Douglas Preston - Brimstone

Harriman had drawn out his pad and was scribbling to get this down, but the first priest laid a gentle hand over his. "Revelation, chapter 18."

"Right, thanks. What church are you from?"

"Our Lady of Long Island City."

"Thanks." Harriman got their names and backed away hastily, tucking his notebook into his pocket. Their calmness, their certitude, spooked him more than all the hysteria around him.

There was a stirring along one edge of the crowd. A small convoy of police cars was approaching, lights flashing. There was a sudden eruption of flashes and television lights. He pushed forward, brutally shoving his way through a group of soundmen: he was Harriman of the Post , he wasn't going to sit at the back of the class. But the crowd itself was now surging forward, desperate for news.

A woman had stepped out of an unmarked cruiser at the rear of the convoy, dressed in a suit but with a shield riding shotgun on what looked like an amazing set of knockers: a really good-looking young woman, with a bunch of men now falling into place behind her. Young, but clearly in charge. It looked to Harriman like she didn't want to talk to the crowd at all, but needed to take charge before things grew any uglier.

She positioned herself behind a barricade of uniformed cops and held up her hand against the clamor of the press.

"Five minutes for questions. Then this crowd is going to have to disband."

More incoherent yelling as a thicket of boom microphones was thrust forward.

She waited, surveying the crowd, while the shouting continued. Finally she checked her watch and spoke again. "Four minutes."

That shut up the rows of press. The rest-the party people, the witches and satanists, the weirdos with crystals or perfumes-realized something interesting was about to happen and quieted down a little as well.

"I'm Captain Laura Hayward of NYPD Homicide." She spoke in a clear but soft voice, which forced the crowd to quiet further, straining to listen. "The deceased is Nigel Cutforth, who died at approximately 11:15 last night. Cause of death is unknown at this point, but homicide is suspected."

Tell me something new, Harriman said to himself.

"I'll take a few questions now," she said. There was an eruption of shouting, and she pointed at one frantically waving journalist.

The questions tumbled out. "Have the police noted connections between this and the death of Jeremy Grove? Are there similarities? Differences?"

A wry smile appeared on her lips. "We have. Yes and yes. Next?"

"Any suspects?"

"Not at this point."

"Was there a burned hoofprint or any other sign of the devil?"

"No hoofprint."

"We heard there was a face scorched into the wall?"

The smile left the woman's face briefly. "It was an irregular blotch that suggested a face to some."

"What kind of face?"

The wry smile. "Those who've claimed to see the face have labeled it ugly."

This caused a renewed clamor.

"Is it the face of the devil? Horns? Did it have horns?" These questions were shouted simultaneously by a dozen people. The mikes boomed in closer, knocking against each other.

"Not having seen the devil," Hayward answered, "I can't say. There were no horns I'm aware of."

Harriman scribbled frantically in his notebook. A bunch of reporters were now asking if she thought it was the devil, but she was ignoring this. Oh my God, was that Geraldo shouting over there? He definitely should've been here last night.

"Was it the devil? What's your opinion?" was cried from several quarters at once.

She held up a hand. "I'd like to answer that question."

That really shut them up.

"We have enough flesh-and-blood devils in this town, thank you, that we don't need to conjure up any supernatural ones."

"So how did he die?" a reporter shouted. "What were the injuries caused by? Was he cooked, like the other one?"

"An autopsy is currently under way. We'll be able to tell you more when it's completed." She was talking calmly and rationally, but Harriman wasn't fooled. The NYPD didn't even begin to have a handle on the case-and he'd be saying as much in his story.

"Thank you," she was saying, "and good afternoon. Now, let's break it up, people."

More clamor. More police were arriving and working to control the crowd at last, pushing them back, setting up barricades, directing traffic.

Harriman turned away, already writing the lead in his head. This was one hell of a story. At last-at long, long last-he was going to get a run for his money.

{ 23 }

As the vintage Rolls-Royce approached the gates of the East Cove Yacht Harbor, D'Agosta shifted in the backseat, staring out the window, trying to forget just how stiff and sore he felt. What with Cutforth's murder and all the attendant crime-scene business, he couldn't have gotten more than two hours' sleep.

For this particular errand, Pendergast had left his chauffeur, Proctor, behind, preferring to drive the big car himself. It was a beautiful fall day, and the morning sun shimmered on the bay like silver coins tossed on the waves. The Staten Island ferry was lumbering out of its berth, churning the water behind, flags snapping, trailed by a screaming flock of seagulls. The blue hump of Staten Island rose on the horizon, grading imperceptibly into the low outline of New Jersey. The smell of salt air flowed in the open windows.

D'Agosta turned his gaze toward the marina. A wall kept the gaze of the vulgar from the ranks of gleaming yachts, but from the top of Coenties Slip you could still see them lined up in their berths, splendid and sparkling in the bright sun.

"You're never going to get in without a warrant," said D'Agosta. "I talked to Bullard. I know what the guy's like."

"We shall see," said Pendergast. "I always prefer to start with a gentle approach."

"And if the gentle approach doesn't work?"

"Firmer measures might be in order."

D'Agosta wondered what Pendergast's idea of "firmer" was.

Pendergast slowed the Rolls and, turning to a custom-built cherry wood bay beside the driver's seat, tapped on the keys of the laptop set within it. They were approaching the chain-link gate leading into the marina's general parking area, but the man in the guardhouse had seen the Rolls approaching and was already opening the gate. Pendergast stopped the car just inside the lot, where they had a good view of the Upper Bay. On the screen of the laptop, the image of a magnificent yacht had appeared.

It didn't take long to locate the real thing among the forest of masts and spars riding at anchor just beyond the lot.

D'Agosta whistled. "That's some boat."

"Indeed. A 2003 Feadship motor yacht with a de Voogt custom-designed hull. Fifty-two meters in length, with a displacement of seven hundred and forty metric tons. Twin Caterpillar 2,500-horsepower diesels, cruising speed thirty knots. It's got enormous range and it's extremely comfortable."

"How much?"

"Bullard paid forty-eight million for it."

"Jesus. What does he need a boat like that for?"

"Perhaps he doesn't care for flying. Or perhaps he likes to operate away from prying ears and eyes. A boat like that makes keeping to international waters easy indeed."

"Funny, in the last interview with Bullard, I had the impression that he was anxious not to be detained in the country. That maybe he was planning an international trip."

Pendergast looked at him sharply. "Indeed?" He eased the car toward the second layer of security: the gate into VIP parking, manned by a pugnacious little redheaded security guard with a jutting chin. D'Agosta immediately knew the type. He was the kind who made it a point not to be impressed by anyone or anything: not even a '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith.

"Yeah?"

Pendergast hung his shield out the window. "We're here to see Mr. Locke Bullard."