Faint applause arose here and there from a sea of ashen faces, then died quickly away.
"Bit of turbulence," muttered the man in the aisle seat. "Is that what he calls it? Shit on a stick . You couldn't pay me enough to get back in a plane after this."
He turned to his seatmate, nudged him with his elbow. "Glad to be back on the ground, pal?"
The nudge brought D'Agosta back to the present. He turned slowly away from the window, through which he'd been staring without really seeing, and glanced at the man. "What's that?"
The man snorted in disbelief. "Come on, stop playing it cool. Me, my own life passed before my eyes at least twice the last half hour."
"Sorry." And D'Agosta turned back to the window. "Wasn't really paying attention."
D'Agosta walked woodenly through Terminal 8 on his way out of customs, suitcase in one hand. All around him, people were talking excitedly, hugging, laughing. He passed by them all, barely noticing, eyes straight ahead.
"Vinnie!" came a voice. "Hey, Vinnie. Over here!"
D'Agosta turned to see Hayward, waving, walking toward him through the crowds. Laura Hayward, beautiful in a dark suit, her black hair shining, her eyes as deep and blue as the water off Capraia. She was smiling, but the smile did not reach quite as far as those perfect eyes.
"Vinnie," she said, embracing him. "Oh, Vinnie."
Automatically, his arms went around her. He could feel the welcoming tightness of her clasp; the warmth of her breath on his neck; the crush of her breasts against him. It was like a galvanic shock. Had it really been only ten days since they last embraced? A shudder passed through him: he felt strange, like a swimmer struggling upward from a very great depth.
"Vinnie," she murmured. "What can I say?"
"Don't say anything. Not now. Later, maybe."
Slowly, she released him.
"My God. What happened to your finger?"
"Locke Bullard happened."
They began to move through the baggage area. A silence grew between them, just long enough to become awkward.
"How's it been here?" he asked at last, lamely.
"Not much has happened since you called last night. We've still got ten detectives working the Cutforth murder. Technically. And from what I hear, that Southampton chief of police is catching holy hell for lack of progress on Grove."
D'Agosta gritted his teeth, started to speak, but Hayward put a finger to his lips.
"I know. I know. But that's the nature of the job sometimes. Now that Buck's out of the picture and the Post has moved on to other things, Cutforth's finally off the front page. Eventually it'll become just another unsolved murder. Along with Grove's, of course."
D'Agosta nodded.
"Amazing that it was Fosco. I'm floored."
D'Agosta shook his head.
"It's a hell of a thing, knowing who the perp is but being able to do nothing."
There was the ring of a claxon; an amber alarm flashed overhead; and a carousel nearby began to move.
"I was able to do something," he said in a low voice.
Hayward looked at him sharply.
"I'll explain in the car."
Ten minutes later they were on the Van Wyck Expressway, halfway back to Manhattan, Hayward at the wheel. D'Agosta sat beside her, idly looking out the window.
"So it was all about a violin," Hayward said. "The whole damn thing. A lousy violin."
"Not just any violin."
"I don't care. It wasn't worth all those deaths. And it especially wasn't worth-" But here she stopped, as if hesitant to break some unspoken code between them. "Where is it now?"
"I sent it by special courier to a woman on the island of Capraia. Comes from a line of violinists. She'll restore it to the Fosco family at a time of her choosing, when the new heir is settled in. Somehow, I think that's what Pendergast would have wanted."
It was the first time Pendergast's name had passed between them.
"I know you couldn't explain on the phone," she went on. "But what happened, exactly? After you took the Italian police to Fosco's castle yesterday morning, I mean."
D'Agosta did not reply.
"Come on, Vinnie. It'll be better if you talk about it."
D'Agosta sighed. "I spent the rest of the day combing the Chianti countryside. Talking to farmers. Talking to villagers. Anyone who might have seen anything, heard anything. Checking my hotel for messages. Of course, there was nothing. But I had to be sure, you see-absolutely sure . "
Hayward waited. After a moment, he went on.
"The thing is, deep down, I was already sure. We'd searched the castle. And then there was that look Fosco gave me, that awful look. If you'd seen it . " He shook his head. "Close to midnight, I drifted back to the castle. Went in the same way we'd come out. I took the time to figure out how the microwave device worked. And then I . used it. One last time."
"You brought Fosco to justice. Avenged your partner. I'd have done the same thing."
"Would you?" D'Agosta asked quietly.
Hayward nodded.
D'Agosta shifted restlessly. "There's not much more to tell. I spent this morning back in Florence, checking hospitals, morgues, police reports. More to keep busy than for anything else. And then I boarded the plane."
"What did you do with that weapon?"
"Disassembled it, smashed the pieces, and deposited them in half a dozen garbage cans around Florence."
She nodded. "And what are your plans now?"
D'Agosta shrugged. He hadn't given this any thought. "I don't know. Go back to Southampton, I guess. Face the music."
A small smile crept over her face. "Didn't you hear what I said? It's the chief who's facing the music. He got back from vacation and was so eager to hog the limelight that now it's all coming back to roost. Braskie's running against him in the next election, odds-on favorite to win."
"Even worse for me."
She changed lanes. "There's something else you should know. They've suspended the NYPD hiring freeze. That means you can work the city again. Get your old job back."
D'Agosta shook his head. "No way. I've been away too long. I'm old goods."
"It hasn't been that long. They're rehiring by seniority. And with your experience in Southampton, and as FBI liaison . " She paused to negotiate the ramp onto the Long Island Expressway. "Of course, it couldn't be in my division. But they've got openings in several of the downtown precincts."
D'Agosta sat a moment, letting this penetrate. Then he looked at her sharply. "Wait a minute. My old job back, openings downtown. You didn't have anything to do with this, did you? Have a talk with Rocker, or something like that?"
"Me? You know the kind of cop I am. By the book. Miss Straight Arrow " But her smile seemed to deepen briefly.
Up ahead, the maw of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel loomed, gridworks of tile illuminated by fluorescent tubes. Hayward merged smoothly into the E-Z Pass toll lane.
From the passenger seat, D'Agosta watched her: the beautiful lines of her face, the curve of her nose, the little furrow of concentration as she negotiated the evening traffic. It was wonderful just to see her again, to be here by her side. And yet he could not escape the sense of desolation that enveloped him. It was like a hollowness he carried around, a vacuum that could not be filled.
"You're right," he said as they entered the tunnel. "It doesn't matter if that violin's the most precious ever made. It wasn't worth Pendergast dying. Nothing was worth that."
Hayward kept her eyes on the road. "You don't know he's dead."
D'Agosta didn't answer. He'd told himself this already: once, twice, a thousand times. When everything had been stacked against them-when there seemed no way they could possibly survive-Pendergast had always saved them. At times, it had seemed almost miraculous. And yet, this time, Pendergast had not reappeared. This time, it felt different.
Then there was that other feeling, the one that made him almost physically ill. It was the image of Pendergast, there in the clearing, surrounded by dogs. Everyone-the hunters, the handlers, the beaters-closing in. Only one of us can get through. There's no other way.