The car blasted back into the forest and the monastery disappeared from view. "Have we got a chance?" D'Agosta asked.
"It depends on how quickly our man finds Father Zenobi. The monastery is a big place. If only they had a phone!"
The car careened around another turn. D'Agosta could hear a bell ringing, the faint sound of chanting floating toward him over the noise of the engine.
"I think the monks are at prayer," he said. He glanced at his watch. It would be the service of Sext: sixth hour of the Opus Dei.
"Yes. Most unfortunate." Pendergast pushed the car around the final bend, wheels slipping on ancient, mossy cobbles instead of asphalt.
The cobbled road—clearly never built to be driven upon—led up behind the monastery. There, at the stone archway leading through the outer wall of the monastery into a massive cloister, D'Agosta saw the Ducati lying on its tubular frame, fat rear wheel still spinning lazily.
Pendergast slewed to a stop and was out, gun drawn, even before the car was completely at rest. D'Agosta followed hard on his heels. They ran past the bike, across a stone bridge, and into the cloisters. A large chapel stood to the right, its doors wide, the vigorous sounds of plainchant rising and falling on the cool breeze. As they ran, the chanting seemed to hesitate, then die away in a ragged confusion.
They rushed into the church just in time to see the figure in red leather—his arm extended, rigid—fire point-blank into an old monk, who was kneeling, his hands raised in surprise or prayer. The report of the gun was shockingly loud in the confined space, reverberating even as the notes of the plainsong died away. D'Agosta shouted out in dismay, rage, and horror as the priest fell and the shooter raised his gun, execution style, taking careful aim for a second shot.
{ 66 }
In the predawn light, Hayward stood with Captain Grable on a rocky point just north of the Central Park Arsenal. From here, they commanded a good view of the tent city, still slumbering in the quiet morning air. They'd been briefed on the location of Wayne Buck's tent, and she could make it out clearly: a large green canvas job in the heart of the encampment.
Hayward's misgivings increased. This was no clean shot, in and out. The makeshift city had grown much larger than she realized: there had to be three hundred tents, maybe more, scattered through the foliage. And the landscape wouldn't help: deep green swales and leafy hollows, surrounded by grassy hummocks, their sides frequently exposing long swaths of dark gray rock. Through the thicket of tree branches, she could just make out—parked along Fifth—the cop car that would take Buck away. It was idling on the park side of the avenue, right opposite the entrance to Cutforth's building.
Fact was, this was just about the last place she wanted to be at the moment. By rights she should be pursuing the Cutforth murder. She shouldn't be out here—not anymore, not when there was an open homicide to be worked. It felt too much like the bad old days when she was a rouster for the transit police.
She glanced at Grable. She had talked to D'Agosta the night before, briefly, and now she wished he was here. There was a guy you could count on. As for Grable—
Grable adjusted his tie, squared his shoulders. "Let's circle around and come in from the west." He was sweating, his shirt plastered to his chest despite the cool morning.
Hayward nodded. "As I see it, the key here is speed . We don't want to be caught in there."
Grable swallowed, hiked up his belt. "Captain, unlike some in the force, I didn't waste my time in the classroom piling up degrees. I came up through the rank and file. I know what I'm doing."
There was a long moment while Grable looked down on the slumbering tent city. Hayward glanced at her watch. The light was coming up moment by moment, and the sun would rise within minutes. Why the hell was Grable waiting?
"We're running a little late, if you don't mind me saying so," she said.
"I don't operate on a timetable, Captain."
Hayward tried to suppress her misgivings. This was Grable's operation—Rocker had made that clear—and she was to follow his lead. Going in with a bad attitude wasn't going to do any good. And the plan might work. Hell, it would work if they could just get in and out fast enough, drag Buck to the waiting squad car before he'd even managed to wake up. It could work, she told herself, as long as Grable moves fast. If you're going to arrest someone, you do it. You don't give them time to think about it first. She glanced at Grable again, wondering why he was taking so long.
"Right," said Grable, noticing the glance. "Let's go."
They cut west through the low trees and brushy undergrowth, circling the flank of the tent city, sticking close to one side of a shallow defile. Soon they reached what looked like a herd path leading directly into the makeshift community. They were downwind now, and the odor of raw sewage and unwashed humanity hit Hayward hard.
Grable quickened his pace as they approached the fringes. A few people were already up, some cooking on little backpacking stoves, others wandering around.
Grable hesitated just inside the ragged outer ring of tents. Then he nodded brusquely to Hayward and they started forward again. Hayward nodded in a friendly way to those who were up and watching them pass. The ground flattened and the tents huddled closer together, forming narrow lanes and alleys. In a few minutes they had arrived at the center clearing around Buck's tent.
So far, so good, thought Hayward.
The front flap was tied on two side posts. Grable stopped before the entrance and called in a loud voice: "Buck? This is Captain Grable of the NYPD."
"Hey!" A tall, clean-cut fellow appeared out of nowhere. "What are you doing?"
"None of your business," said Grable brusquely.
Shit, thought Hayward. Not like that.
"There's no problem," she said. "We're just here to talk to the reverend."
"Yeah? What about?"
"Back off, pal," said Grable.
"What is it?" came a muffled voice from inside the tent. "Who's there?"
"Captain Grable, NYPD." Grable began untying the knotted drawstring that held the flap shut against one of the side poles. He had it almost undone when a hand reached from inside, closed over his, and removed it. The flap lifted and then Buck stood there, straight and stern. "This is my home," he said coldly and with dignity. "Do not violate it."
Cuff him, Hayward thought. Cuff the son of a bitch and get the hell out.
"We're New York City police officers, and this is public land. This isn't some private dwelling."
"Sir, I ask you once again to stand back from my home."
Hayward was astonished by the man's presence. She turned to see how Grable was going to handle it. She was shocked to see his face paling beneath the sheen of sweat.
"Wayne Buck, you are under arrest." Grable tried to unclip his handcuffs, but his hands were shaking slightly and it took longer than it should have.
Hayward couldn't believe it. Grable was out of his depth. That was the only answer. He'd ridden a desk so long he'd lost his street smarts—if he ever had them—and he'd forgotten how to deal with a fluid situation like this. That explained his hesitation back at the arsenal, his sweating, everything. He'd wanted the commissioner to send in a large party to deal with Buck, but when Rocker had given the job directly to him, he couldn't refuse. Now, with no SWAT team to back him up, confronted by the implacable Buck, he was losing his nerve.
Buck stared, making no move to cooperate, but not doing anything to resist, either.
The clean-cut man, who seemed to be Buck's bodyguard or aide-de-camp, turned, cupped his hands, and cried out in a tremendous voice," Arise! Arise! The cops are here to arrest the reverend!"
There was a stirring, a sudden murmur of voices.
"Turn around and place your hands behind your back, sir," said Grable, but his voice was trembling.
Still Buck made no move.
"Arise!"
"Captain," said Hayward, her voice low, "he's resisting arrest. Cuff him."
But Grable made no move.
In an instant, Hayward sized up the situation and realized their window of opportunity had already closed. Looking around, she recalled the time when—as a kid on a dare—she'd poked a stick into a hornet's nest. There was a moment, just a moment, of suspension… then a muffled hum just before the hornets came boiling out, madder than hell. That's what the tent city felt like. People were up but not yet out of their tents, a dull hum of activity that was about to explode.
"Defend the reverend! The police are here to arrest him! Arise!"
Now came the boiling. Suddenly, hundreds of people were up and out of their tents, pulling on shirts, moving toward them.
Hayward leaned in toward Grable. "Captain? We got trouble. Just be cool."
Grable's mouth sagged but no sound came out.
The crowd was pressing in, a wall of people quickly forming at the front, others streaming in from every direction, ringing the tent, a babble of angry voices.
Shit. She turned to face the crowd. "Look, friends, we're not here to cause trouble."
"Liar!"
The cry went up. "Blasphemers!"
They pressed in. Buck said nothing, did nothing; he just stood there, the picture of dignity.
"Look," said Hayward, holding out her hands, keeping her voice calm, "there's just the two of us. Nothing to get excited about."
"Godless soldiers of Rome!"
"Keep your filthy hands off the reverend!"
This was even uglier than she thought. Grable was backing up instinctively, eyes roaming for an escape route that did not exist.
The crowd surged forward, growing angrier.
"Touch either one of us and it's assault," Hayward said, loudly but calmly.
This paused the front of the crowd; but with others behind pressing forward, it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.
Grable dropped the handcuffs and went for his gun.
"Grable, no!" Hayward yelled.
Immediately, a roar went up. "He’s going to shoot! Murderer! Judas!" The front wall surged forward.
Whang! went the gun into the air, the reaction to the sudden sound rippling through the crowd. And in that instant, Buck, standing only a few feet behind Grable, knocked the gun from his hand with one swift, sure motion.
Thank God, thought Hayward, keeping her hands in sight and well away from her own piece. Something had to be done right away, or they were toast. She turned and spoke to Buck. "You better do something, Reverend. It's all in your hands."
Buck stepped forward, raising his hands. There was silence from the crowd, an instant stillness.
He let a moment pass, and then slowly lowered his arm and aimed a steady finger at Grable. "This man came here under the cloak of the Prince of Darkness to arrest me. But God has exposed his deceit."
Grable appeared speechless.
"These centurions, these soldiers of Rome, entered our encampment like skulking snakes, on the devil's own errand. And they have been defeated by their own shame and cowardice."
"Shame, cowards!"
Hayward took advantage of a lull to speak quietly to Buck. "We'd like to go now."
Another roar erupted from the crowd. "Shame!"
A stick flew out of the crowd, landing in the dust by their feet. She could see others being brandished above the crowd. People on the fringes had begun to hunt among the shrubbery for rocks.
Hayward leaned forward, speaking again in a low voice she hoped only Buck could hear. "Reverend Buck? What's going to happen to you and your followers if we get injured? Or taken hostage? How do you think the NYPD will react to that?" She smiled coldly. "It'll make Waco look like a Sunday barbecue."
There was a moment of silence. Then, not even acknowledging he'd heard, Buck raised his hands again and bowed his head. Once more a silence immediately fell.
"My people," he said. "My people. We are Christians. They may come with malice, but we must show them compassion and forgiveness." He turned to his aide-de-camp. "Open a way for the unclean ones, Todd. Let them go in peace."
Slowly, the sticks were lowered. A lane appeared amidst the shuffling throng. Hayward bent forward, face burning; picked up Grable's gun, tucked it into her belt. She turned away only to realize Grable wasn't following. He was still rooted in place.
"You coming, Captain?"
He started, looked around, then walked past without looking at her. After a moment, he broke into a trot. A great cheer rose up from the crowd. Hayward followed at a dignified walk, eyes straight ahead, struggling not to betray in any way—through expression, posture, voice—that she was enduring the worst humiliation of her entire career.
{ 67 }
A gunshot, terribly loud, sounded in D'Agosta's ear. It was Pendergast, firing over the heads of the crowd.
The assassin turned and saw them approaching. He glanced back down at the crumpled figure at his feet, looked quickly around him, then turned and fled. Monks in brown robes were clustered around their fallen brother, some praying, others crying out and gesticulating.
A number of monks were pointing to the back of the church. "Da questa parte! È scappato di là!"
Pendergast shot them a glance. "Vincent, after him!" He had his cell phone out and was already calling for a medevac helicopter.
A monk leaped up and grasped D'Agosta's arm. "I help you," he said in broken English. "Follow me."
They ran together through a door to the right of the altar; down a dark passageway and into an inner cloister; then across its courtyard and through a second stone passageway that abruptly terminated in the cliff face itself. Here they stopped. A lateral passage crossed their path, arches and pillars carved out of the living stone.
"He went this way." The monk turned and raced down the ancient, frescoed corridor. There was an iron door at its end, hanging ajar, and the monk threw it wide. Sunlight flooded the dark passage. D'Agosta followed the monk through the doorway and into open air. A dizzying stone staircase fell away below them, carved directly into the cliff face, no protection from a breathtaking drop save for a rotten iron railing.
D'Agosta leaned away from the cliff face, glanced over the railing. For a moment, vertigo overwhelmed him. Then he glimpsed the red-suited figure below, scrambling down the stone pathway.
"Eccolo!" The monk resumed the chase, robes flapping behind him. D'Agosta followed as quickly as he dared: the stairs were so polished by time, so damp with humidity, they felt as slippery as ice. The staircase was old and disused, so eroded in places they had to step over yawning blue space.
"You know where he's headed?" D'Agosta asked between gasps.
"To the forest below."
The stairway leveled off briefly, and they moved slowly over another gap. The iron railing had rotted away at this spot, and rough handholds were their only protection. A stiff, cold wind buffeted them.
A shot rang out from below. The monk slipped, clutched at a handhold, scrambled to regain his balance. D'Agosta pressed himself against the rock face. He was completely exposed, unable to help, unable even to move forward. With both hands clutching the rock he could not even unholster his gun.
Another shot rang out. D'Agosta felt a spray of rock slash his face. Glancing down, he could make out the killer a hundred yards farther down the stairway, pointing his handgun directly at them.
There was no help for it: he couldn't just stand here, waiting to get shot. D'Agosta let go with one hand, desperately bracing himself against the cliff edge with his feet and his knees, and drew out his gun. Aiming as best he could, he fired once, twice.
Two close shots, missing by inches. The man gave a cry and ducked out of sight below. Meanwhile, the monk had recovered and moved on to a safer spot. D'Agosta felt himself slipping; he was going to have to drop his gun.
"A me!" said the monk.
D'Agosta tossed him the Glock, which the monk deftly caught. Then he pulled himself back into position and leaped over the gap. Just as he got to the far side, another shot rang out.
"Dow
n!"
They crouched on the stone walkway, in the feeble cover of a small projecting rock. Another shot, another spray of rock.
Christ, thought D'Agosta, we're pinned. Unable to move forward, unable to go back. He would have to return fire again.
The monk handed him his gun.
D'Agosta slid out the magazine, checked it. Eight rounds left. He slapped it back in place.
"When I shoot, you go. Capisci?"
The monk nodded.
In one motion, D'Agosta rose, aimed, squeezed off a string of suppressing fire, just clipping the top of the rock behind which the shooter was crouching, keeping him down, unable to fire. The monk scrambled across the open section of trail, finding good cover at the far end where the pathway once again began to descend a crude staircase.
Magazine spent, D'Agosta ducked back behind the rocky projection. He slapped in his spare magazine, then ran across the open area until he reached the monk and the safety of the staircase, pausing to peer over a rocky wall. The shooter was nowhere to be seen.
Quickly, he rose and resumed the pursuit, the monk at his heels. Down and down they descended until, quite suddenly, they reached the bottom. There was a small vineyard here at the base of the cliff. Beyond rose a dense wall of forest.
"Which way?" D'Agosta asked.
The monk shrugged. "He is gone."
"No. We'll follow him into the forest."
D'Agosta took off again, half crouching, down the row of vines toward the trees. Within moments, they were inside the forest, the cathedral-like trunks surrounding them, silent and smelling of resin and cold, stretching ahead into darkness. D'Agosta scanned the ground, but there was no indication of footsteps in the thick bed of pine needles.
"Do you have any idea which way he went?" he asked.
"Not possible to know. Need dogs."
"Does the monastery have dogs?"
Brimstone Page 38
