Douglas Preston: Brimstone

D'Agosta nodded.

Pendergast checked his watch. "Almost two. Come on, Vincent, we've got a long drive ahead of us. Priests dine early, but we might just catch Father Cappi if we hurry."

{ 6 }

D'Agosta felt like he'd been swallowed by Ahab's white whale, cushioned as he was in the white leather interior of a '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith. Chauffeured, no less. Pendergast had certainly come up in the world since the bad old days of the museum murders, when he drove a late-model Buick from the Bureau pool. Maybe a relative died and left him a few billion. He glanced over. Or maybe the time for dissembling had simply passed.

The car was cruising up Route 9, along a beautiful stretch of the middle Hudson Valley north of Poughkeepsie. After months spent among low sand dunes and beach scrub, D'Agosta found the lush greenery and rolling hills a relief to the eyes. Here and there, old mansions could be seen: set far back from the road, overlooking the river or tucked in among copses of trees. Some had signs identifying them as monasteries or retreats; others still seemed to be in private ownership. Despite the warmth of the day, there were already strong traces of fall coloring in the trees that marched up the gentle slopes.

The car slowed, then slid into a long cobbled driveway, coming at last to a noiseless stop beneath a red-brick porte-cochère. As he stepped out of the car, D'Agosta found himself before a rambling, Flemish-style mansion. A narrow bell tower at the flank of the building appeared to be a later addition. Beyond, well-tended greensward swept down toward the Hudson. A plaque screwed into the facade announced that the structure was built in 1874 and was now designated a historic site on the National Register of Historic Places.

Their knock was answered by a cowled monk in brown robes, a silken rope tied around his waist. Without a word, he ushered them into an elegant interior smelling of time and wax polish. Pendergast bowed and presented the monk with a card; in turn, the monk nodded and beckoned. They followed him through several turnings and twistings of corridors to a spartan room, whitewashed and bare save for a single crucifix and two rows of hard wooden chairs along opposite walls. A single window near the exposed rafters let in a bar of light.

The monk bowed and withdrew. Moments later, another figure appeared in the door. He, too, was dressed in a monk's habit, but when he drew back the collar, D'Agosta was surprised to find a man well over six feet, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with black eyes that sparkled with vigor. In the background, he could hear the faint peal of bells as the changes began to ring in the tower. Somehow it gave him the shivers.

"I'm Father Bernard Cappi," the man said. "Welcome to the Hyde Park Carthaginian Monastery. Here we're under a vow of silence, but we meet in this particular room once a week to talk. We call it the Disputation Chamber, because this is where we piss and moan. You build up a lot of resentments in a week of silence." He swept his robes back, taking a seat.

"This is my associate, Sergeant D'Agosta," Pendergast said, following the monk's lead. "He may want to ask questions as well."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." The priest crushed his hand in greeting. This is no gentle lamb of God, thought D'Agosta. He eased down in the chair, shifting, trying hard to get comfortable. He failed. The room, despite the sunny day outside, felt cold and damp. God, he would never make a good monk.

"I sincerely apologize for this intrusion," said Pendergast.

"Quite all right. I just hope I can be of help. This is a tragic business."

"We'll take as little of your time as possible. Perhaps we should begin with the telephone call."

"As I told the police, the call came to my home at 3:10 in the morning-the answering machine registered the time-but every year I take a two-week retreat here, and so I wasn't home to receive it. I check my messages upon rising-it's a violation of the rules, but I've got an elderly mother. I immediately headed out to Long Island, but, of course, it was too late."

"Why did he call you?"

"That's a complicated question requiring a long answer."

Pendergast nodded at him to proceed.

"Jeremy Grove and I go way back. We met at Columbia as students many years ago. I went on to the priesthood, and he went to Florence to study art. In those days, we were both-well, I wouldn't call us religious in the usual sense of the word. We were both spiritually intrigued . We used to argue to all hours of the morning about questions of faith, epistemology, the nature of good and evil, and so forth. I went on to study theology at Mount St. Mary's. We continued our friendship, and a few years later I officiated over Grove's marriage."

"I see," murmured Pendergast.

"Grove stayed in Florence and I visited him several times. He was living in a beautiful villa in the hills south of the city."

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

"An interesting story, Sergeant. He bought a painting at an auction at Sotheby's that was billed as being by a late follower of Raphael. Grove was able to prove it as the hand of the master himself, turned around and sold it for thirty million dollars to the Met."

"Nice."

"Indeed. Anyway, while living in Florence, Grove had become quite devout. In an intellectual kind of way, as some people do. He loved to engage me in discussion. There is, Mr. Pendergast, such a thing as a Catholic intellectual, and that was Grove."

Pendergast nodded.

"He was very happily married. He adored his wife. And then, quite abruptly, she left him, ran off with another man. To say that Grove was devastated is not saying enough. He was destroyed. And he focused his anger on God."

"I see," Pendergast replied.

"Grove felt betrayed by God. He became . well, you certainly couldn't call him an atheist or an agnostic. Rather, he picked a fight with God. He deliberately embarked on a life of sin and violence against God, which in reality was a life of violence against his own higher self. He became an art critic. Criticism is a profession which allows one a certain license to be vicious outside the bounds of normal civilized behavior. One would never tell another person in private that his painting was a revolting piece of trash, but the critic thinks nothing of making the same pronouncement to the world as if he were performing a high moral duty. There is no profession more ignoble than that of the critic-except perhaps that of the physician presiding at an execution."

"You're right there," said D'Agosta with feeling. "Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, critique."

Father Cappi laughed. "Very true, Sergeant D'Agosta."

"Sergeant D'Agosta is a writer of mysteries," explained Pendergast.

"Is that so! I love detective stories. Give me a title."

"Angels of Purgatory is his latest."

"I'll buy it immediately."

D'Agosta mumbled his thanks. For the second time that day, he found himself feeling embarrassed. He would have to talk to Pendergast about sounding off about his abortive writing career.

"Suffice to say," the priest continued, "Grove made a splendid critic. He surrounded himself with the most degraded, selfish, and cruel people he could find. Everything he did was excessive-drinking, eating, sex, money, gossip. He gave dinner parties like a Roman emperor, and he was often on television, savaging this person or that-in the most charming way, of course. His articles in the New York Review of Books were avidly read. Naturally he was a huge hit in New York City society."

"And your relationship to him?"

"He couldn't forgive me for what I represented. Our relationship simply couldn't continue."

"When was this?" D'Agosta asked.

"Grove's wife ran off in 1974, and we had our falling-out shortly thereafter. I haven't heard from him since. Not until this morning, that is."