Brimstone p-5

by Douglas Preston

  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.

  "Down!"

  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?"

  "No."

  "We can call the police."

  The monk shrugged again. "Takes time. For dogs, two, three days maybe."

  D'Agosta looked back into the endless forest. "Shit."

  Back at the chapel, the scene remained one of confusion. Pendergast was bending over the prostrate form of the monk, applying heart massage and artificial respiration. Several of the monks were kneeling in a half-circle, apparently led by the head of the order; others were standing well back, murmuring in low, shocked tones. As D'Agosta walked across the chapel, utterly winded, he could hear the distant beat of a chopper.

  He knelt and took the old priest's frail hand. The man's eyes were closed, his face gray. In the background, the steady murmur of prayers continued, soothing in its measured cadence.

  "I think he's suffered a heart attack," Pendergast said, pressing down on the man's chest. "The trauma of the gunshot wound. Still, with the medevac arriving, he might be saved."

  Suddenly the monk coughed. A hand fluttered and his eyes opened, staring directly at Pendergast.

  "Padre," said Pendergast, his voice low and calm," mi dica la confessione più terribile che lei ha mai sentito."

  The eyes, so wise and so close to death, seemed to understand all. "Un ragazzo Americano che ha fatto un patto con il diavolo, ma l'ho salvato, l'ho sicuramente salvato." He sighed, smiled, then closed his eyes and took one long, final, shuddering breath.

  A moment later the paramedics burst in with a transport stretcher. There was an eruption of furious activity as they worked to stabilize the victim: one attached a cardiac monitor while another relayed the lack of vitals to the hospital and received orders in return. T
he stretcher was rushed back out the door, and within seconds the sound of the helicopter was receding again. And then it was over. The church seemed suddenly empty, the smell of incense drifting on the air, the steady sound of prayer adding a curious note of peace to a most shocking act of violence.

  "He got away," D'Agosta gasped.

  Pendergast laid a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Vincent."

  "What did you say to the priest just now?"

  Pendergast hesitated a moment. "I asked him to recall the most terrible confession he'd ever heard. He said it was from a boy-an American boy-who had made a pact with the devil."

  D'Agosta felt revulsion constrict his stomach. So it was true, after all. It was really true.

  "He added that he had certainly saved the boy's soul. In fact, he knew he'd saved his soul."

  D'Agosta had to sit down. He hung his head a moment, still breathing hard, and then looked up at Pendergast. "Yeah. But what about the other three?"

  { 68 }

  The Reverend Buck sat at the desk inside his tent, the beams of bright morning sun slanting through the door net and setting the canvas walls ablaze. Everybody in camp was still keyed up from the showdown with the police, still abuzz with energy. Buck could feel that same energy coursing through his being. The passion and belief of his followers had astonished, had heartened him. Clearly, the spirit of God was among them. With God, anything was possible.

  The problem was, the police would not rest. They would act decisively, and act soon. His moment was about to arrive: the moment he had come so far, worked so hard, to fulfill.

  But what moment? And how, exactly, would he fulfill it?

  The question had been growing within him, gnawing at him, for days now. At first, it had been just a faint voice, a sense of disquiet. But now it never left him, despite his praying and fasting and penitence. God's path was unclear, His wishes mysterious.

  Yet again he bowed his head in prayer, asking God to show him the way.

  Outside, in the background, he could hear the excited hum of a hundred conversations. He paused to listen. Everybody was talking about the aborted attempt to arrest him. Strange that the police had sent in only two. They probably didn't want to make a show of aggression, have a Waco on their hands.