Douglas Preston: Brimstone

His insides felt as if they were crawling, boiling. He felt his mouth twitching, his eyes blinking uncontrollably, grimacing, his fingers jerking. The heat was like being suffocated with a burning blanket. His skin felt as if it was covered with a blanket of bees. Now fear and heat rose within him as one: an unendurable, irresistible heat that had nothing to do with the fire on the hearth-

Suddenly he knew. He knew.

"D'Agosta-!" he choked, but his throat closed up and no more words came out

He whirled toward the closed door of the salotto , staggered forward, fell over the side table with a crash, rose to his knees. His muscles were jerking spasmodically, but with an enormous effort of will, he began to crawl forward.

"Bastardo-!"It came out like a choked cry. As he did so, his limbs began to take on a life of their own, twitching and jerking with a horrible violence, but he had only a few more feet to go; he gave one superhuman lurch, seized the door handle. It was burning hot, and he felt his skin popping and sizzling, yet he clung tenaciously, heaved, turned-locked.

With a suppressed shriek he sank, collapsing at the door, writhing. The heat grew, and grew, like lava spreading itself through his veins. A terrible piercing whine, like the buzz of a monstrous gnat, filled his head. What was that he smelled burning? All of a sudden the count went rigid. His jaws clamped together involuntarily, grinding with such force his teeth chipped and split. Now, unbidden, his many sins and excesses paraded before him in a terrible blur. As the heat continued to grow-intolerable yet still increasing, an inferno of agony he could never have imagined possible-Fosco felt his vision grow dim and strange. His eyes jerked around the room, coming to rest on the fire, while reality itself began to distort, fall away, and he began to see things beyond .

. Oh, dear Jesus, what is that dark shape rising in the fire . ?

And now, summoning every last ounce of willpower he possessed-despite the teeth grinding into meal and the blood that filled his mouth and the swelling tongue that refused to move-Fosco began to slur, in something between a gargle and a groan, the words of the Lord's Prayer.

Pater noster .

He felt his skin blister, his oiled hair curl and smoke. He clawed his hands across the stone floor in agony, tearing away the nails in his efforts to get out the words:

. ....Qui es in coelis . ...

Over the shrieking buzz in his ears, Fosco could hear-as if rising from the deepest depths of the earth-the rich and terrible laughter, not of Sergeant D'Agosta, not of any earthly being . ...

. ....Sanctificetur . ...

He tried, with the last of a supreme effort of will, to continue the prayer, but the subcutaneous fat was boiling beneath the skin of his lips:

. ....Sanctiferrrrrrrr . ...

And then came the point where no sound, not even a scream, was possible to utter.

{ 87 }

Bryce Harriman ducked into the stale, smoke-fouled office of his editor, Rupert Ritts. He had been waiting for this moment a long, long time, and he was determined to enjoy it, drag it out as long as possible. It would be a story he'd tell his kids and grandkids, put in his memoirs. One of the moments he'd savor the rest of his life.

"Harriman!" Ritts came around from behind his desk-his idea of a show of respect-and seated himself on one corner. "Take a seat."

Harriman sat. Why not? Let Ritts talk a bit first.

"That was quite a piece you wrote on Hayward and that man, Buck. I'm almost sorry that cracker preacher got his ass sent back to Oklahoma. I hope he decides to move back to the Big Apple once his parole is up." He laughed and picked a piece of paper from his desk. "Here's something I bet you'll be interested to hear: newsstand circ for the week ending today." He waved the paper in Harriman's face. "Nineteen percent above this same time last year, six percent above last week, sixty percent sell-through."

Ritts grinned, as if the newsstand circulation and sell-through figures of the New York Post were the be-all and end-all of Harriman's existence. Harriman kicked back in the chair, listening, a practiced smile on his face.

"And look at this. Advertising revenues up three and a half."

Another pause so that Harriman might absorb and glorify in the stupendous news.

Ritts lit a cigarette. He snapped the lighter shut, exhaled. "Harriman, don't ever say I don't give credit where credit is due. This was your story from beginning to end. You did it. Sure, I helped with some ideas here and there, gave you the benefit of my experience, nudged you in the right direction once or twice-but this was your story."

Ritts paused, as if waiting. For what? Effusive, genuflecting thanks? Harriman leaned back and listened, still smiling.

"Anyway, as I was saying, you did this. You've been noticed, and I mean noticed , by the powers on high."

Who was that? Harriman wondered. The big cheese himself? That would be a joke. The guy probably couldn't even get into his father's club.

Now Ritts dropped his bomb. "Next week, I want you to be my guest at the annual News Corporation dinner at Tavern on the Green. This wasn't just my idea-although I heartily approved. It was"-and now his eyes flashed upward as if a heavenly host had issued the invitation-"his idea. He wants to meet you, shake your hand."

Meet me, shake my hand. This was beautiful. God, this was beautiful. He couldn't wait to tell his friends about this.

"It's black tie-you got one of those? If not, I rent mine at a place opposite Bloomingdale's. Discount Tux, best deal in the city."

Harriman could hardly believe his ears. What a bozo. Not even ashamed to admit he rented his tuxes. "I have one or two, thanks," he said coolly.

Ritts looked at him a little strangely. "You all right? You do know about the annual dinner, right? I mean, I've been in this business thirty years and let me tell you, this is something special . It's Thursday evening, drinks at six in the Crystal Room, dinner at seven. You and a guest. Bring your squeeze, if you have one."

Harriman sat forward. "I'm afraid that won't be possible."

"Come alone, then. No problem."

"You don't understand. I can't come at all. I'm otherwise engaged."

"What?"

"I’m busy ."

There was a shocked silence. And then Ritts was off his perch. "You’re busy ? Aren't you listening? I'm talking about dinner with the man himself ! I'm talking about the News Corp. annual fucking dinner !"

Harriman rose and dusted his sleeve, on which Ritts's ashes had fallen as he'd waved his cigarette around in excitement.

"I've accepted an appointment as a reporter at a newspaper called the New York Times. Perhaps you know of it." Harriman slipped an envelope out of his pocket. "My letter of resignation." He laid it on the desk, right on the shiny place where Ritts usually perched his ass.

There it was. Said and done. He'd drawn it out about as long as he could. There was no point in wasting any more time: he had a new office to fix up, a lot to do. After all, Bill Smithback would be returning from his extended honeymoon on Monday to find the surprise of his life: Bryce Harriman, associate reporter, fellow colleague, occupying the office next door.

Now, that would be something.

God, life was good.

He turned and walked to the door, turning just once to get a final look at Ritts, standing there, mouth open, for once with nothing to say.

"See you around, old chap," Harriman said.

{ 88 }

The big jet hit the tarmac with a jolt; tipped back into the air at an angle; then settled once more onto the ground, thrust reversers screaming.

As the plane decelerated, a lazy voice came over the P.A. system. "This is your captain speaking. We've landed at Kennedy Airport, and as soon as we get clearance, we'll taxi to the gate. Meanwhile, y'all please keep your seats. Sorry about that bit of turbulence back there. Welcome to New York City."