D'Agosta found he'd been holding his breath. He let it out with a shudder, took in a lungful of what stank of sulfur and burned roast. As his faculties began to return, he noticed that the silk-draped walls and ceiling were covered with a greasy film. The large circle the body lay within appeared to have been incised into the floor, surrounded by mysterious symbols, the whole enclosed in a double pentagram. Nearby was a smaller circle-but this second circle was empty.
D'Agosta couldn't find the energy to turn away. He felt a snap and realized he'd been gripping his cross so hard he'd broken the chain. He looked down at the object in his hand, so familiar and reassuring. It seemed incredible that it could be true; that everything the sisters had told him so many years ago was, in fact, reaclass="underline" but at this moment, there wasn't the slightest doubt in his mind that this, this , was the work of the devil himself.
He glanced over at Pendergast and found he, too, was rooted to the spot, his face full of astonishment, shock-and disappointment. This means the end of a theory , D'Agosta thought to himself. And the loss of a witness. It was not just a shock. It was a terrible, perhaps even critical, blow to the investigation.
But even as D'Agosta stared, Pendergast took out his cell phone and started dialing.
D'Agosta could hardly believe his eyes. "Who are you calling?"
"I'm calling the carabinieri. Italian law enforcement. We are guests here, and it is important to play by the rules." He spoke briefly in Italian, snapped the phone shut, turned back to D'Agosta. "We have about twenty minutes until the police arrive. Let us make the most of it."
He began to make a quick tour of the crime scene, pausing at a small table on which several objects lay: an old piece of parchment, a strange-looking knife, a small pile of salt. D'Agosta simply watched, unable to bring himself to participate.
"My, my," said Pendergast. "Our friend Bullard had been consulting a grimoire shortly before his, ah, demise ."
"What's a grimoire?"
"A book of the black arts. They contain instructions for raising demons, among other things."
D'Agosta swallowed. He wanted to get the hell out of here. This wasn't like Grove's death, or even Cutforth's-this had just happened. And this wasn't any normal killer. There was nothing Pendergast or any human law enforcement entity could do. Hail Mary, full of grace .
Pendergast was bending over the knife. "What do we have here? An arthame , by the looks of it."
D'Agosta wanted to tell Pendergast they had to get out, that forces a lot bigger than themselves were at work here, but he couldn't seem to form the words.
"Note that the circle enclosing Bullard has a little piece scratched out-do you see?-over there. It's been turned into a broken circle."
D'Agosta nodded mutely.
"On the other hand, the smaller circle beside it was never complete to begin with. I believe it was constructed as a broken circle." Pendergast walked toward it and bent down, examining the circle intently. He removed a pair of tweezers from his cuff and plucked something from the center of the circle.
"Right," D'Agosta managed to say, swallowing again.
"I'm very curious to know what was in this broken circle-an object evidently placed there as a gift to the, ah, devil."
"The devil.” The Lord is with thee .
Pendergast examined the tip of his tweezers closely, turning it this way and that. Then his eyebrows shot up, a look of astonishment on his face.
D'Agosta stopped in midprayer. "What is it?"
"Horsehair."
And D'Agosta saw, or thought he saw, a flash of realization spread over the agent's pale features.
"What is it? What does it mean?"
Pendergast lowered the tweezers. "Everything."
{ 58 }
Harriman strolled past the Plaza Hotel and into Central Park, breathing in the crisp air with relish. It was a glorious fall evening, the golden light tinting the leaves above his head. Squirrels ran around gathering nuts; mothers pushed babies in strollers; groups of bicyclists and Rollerbladers glided past on South Park Drive.
His piece on Buck had run in the morning edition, and Ritts had loved it. The phones had been ringing all day, fax machines humming, reader e-mails flowing in. Once again, he'd touched a chord.
On this glorious evening, Bryce Harriman strolled northward, back to the site of his earlier triumph, in search of fresh glory. What was needed now was an interview with the good Reverend Buck himself-a Post exclusive. And if anyone could get that exclusive, he could.
As he came around the back of the Central Park Zoo and passed the old arsenal, he stopped in surprise. There was a tent here, an old canvas tent, pitched in the overgrown area just north of 65th Street along the Fifth Avenue side. As he walked up a small rise, more tents came into view. He crested the rise to find a veritable tent city spread before him, the smoke from dozens of fires rising into the autumn air.
Harriman paused, surprise changing to a glow of satisfaction. He had done this. He had kept the story alive, identified a leader, kept the people coming. And now this .
He moved into the outskirts of the camp. Some people, especially the numerous high school and college-aged kids, were wrapped only in newspapers; others had sleeping bags of various makes and colors; still others had makeshift tents made of sheets held up by sticks. A few had fancy tents from North Face and Antarctica Ltd.-trust fund brats from Scarsdale and Short Hills, probably.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of cops along the Fifth Avenue wall, eyeing the situation. And to his left were more cops, just standing around, keeping a low profile. No wonder: there must be five hundred people camped in here.
He wandered into the encampment and down a makeshift alley between rows of tents. It was almost like a Depression-era shantytown, little narrow lanes built among the woodsy hollows and exposed rock faces: cooking fires, people sitting around on quilts and blankets drinking coffee. Here and there people were arriving with backpacks and setting up more tents. It had to extend at least to 70th Street: four square blocks of parkland. It was incredible. Had anything like this happened in New York before? Quickly, he got out his cell phone and ordered up a pool photographer.
Harriman then stopped to ask directions and within minutes had located Buck's tent: a large army-surplus job near the camp's center. Just inside, he could make out Buck himself, seated at a card table and writing. He was a curiously dignified figure, and Harriman was reminded of old pictures he'd seen of Civil War generals. He hoped that damn photographer would hurry up.
As Harriman approached the entrance to the tent, a young man cut him off. "Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Mr. Buck."
"A lot of people are here to see the reverend. He's busy, can't be disturbed."
"I'm Harriman from the Post ."
"And I'm Todd from Levittown." The aide-de-camp stood firm, blocking the way, a kind of dreamy, supercilious smile on his face.
No asshole like a born-again asshole, Harriman thought. He glanced beyond the self-appointed guardian to Buck, working at his card table, ignoring them. What was that he saw, taped to the inside wall of the tent? A row of articles clipped from the Post .His articles. He felt emboldened.
"The reverend will want to see me ." He pushed past the fellow, ducked into the tent, and strode over to Buck, hand extended. "Reverend Buck?"