The car blasted back into the forest and the monastery disappeared from view. "Have we got a chance?" D'Agosta asked.
"It depends on how quickly our man finds Father Zenobi. The monastery is a big place. If only they had a phone!"
The car careened around another turn. D'Agosta could hear a bell ringing, the faint sound of chanting floating toward him over the noise of the engine.
"I think the monks are at prayer," he said. He glanced at his watch. It would be the service of Sext: sixth hour of the Opus Dei.
"Yes. Most unfortunate." Pendergast pushed the car around the final bend, wheels slipping on ancient, mossy cobbles instead of asphalt.
The cobbled road-clearly never built to be driven upon-led up behind the monastery. There, at the stone archway leading through the outer wall of the monastery into a massive cloister, D'Agosta saw the Ducati lying on its tubular frame, fat rear wheel still spinning lazily.
Pendergast slewed to a stop and was out, gun drawn, even before the car was completely at rest. D'Agosta followed hard on his heels. They ran past the bike, across a stone bridge, and into the cloisters. A large chapel stood to the right, its doors wide, the vigorous sounds of plainchant rising and falling on the cool breeze. As they ran, the chanting seemed to hesitate, then die away in a ragged confusion.
They rushed into the church just in time to see the figure in red leather-his arm extended, rigid-fire point-blank into an old monk, who was kneeling, his hands raised in surprise or prayer. The report of the gun was shockingly loud in the confined space, reverberating even as the notes of the plainsong died away. D'Agosta shouted out in dismay, rage, and horror as the priest fell and the shooter raised his gun, execution style, taking careful aim for a second shot.
{ 66 }
In the predawn light, Hayward stood with Captain Grable on a rocky point just north of the Central Park Arsenal. From here, they commanded a good view of the tent city, still slumbering in the quiet morning air. They'd been briefed on the location of Wayne Buck's tent, and she could make it out clearly: a large green canvas job in the heart of the encampment.
Hayward's misgivings increased. This was no clean shot, in and out. The makeshift city had grown much larger than she realized: there had to be three hundred tents, maybe more, scattered through the foliage. And the landscape wouldn't help: deep green swales and leafy hollows, surrounded by grassy hummocks, their sides frequently exposing long swaths of dark gray rock. Through the thicket of tree branches, she could just make out-parked along Fifth-the cop car that would take Buck away. It was idling on the park side of the avenue, right opposite the entrance to Cutforth's building.
Fact was, this was just about the last place she wanted to be at the moment. By rights she should be pursuing the Cutforth murder. She shouldn't be out here-not anymore, not when there was an open homicide to be worked. It felt too much like the bad old days when she was a rouster for the transit police.
She glanced at Grable. She had talked to D'Agosta the night before, briefly, and now she wished he was here. There was a guy you could count on. As for Grable-
Grable adjusted his tie, squared his shoulders. "Let's circle around and come in from the west." He was sweating, his shirt plastered to his chest despite the cool morning.
Hayward nodded. "As I see it, the key here is speed . We don't want to be caught in there."
Grable swallowed, hiked up his belt. "Captain, unlike some in the force, I didn't waste my time in the classroom piling up degrees. I came up through the rank and file. I know what I'm doing."
There was a long moment while Grable looked down on the slumbering tent city. Hayward glanced at her watch. The light was coming up moment by moment, and the sun would rise within minutes. Why the hell was Grable waiting?
"We're running a little late, if you don't mind me saying so," she said.
"I don't operate on a timetable, Captain."
Hayward tried to suppress her misgivings. This was Grable's operation-Rocker had made that clear-and she was to follow his lead. Going in with a bad attitude wasn't going to do any good. And the plan might work. Hell, it would work if they could just get in and out fast enough, drag Buck to the waiting squad car before he'd even managed to wake up. It could work , she told herself, as long as Grable moves fast. If you're going to arrest someone, you do it. You don't give them time to think about it first. She glanced at Grable again, wondering why he was taking so long.
"Right," said Grable, noticing the glance. "Let's go."
They cut west through the low trees and brushy undergrowth, circling the flank of the tent city, sticking close to one side of a shallow defile. Soon they reached what looked like a herd path leading directly into the makeshift community. They were downwind now, and the odor of raw sewage and unwashed humanity hit Hayward hard.
Grable quickened his pace as they approached the fringes. A few people were already up, some cooking on little backpacking stoves, others wandering around.
Grable hesitated just inside the ragged outer ring of tents. Then he nodded brusquely to Hayward and they started forward again. Hayward nodded in a friendly way to those who were up and watching them pass. The ground flattened and the tents huddled closer together, forming narrow lanes and alleys. In a few minutes they had arrived at the center clearing around Buck's tent.
So far, so good, thought Hayward.
The front flap was tied on two side posts. Grable stopped before the entrance and called in a loud voice: "Buck? This is Captain Grable of the NYPD."
"Hey!" A tall, clean-cut fellow appeared out of nowhere. "What are you doing?"
"None of your business," said Grable brusquely.
Shit, thought Hayward. Not like that.
"There's no problem," she said. "We're just here to talk to the reverend."
"Yeah? What about?"
"Back off, pal," said Grable.
"What is it?" came a muffled voice from inside the tent. "Who's there?"
"Captain Grable, NYPD." Grable began untying the knotted drawstring that held the flap shut against one of the side poles. He had it almost undone when a hand reached from inside, closed over his, and removed it. The flap lifted and then Buck stood there, straight and stern. "This is my home," he said coldly and with dignity. "Do not violate it."
Cuff him, Hayward thought. Cuff the son of a bitch and get the hell out.
"We're New York City police officers, and this is public land. This isn't some private dwelling."
"Sir, I ask you once again to stand back from my home."
Hayward was astonished by the man's presence. She turned to see how Grable was going to handle it. She was shocked to see his face paling beneath the sheen of sweat.
"Wayne Buck, you are under arrest." Grable tried to unclip his handcuffs, but his hands were shaking slightly and it took longer than it should have.
Hayward couldn't believe it. Grable was out of his depth. That was the only answer. He'd ridden a desk so long he'd lost his street smarts-if he ever had them-and he'd forgotten how to deal with a fluid situation like this. That explained his hesitation back at the arsenal, his sweating, everything. He'd wanted the commissioner to send in a large party to deal with Buck, but when Rocker had given the job directly to him, he couldn't refuse. Now, with no SWAT team to back him up, confronted by the implacable Buck, he was losing his nerve.