Brimstone

Vasquez bit off another hunk of the dry meat. He wasn't sure just what it was that brought on a feeling of readiness, but he always knew when the time had come for the kill. It was now forty minutes to one, and it felt to him like that time had come. For two nights ru

He took off his clothes and put on his getaway costume-warm-up suit open at the chest, heavy gold, puffy sneakers, thin mustache, cell phone-turning himself into just another cheap hustler from Spanish Harlem.

Vasquez extinguished the light, removed the small piece of wood from the corner of the boarded-up window, and got into position. Snugging his cheek against the composite stock-a stock that would never warp or swell in adverse weather-he carefully aligned the match grade barrel to the spot where the target's head would appear, right beyond the marble and brick wall that supported the porte-cochère. There the target always paused to speak to the butler, waiting to make sure the man shut and locked the door. It was a ten- or twenty-second pause: an eternity of opportunity for a shooter like Vasquez.

As he readied his equipment, Vasquez felt a faint twinge of uneasiness. Not for the first time, he wondered if the whole setup was just a little too easy. The one o'clock stroll, the little pause-everything seemed a little too perfect. Was he being set up? Did the target know he was there? Vasquez shook his head, smiling ruefully. He always had an attack of paranoia just before the kill. There was no way the subject could have detected his presence. What's more, the target had already exposed himself on a number of occasions. If he had known a shooter was tracking him, those deliberate exposures would take a level of sangfroid few human beings possessed. Vasquez had already had half a dozen chances to kill him cleanly. It was just that he'd never felt ready.

Now he did.

Slowly and carefully, he fitted his eye to the scope. The scope had a built-in compensator for bullet drop and had already been properly zeroed for windage. Everything was ready. He sighted through the crosshair grid. The central crosshairs were positioned just where the target would pause. It would be quick and clean, as always. The butler would witness it and call the police, but by then Vasquez would be gone. They would find his kill nest, of course, but it would do them no good. They already had his DNA, for all the good it did them. Vasquez would be back home by then, sipping lemonade on the beach.

He waited, gazing at the doorway through the scope. The minutes ticked off. Five minutes to one. Three to one. One o'clock.

The door opened and the target emerged, right on schedule. He took a few steps, turned, began speaking with the butler.

The rifle was already sighted in. Gently and evenly, Vasquez's finger began to apply increasing pressure to the trigger.

There was a sudden faint pop and flash of light from down the block, followed by a tinkle of glass. Vasquez hesitated, taking his eye from the sight; but it was just a streetlight failing as they always did in that neighborhood-or perhaps some young hoodlum-in-training with a BB gun.

But the moment had passed, and the man was now walking across the street, toward the park.

Vasquez leaned back from the rifle, feeling the tension drain away. He had missed his opportunity.

Should he catch him coming back? No, the man walked so swiftly back into the porte-cochère that he could not be sure of that perfect, off-center shot. No matter: it just wasn't in the cards. So much for his paranoia, for everything seeming a little too easy.

So he would be in his little nest for another twenty-four hours. But he wasn't complaining: two million dollars was just as acceptable for three days' work as it was for two.

{ 38 }

D'Agosta rode in the back of the Rolls in silence. Proctor was driving, and Pendergast sat beside him in the front passenger seat, chatting about the Boston Red Sox, which appeared to be the only topic of interest to Proctor, and which Pendergast in his mysterious way seemed to know all about. They were debating some statistical nuance of the 1916 pe

"Where is it we're meeting this Beckma

Pendergast glanced into the backseat. "He's in Yonkers."

"You think he'll talk to us? I mean, Cutforth and Bullard weren't exactly forthcoming."

"I imagine he'll be most eloquent."

Pendergast resumed his discussion, and D'Agosta turned his attention to the passing scenery, wondering if he'd completed all the necessary paperwork on yesterday's dust-up with the Chinese. This case was generating more paperwork than any he'd been involved with before. Or was it just all the new bullshit regulations that were keeping him hogtied? Pendergast never seemed to do any paperwork; D'Agosta wondered if the agent somehow still managed to keep above such mundane details, or if he simply worked all night filling out forms.

The Rolls had left Manhattan via the Willis Avenue Bridge and was now heading north through late Saturday morning traffic along the Major Deegan Expressway. Soon it left the Deegan for the Mosholu Parkway and made its way into the hard-core i

But the waterfront was not their destination. Instead, the Rolls turned east, toward Nodine Hill. D'Agosta watched the passing road signs with little interest. Prescott Street. Elm Street. Except there didn't seem to be any elms here, only dying ginkgo trees that barely softened the dingy residential lines. As they drove on, the neighborhood grew increasingly seedy. Drunks and addicts now lounged on front stoops, watching the Rolls pass with scant interest. Every square inch of space was covered by illegible graffiti-even the tree trunks. The sky was the color of lead, and the day was becoming chilly. Here and there they passed vacant lots, reclaimed by weeds or sumac, patches of jungle in the middle of the city.

"Left here, please."

Proctor turned into a dead-end street and glided to a stop in front of the last building. D'Agosta stepped out, Proctor staying with the car.

Instead of entering the tenement, Pendergast headed for the end of the cul-de-sac: a twelve-foot cinder-block wall covered with still more graffiti. An iron door, studded with old rivets, streaked and scaly with rust, was set into the wall.

Pendergast tried the handle, then bent to examine the lock. He removed a pencil-thin flashlight from his pocket and peered into the keyhole, probing with a small metal tool.

"Going to pick it?" D'Agosta asked.

Pendergast straightened. "Naturally." He removed his sidearm and shot into the lock once, twice, the deafening reports rolling like thunder up the alleyway.

"Jesus, I thought you said you were going to pick it!"

"I did. With my pick of last resort." Pendergast holstered the .45. "It's the only way to unlock a solid block of rust. This door hasn't been opened in years." He raised his foot and gave the door a shove. It swung open with a groan of rusted metal.