Brimstone

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 di

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, servedalla vaccinara ;fegatini grilled over the fire; a contorno of fe

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 di

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 alone ; 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 mille

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 mille

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 mille

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.