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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.
Chapter 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 i
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, Vi
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 perso
“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 go
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.