Brimstone

He went below decks. 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 sunbo

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 co