Brimstone

Dr. Friedrich Von Menck, Harvard scientist and Emmy Award-wi

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:

79A.D. : Pompeii

426A.D. : The sack of Rome

877A.D. : Destruction of Beijing by the Mongols

1348A.D. : The Black Death

1666A.D. : The Great Fire of London

1906A.D. : The San Francisco Earthquake

These and many more dates line up in ratios of unca

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, marble like 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, spi