want it.”

Pendergast got off the bus at Piazza Ferrucci, pulled out the cell phone he had acquired on arrival, dialed the number. He found Bartoli at home.

“How could I forget her?” the bus driver said. “Her head was swaddled in a scarf, you couldn’t see her face, her voice all muffled. She spoke an old-fashioned Italian, used the voi form with me—I haven’t heard that since the days of the Fascists. She was like a ghost from the past. I thought maybe she was crazy.”

“Do you remember where she got off?”

“She asked me to stop at the Biblioteca Nazionale.”

It was a long walk from Ferrucci to the National Library, which stood across the Arno River, its brown baroque facade rising in sober elegance from a dirty piazza. In the cold, echoing reading room, Pendergast found a librarian who remembered her as well as the bus driver had.

“Yes, I was working the night shift,” the librarian told him. “We have few visitors at that hour—and she looked so lost, so desolate, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She stared at a particular book for over an hour. Never turning the pages, always on the same page, murmuring to herself like a crazy woman. It got on toward midnight and I was getting ready to ask her to leave so I could close. But then all of a sudden, she jumped up, consulted another book—”

“What other book?”

“An atlas. She pored over it for perhaps ten minutes—scribbling furiously in a small notebook as she did so—and then ran out of the library as if the hounds of hell were after her.”

“Which atlas?”

“I didn’t notice—it’s one of those on the far reference shelf, she didn’t have to fill out a slip to look at them. But let’s see, I do still have the slip she filled out for the book she stared at for so long. Just a moment, I’ll collect it for you.”

A few minutes later, Pendergast was seated where Constance had sat, staring at the same book she had stared at: a slim volume of poems by Giosuè Carducci, the Italian poet who had won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1906.

The volume sat in front of him, unopened. Now, with infinite care, he upended it and allowed it to fall open naturally; hoping, as books will sometimes do, that it would open to the last page that had been read. But it was an old, stiff book, and it merely fell open to the front endpapers.

Pendergast reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, drew out a magnifying glass and a clean toothpick, and began turning the pages of the book. For each page he turned, he gently dragged the toothpick along the gutter, then examined the dirt, hair, and fibers that had been exposed with his magnifying glass.

An hour later, on page 42, he found what he was looking for: three red fibers of wool, curled as if from a knitted scarf.

The poem that straddled both pages was called “La Leggenda di Teodorico,” the Legend of Theodoric.

He began to read:

Su ’l castello di Verona

Batte il sole a mezzogiorno,

Da la Chiusa al pian rintrona

Solitario un suon di corno . . .

Above the great castle of Verona,

Beats the brutal midday sun,

From the Mountains of Chiusa, across the plains,

Resounds the dreaded horn of doom . . .

The poem recounted the strange death of the Visigothic king Theodoric. Pendergast read it once, and then again, failing to see what momentous importance Constance could have attached to it. He read it again slowly, recalling the obscure legend.

Theodoric was one of the earliest of the great barbarian rulers. He carved a kingdom for himself from the corpse of the Roman Empire, and among other brutal acts he executed the brilliant statesman and philosopher Boethius. Theodoric died in 526. Legend had it that a holy hermit, living alone on one of the Aeolian islands off the coast of Sicily, swore that in the very hour of Theodoric’s death, he witnessed the king’s shrieking soul being cast into the throat of the great volcano of Stromboli, believed by the early Christians to be the entrance of hell itself.

Stromboli. The Doorway to Hell. In a flash, Pendergast understood.

He rose, walked over to the shelf of atlases, and selected the one of Sicily. Returning to his seat, he carefully opened it to the page displaying the Aeolian islands. The outermost of these was the island of Stromboli, which was essentially the peak of a live volcano that rose abruptly from the sea. A lone village hugged its surf-pounded shore. The island was exceedingly remote and difficult to reach, and the volcano of Stromboli itself had the distinction of being the most active in Europe, in almost continual eruption for at least three thousand years.

He carefully wiped the page with a folded white linen handkerchief, then examined it with his magnifying glass. There, stuck to the linen weft, was another curled red wool fiber.

76

Diogenes Pendergast stood on the terrace of his villa. Below him, the tiny whitewashed village of Piscità crowded down to the broad, black-sand beaches of the island. A wind came in from the sea, bringing with it the scent of brine and flowering ginestra. A mile out to sea, the automatic lighthouse on the immense rock of Strombolicchio had begun winking in the gathering dusk.

He sipped a glass of sherry, listening to the distant sounds from the town below—a mother calling her children in to dinner, a dog barking, the buzz of a three-wheeled Ape, the only kind of passenger vehicle used on the island. The wind was rising, along with the surf—it was going to be another roaring night.

And behind him, he heard the thunderous rumble of the volcano.

Here, at the very edge of the world, he felt safe. She could not follow him here. This was his home. He had first come here twenty years before, and then almost every year since, always arriving and departing with the utmost care. The three hundred or so year-round residents of the island knew him as an eccentric and irascible British professor of classics who came periodically to work on his magnum opus—and who did not look with favor on being disturbed. He avoided the summer and the tourists, although this island, being sixty miles from the mainland and inaccessible for days at a time due to violent seas and the lack of a port, was far less visited than most.

Another rolling boom. The volcano was active tonight.

He turned, glancing up its steep, dark slopes. Angry clouds writhed and twisted across the volcanic crater, towering more than a half mile above his villa, and he could see the faint flashes of orange inside the jagged cone, like the flickering of a defective lamp.

The last gleam of sunlight died on Strombolicchio and the sea turned black. Great rollers creamed in long white lines up the black beach, one after another, accompanied by a monotonous low roar.

Over the past twenty-four hours, with enormous mental effort, Diogenes had expunged from his mind the raw memory of recent events. Someday—when he had acquired a little distance—he would sit down and dispassionately analyze what had gone wrong. But for now he needed to rest. After all, he was in his prime; he had all the time in the world to plan and execute his next attack.

But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near

He gripped the delicate glass so tightly it snapped, and he dashed the stem to the ground and went into the kitchen, pouring himself another. It was part of a supply of amontillado he had laid down years before, and he hated to waste a drop.

He took a sip, calming himself, then strolled back onto the terrace. The town was settling down for the night: a few more faint calls, a wailing baby, the slamming of a door. And the buzz of the Ape, closer now, in one of the crooked streets that rose toward his villa.

He put the glass down on the parapet and lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke, exhaling into the twilit air. He peered down into the streets below. The Ape was definitely coming up the hill, probably on Vicolo San Bartolo . . . The tinny whine drew still closer, and for the first time Diogenes felt a twinge of apprehension. The dinner hour was an unusual time for an Ape to be out and about, especially in the upper village—unless it was the island taxi taking someone somewhere. But it was early spring and there were no tourists: the ferry he had taken from Milazzo had carried no visitors, only produce and supplies; and besides, it had departed hours ago.

He chuckled at himself. He had grown too wary, almost paranoid. This demonic pursuit—coming hard on the heels of such a huge failure—had left him shaken, unnerved. What he really needed was a long period of reading, study, and intellectual rejuvenation. Indeed, now would be the perfect time to begin that translation of Aureus Asinus by Apuleius that he had always intended.

He drew in more smoke, exhaled easily, turned his eyes to the sea. The running lights of a ship were just rounding Punta Lena. He went inside, brought out his binoculars, and—looking to sea again—was able to make out the dim outline of an old wooden fishing boat, a real scow, heading away from the island toward Lipari. That puzzled him: it had not been out fishing, not in this weather at this time of day. It had probably been making a delivery.

The sound of the Ape approached and he realized it was now coming up the tiny lane leading to his villa—hidden by the high walls surrounding his grounds. He heard the engine slow as it came to a stop at the bottom of his wall. He put down the binoculars and strode to the side terrace, from where he had a view down the lane; but by the time he got there, the Ape was already turning around—and its passenger, had there been one, was nowhere to be seen.

He paused, his heart suddenly beating so hard he could hear the roar of blood in his ears. His was the only residence at the end of the lane. That old fishing scow hadn’t brought cargo—it had brought a passenger. And that passenger had taken the Ape to the very gates of his villa.

He exploded into silent action, running inside, dashing from room to room, shuttering and barring the windows, turning off the lights, and locking the doors. The villa, like most on the island, was built almost like a fortress, with heavy wooden shutters and doors bolted with hand-wrought iron and heavy locks. The masonry walls themselves were almost a meter thick. And he had made several subtle improvements of his own. He would be safe in the house—or at least he could gain enough time to think, to consider his position.

In a few minutes, he had finished locking himself in. He stood in his dark library, breathing hard. Once again he had the feeling he had reacted out of sheer paranoia. Just because he’d seen a boat, heard the taxi . . . It was ridiculous. There was simply no way for her to have found him—certainly not this quickly. He had arrived on the island only the evening before. It was absurd, impossible.

He dabbed his brow with a pocket handkerchief and began to breathe easier. He was being utterly foolish. This business had unnerved him even more than he realized.

He was just feeling around for the light when the knock came: slow—mockingly slow—each boom on the great wooden door echoing through the villa.

He froze, his heart wild once again.

“Chi c’è?” he asked.

No answer.

With trembling fingers, he felt along the library drawers, found the one he was looking for, unlocked it, and removed his Beretta Px4 Storm. He ejected the magazine, checked that it was full, and eased it back into place. In the next drawer, he found a heavy torch.

How? How? He choked down the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. Could it really be her? If not, why hadn’t there been an answer to his call?

He turned on the torch and shone it around. Which was the likeliest entry point? It would probably be the door on the side terrace, closest to the lane and easiest to get to. He crept over to it, unlocked it silently, then carefully balanced the metal key on top of the wrought-iron door handle. Then he retreated to the center of the dark room and knelt in firing stance, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, gun aimed at the door. Waiting.

It was silent within the thick walls of the house. The only sound that penetrated was the periodic deep-throated rumble of the volcano. He waited, listening intently.

Five minutes passed, then ten.

And then he heard it: the clink of the falling key. He instantly fired four shots through the door, covering it in a diamond-shaped pattern. The 9mm rounds would have no trouble penetrating even the thickest part of the door with plenty of velocity left to kill. He heard a gasp of pain; a thud; a scrabbling noise. Another gasp—and then silence. The door, now ajar, creaked open an inch in a gust of wind.

It sounded as if he had killed her. And yet he doubted it. She was too smart. She would have anticipated that.

Or would she? And on the other hand, was it even her? He might have just killed some hapless burglar or delivery boy.

Crouching low, he crept toward the door. As he drew close, he lay flat on the floor and crawled the final few feet. He stopped, his gaze on the narrow crack below the doorjamb. He needed to ease the door open another inch before he could see whether a body lay on the terrace beyond—or whether it was a trick.

He waited—and, when another gust of wind came, he used the opportunity to creak the door a little farther open to expose the terrace to view.

Instantly, two shots rang out, slamming through the door just inches above his head, showering him with splinters. He rolled quickly away, heart pounding. The door was now open a foot, and each gust of wind pushed it farther ajar. She had fired very low—expecting him to be crouching. If he hadn’t been completely prone, he would have been hit.

He stared at the holes her rounds had torn in the woodwork. She had managed to get her hands on a mid-caliber semiautomatic, a Glock from the sound of it. And she had learned at least the basics of how to shoot.

Another, heavier gust of wind blew the door wide open, and it slammed against the wall, then swung to, creaking loudly. Slowly he maneuvered around to its far side, and then with one swift movement kicked the door shut, rolled to a sitting position, and shot the bolt. As he rolled away again, another shot blew a hole in the wood inches from his ear, prickling him with splinters.

As he lay on the floor, breathing hard, he realized now the disadvantage of shutting himself up in the house. He could not see out; he could not know from what direction she would come. Although the house had been somewhat hardened against entry, he had seen no need to arouse local suspicion by making it as secure as the Long Island structure: with a gun, she could shoot the locks or bolts off any door and window. No—it would be better to fight her outside, where his superior strength, his expert shooting ability, and his knowledge of the terrain would put him at a decided advantage.

Had the gunshots been heard? People in town might be calling the police, and that could be awkward. But had they heard? With the wind coming off the water and roaring up through the figs and olive groves—not to mention the periodic booms from the restless volcano—perhaps the sound of the gunshots would not be noted. And as for the police, the only law enforcement on the island during the winter was a nucleo investigativo headed by a lone maresciallo of the carabiniere—who spent his evenings playing briscola at the bar in Ficogrande.

He felt a rush of limb-trembling rage. She had invaded his home, his bolt-hole, his ultimate refuge. This was it: he had nowhere else to go, no other identity to assume. Flushed from here, he would be put to flight like a dog, pursued relentlessly. Even if he eventually escaped, it would take years to find a new safe haven, establish a secure identity.

No: he had to finish it here and now.

Three shots sounded in rapid succession, and he heard one of the shutters in the breakfast nook hurl open, slamming against the wall with a shuddering crash. He jumped up and, scuttling ahead at a crouch, took cover behind a half-wall of masonry separating the kitchen from the dining area. The wind howled through the open window, banging the shutter.

Had she gotten inside?

He scrambled around the half-wall, jumped up at a run, and swept the torch across the kitchen: nothing. Still running, he slid into the dining room, braced himself against a wall. The key was to keep moving . . .

Three more shots resounded, this time from the direction of the library, and he could hear another shutter begin to swing wildly in the wind.

That was her game, then: punch holes in his defenses, one by one, until the house was no protection at all. He wouldn’t play that game. He had to seize the initiative. He, not she, would choose the terrain for the final confrontation.

He had to get outside—and not only outside, but up the mountain. He knew every switchback of the steep and dangerous trail. She was comparatively weak and would be weaker after her long and exhausting pursuit. On the mountain, every advantage would be his—including the use of a handgun in the dark. Nevertheless, he reminded himself that he had underestimated her at each turn. That could not be permitted to happen again. He was up against the most determined, and perhaps most deadly, adversary of his career.

His thoughts returned to the mountain. The ancient trail had been built almost three thousand years ago by Greek priests to offer sacrifices to the god Hephaestus. About halfway up, the trail branched. A newer trail ran to the summit along the Bastimento Ridge. The ancient Greek trail continued westward, where it had been cut centuries earlier by the Sciara del Fuoco, the legendary Slope of Fire. The Sciara was a continuous avalanche of red-hot lava blocks forced from the crater, which tumbled down a vast ravine a mile broad and three thousand feet deep, to ultimately crash into the sea in explosions of steam. The cliff edge of the Sciara was a hellish, dizzying place, like no other on earth, swept by raging winds of heated air coming off the lava flow.

The Sciara del Fuoco. A perfect solution to his problem. A body that fell in there would virtually disappear.

Exiting the house would be his point of greatest vulnerability. But she could not be everywhere at once. And even if she was waiting, expecting his exit, she had little chance of hitting him if he kept moving in the dark. It took years to develop handgun skills at that level.

Diogenes crept up to the side door, paused briefly. And then, in one explosive movement, he kicked it open and charged into the darkness. The shots came, as he knew they would, missing him by inches. He dived for cover and returned the shots, suppressing her fire. Then he jumped up, sprinted through the gate, and turned sharply right, racing up a series of ancient lava steps at the top of the lane, which would connect to the trail that wound up the side of the volcano of Stromboli toward the Slope of Fire.

77

Special Agent Pendergast leaped off the swaying fishing boat onto the quay at Ficogrande, the boat already backing its engines to get away from the heavy surf along the exposed shore. He stood for a moment on the cracked cement, looking up at the island. It rose abruptly from the water like a black pillar against the dim night sky, illuminated by a fitful quarter-moon. He saw the reddish play of lights in the clouds capping the mountain, heard the boom and roll of the volcano, mingling with the roar of surf at his back and the howling of wind from the sea.

Stromboli was a small, round island, two miles in diameter and conical in shape: barren and forbidding. Even the village—a scattering of whitewashed houses stretched out along a mile of shoreline—looked battered, windswept, and austere.

Pendergast breathed in the moist, sea-laden air and drew his coat more closely around his neck. At the far end of the quay, across the narrow street that paralleled the beach, a row of crooked stuccoed buildings sat crowded together: one was evidently a bar, although the faded sign that rocked in the wind had lost its electric light.

He hurried up the quay, crossed the street, and entered.

A thick atmosphere of cigarette smoke greeted him. At a table sat a group of men—one in the uniform of the carabiniere—smoking and playing cards, each with a tumbler of wine in front of him.

He went to the bar, ordered an espresso completo. “The woman who arrived on the chartered fishing boat earlier this evening . . . ?” he said in Italian to the bartender, and then paused, waiting expectantly.

The man gave the zinc a swipe with a damp cloth, served the espresso, tipped in a measure of grappa. He didn’t seem inclined to answer.

“Young, slender, her face swathed in a red scarf?” Pendergast added.

The bartender nodded.

“Where did she go?”

After a silence, he said, in Sicilian-accented Italian, “Up to the professor’s.”

“Ah! And where does the professor live?”

No answer. He sensed that the card game behind him had paused.

Pendergast knew that, in this part of the world, information was never given out freely: it was exchanged. “She’s my niece, poor thing,” he offered. “My sister’s heart is just about broken, her daughter chasing after that worthless man, that so-called professor, who seduced her and now refuses to do the right thing.”

This had the desired effect. These were Sicilians, after all—an ancient race with antique notions of honor. From behind him, Pendergast heard the scrape of a chair. He turned to see the carabiniere drawing himself up.

“I am the maresciallo of Stromboli,” he said gravely. “I will take you up to the professor’s house.” He turned. “Stefano, bring up the Ape for this gentleman and follow me. I will take the motorino.”

A dark, hairy man rose from the table and nodded at Pendergast, who followed him outside. The three-wheeled motorized cart stood at the curb and Pendergast got in. Ahead, he could see the carabiniere kick-starting his moto. In a moment, they were off, driving along the beach road, the surf roaring on their right, pounding up beaches that were as dark as the night.

After a short drive, they swung inland, winding through the impossibly narrow lanes of the town, rising steeply up the side of the mountain. The lanes grew even steeper, now running through dark vineyards and olive groves and kitchen gardens, enclosed by walls made of mortared lava cinders. A few sprawling villas appeared, dotting the upper slopes. The last one stood hard against the rising mountain, surrounded by a high lava-stone wall.

The windows were dark.

The carabiniere parked his motorbike at the gate and the Ape stopped behind it. Pendergast jumped out, looking up at the villa. It was large and austere, more like a fortress than a residence, graced with several terraces, the one facing the sea colonnaded with old marble columns. Beyond the lava wall stood a lush and extensive garden of tropical plants, birds of paradise, and giant exotic cacti. It was the very last house on the mountainside, and from Pendergast’s vantage point below, it almost seemed as if the volcano were leaning above the house, its rumbling, flickering peak reflecting a menacing bloody orange against the lowering clouds.

Despite everything—despite the extremity of the moment—Pendergast continued to stare. This is my brother’s house, he thought.

With an officious swagger, the carabiniere went to the iron gate—which stood open—and pressed the buzzer. And now, spell broken, Pendergast brushed past him, ducked through the gate, and ran at a crouch toward the side door on the terrace, which was banging in the wind.

“Wait, signore!”

Pendergast slipped out his Colt 1911 and pressed himself on the wall against the door, catching it in his hand as it swung to. It was riddled with bullet holes. He glanced around: a shutter outside the kitchen was also open, swinging in the wind.

The carabiniere came puffing up beside him. He eyed the door. “Minchia!” His own firearm came out immediately.

“What is it, Antonio?” said the Ape driver, coming up, the tip of his cigarette dancing in the roaring dark.

“Go back, Stefano. This does not look good.”

Pendergast pulled out a flashlight, ducked into the house, shone it around. Splinters of wood lay scattered across the floor. The beam of the flashlight illumined a large living room in the Mediterranean style, with cool plastered surfaces, a tiled floor, and heavy antique furniture: spare and surprisingly austere. He had a glimpse, beyond an open door, of an extraordinary library, rising two stories, done up in a surreal pearl gray. He ducked inside, noting that a second shutter in the library had been shot open.

Still, no signs of a struggle.

He strode back to the side door, where the carabiniere was examining the bullet holes. The man straightened up.

“This is a crime scene, signore. I must ask you to leave.”

Pendergast exited onto the terrace and squinted up the dim mountain. “Is that a trail?” he asked the Ape driver, who was still standing there, gaping.

“It goes up the mountain. But they would not have taken that trail—not at night.”

The carabiniere appeared a moment later, radio in hand. He was calling the carabiniere caserma on the island of Lipari, thirty miles away.

Pendergast exited through the gate and walked up to the end of the lane. A ruined staircase in stone ran up the side of the hill, joining a larger, very ancient trail on the slope just above. Pendergast knelt, shone his light on the ground. After a moment, he rose and took a dozen steps up the trail, examining it with his light.

“Do not go up there, signore! It is extremely dangerous!”

He knelt again. In a thin layer of dust protected from the wind by an ancient stone step, he could make out the impression of a heel—a small heel. The impression was fresh.

And there, above it, another small, faint print, lying on top of a larger one. Diogenes, pursued by Constance.

Pendergast rose and gazed up the dizzying slope of the volcano. It was so black he could see nothing except the faint flicker of muffled orange light around its cloud-shrouded summit.

“This trail,” he called back to the policeman. “Does it go to the top?”

“Yes, signore. But once again, it is very dangerous and is for expert climbers only. I can assure you, they did not go up there. I have called the carabinieri on Lipari, but they cannot come until tomorrow. And maybe not even then, with this weather. There is nothing more I can do, aside from searching the town . . . where surely your niece and the professor have gone.”

“You won’t find them in the town,” Pendergast said, turning and walking up the trail.

“Signore! Do not take that trail! It leads to the Sciara del Fuoco!”

But the man’s voice was carried away in the wind as Pendergast climbed with all the speed he could muster, his left hand gripping the flashlight, his right the handgun.

78

Diogenes Pendergast jogged along a windswept shoulder of lava 2,500 feet up the side of the mountain. The wind blew demonically, lashing the dense ginestra brush that crowded the trail. He paused to catch his breath. Looking down, he could just barely see the dim surface of the sea, flecked with bits of lighter gray that were whitecaps. The lighthouse of Strombolicchio sat alone on its rock, surrounded by a gray ring of surf, blinking its mindless, steady message out to an empty sea.

His eye followed the sea in toward land. From his vantage point, he could make out fully a third of the island, a great swerve of shoreline from Piscità to the crescent beach below Le Schiocciole, where the sea raged in a broad band of white surf. The dim illumination of the town lay sprinkled along the shore: dirty, wavering points of light, an uncertain strip of humanity clinging to an inhospitable land. Beyond and above, the volcano rose massively, like the ribbed trunk of a giant mangrove, in great parallel ridges, each with its own name: Serra Adorno, Roisa, Le Mandre, Rina Grande. He turned, looked up. Above him loomed the immense black fin of the Bastimento Ridge, behind which lay the Sciara del Fuoco—the Slope of Fire. That ridge ran up to the summit itself: still shrouded in fast-moving clouds, blooming with the lurid glow of each fresh eruption, the thunderous booms shaking the ground.

A few hundred meters up, Diogenes knew, the trail split. The left fork cut eastward and switchbacked to the summit crater up the broad cinder slopes of the Liscione. The right fork, the ancient Greek trail, continued westward, climbing the Bastimento and ending abruptly where it was cut by the Sciara del Fuoco.

She would be at least fifteen, twenty minutes behind him by now—he had been pushing himself to the utmost, climbing at maximum speed up the crumbling stone staircases and cobbled switchbacks. It was physically impossible for her to have kept up. That gave him time to think, to plan his next step—now that he had her where he wanted her.

He sat down on a crumbling wall. The obvious mode of attack would be an ambush from the almost impenetrable brush that crowded each side of the trail. It would be simple: he could hide himself in the ginestra at, say, one of the switchback turns, and shoot straight down the trail as she came up. But this plan had the great disadvantage of being the obvious one, a plan she would most certainly anticipate. And the brush was so thick he wondered if he could even push into it without leaving a ragged hole behind or, at the least, signs of damage visible to a keen eye—and she had a damnably keen eye.

On the other hand, she did not know the trail—could not know the trail. She had arrived at the island and come straight to his villa. No map could convey the steepness, the danger, the roughness of the trail. There was a spot ahead, just below the fork, where the trail ran close under a bluff of hardened lava, looped back around, and then topped the bluff. There were cliffs all around it—there was no way for her to get off the trail at that point. If he waited for her on the bluff above, she would have to pass almost directly underneath him. There was simply no other way for her to go. And because she did not know the trail, she could not anticipate that it doubled back over the bluff.

Yes. That would serve nicely.

He continued up the mountain and in another ten minutes had reached the final switchback and gained the top of the bluff. But as he looked around for a hiding place, he saw there was an even better position—indeed, it was nearly perfect. She would see the bluff as she approached and might anticipate a strike from it. But well before the bluff itself was another ambush point—in the deep shadows below it, half obscured by rocks—that looked to be far subtler; indeed, it was completely invisible from farther down the trail.

With an unutterable feeling of relief that it would soon be over, he carefully took up a position in the shadow of the switchback and prepared to wait. It was a perfect spot: the deep darkness of the night and the natural lines of the terrain making it appear there was no break at all in the rocks behind which he hid. Within fifteen minutes or so, she should appear. After he killed her, he would throw her body into the Sciara, where it would vanish forever. And he would once again be free.

The fifteen minutes that passed next were the longest of his life. As they ticked on into twenty, he became increasingly uneasy. Twenty-five minutes passed . . . thirty . . .

Diogenes found his mind racing with speculation. She could not possibly know that he was there. He was certain she could not have been alerted to his presence.

Something else might be wrong.

Was she too weak to have climbed this high up the mountain? He had assumed her hatred would carry her far past the point of normal exhaustion. But she was only human; she had to have a breaking point. She had been following him for days, hardly eating and sleeping. On top of that, she would have lost a fair amount of blood. To then climb almost three thousand vertical feet up an unknown and exceedingly dangerous trail at night . . . maybe she just couldn’t make it. Or perhaps she’d been hurt. The decrepit cobbled path was strewn with loose stones and eroded blocks, and the steepest parts—where the ancients had built stone staircases—were slick with rubble and missing many steps, a veritable death trap.

A death trap. It was entirely possible—indeed, even probable—that she had slipped and hurt herself; fallen and twisted an ankle; perhaps even been killed. Did she have a flashlight? He didn’t think so.

He checked his watch: thirty-five minutes had now passed. He wondered what to do. Of all the possibilities, the likeliest was that she had been hurt. He would go back down the trail and see for himself. If she was lying there with a broken ankle, or collapsed in exhaustion, killing her would be simple . . .

He paused. No, that would not do. That was, perhaps, her game plan: to make him believe she’d been hurt, to lure him back down—and then ambush him. A bitter smile passed across his face. That was it, wasn’t it? She was waiting him out, waiting for him to descend. But he would not fall into that trap. He would wait her out. Eventually her hatred would force her up the mountain.

Ten more minutes passed, and once again he was beset by doubts. What if he waited for her all night? What if she had declined to bring the battle into the terrain of the mountain itself? What if she had gone back to town and was lying low, planning something new? What if she had alerted the police?

He couldn’t bear the thought that this might continue. He could not go on in this manner. It must end this very night. If she would not come to him, he had to force the issue by coming to her.

But how?

He lay on the hard ground, peering down into the murk, his agitation increasing. He tried to think as she would, anticipate what she would do. He could not afford to underestimate her again.

I escape the house, run up the trail. She stands there, wondering if she should follow. What would she do? She knew he would be going up the mountain; she knew he would wait for her, that he intended to fight her on his own ground, on his own terms.

What would she do?

The answer came to him in a flash: find another route. A shorter route. And cut him off. But of course there wasn’t another route—

With a sudden, dreadful prickling sensation along his neck, he recalled an old story he had heard told around the island. Back in the eighth century, the Saracens had attacked the island. They had landed at Pertuso, a cove on the far side, and made a bold and dangerous crossing, which required climbing up one side of the volcano and down the other. But they had not taken the Greek trail down—they had blazed their own route in order to fall upon the town from an unexpected direction.

Could she have taken the Saracen trail up?

His mind worked feverishly. He hadn’t paid any attention to the old story, treating it as yet another colorful legend, like so many others attached to the island. Did anyone even know today where the Saracen trail went? Did it still exist? And how could Constance have known about it? There probably weren’t more than half a dozen people in the world who would know the actual route.

He cursed savagely, racked his brains, trying to remember more of the story. Where did the Saracen trail go?

There was something in the legend about the Saracens losing men into the Filo del Fuoco, a narrow gorge that split off from the Sciara. If that were the case, the trail must have hugged the edge of the Sciara all the way down the Bastimento Ridge—or up it, as the case may be—

He rose abruptly. He knew—he knew!—this was what Constance had done. She was a consummate researcher; she had gotten hold of some old atlas of the island. She’d studied it, memorized it. She’d flushed him from his house, like a badger from a bolt-hole, driven him up the more familiar trail. Allowing him to think that it was his own plan all the time . . . And meanwhile, she would have cut to the west and taken the secret trail up, flanking him as he’d waited in ambush, wasting minute after precious minute. And now she was above. Waiting for him.

A cold sweat broke out on his brow. He could see the breathtaking subtlety of her plan. She had worked it all out ahead of time. She had expected him to flee his house, run up the trail. And she had expected him to pause somewhere along the trail and wait in interminable ambush, giving her—the weaker one—all the time she needed to get up the Saracen trail to the Bastimento Ridge—

He stood abruptly in horror, eyes focusing on the great black fin of the Bastimento above him. The clouds were tumbling across the peak, the mountain groaning and shaking with each explosion—and then they parted, exposing the ridge to the glare of the eruptions: and in that moment he spied, silhouetted against the horrid lambent glow, a figure in white, dancing . . . And despite the roar of the wind and the rumbling of the mountain, he was sure he could hear a shrill, manic laughter echoing down toward him . . .

In a convulsion of fury, he aimed his gun and fired again and again, the bright flashes blinding his own night vision. After a moment, he cursed and lowered the gun, his heart pounding. The ridge was bare, the figure gone.

It was now or never. The end was upon them. He tore up the trail, moving as fast as he could, knowing that she could never hit him in the dark. The fork in the trail loomed ahead, the newer trail running off to the left on a graded path. The right fork was blocked by a fence, rusty concertina wire rattling in the wind, marked by a weather-beaten sign in two languages:

Sciara del Fuoco!

Pericolosissimo!

Vietato a Passare!

Active Lava Flow Ahead!

Extreme Danger!

Do Not Pass!

He leaped over the fence and scrambled up the ancient trail toward the top of the Bastimento Ridge. There was only one possible outcome. One of them would walk back down the mountain; the other would be thrown into the Sciara.

It remained to be seen who, in the end, would prevail.

79

Aloysius Pendergast paused at the fork in the trail, listening intently. Not five minutes before, he had distinctly heard shots—ten of them in all—over the thundering of the volcano. He knelt and examined the ground with his light, quickly determining that Diogenes—and Diogenes alone—had taken the fork blocked by a fence.

There was much about this situation that he had not yet untangled, enigmas wrapped in mysteries. There had been very few footprints—only where dust or sand had blown into pockets of the rock—but even so, Constance’s prints had ceased, almost at the beginning of the trail. And yet Diogenes had continued on. Why? Pendergast had been forced to make a choice: search for Constance’s prints or follow Diogenes’s. And this was no choice at all—Diogenes was the danger, he needed to be found first.

And then, there had been gunshots—but whose? And why so many? Only a person in the grip of panic would fire ten shots in a row like that.

Pendergast scaled the fence and continued up the ancient trail, which had fallen into dangerous ruin. The top of the ridge was perhaps a quarter mile distant, and beyond that he could see only the sky, stained by an angry orange glow. He had to move fast—but with care.

The trail came to a steep part of the ridge, carved into a staircase that ran up the rough lava itself. But the staircase was badly eroded, and Pendergast was forced to holster his sidearm and use both hands to climb it. Just before cresting the top, he leaned into the slope, paused, and removed his gun again, listening. But it was hopeless: the roar and bellow of the volcano was even louder here, and the wind howled ever more fiercely.

He crawled to the top of the ridge, into the stinging wind, and paused once again to reconnoiter. The exposed trail ran along the crest before turning and disappearing around a spike of frozen lava. He jumped to his feet, ran across the exposed ground, and took cover behind the lava, peering ahead. He could see now that a great chasm must lie to his right—no doubt the Sciara del Fuoco. The reddish glow coming up from it provided an excellent backdrop against which to identify a figure.

He edged around the lava spike, and the Sciara suddenly appeared on his right: a sheer cliff falling away into a steeply pitched chasm, like a huge cleft in the side of the island: half a mile broad, plunging precipitously into a churning, boiling sea hundreds of feet below. Heated air came roaring up the chasm, screaming diagonally over the ridge, carrying with it stinging particles of ash and clouds of sulfurous fumes. And now, in addition to the roar from the mountain, Pendergast could hear a new sound: the crackling and rumbling of huge blocks of living lava, some glowing red-hot, that came bounding down from the crater above, leaping and tumbling into the sea below, where they blossomed into dim white flowers.

He staggered forward into the tearing wind, finding his balance while compensating for the hellish force pushing him back from the brink of the cliff. He examined the ground, but all possible tracks had been scoured away by the wind. He sprinted along the ragged trail, taking cover behind old blocks of lava whenever possible, keeping his center of gravity low. The trail continued, still climbing the ridgeline. Ahead stood an enormous pile of lava blocks, an arrested rockfall, which the trail skirted around, making a sharp right toward the cliff’s edge.

He crouched in the shelter of the lava fall, gun at the ready. If there was anyone on this trail, they would be directly ahead of him, at the edge of the cliff.

He spun around the edge of the rock, gun in both hands—and saw a terrifying sight.

At the very edge of the chasm, he could see two figures, silhouetted against the dull glow of the volcano. They were locked in a curious, almost passionate embrace. And yet these were not lovers—these were enemies, joined in mortal struggle, heedless of the wind, or the roar of the volcano, or the extreme peril of the cliff edge on which they stood.

“Constance!” he cried, racing forward. But even as he ran, they began to tip off balance, each raking and clawing at the other, each pulling the other into the abyss—

And then, with a silence worse than any cry, they were gone.

Pendergast rushed up to the edge, almost blown onto his back by the force of the wind. He dropped to his knees, shielding his eyes, trying to peer into the abyss. A thousand feet below, hardened blocks of dull red lava the size of houses rolled and bounced like pebbles, shedding clouds of orange sparks, the wind screaming up from the volcano’s flanks like the wail of the collective damned. He remained on his knees, the wind whipping salt tears from his eyes.

He could barely comprehend what he had seen. It was incredible to him, an impossibility, that Constance—sheltered, fragile, confused Constance—could have pursued his brother to the very ends of the earth, driven him up this volcano, and flung herself into it with him . . .

He swiped savagely at his eyes, made a second attempt to peer down into the hellish cleft, in the faint hope that something, anything, might be left—and there, not two feet below him, he saw a hand, completely covered with blood, clutching at a small projection of rock with almost superhuman strength.

Diogenes.

And now he heard D’Agosta’s voice in his head: You realize there’s only one way to take care of Diogenes. When the moment comes . . .

Without a second thought, Pendergast reached down to save his brother, grasped the wrist with one hand and clutched the forearm with the other, and with a mighty heave leaned back, pulling him up and away from the lip of the inferno. A ragged, wild face appeared over the crest of the rock—not that of his brother, but of Constance Greene.

Seconds later, he had pulled her away from the brink. She rolled onto her back, her chest heaving, arms spread, ragged white dress whipping in the wind.

Pendergast bent over her. “Diogenes . . . ?” he managed to ask.

“He’s gone!” A laugh tore from her bloodied lips and was instantly whisked away by the wind.

80

The waiting area for hearing room B consisted of an impromptu collection of seventies-era Bauhaus benches lining an anonymous hallway on the twenty-first floor of One Police Plaza. D’Agosta sat on one of these benches, breathing in the stale air of the hallway: the mingled smells of bleach and ammonia from the nearby men’s room; stale perfume; perspiration; and old cigarette smoke, which had permeated the walls too deeply to ever be completely eradicated. Underlying all was the acrid, omnipresent tang of fear.

Fear, however, was the last thing on his own mind. D’Agosta was about to undergo a formal disciplinary hearing that would decide if he could ever serve in law enforcement again—and all he felt was a weary emptiness. For months, this trial had been hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles—and now, for better or worse, it was almost over.

Beside him, Thomas Shoulders, his union-appointed lawyer, shifted on the bench. “Anything else you’d like to review one last time?” he asked in his thin, reedy voice. “Your statement, or their likely line of questioning?”

D’Agosta shook his head. “Nothing more, thanks.”

“The department advocate will be presenting the case for the NYPD. We might have caught a break there. Kagelman’s tough but fair. He’s old-school. The best approach is to play it straight: no evasions, no bull. Answer the questions with a simple yes or no, don’t elaborate unless asked. Present yourself along the lines we discussed—a good cop caught in a bad situation, doing the best he could to see that justice was served. If we can keep it at that level, I’m guardedly optimistic.”

Guardedly optimistic. Whether spoken by an airplane pilot, a surgeon, or one’s own lawyer, the words were not exactly encouraging.

He thought back to that fateful day in the fall, when he had run into Pendergast at the Grove estate, tossing bread to the ducks. It was only six months ago, but what a long strange journey it had been . . .

“Holding up?” Shoulders asked.

D’Agosta glanced at his watch. “I just want the damn thing to be over with. I’m tired of sitting here, waiting for the axe to drop.”

“You shouldn’t think about it that way, Lieutenant. A disciplinary hearing is just like a trial in any other American court. You’re innocent until proven guilty.”

D’Agosta sighed, shifted disconsolately. And in so doing, he caught a glimpse of Captain Laura Hayward, walking down the busy corridor.

She was coming toward them with that measured, purposeful stride of hers, wearing a gray cashmere sweater and a pleated skirt of navy wool. Suddenly the drab corridor seemed charged with life. And yet the last thing he wanted was for her to see him like this: parked on a bench like some truant awaiting a whipping. Maybe she’d walk on, just walk on, like she’d done that day back in the police substation beneath Madison Square Garden.

But she did not walk on. She stopped before the bench, nodded nonchalantly to him and Shoulders.

“Hi,” D’Agosta managed. He felt himself blushing with embarrassment and shame and felt furious for doing so.

“Hey, Vinnie,” she replied in her dusky contralto. “Have a minute?”

There was a moment of stasis.

“Sure.” He turned to Shoulders. “Could you spare me for a sec?”

“Don’t go far—we’re up soon.”

D’Agosta followed Hayward down to a quieter section of the hallway. She paused, looking at him, one hand unconsciously smoothing down her skirt. Glancing at her shapely legs, D’Agosta felt his heart accelerate further. He searched his mind for something to say, came up with nothing.

Hayward, too, seemed uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Her face looked clouded, conflicted. She opened her handbag, fumbled in it a moment, closed it, tucked it under her arm. They stood there another moment in silence as police officers, technicians, and court personnel passed by.

“Are you here to give a statement?” D’Agosta finally asked.

“No. I gave my deposition over a month ago.”

“Nothing more to say, then?”

“No.”

A peculiar thrill went through D’Agosta as he realized the implications of this. So she’s kept quiet about my role in the Herkmoor breakout, he thought. She hasn’t told anybody.

“I got a call from an acquaintance in the Justice Department,” she said. “The word’s just come down. As far as the feds are concerned, Special Agent Pendergast has been formally cleared of all charges. Homicide’s officially reopened the case on our end, and it looks as though we’re going to drop all charges against him, too. Based on evidence retrieved from Diogenes Pendergast’s valise, fresh warrants have been issued for Diogenes. Thought you’d want to know.”

D’Agosta slumped with relief. “Thank God. So he’s completely cleared.”

“Of criminal charges, yes. But it’s safe to say he hasn’t made any new friends in the Bureau.”

“Popularity never was Pendergast’s strong suit.”

Hayward smiled faintly. “He’s been given a six-month leave. Whether requested by him or demanded by the Bureau, I don’t know.”

D’Agosta shook his head.

“I thought you might also like to hear about Special Agent Spencer Coffey.”

“Oh?”

“In addition to royally screwing up the Pendergast case, he got embroiled in some kind of scandal at Herkmoor. Seems he was busted down to GS-11 and had a notice of censure placed in his jacket. They’ve reassigned him to the North Dakota field office in Black Rock.”

“He’s gonna need a new pair of long underwear,” D’Agosta said.

Hayward smiled, and an awkward silence settled over them again.

The deputy commissioner of trials approached them from the elevator bank, along with the department special prosecutor. They passed by D’Agosta and Hayward, nodding distantly, then turned and proceeded into the courtroom.

“With Pendergast cleared, you should be, too,” Hayward said.

D’Agosta looked down at his hands. “It’s a different bureaucracy.”

“Yes, but when—”

Abruptly she stopped. D’Agosta looked up to see Glen Singleton walking down the hall, immaculately dressed as usual. Captain Singleton was officially still D’Agosta’s boss and was there, no doubt, to testify. When he saw Hayward, he paused in surprise.

“Captain Hayward,” he said stiffly. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to watch the proceedings,” she replied.

Singleton frowned. “A disciplinary hearing is not a spectator sport.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“You’ve already been deposed. Your showing up here in person, without being called to provide fresh information, may imply . . .” Singleton hesitated.

D’Agosta flushed at the insinuation. He stole a glance at Hayward and was surprised by what he saw. The cloudiness had left her face, and she suddenly looked calm. It was as if, after struggling for a long time, she had reached some private decision.

“Yes?” she asked mildly.

“Might imply a lack of impartiality on your part.”

“Why, Glen,” Hayward said, “don’t you wish the best for Vinnie, here?”

Now it was Singleton’s turn to color. “Of course. Of course I do. In fact, that’s why I’m here—to bring to the attention of the prosecutor certain new developments that have recently come to our attention. It’s just that we wouldn’t want any hint of any improper . . . well, influence.”

“Too late,” she replied briskly. “I’ve already been influenced.”

And then—very deliberately—she clasped D’Agosta’s hand in her own.

Singleton stared at them for a moment. He opened his mouth, closed it again, at a loss for words. Finally he gave D’Agosta a sudden smile and laid a hand on his shoulder. “See you in court, Lieutenant,” he said, giving the word lieutenant special emphasis. Then he turned and was gone.

“What was that supposed to mean?” D’Agosta asked.

“If I know Glen, I’d say you’ve got a friend in court.”

D’Agosta felt his heart accelerate again. Despite the imminent ordeal, he suddenly felt absurdly happy. It was as if a great weight had just been lifted from him: a weight he hadn’t even been fully conscious he was carrying.

He turned toward her in a rush. “Listen, Laura—”

“No. You listen.” She wrapped her other hand around his, squeezed it tightly. “It doesn’t matter what happens in that room. Do you understand me, Vinnie? Because whatever happens, happens to both of us. We’re in this together.”

He swallowed. “I love you, Laura Hayward.”

At that moment, the door of the courtroom opened and the court clerk called his name. Thomas Shoulders rose from the bench, caught D’Agosta’s gaze, nodded.

Hayward gave D’Agosta’s hand a final squeeze. “Come on, big boy,” she said, smiling. “It’s showtime.”

81

Afternoon sun bronzed the hills of the Hudson Valley and turned the wide, slow-moving river into an expanse of brilliant aquamarine. The forests that covered Sugarloaf Mountain and Breakneck Ridge were just leafing out in new bloom, and the entire Highlands wore a feathery mantle of spring.

Nora Kelly sat in a deck chair on the broad porch of the Feversham Clinic, looking down over Cold Spring, the Hudson River, and the red brick buildings of West Point beyond. Her husband prowled back and forth at the edge of the porch, now and then gazing out over the vista, other times darting glances up at the genteel lines of the private hospital.

“It makes me nervous, being back here,” he muttered. “You know, Nora, I haven’t been in this place since I was a patient here myself. Oh, God. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but when the weather changes, I can sometimes still feel an ache in my back where the Surgeon—”

“You’ve told me, Bill,” she said with mock weariness. “Many times.”

The turning of a knob, the soft squeak of hinges, and a door opened onto the porch. A nurse in crisp whites stuck out her head. “You can come in now,” she said. “She’s waiting for you in the west parlor.”

Nora and Smithback followed the nurse into the building and down a long corridor. “How is she?” Smithback asked the nurse.

“Much improved, thank goodness. We were all so worried for her—such a dear thing. And she’s getting better every day. Even so, she gets tired easily: you’ll have to restrict your visit to fifteen minutes.”

“The dear thing,” Smithback whispered in Nora’s ear. She poked him playfully in the ribs.

The west parlor was a large, semicircular room that reminded Nora of an Adirondack lodge: polished ceiling beams, pine wainscoting, paper-birch furniture. Oils of sylvan landscapes hung on the walls. A merry fire leaped and crackled in the massive stone fireplace.

And there—propped in a wheelchair in the center of it all—sat Margo Green.

“Margo,” said Nora, and stopped, almost afraid to speak. Beside her, she heard Smithback draw in his breath sharply.

The Margo Green who sat before them was a mere shadow of the feisty woman who had been both academic rival and friend to her at the museum. She was frighteningly thin, and her white skin lay like tissue paper over her veins. Her movements were slow and considered, like someone long unfamiliar with the use of their limbs. And yet her brown hair was rich and glossy, and in her eye was the same spark of life Nora well recalled. Diogenes Pendergast had sent her to a dark and dangerous place—had almost ended her life—but she was on her way back now.

“Hello, you two,” she said in a thin, sleepy voice. “What day is it?”

“It’s Saturday,” Nora said. “April 12.”

“Oh, good. I hoped it was still Saturday.” She smiled.

The nurse came in and bustled around Margo a moment, propping her up more comfortably in the wheelchair. Then she walked around the room, opening curtains and fluffing pillows before leaving them again. Shafts of radiant light streamed into the parlor, falling over Margo’s head and shoulders and gilding her like an angel. Which in a way, Nora thought, she was: having been brought almost to the brink of death by an unusual cocktail of drugs administered to her by Diogenes.

“We brought you something, Margo,” Smithback said, reaching into his coat and bringing out a manila envelope. “We thought you might get a kick out of it.”

Margo took it, opened it slowly. “Why, it’s a copy of my first issue of Museology!”

“Look inside, it’s been signed by every curator of the Anthropology Department.”

“Even Charlie Prine?” Margo’s eyes twinkled.

Nora laughed. “Even Prine.”

They pulled two seats up beside the wheelchair and sat down.

“The place is just plain dull without you, Margo,” Nora said. “You have to hurry up and get well.”

“That’s right,” said Smithback, smiling, his irrepressible good humor returning. “The old pile needs someone to shake it up from time to time, raise some fossil dust.”

Margo laughed quietly. “From what I’ve been reading, the last thing the museum needs right now is more controversy. Is it true four people died in the crush at that Egyptian opening?”

“Yes,” Nora said. “And another sixty were injured, a dozen of them severely.”

She exchanged glances with Smithback. The story that had come out in the two weeks since the opening was that a glitch in the system software caused the sound-and-light show to go out of control, in turn triggering a panic. The truth—that it could have been much, much worse—was so far known only to a select few in the museum and in law enforcement circles.

“Is it true the director was among the injured?” Margo asked.

Nora nodded. “Collopy suffered a seizure of some kind. He’s under psychiatric observation at New York Hospital, but he’s expected to make a full recovery.”

This was true—as far as it went—but of course it wasn’t the full story. Collopy, among several others, had fallen victim to Diogenes’s sound-and-light show, driven half psychotic by the laser pulsing and the low-frequency audio waves. The same might have happened to Nora had she not closed her eyes and covered her ears. As it was, she had suffered nightmares for a week. Pendergast and the others had stopped the show before it could run its full course and inflict permanent damage: and as a result, the prognosis was excellent for Collopy and the others—much better than for the unfortunate tech, Lipper.

Nora shifted in her chair. Someday she would tell Margo everything—but not today. The woman still had a lot of recovery ahead of her.

“What do you think it means for the museum?” Margo asked. “This tragedy at the opening, coming on the heels of the diamond theft?”

Nora shook her head. “At first everybody assumed it was the final straw, especially since the mayor’s wife was among the injured. But it turns out that just the opposite has happened. Thanks to all the controversy, the Tomb of Senef is the hottest show in town. Requests for ticket reservations have been pouring in at an unbelievable rate. I even saw somebody hawking I Survived the Curse T-shirts on Broadway this morning.”

“So they’re going to reopen the tomb?” Margo asked.

Smithback nodded. “Fast-tracking it, too. Most of the artifacts were spared. They hope to have it up and running within the month.”

“Our new Egyptologist is recasting the show,” Nora said. “She’s revising the original script, removing some of the cheesier special effects but keeping much of the sound-and-light show intact. She’s a great person, wonderful to work with, funny, unpretentious—we’re lucky to have her.”

“The news reports mentioned some FBI agent as instrumental in the rescue,” Margo said. “That wouldn’t happen to be Agent Pendergast, by any chance?”

“How did you guess?” Nora asked.

“Because Pendergast always manages to get into the thick of things.”

“You’re telling me,” Smithback said, smile fading. Nora noticed him unconsciously massaging the hand that had been burned by acid.

The nurse appeared in the doorway. “Margo, I’ll need to take you back to your room in another five minutes.”

“Okay.” She turned back to them. “I suppose he’s been haunting the museum ever since, asking questions, intimidating bureaucrats, and making a nuisance of himself.”

“Actually, no,” Nora said. “He disappeared right after the opening. Nobody has seen or heard from him since.”

“Really? How strange.”

“Yes, it is,” Nora said. “It’s very strange indeed.”

82

In late May, on the island of Capraia, two people—a man and a woman—sat on a terrace attached to a neat whitewashed house overlooking the Mediterranean. The terrace stood near the edge of a bluff. Below the bluff, surf crawled around pillars of black volcanic rock, wreathed in circling gulls. Beyond lay a blue immensity, stretching as far as the eye could see.

On the terrace, a table of weather-beaten wood was spread with simple food: a round of coarse bread, a plate of small salamis, a bottle of olive oil and a dish of olives, glasses of white wine. The scent of flowering lemons lay heavy in the air, mingling with the perfume of wild rosemary and sea salt. Along the hillside above the terrace, rows of grapevines were shooting out of coiling tendrils of green. The only sound was the faint cry of gulls and the breeze that rustled through a trellis of purple bougainvillea.

The two sat, sipping wine and speaking in low voices. The clothes the woman wore—battered canvas pants and an old work shirt—stood in contrast to her finely cut features and the glossy mahogany hair that spilled down her back. The man’s dress was as formal as the woman’s was informal: black suit of Italian cut, crisp white shirt, understated tie.

Both were watching a third person—a beautiful young woman in a pale yellow dress—who was strolling aimlessly through an olive grove beside the vineyard. From time to time, the young woman stopped to pick a flower, then continued on, twisting the flower in her hands, plucking it to pieces in an absentminded way.

“I think I understand everything now,” the woman on the terrace was saying, “except there’s one thing you didn’t explain: how in the world did you remove the GPS anklet without setting off the alarm?”

The man made a dismissive gesture. “Child’s play. The plastic cuff had a wire inside it that completed a circuit. The idea was that, in removing the cuff, you’d need to cut the wire—thus breaking the circuit and triggering an alarm.”

“So what did you do?”

“I scratched away the plastic in two places along the circuit to expose the wire. Then I attached a loop of wire to each spot, cut the bracelet in between—and took it off. Elementary, my dear Viola.”

“Ah, je vois! But where did you get the loop of wire?”

“I made it with foil gum wrappers. I was, unfortunately, obligated to masticate the gum, since I needed it to affix the wire.”

“And the gum? Where did you get that?”

“From my acquaintance in the cell next door, a most talented young man who opened a whole new world for me—that of rhythm and percussion. He gave me one of his precious packs of gum in return for a small favor I did him.”

“What was that?”

“I listened.”

The woman smiled. “What goes around comes around.”

“Perhaps.”

“Speaking of prison, I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to get your wire. I was afraid you wouldn’t be permitted to leave the country for ages.”

“Diogenes left behind enough evidence in his valise to clear me of the murders. That left only three crimes of substance: stealing Lucifer’s Heart; kidnapping the gemologist, Kaplan; and breaking out of prison. Neither the museum nor Kaplan cared to press charges. As for the prison, they would like nothing more than to forget their security was fallible. And so here I am.”

He paused to sip his wine. “That leads me to a question of my own. How is it that you didn’t recognize Menzies as my brother? You’d seen him in disguise before.”

“I’ve wondered about that,” Viola replied. “I saw him as two different people, but neither one was Menzies.”

There was a silence. Viola let her gaze drift again toward the younger woman in the olive grove. “She’s a most unusual girl.”

“Yes,” the man replied. “More unusual than you could even imagine.”

They continued to watch the younger woman drift aimlessly through the twisted trees, like a restless ghost.

“How did she come to be your ward?”

“It’s a long and rather complicated story, Viola. Someday I’ll tell you—I promise.”

The woman smiled, sipped her wine. For a moment, silence settled over them.

“How do you like the new vintage?” she asked. “I broke it out especially for the occasion.”

“As delightful as the old one. It’s from your grapes, I assume?”

“It is. I picked them myself, and I even stomped out the juice with my own two feet.”

“I don’t know whether to be honored or horrified.” He picked up a small salami, examined it, quartered it with a paring knife. “Did you shoot the boar for these, as well?”

Viola smiled. “No. I had to draw the line somewhere.” She looked at him, her gaze growing concerned. “You’re making a valiant effort to be amusing, Aloysius.”

“Is that all it appears to be—an effort? I am sorry.”

“You’re preoccupied. And you don’t look especially good. Things aren’t going well for you, are they?”

He hesitated a moment. Then, very slowly, he shook his head.

“I wish there was something I could do.”

“Your company is tonic enough, Viola.”

She smiled again, her gaze returning to the young woman. “Strange to think that murder—and there’s really no other word for it, is there?—could have been such a cathartic experience for her.”

“Yes. Even so, I fear she remains a damaged human being.” He hesitated. “I realize now it was a mistake to keep her shut up in the house in New York. She needed to get out and see the world. Diogenes exploited that need. I made a mistake there, too—allowing her to be vulnerable to him. The guilt, and the shame, are with me always.”

“Have you spoken of this to her? Your feelings, I mean. It might be good for both of you.”

“I’ve tried. More than once, in fact. But she violently rejects any possibility of a discussion on that topic.”

“Perhaps that will change with time.” Viola shook out her hair. “Where do you plan to go next?”

“We’ve already toured France, Spain, and Italy—she seems interested in the ruins of ancient Rome. I’ve been doing everything I can to take her mind off what happened. Even so, she’s preoccupied and distant—as you can see.”

“I think what Constance needs most is direction.”

“What sort of direction?”

“You know. The kind of direction a father would give a daughter.”

Pendergast shifted in his chair, ill at ease. “I’ve never had a daughter.”

“You’ve got one now. And you know what? I think this whole Grand Tour you’ve been taking her on isn’t working.”

“The same thought had occurred to me.”

“You need healing—both of you. You need to get over this, together.”

Pendergast was silent for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about retreating from the world for a time.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a monastery I once spent some time at. A very secluded one, in western Tibet, exceedingly remote. I thought we might go there.”

“How long would you be gone?”

“As long as it takes.” He took a sip of wine. “A few months, I’d imagine.”

“That might be most beneficial. And it brings me to something else. What’s next . . . for us?”

He slowly put down the glass. “Everything.”

There was a brief silence. “How do you mean?” Her voice was low.

“Everything is open to us,” said Pendergast slowly. “When I have settled Constance, then it will be our turn.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “I can help you with Constance. Bring her to Egypt this winter. I’ll be resuming work in the Valley of the Kings. She could assist me. It’s a rugged, adventurous life, working as an archaeologist.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

Pendergast smiled. “Excellent. I think she would like that.”

“And you?”

“I suppose . . . I would like that, too.”

Constance had drifted closer, and they fell silent.

“What do you think of Capraia?” Viola called over as the girl stepped onto the terrazzo.

“Very nice.” She walked to the balustrade, tossed over a mangled flower, and rested her arms on the warm stone, staring out to sea.

Viola smiled, nudged at Pendergast. “Tell her the plan,” she whispered. “I’ll be inside.”

Pendergast stood and walked over to Constance. She remained at the railing, looking out to sea, the air stirring her long hair.

“Viola’s offered to take you to Egypt this winter, to assist her with her excavations in the Valley of the Kings. You could not only learn about history, you could touch it with your own hands.”

Constance shook her head, still staring out to sea. A long silence followed, filled by the distant cries of the seagulls, the muffled whisper of the surf below.

Pendergast drew closer. “You need to let go, Constance,” he said. “You’re safe now: Diogenes is dead.”

“I know,” she replied.

“Then you know there’s nothing more to fear. All that’s past. Finished.”

Still she said nothing, her blue eyes reflecting the vast azure emptiness of the sea. Finally she turned toward him. “No, it isn’t,” she said.

Pendergast looked back at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

For a moment, she did not answer.

“What do you mean?” he repeated.

At last Constance spoke. And when she did, her voice was so weary, so cold, that it chilled him despite the warm May sunshine.

“I’m pregnant.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We would like to thank the following people at Warner Books: Jaime Levine, Jamie Raab, Beth de Guzman, Jennifer Romanello, Maureen Egen, and Devi Pillai. Thanks also to Larry Kirshbaum for being a believer in us almost from day one. We want to thank our agents, Eric Simonoff of Janklow & Nesbit Associates and Matthew Snyder of the Creative Artists Agency. A bouquet of hothouse orchids to Eadie Klemm for keeping us all neat and dusted off. Count Niccolò Capponi of Florence, Italy, suggested (brilliantly) our use of the Carducci poem. And, as always, we want to thank our wives and children for their love and support.

All of Special Agent Pendergast’s questions will finally be answered…

See the next page for a preview of Preston & Child’s new thriller:

Two Graves

Coming in December 2012.

+ Forty Hours

FOR THE PAST FORTY HOURS, SHE HAD BEEN BLINDFOLDED and kept constantly on the move. She had been bundled into the trunk of a car, the back of a truck, and—she guessed—the hold of a boat. In all the furtive shuttling from place to place, she had grown disoriented and lost track of time. She felt cold, hungry, and thirsty, and her head still ached from the savage blow she’d received in the taxi. She had been given no food, and the only liquid offered her had been a plastic bottle of water, thrust into her hand some time back.

Now she was once again in the trunk of a car. For several hours they had been driving at high speed, apparently on a freeway. But now the car slowed; the vehicle made several turns; and the sudden roughness of the ride led her to believe they were on a dirt road or track.

Whenever she had been transferred from one makeshift prison to another, her captors had been silent. But now, with the road noise reduced, she could hear the murmur of their voices through the vehicle. They were speaking a mixture of Portuguese and German, both of which she understood perfectly, having learned them before either English or her father’s native Hungarian. The talk was faint, however, and she could make out very little beyond the tones, which seemed angry, urgent. There seemed to be four of them now.

After several minutes of rough travel, the car eased to a halt. She heard doors opening and closing, feet crunching on gravel. Then the trunk was opened and she felt chill air on her face. A hand grabbed her by the elbow, raised her to a sitting position, then pulled her out. She staggered, knees buckling; the pressure of the hand increased, raising her and steadying her. Then—without a word—she was shoved forward.

Strange how she felt nothing, no emotion, not even grief or fear. After so many years of hiding, of fear and uncertainty, her brother had appeared with the news she had long dreamed of hearing but had resigned herself would never come. For one brief day she had been afire with the hope of seeing Aloysius again, of restarting their lives, of finally living once more like a normal human being. Then in a moment it was snatched away, her brother murdered, her husband shot and perhaps dead as well.

And now she felt like an empty vessel. Better to have never hoped at all.

She heard the creak of an opening door, and she was guided over a sill and into a room. The air smelled musty and close. The hand led her across the room, apparently through a second door and into an even mustier space. A deserted old house in the country, perhaps. The hand released its grip on her arm, and she felt the pressure of a chair seat against the back of her knees. She sat down, placing her remaining hand in her lap.

“Remove it,” said a voice in German—a voice she instantly recognized. There was a fumbling at her head, and the blindfold was pulled away.

She blinked once, twice. The room was dark, but her long-blindfolded eyes needed no period of adjustment. She heard footsteps recede behind her, heard the door close. Then, licking dry lips, she raised her eyes and met the gaze of Wulf Konrad Fischer. He was older, of course, but still as powerful looking and as heavily muscled as ever. He was seated in a chair facing her, his legs apart and his hands clasped between them. He shifted slightly, and the chair groaned under his massive build. With his penetrating pale eyes, his dark tan, and his closely trimmed thatch of thick, snow-white hair, he exuded Teutonic perfection. He looked at her, a cold smile distorting his lips. It was a smile Helen remembered all too well. Her apathy and emptiness were replaced by a spike of fear.

“I never expected to receive a visit from the dead,” Fischer said in his clipped, precise German. “And yet here you are. Fräulein Esterhazy—forgive me, Frau Pendergast—who departed this earth more than twelve years ago.” He looked at her, hard eyes glinting with some combination of amusement, anger, and curiosity.

Helen said nothing.

“Natürlich, in retrospect I can see how it was done. Your twin sister—der Schwächling—was the sacrificial pawn. After all your protests, your sanctimonious outrage, I see how well you have learned from us, after all! I almost feel honored.”

Helen remained silent. The apathy was returning. She would be better off dead than living with this pain.

Fischer peered at her intently, as if to gauge the effect of his words. He took a pack of Dunhills from his pocket, plucked one from the box, lit it with a gold lighter. “You wouldn’t care to tell us where you’ve been all this time, would you? Or whether you’ve had any other accomplices in this little deception—beyond your brother, I mean? Or whether you’ve spoken to anyone about our organization?”

When there was no response, Fischer took a deep drag on the cigarette. His smile broadened. “No matter. There will be plenty of time for that—once we get you back home. I’m sure you’ll be happy to tell the doctors everything… that is, before the experiments begin.”

Helen went still. Fischer had used the word Versuchsreihe—but that word meant more to her than simply “experiments.” At the thought of what it meant—at the memory—she felt a sudden panic. She leapt to her feet and ran headlong toward the door. It was a mindless, instinctive act, born of the atavistic need for self-preservation. But even as she charged the door, it was opened, her captors standing just beyond. Helen did not slow, and the force of the impact knocked two of them back, but the others seized her and gripped her hard. It took all four to restrain her and drag her back into the room.

Fischer stood up. Taking another deep drag on the cigarette, he regarded Helen as she struggled silently, fiercely. Then he looked at his watch.

“It’s time to go,” he said. He glanced again at Helen. “I think we had better prepare the hypodermic.”

+ Forty-Four Hours

THE KNOCK CAME AT HALF PAST TWO IN THE AFTERNOON. Kurt Weber put down the bottle of sweet tea he’d been drinking, dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a silk handkerchief, turned off his computer monitor, and walked across the tiled floor to answer it. A quick look through the eyehole indicated a respectable-looking gentleman.

“Who is it?”

“I’m looking for the Freiheit Importing Company.”

Weber replaced the handkerchief in his breast pocket and opened the door. “Yes?”

The man stood in the hallway: slender, with piercing silver eyes and blond hair so pale, it was almost white.

“May I have a minute of your time?” the gentleman asked.

“Certainly.” Weber opened the door farther and motioned the man to a seat. Although the man’s suit was plain—simple black—it was of beautiful material, exquisitely tailored. Weber had always been something of a clotheshorse, and as he moved back behind his desk, he found himself unconsciously adjusting his own cuffs.

“Interesting,” the man said, glancing around, “that you conduct your business in a hotel.”

“It was not always a hotel,” Weber replied. “When it was built in 1929, it was called the Rhodes-Haverty Building. When it became a hotel, I saw no reason to bother relocating. The view of Atlanta’s historic district from here is second to none.”

He took a seat behind the desk. “How may I be of service?” The visit, of course, was almost certainly a mistake—the “importing” Weber did was for a private client only—but this wasn’t the first time people had called on him. He had always made a point of being polite with such callers, to give the impression his was a legitimate business.

The man sat down. “I have just one question. Answer it, and I’ll be on my way.”

Something in the man’s tone made Weber hesitate before replying. “And what question is that?”

“Where is Helen Pendergast?”

This is not possible, Weber thought. Aloud, he said: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You are the owner of a warehouse in downstate New York. It was from this warehouse that the operation to abduct Helen Pendergast was put into motion.”

“You aren’t making any sense. And since it appears you have no business to conduct, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to leave, Mr….?” As he spoke, Weber very casually opened the center drawer of his desk and placed his hand inside.

“Pendergast,” the stranger said. “Aloysius Pendergast.”

Weber drew out his Beretta from the desk, but before he could aim it, the man, seemingly reading his mind, lashed out and slammed the pistol from Weber’s grasp. It went tumbling across the floor. Covering Weber with his own weapon, which had appeared from nowhere, the man retrieved the Beretta, put it in his own pocket, and returned to his chair.

“Shall we try again?” he asked in a reasonable voice.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Weber replied.

The man calling himself Pendergast hefted the weapon in his hand. “Are you truly not attached to your own life?”

Weber had been very carefully trained in interrogation techniques—both how to administer and how to resist. He had also been schooled in how one of superior blood and breeding should conduct himself before others. “I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in.”

“That makes two of us.” The man paused, considering. “And what is it, exactly, that you believe in?”

Weber merely smiled.

Pendergast glanced around the office again, his gaze finally returning to Weber. “That’s a rather nice suit you’re wearing.”

Despite the big Colt trained on him, Weber felt perfectly calm, perfectly in control. “Thank you.”

“Is that by chance a Hardy Amies, my own tailor?”

“Sadly, no. Taylor and Merton, just a few doors down Savile Row from Amies.”

“I see we share a fondness for fine clothes. I would imagine our mutual interest extends beyond just suits. Take ties, for instance.” Pendergast caressed his own. “While in the past I’ve usually favored handmade Parisian ties, like Charvet, these days I prefer Jay Kos. Such as the one I’m wearing at present. At two hundred dollars, not cheap, but in my opinion worth every penny.” He smiled at Weber. “And who makes your ties?”

If this was some novel interrogation technique, Weber thought, it was not going to work. “Brioni,” he replied.

“Brioni,” Pendergast repeated. “That’s good. Well made.”

Suddenly—again with speed that more resembled an explosion than movement—Pendergast shot up from his chair, leapt over the desk, and grabbed Weber by the throat. Dragging him backward with shocking strength, he threw up the sash of the nearest window and propelled the struggling Weber into it. In terror Weber grasped the window frames on both sides. He could hear the traffic on Peachtree Street twenty stories below, feel the updraft.

“I love the windows in these old skyscrapers,” Pendergast said. “They actually open. And you were right about the view.”

Weber clung desperately to the sides of the window, gasping with terror.

Reaching around with the butt of his gun, Pendergast smashed the fingers of Weber’s left hand, breaking bones, then pounded on his right. With a cry, Weber felt himself shoved backward into open space, his arms flailing uselessly, his legs still hooked over the windowsill. Pendergast prevented his fall by grabbing his tie, holding him out at arm’s length from the window.

Frantically Weber pressed his calves against the sill, choking and fighting to maintain a grip.

“A man should always know his wardrobe—and his wardrobe’s limitations,” Pendergast went on, his voice still light and conversational. “My Jay Kos ties, for example, are made of Italian sevenfold silk. As strong as they are beautiful.”

He gave Weber’s tie a rough jerk. Weber gasped as one leg began to slip from the sill. He scrabbled to regain his footing. He tried to speak, but the tie was choking him.

“Other manufacturers sometimes cut corners,” Pendergast went on. “You know, like single stitching, only two folds.” He gave the tie another tug. “So I want you to be sure of the quality of your tie before I ask you my question again.”

Jerk.

With a harsh sound, Weber’s tie began to rip. He stared at it, crying out involuntarily.

“Oh, dear,” Pendergast said, disappointed. “Brioni? I don’t think so. Perhaps you’ve been deceived by a forgery. Or you’ve been cutting corners, lying to me about your haberdashers.”

Jerk.

The tie was now torn halfway across its fat end. From the corner of his eye, Weber could see a crowd gathering below, pointing upward, distant shouts. He felt his head start to swim. Panic overwhelmed him.

Jerk. Rip.

“All right!” Weber screamed, scrabbling at Pendergast’s hand with his own broken and twisted fingers. “I’ll talk!”

“Make it quick. This cheap tie isn’t going to last much longer.”

“She’s, she’s leaving the country tonight.”

“Where? How?”

“Private plane. Fort Lauderdale. Pettermars Airport. Nine o’clock.”

With a final, brutal tug, Pendergast pulled Weber back into his office.

“Scheiße!” Weber cried as he sprawled across the floor, in a fetal position, cradling his ruined hands. “What if my tie had torn completely?”

The man’s smile simply widened. And suddenly Weber understood—this was a man as far on the edge as a person could be while remaining sane.

Pendergast withdrew a step. “If you’re telling the truth, and I recover her without incident, you don’t have to worry about seeing me again. But if you have deceived me, I’ll pay you another visit.”

In the act of turning toward the door, Pendergast stopped. He loosened his own necktie, unknotted it, threw it toward Weber. “Here’s the real thing. Remember what I said about cutting corners.” And with a final, cold smile, he slipped out of the office.

About the Authors

The thrillers of Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child “stand head and shoulders above their rivals” (Publishers Weekly). Preston and Child’s Relic and The Cabinet of Curiosities were chosen by readers in a National Public Radio poll as being among the one hundred greatest thrillers ever written, and Relic was made into a number-one box office hit movie. Coauthors of the famed Pendergast series, Preston and Child are also the authors of Fever Dream, Cold Vengeance, and Gideon’s Sword. Preston’s acclaimed nonfiction book, The Monster of Florence, is being made into a movie starring George Clooney. His interests include horses, scuba diving, skiing, mountain climbing, and exploring the Maine coast in an old lobster boat. Lincoln Child is a former book editor who has published five novels of his own, including the huge bestseller Deep Storm. He is passionate about motorcycles, sports cars, exotic parrots, and nineteenth-century English literature.

Readers can sign up for The Pendergast File, a monthly “strangely entertaining note” from the authors, at their website, www.PrestonChild.com. The authors welcome visitors to their alarmingly active Facebook page, where they post regularly.

By Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

Two Graves

Gideon’s Corpse

Cold Vengeance

Gideon’s Sword

Fever Dream

Cemetery Dance

The Wheel of Darkness

The Book of the Dead

Dance of Death

Brimstone

Still Life with Crows

The Cabinet of Curiosities

The Ice Limit

Thunderhead

Riptide

Reliquary

Mount Dragon

Relic

In answer to a frequently asked reader question:

The above titles are listed in descending order of publication, though almost all of them are stand-alone novels that need not be read in order. However, the pairs Relic/Reliquary and Dance of Death/The Book of the Dead and the trilogy Fever Dream/Cold Vengeance/Two Graves should ideally be read in sequence.

By Douglas Preston

Impact

The Monster of Florence (with Mario Spezi)

Blasphemy

Tyrannosaur Canyon

The Codex

Ribbons of Time

The Royal Road

Talking to the Ground

Jennie

Cities of Gold

Dinosaurs in the Attic

By Lincoln Child

The Third Gate

Terminal Freeze

Deep Storm

Death Match

Utopia

Tales of the Dark 1–3

Dark Banquet

Dark Company

Pendergast’s latest adventure!

For more information about Preston & Child’s new hardcover Two Graves, available in December 2012, you can visit their Facebook page:

http://www.facebook.com/PrestonandChild/app_116692181738298

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CONTENTS

Welcome

Brimstone

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

An Aside to the Reader

Dance of Death

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chapter Sixty-nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-one

Chapter Seventy-two

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

The Book of the Dead

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Acknowledgments

A Preview of Two Graves

About the Authors

Other Books by Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child

Newsletters

Copyright

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Omnibus copyright © 2012 by Splendide Mendax, Inc. and Lincoln Child

Brimstone copyright © 2004 by Splendide Mendax, Inc. and Lincoln Child

Dance of Death copyright © 2005 by Splendide Mendax, Inc. and Lincoln Child

The Book of the Dead copyright © 2006 by Splendide Mendax, Inc. and Lincoln Child

Excerpt from Two Graves copyright © 2012 by Splendide Mendax, Inc. and Lincoln Child

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

In Brimstone:

Count Isidor Ottavio Baldassare Fosco is a character from the novel The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins, first published in 1860.

Original lyrics from “Burning Love” by Dennis Linde © 1972 BMG Entertainment.

Original poetry from “The Second Coming” by W. B. Yeats © 1921.

Original poetry from Paterson by William Carlos Williams © 1992 by Christopher McGowan.

In Dance of Death:

Original poetry is from “Piano” by D. H. Lawrence © 1918.

In Book of the Dead:

Original Russian poetry from “Heart’s Memory of Sun” by Anna Akhmatova, 1911. Translation by Stanley Kunitz © 1967–1973.

Original poetry from “She” by Theodore Roethke © 1958.

Original Italian poetry here, here, and here is from “La Leggenda di Teodorico” (The Legend of Theodoric) by Giosuè Carducci, 1896. English translations by Douglas J. Preston © 2006.

Original lyrics from Aïda. Opera written by Giuseppe Verdi from Italian libretto by Antonio Ghislanzoni; first performed 1871. Translation by Douglas J. Preston © 2006.

Original poetry here is from “Metamorphoses” by Ovid, 43 BC to circa AD 17. Translation under the direction of Sir Samuel Garth, 1717.

Original poetry here is from “Metamorphoses” by Ovid, 43 BC to circa AD 17. Translation by Horace Gregory © 1958.

Original French poetry here is from “Les Fleurs du Mal” by Charles Baudelaire, 1857.

Original Italian poetry here is from “Inferno” from The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri, 1308–1320.

Original poetry here and here is from “The Hollow Men” by T.S. Eliot © 1925.

Original Greek quote here is from “Agamemnon,” part one of The Oresteia by Aeschylus. First performed 458 BC.

Original quote here is from Hamlet by William Shakespeare, 1600–1602.

Original poetry here is from “To His Coy Mistress” by Andrew Marvell, 1649–1660.

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