Douglas Preston - Brimstone

"You are policemen."

"Yes."

"What is it that you want? My time is limited." The voice was sharp and intimidating.

"In the fall of 1974, I believe, several American students stayed here. Here is a picture of them." Pendergast took out Beckmann's photo.

She did not look at it. "Do you have the names?"

"Yes."

"Then come with me." And she turned and walked around the transom, through a back door, and into a much larger room. D'Agosta saw it was an old library of sorts, with bound books, manuscripts, and vellum documents filling shelves from floor to ceiling. It smelled of parchment and dry rot, old leather and wax. The ceiling was coffered and had once been elaborately gilded. Now it was crumbling with age, the wood riddled with holes.

"The archives of the family," she said. "They go back eight centuries."

"You keep good records."

"I keep excellent records, thank you." She made a beeline to a low shelf at the far end of the room, selected a massive register, carried it to a center table. She opened the register, revealing page after page of accounts, payments, names, and dates, written in a fanatical, tiny hand.

"Names?"

"Bullard, Cutforth, Beckmann, and Grove."

She began flipping pages, scanning each with tremendous rapidity, each flip sending up a faint cloud of dust. Suddenly, she stopped.

"There. Grove." A bony finger, burdened with a huge diamond ring, pointed to the name. Then it slid down the rest of the page.

"Beckmann . Cutforth . Bullard. Yes, they were all here in October."

Pendergast peered at the register, but even he was clearly having trouble deciphering the minuscule hand.

"Did their visits overlap?"

"Yes." A pause. "According to this, one night only, that of October 31."

She closed the book with a snap. "Anything else, signore ?"

"Yes, signora . Will you do me the courtesy of looking at this photograph?"

"Surely you don't expect me to remember some slovenly American students from thirty years ago? I am ninety-two, sir. I have earned the privilege of forgetting."

"I beg your indulgence."

Sighing with impatience, she took the photograph, looked at it-and visibly started. She stared a long time, what little color there was in her face slowly disappearing. Then she handed the photograph back to Pendergast.

"As it happens," she said in a low tone, "I do remember. That one." She pointed to Beckmann. "Let me see. Something terrible happened. He and some other boys, probably those others in the photograph, went off somewhere together. They were gone all night. He came back and was terribly upset. I had to get a priest for him . ..."

She paused, her voice trailing off. Gone was the crisp confidence, the unshakable sense of self.

"It was the night before All Saints' Day. He came back from a night of carousing, and he was in a bad state. I took him to church."

"What church?"

"The one right here, Santo Spirito. I remember him panicked and begging to go to confession. It was long ago, yet it was such a strange occurrence it stuck in my mind. That, and the expression on the poor boy's face. He was begging for a priest as if his life depended on it."

"And?"

"He went to confession and right afterwards he packed up his belongings and left."

"And the other American students?"

"I don't recall. Every year they celebrate All Saints' Day, or rather the day before, which I believe you call Halloween. It's an excuse to drink."

"Do you know where they went that evening, or who they might have encountered?"

"I know nothing more than what I have told you."

The ring of a bell came from the front office. "I have guests to attend to," she said.

"One last question, signora, if you please," Pendergast said. "The priest who heard the confession-is he still alive?"

"That would have been Father Zenobi. Yes, Father Zenobi. He is now living with the monks of La Verna."

She turned, then paused and slowly glanced back. "But if you think you can persuade him to break the sacred seal of the confessional, sir, you are sadly mistaken."

{ 65 }

D'Agosta assumed that, upon leaving the palazzo, they would return directly to their hotel. But instead, Pendergast lingered in the piazza: strolling, hands in his pockets, eyes glancing first left, then right. After a few minutes, he turned to D'Agosta.

"Gelato? Some of the best in Florence, if I am not mistaken, can be found right here at Café Ricchi."

"I've given up on ice cream."

"I haven't. Indulge me."

They entered the café and approached the bar. Pendergast ordered his cone-tiramisu and crème anglaise -while D'Agosta asked for an espresso.

"I didn't know you had a sweet tooth," D'Agosta said as they leaned against the bar.

"I have something of a weakness for gelato. But our main reason for stopping here is to learn his intentions."

"His intentions? Whose intentions?"

"The man who's following us."

D'Agosta straightened up. "What?"

"No-don't look. He's nondescript, mid-thirties, wearing a blue shirt and dark pants. Quite professional."

Pendergast's cone arrived and he took a dainty bite. Then, suddenly, a change came over his face.

"He's just entered the pensione ," he said. Abandoning his gelato, Pendergast dropped a few euros on the counter and strode out of the café, D'Agosta following.

"Are you afraid for the signora ?"

"The signora is perfectly safe. It's the priest for whom I fear."

"The priest-?" Suddenly, D'Agosta understood. "Then we can stop this guy when he leaves the pensione ."

"That would serve no purpose but to embroil us in endless legalities. Our best chance is the monastery itself. Come, Vincent: we haven't a moment to lose."

In twenty minutes, they were driving through the hills northeast of Florence, Pendergast at the wheel of their rented Fiat. Although D'Agosta had done more than his share of high-speed driving-and though Pendergast was clearly an expert-D'Agosta's heart was beating at an uncomfortable rate. The car was squealing around a series of hairpin curves, none of which had guardrails, at a terrifying clip. With each climbing turn, a rising sea of mountains swam into view before them: the great spine of the Apennines.

"I've been aware of surveillance for some time now," Pendergast said. "Since we found Bullard's body, and perhaps even before. At important moments-such as our trip to Cremona-I've managed to keep him at arm's length. I haven't yet confronted our shadower, hoping instead to learn who's behind him. I did not think he would take such a direct approach as he did just now in the piazza. It means we are getting close to the truth. It also means increased danger, for us and for those with crucial information-such as Father Zenobi."

The car squealed around another curve. D'Agosta braced himself against the lateral g-forces, sweat breaking out on his brow.

"I've seen you weasel information out of all kinds of people," he said when it was safe to draw breath again. "But if you can convince a priest to reveal a thirty-year-old confession, I'll swim all the way back to Southampton."

Another long, screeching turn, the car hanging practically over the edge of a chasm.

This time, D'Agosta almost had to pry his fingers from the dashboard. "Do you think we might slow down?"

"I don't think so." And Pendergast nodded over his shoulder.

The car made another semi controlled skid around a corner, and as D'Agosta fell against the passenger window he got a terrifying glimpse back down the mountainside. About three switchbacks below he could see a motorcycle, black and chrome, its angular chassis exposed and gleaming. It was approaching fast.

"There's a motorcycle on our tail!" he said.

Pendergast nodded. "A Ducati Monster, S4R model, if I'm not mistaken. A four-valve twin, well over a hundred horsepower, light but very powerful."