Douglas Preston - Brimstone

The man looked at the badge, looked back at Pendergast. His face was creased with suspicion. "And him?"

D'Agosta passed his own badge to the man.

"What's it about?"

"Police business."

"I gotta call."

The man took the shields back into his cubicle, got on the horn, spoke for a few minutes, came back with the badges and a cordless phone.

"He wants to talk to somebody named D'Agosta."

"That's me."

The man handed him the phone.

"D'Agosta here."

Bullard's deep voice filled the wire. "I figured you'd be back."

At the sound of the voice, D'Agosta immediately felt himself bristle. This was the man who had tried to humiliate him at the Athletic Club; who, just perhaps, had very nearly gotten him shot. Nevertheless, he tried hard to check his temper. "We can either do this nicely," he said as evenly as possible, "or it can get unpleasant. Up to you, Bullard."

A burst of laughter sounded at the other end. "You tried that same stale line on me back at the club. Let me tell you something. Since we had that pleasant little chat, I've had my people check into you. And now I know all about you. I got every sordid detail of your existence. For example, I know all about that wife of yours in Canada, the one who's been playing hide the salami behind your back these past six months. The guy's name is Chester Dominic, and he sells Winnebagos out of Edgewater-and hey, maybe she's doing him right now. Think about that , huh?"

D'Agosta's hand tightened around the phone.

"I also got the sales figures on your novels. Last one sold 6,215 copies. Hardcover and paperback. And that's counting all the copies your mother bought. Watch your back, Stephen King!" More harsh laughter. "Then I got your personnel files from your stint with the NYPD, including your disciplinary records. Interesting reading. And I got your medical and psychiatric records, too, even the ones from Canada. Too bad about those hard-on problems. Maybe that's why your wife's spreading her charms for old Chet. And depression, gee, that's tough. Did you take your Zoloft this morning? Amazing what you can find out when you own an HMO, isn't it? Reading all this over, a couple of phrases come to mind. Phrases like broken-down. Washed-up. Loser."

A thin curtain of red seemed to drop before D'Agosta's eyes. "You've just made the mistake of your life, Bullard."

More laughter and the line went dead.

D'Agosta handed the phone back to the attendant. His face was on fire. The son of a bitch. The son of a bitch . It was illegal-wasn't it? Digging up that kind of personal information. Bullard had been speaking loudly, and D'Agosta wondered if his voice had carried as far as Pendergast. He swallowed, fought hard to master his rising rage.

"You're blocking the gate," said the man in the booth. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Sir."

"We'll drive around the block," Pendergast told the attendant, "and give Mr. Bullard time to change his mind."

"He's not going to change his mind."

Pendergast gave the attendant a long, sympathetic look. "You'll know when to step aside, I hope? For your own sake, of course."

"What do you mean?"

Without waiting for an answer, Pendergast put the Rolls in reverse and hit the gas, leaving a satisfying patch of rubber. He turned around in the parking lot, then nosed out onto State Street. He glanced over at D'Agosta. "Are you all right, Vincent?"

"I'm fine," D'Agosta said through gritted teeth.

Pendergast turned right and began circling the block. "Mr. Bullard, it seems, needs a firmer hand."

"Yeah."

Pendergast reached down with one hand and punched in a number on the in-dash cell phone.

A ring sounded over the speaker, then the phone was answered by a familiar voice. "Captain Hayward."

"Captain? It's Pendergast. We're going to need that subpoena and warrant I called you about this morning."

"On what grounds?"

"Refusal to cooperate. Imminent flight risk."

"Come on. Bullard's not some Colombian drug dealer or Middle Eastern terrorist. He's a leading American industrialist."

"Yes, with overseas accounts and overseas factories, who happens to be on his yacht, fueled to its maximum capacity and fully stocked for a transatlantic voyage. He can reach Canada, Mexico, South America, or Europe on one tank-take your pick."

There was a sigh. "He's an American. He's got a passport. He's free to leave."

"He's an uncooperative witness. He won't answer questions."

"A lot of people won't answer questions."

"Both Grove and Cutforth called him just before they were murdered. There's a connection, and we need to find it."

Another irritated sigh. "This is just the kind of irregular operation that looks bad in court."

"He threatened Sergeant D'Agosta."

"He did?" Her voice sounded a little sharper.

"An implied blackmail threat over personal information he collected through Northern Health Atlantic Management, the HMO he owns."

So he did hear, D'Agosta thought.

"That right?" There was a pause. "All right, then, go ahead. The papers are all ready and just need to be signed."

"Excellent." Pendergast gave a fax number.

"Agent Pendergast?"

"Yes?"

"Don't make a hash of this. I care about my career."

"I care about it, too."

The fax peeled out of the tiny impact printer just as they rounded Pearl Street and headed back toward the yacht harbor. Driving slowly through the outer lot, Pendergast tore it from the printer and handed it to the VIP attendant.

"You again?" the man said as he took the fax.

Pendergast smiled, put his fingers to his lips. "Not a word to Bullard."

The man read the fax, handed it back. There was something in his face that, perhaps, didn't look entirely displeased at the turn of events.

"Time to step aside," said Pendergast quietly.

"Yes, sir."

They parked in the VIP lot, and Pendergast opened the trunk. He gestured to D'Agosta. "For you."

D'Agosta peered in. A federal-issue battering ram lay inside, black and ugly and about three feet long, the kind DEA agents used in drug busts.

"You got to be kidding."

"Firmness, my dear Vincent," said Pendergast, smiling faintly.

D'Agosta grabbed the ram by its two handles and hefted it out. They headed down the walkway to the central dock. Ahead and to one side, tethered in its own private slip, the yacht loomed bigger than life: white with three enclosed decks, dozens of smoked windows, and a conning tower bristling with electronics. The name Stormcloud was stenciled on the stern.

"What about crew?" D'Agosta asked.

"My information is that Bullard's alone."

The private slip had its own dock behind a locked gate. Pendergast knelt before it, raising his hands to the lock. It looked to D'Agosta as if the FBI agent was just testing the lock to see if it might be ajar. Perhaps it was, because the gate swung open obediently in his hands.

"We need to be brisk ," said Pendergast as he rose.

D'Agosta humped himself forward, lugging the ram. Despite renewed sessions in the gym since the gunfight in the park, he was still out of shape, the ram weighed at least forty pounds, and his bruised limbs protested with each thudding step. The gangplank of the Stormcloud was up, but in the rear, a locked boarding hatch lay just at dock level. Pendergast stopped, plucked his custom Les Baer .45 from his jacket, and stepped back, gesturing toward the hatch.

"After you, Vincent," he said.

D'Agosta reached deep down in his memory. What had they taught him at the Academy? Don’t run at the door, swing it into the door. He took a deep breath, gripped the handles as tightly as he could, and heaved the ram forward. The door flew inward with a satisfying smack. Pendergast ducked inside, gun ready, and D'Agosta clambered in behind.