Douglas Preston: Brimstone

"Her knowledge of this house is remarkable, and I've found uses for it already."

Wren glanced at him inquiringly.

"I'm planning to ask her to examine the library's holdings on Satan."

"Satan? That's a broad topic, hypocrite lecteur ."

"As it happens, I'm interested in just one aspect. The death of human beings at the hand of the devil."

"You mean, as in selling one's soul? Payment for services rendered, that kind of thing?"

Pendergast nodded.

"It’s still a broad topic."

"I'm not interested in literature, Wren. I'm interested solely in nonfiction sources. Primary sources. Preferably first-person and eyewitness accounts."

"You've been in this house too long."

"I find it's beneficial to keep her occupied. And, as you said yourself, she knows the library's holdings so well."

"I see." And Wren let his gaze stray toward a set of doors in the far wall.

Pendergast followed his gaze. "You wish to see her?"

"Are you surprised? I'm practically her godfather, after what happened here this summer. You forget my role."

"I forget nothing, and will always be in your debt for that, if nothing else." And without another word, Pendergast stepped forward and noiselessly opened the doors.

Wren peered through them. His yellow eyes grew bright. On the far side lay a large and sumptuously appointed library. Case after case of richly bound books rose to the ceiling, firelight warming their leather spines. A dozen small sofas and wing chairs were arranged across a thick Persian carpet. In one of the chairs, sitting before the fire, was a young woman, paging through an oversize book of lithographs. She was wearing a pinafore over a white dress and black stockings, and as she turned another page, the firelight shone on her slender limbs, her dark hair and eyes. On a low table nearby sat a tea service, laid out for two.

Pendergast cleared his throat gently and the girl looked up. Her eyes went from the FBI agent to Wren, and for a moment, fear flashed through them. But then recognition spread across her features. She put the book aside, stood up, smoothed her pinafore, and waited for the two men to approach.

"How are you, Constance?" Wren asked in as soothing a croak as he could manage.

"Very well, Mr. Wren, thank you." Constance gave a small curtsy. "And yourself?"

"Busy, very busy. My books take up all my time."

"I shouldn't think one would speak grudgingly of such a noble occupation." Constance's tone was grave, but the faintest of smiles touched her lips-in amusement? condescension?-and was gone again before Wren could be sure.

"No, no, of course not." Wren tried not to stare. How, in such a short time, could he have forgotten that studied voice with its quaint constructions? How could he forget those eyes, so very ancient, yet set in such a young and beautiful face? He cleared his throat. "So tell me, Constance, how you pass your days."

"Rather tranquilly. In the mornings, I read Latin and Greek, under the direction of Aloysius. My afternoons are my own, and I generally spend them browsing the collections, correcting the occasional inaccurate label I happen to come across."

Wren darted a quick look at Pendergast.

"We have a late tea, during which Aloysius generally reads to me from the newspapers. After dinner, I practice the violin. Wretchedly. Aloysius suffers me to believe he finds my playing bearable."

"Dr. Pendergast is the most honest of people."

"Let us say Dr. Pendergast is the most tactful of people."

"Be that as it may, I'd love to hear you play sometime."

"I would be delighted." And Constance curtsied again.

Wren nodded, turned to leave.

"Mr. Wren?" Constance called after him.

Wren turned, beetled eyebrows raised in query.

She looked back at him. "Thank you again. For everything."

Pendergast quietly shut the doors to the library and accompanied Wren back down the echoing galleries.

"You read her the newspapers ?" Wren asked.

"Just selected articles, of course. It seemed the easiest form of-how best to put it?-social decompression. We're now up to the 1960s."

"And her nocturnal, ah, rambles?"

"Now that she's under my care, there's no need for foraging. And I've decided on the site of her recuperation: my great-aunt's estate on the Hudson. It's deserted these days. It should be a good reintroduction to sunlight, if handled gently enough."

"Sunlight." Wren repeated the word slowly, as if tasting it. "It still seems impossible she was there all that time, after what happened, in those tunnels down by the river access. I keep wondering why she revealed herself to me."

"Perhaps she'd grown to trust you. She'd watched you at work long enough, over the summer. You clearly loved the collections, which are precious to her as well. Or perhaps she had just reached the point where human contact was necessary, no matter what the risk."

Wren shook his head. "Are you sure, really sure, she's only nineteen years old?"

"That question is more difficult than it sounds. Physically, her body is that of a nineteen-year-old."

They had reached the front door, and Wren waited for Pendergast to unlock it. "Thank you, Wren," the FBI agent said, opening the door. Night air rushed in, carrying with it the faint sounds of traffic.

Wren stepped through the door, paused, turned back. "Have you decided what you're going to do about her?"

For a moment, Pendergast did not reply. Then he nodded silently.

{ 8 }

The Renaissance Salon of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of the museum's most remarkable spaces. Taken piece by piece, stone by stone, from the ancient Palazzo Dati of Florence and reassembled in Manhattan, it re-created in perfect detail a late Renaissances alone. It was the most imposing and austere of all the grand galleries in the museum, and for this reason, it was chosen for the memorial service of Jeremy Grove.

D'Agosta felt like an idiot in his cop's uniform, with its Southampton P.D. patch in gold and blue and its lowly sergeant's stripes. People turned toward him quickly, stared as if he was some kind of freak, and then just as quickly dismissed him as hired help and turned away.

As he followed Pendergast into the hall, D'Agosta was surprised to see a long table groaning with food, and another sporting enough bottles of wine and liquor to lay low a herd of rhinos. Some memorial service. More like an Irish wake. D'Agosta had been to a few of those during his NYPD days and felt lucky to have survived them. They'd obviously set this whole thing up with remarkable speed-Grove had been dead only two days.

The room was crowded. There were no chairs: people were meant to mingle, not sit reverentially. Several television crews had set up their gear near a carpet-covered stage, which was bare save for a small podium. A harpsichord stood in a far corner of the salon, but it was barely audible over the noise of the crowd. If there was anybody shedding tears over Grove, they were hiding it pretty well.

Pendergast leaned over. "Vincent, if you are interested in any comestibles, now is the time to act. With a crowd like this, they won't last long."

"Comestibles? You mean that food on the table? No, thanks." His dalliance with the literary world had taught him that events like these served things like fish eggs and cheese that smelled so bad it encouraged you to check the bottom of your shoes.

"Then shall we circulate?" Pendergast began moving sylphlike through the crowd. Now a lone man mounted the stage: impeccably dressed, tall, hair carefully groomed back, face glistening with a professional makeup job. The crowd hushed even before he reached the microphone.

Pendergast took D'Agosta's elbow. "Sir Gervase de Vache, director of the museum."

The man plucked the microphone from the podium, his elegant figure straight and dignified.