"Right now the device is working up from its lowest setting. If that pumpkin were our victim, he would begin to experience a most awful crawling sensation in his guts and over his skin about now."
The pumpkin remained unaffected. Fosco turned a knob, and the humming went up a notch.
"Now our victim is screaming. The crawling sensation has gotten unbearable. I imagine it's like a stomach full of wasps, stinging endlessly. His skin, too, would start to dry and blister. The rising heat within his muscles would soon cause the neurons to begin firing, jerking his limbs spasmodically, causing him to fall down and go into convulsions. His internal temperature is soaring. Within a few more seconds he'll be thrashing on the ground, biting off or swallowing his tongue."
Another tick of the dial. Now a small blister appeared on the skin of the pumpkin. It seemed to soften, sag a bit. A soft pop, and the pumpkin split open from top to bottom, issuing a spurt of steam.
"Now our victim is unconscious, seconds from death."
There was a muffled boiling sound inside the pumpkin, and the fissure widened. With a sudden wet noise, a jet of orange slime forced itself from the split, oozing over the floor in steaming rivulets.
"No comment necessary. By now, our victim is dead. The interesting part, however, is yet to come."
Blisters began swelling all over the surface of the pumpkin, some popping with little puffs of steam, others breaking and weeping orange fluid.
Another tick of the dial.
The pumpkin split afresh, with a second rush of boiling pulp and seeds squeezing out in a hot viscous paste. The pumpkin sagged further and darkened, the stem blackening and smoking; more fluid and seeds oozed from the cracks along with jets of steam. And then suddenly, with a sharp popping sound, the seeds began to explode. The pumpkin seemed to harden, the room filling with the smell of burned pumpkin flesh; then, with a sudden paff! , it burst into flame.
"Ecco! The deed is done. Our victim is on fire. And yet, if you were to place your hand on the stone next to the pumpkin, you would find it barely warm to the touch."
Fosco lowered the device. The pumpkin continued to smolder, a flame licking the stem, sizzling and crackling as it burned, a foul black smoke rising slowly.
"Pinketts?"
The servant, without missing a beat, picked up a bottle of acqua minerale from the dinner table and poured it over the pumpkin. Then he gave the bubbling remains a deft kick into the fire, heaped on a few more sticks, and retired again to the corner.
"Marvelous, don't you think? And yet it's much more dramatic with a human body, I can assure you."
"You're one sick fuck, you know that?" said D'Agosta.
"This man of yours, Pendergast, is beginning to annoy me."
"Clearly a man of many virtues," Pendergast replied. "But I think this has gone on long enough. It is time for us to get to the remaining business at hand."
"Quite, quite."
"I have come here to offer you a deal."
"Naturally." Fosco's lip curled cynically.
Pendergast glanced at the count a moment, his looks unreadable, letting the silence build. "You will write out and sign a confession of all that you have told us tonight, and you will give me that diabolical machine as proof. I will escort you to the carabinieri, who will arrest you. You will be tried for the murders of Locke Bullard and Carlo Vanni, and as an accomplice in the murder of the priest. Italy has no death penalty, and you will probably be released in twenty-five years, at the age of eighty, to live the remainder of your days in peace and quiet-if you manage to survive prison. This is your side of the bargain."
Fosco listened, an incredulous smile developing on his face. "Is that all? And what will you give me in exchange?"
"Your life."
"I wasn't aware my life was in your hands, Mr. Pendergast. It seems to me it's the other way around."
D'Agosta saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Pinketts had withdrawn a 9mm Beretta and had it trained on them. D'Agosta's hand moved toward his own weapon, unstrapped the keeper.
Pendergast stopped him with a shake of his head. Then he removed an envelope from his pocket. "A letter identical to this one has been placed with Prince Corso Maffei, to be opened in twenty-four hours if I have not returned to reclaim it."
At the name of Maffei, Fosco paled.
"You are a member of the secret society known as the Comitatus Decimus, the Company of Ten. As a member of this society, which dates back to the Middle Ages, you inherited and were entrusted with certain documents, formulas, and manuscripts. You abused that trust, in particular on October 31, 1974, when you went through a mock ceremony using those same instruments to frighten a group of American students. Then you compounded it with these killings."
The paleness had given way to mottled fury. "Pendergast, this is absurd."
"You know better than I it is not. You belong to this secret society by virtue of your title. You had no choice in the matter: you were born into it. You didn't take it seriously as a young man; you thought it a joke. Only years later did you realize the severity of that mistake."
"This is all bluster, a poor attempt to save your own skin."
"It's your skin you should be concerned about. You know what awaits those who break the society's seal of silence. Remember what happened to the marchese Meucci? The ten men who head the Comitatus have enormous money, power, and reach. They will find you, Fosco-you know that."
Fosco said nothing, simply staring back at Pendergast.
"As I said, I will give you your life back by retrieving that letter-but only after I have received your signed confession and escorted you to the carabinieri headquarters. The violin you may keep. It is yours, after all. A fair deal, when you consider it."
Fosco tore open the letter with a fat hand and began to read. After a moment, he paused and looked up. "This is infamy!"
Pendergast merely watched as Fosco returned his attention to the document, hands visibly shaking.
D'Agosta observed this interchange with growing comprehension. Now he understood the purpose of Pendergast's stop that morning, a stop he had referred to as "insurance." He had been depositing the copy of his letter with this Prince Maffei. How Pendergast had put all this together, and exactly what it meant, D'Agosta didn't know. No doubt he would learn in time. But his overwhelming feeling was one of relief. Once again, Pendergast had saved their asses.
The count lowered the document abruptly. His face had gone white.
"How did you know this? Someone must have already broken the seal of the Comitatus! Someone else must pay, not me!"
"I learned it from you, and nobody else. That is all you need to know."
Fosco appeared to be struggling to master himself. He placed the letter on the table, faced Pendergast. "Very well. I had expected a strong opening move, but this one does you credit. Twenty-four hours, you say? Pinketts will escort you back to your rooms while I consider my riposte."
"No fucking way," said D'Agosta. "We're leaving. You can telephone our hotel when you're ready to hand over the confession." He glanced at Pinketts, who had his gun trained on them, the muzzle moving back and forth. D'Agosta figured the chances were pretty good that-if he timed it right-he could put a bulletin Pinketts before the man could react.
"You will go to your quarters and await my answer," the count said imperiously.
When nobody moved, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to Pinketts.
All it took was a faint movement in the man's hand, and D'Agosta had dropped, rolled, and fired in one smooth, endlessly practiced move. Without even a cry, Pinketts staggered back against the wall, Beretta still in hand, firing once above their heads. D'Agosta rose to his knee and fired two more shots. Pinketts jerked, the gun skidded across the floor, coming to rest in a corner. Pendergast had his own gun out and was now aiming at the count.