Brimstone

"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 a

"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 pla

"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."