p&c.brimstone-第2节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


't　until　perhaps　the　tenth　try　that　the　key　turned。　Holding　her　breath；　she　opened　the　door；　but　it　moved　only　an　inch　before　stopping；　blocked　by　something。　She　pushed；　pushed　harder；　heard　a　crash　on　the　other　side。　
　Santa　María；　it　was　going　to　wake　up　Mr。　Jeremy。　She　waited；　but　there　was　no　sound　of　his　tread；　no　slamming　bathroom　door　or　flushing　toilet；　none　of　the　sounds　that　signaled　his　irascible　rising。　
　She　pushed　at　the　door　and　was　able　to　get　her　head　inside；　holding　her　breath　against　the　smell。　A　thin　screen　of　haze　drifted　in　the　room；　and　it　was　as　hot　as　an　oven。　The　room　had　been　shut　up　for　years…Mr。　Jeremy　despised　children…and　dirty　spiderwebs　hung　from　the　peeling　beadboard　walls。　The　crash　had　been　caused　by　the　toppling　of　an　old　armoire　that　had　been　pushed　up　against　the　door。　In　fact；　all　the　furniture　in　the　room　seemed　to　have　been　piled　against　the　door；　except　for　the　bed。　The　bed；　she　could　see；　was　on　the　far　side　of　the　room。　Mr。　Jeremy　lay　on　it；　fully　clothed。　
　〃Mr。　Jeremy？〃　
　But　Agnes　Torres　knew　there　would　be　no　answer。　Mr。　Jeremy　wasn't　sleeping；　not　with　his　charred　eyes　burned　permanently　open；　the　ashy　cone　of　his　mouth　frozen　in　a　scream　and　his　blackened　tongue…swelled　to　the　size　of　a　chorizo　sausage…sticking　straight　up　from　it　like　a　flagpole。　A　sleeping　man　wouldn't　be　lying　with　his　elbows　raised　above　the　bed；　fists　clenched　so　hard　that　blood　had　leaked　between　the　fingers。　A　sleeping　man　wouldn't　have　his　torso　scorched　and　caved　in　upon　itself　like　a　burned　log。　She　had　seen　many　dead　people　during　her　childhood　in　Colombia；　and　Mr。　Jeremy　looked　deader　than　any　of　them。　He　was　as　dead　as　they　e。　
　She　heard　someone　speaking　and　realized　it　was　herself；　murmuringEn　el　nombre　del　Padre；　y　del　Hijo；　y　del　Espíritu　Santo　。　。　。　She　crossed　herself　yet　again；　fumbling　out　her　rosary；　unable　to　move　her　feet　or　take　her　eyes　from　the　scene　in　the　room。　There　was　a　scorched　mark　on　the　floor；　right　at　the　foot　of　the　bed：　a　mark　which　Agnes　recognized。　
　In　that　moment；　she　understood　exactly　what　had　happened　to　Mr。　Jeremy　Grove。　
　A　muffled　cry　escaped　her　throat　and　she　suddenly　had　the　energy　to　back　out　of　the　room　and　shut　the　door。　She　fumbled　with　the　keys　and　relocked　it；　all　the　while　murmuringCreo　en　Dios；　Padre　todopoderoso；　creador　del　cielo　y　de　la　tierra。　She　crossed　herself　again　and　again　and　again；　clutching　the　rosary　and　holding　it　up　to　her　chest　as　she　backed　down　the　hall；　step　by　step；　sobs　mingling　with　her　mumbled　prayers。　
　The　cloven　hoofprint　burned　into　the　floor　told　her　everything　she　needed　to　know。　The　devil　had　finally　e　for　Jeremy　Grove。　
　　　
　2　
　
　The　sergeant　paused　from　stretching　the　yellow　police　tape　totake　in　the　scene　with　a　jaundiced　eye。　It　was　a　mess　that　was　about　to　bee　a　fucking　mess。　The　barricades　had　been　set　up　too　late；　and　rubberneckers　had　overrun　the　beach　and　dunes；　ruining　any　clues　the　sand　might　have　held。　Then　the　barricades　had　been　set　up　in　the　wrong　places　and　had　to　be　moved；　trapping　a　matched　set　of　his…and…hers　Range　Rovers；　and　the　two　people　were　now　out　of　their　cars；　yelling　about　important　appointments　（hairdresser；　tennis）　and　brandishing　their　cell　phones；　threatening　to　call　their　lawyers。　
　That　wet　sound　over　his　shoulder　was　the　shit　already　hitting　the　fan。　It　was　the　sixteenth　of　October　in　Southampton；　Long　Island；　and　the　town's　most　notorious　resident　had　just　been　found　murdered　in　bed。　
　He　heard　Lieutenant　Braskie's　voice。　〃Sergeant；　you　haven't　done　these　hedges！　Didn't　I　tell　you　I　wanted　thewhole　crime　scene　taped？〃　
　Without　bothering　to　respond；　the　sergeant　began　hanging　the　yellow　tape　along　the　hedge　surrounding　the　Grove　Estate。　As　if　the　twelve…foot　hedge　with　the　concertina　wire　hidden　within　wasn't　enough　to　stop　a　reporter；　but　the　plastic　tape　was。　He　could　see　the　TV　trucks　already　arriving；　vans　with　satellite　uplinks；　and　could　hear　the　distant　dull　thud　of　a　chopper。　The　local　press　were　piling　up　against　the　Dune　Road　barricade；　arguing　with　the　cops。　Meanwhile；　backup　squad　cars　were　arriving　from　Sag　Harbor　and　East　Hampton　along　with　the　South　Fork　homicide　squad。　The　lieutenant　was　deploying　these　newers　along　the　beaches　and　dunes　in　a　failing　attempt　to　keep　the　public　at　bay。　The　SOC　boys　were　arriving；　and　the　sergeant　watched　them　entering　the　house；　carrying　their　metal　crime　lab　suitcases。　There　was　a　time　when　he　would　have　been　with　them；　even　directing　them…but　that　was　a　long　time　ago；　in　another　place。　
　He　continued　hanging　tape　on　the　hedges　until　he　reached　the　dunes　along　the　beach。　A　few　cops　were　already　there；　keeping　back　the　curious。　They　were　pretty　much　a　docile　crowd；　staring　like　dumb　animals　toward　the　shingled　mansion　with　its　peaks　and　turrets　and　funny…looking　windows。　It　was　already　turning　into　a　party。　Someone　had　fired　up　a　boom　box　and　some　buffed…up　guys　were　cracking　beers。　It　was　an　unusually　hot　Indian　summer　day　and　they　were　all　in　shorts　or　swimming　trunks；　as　if　in　denial　over　the　end　of　summer。　The　sergeant　scoffed；　imagined　what　those　cut　bodies　would　look　like　after　twenty　years　of　beer　and　chips。　Probably　a　lot　like　his。　
　He　glanced　back　at　the　house　and　saw　the　SOC　boys　crawling　across　the　lawn　on　hands　and　knees；　the　lieutenant　striding　alongside。　The　guy　didn't　have　a　clue。　He　felt　another　pang。　Here　he　was；　pulling　crowd　control；　his　training　and　talent　wasted　while　the　real　police　work　went　on　somewhere　else。　
　No　use　thinking　about　that　now。　
　Now　the　TV　trucks　had　unpacked；　and　their　cameras　were　set　up　in　a　cluster；　with　a　good　angle　on　the　mansion；　while　the　glamour…boy　correspondents　yammered　into　their　microphones。　And　wouldn't　you　know　it：　Lieutenant　Braskie　had　left　the　SOC　boys　and　was　heading　over　to　the　cameras　like　a　fly　to　a　fresh　pile。　
　The　sergeant　shook　his　head。　Unbelievable。　
　He　saw　a　man　running　low　through　the　dunes；　zigzagging　this　way　and　that；　and　he　took　off　after　him；　cutting　him　off　at　the　edge　of　the　lawn。　It　was　a　photographer。　By　the　time　the　sergeant　reached　him；　he'd　already　dropped　to　his　knee　and　was　shooting　with　a　telephoto　as　long　as　an　elephant's　dick　toward　one　of　the　homicide　detectives　from　East　Hampton；　who　was　interviewing　a　maid　on　the　veranda。　
　The　sergeant　laid　a　hand　on　the　lens；　gently　turning　it　aside。　
　〃Out。〃　
　〃Officer；　e　on；　please…〃　
　〃You　don't　want　me　to　confiscate　your　film；　do　you？〃　He　spoke　kindly。　He'd　always　had　a　soft　spot　for　people　who　were　just　trying　to　do　their　job；　even　if　they　were　press。　
　The　man　got　up；　walked　a　few　paces；　turned　for　one　final　quick　shot；　and　then　scurried　off。　The　sergeant　walked　back　up　toward　the　house。　He　was　downwind　of　the　rambling　old　place；　and　there　was　a　funny　smell　in　the　air；　like　fireworks　or　something。　He　noticed　the　lieutenant　was　now　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　semicircle　of　TV　cameras；　having　the　time　of　his　life。　Braskie　was　planning　to　run　for　chief　in　the　next　election；　and　with　the　current　chief　on　vacation；　he　couldn't　have　gotten　a　better　break　than　if　he'd　mitted　the　murder　himself。　
　The　sergeant　took　a　detour　around　the　lawn　and　cut　behind　a　small　duck　pond　and　fountain；　keeping　out　of　the　way　of　the　SOC　team。　As　he　came　around　some　hedges　he　saw　a　man　in　the　distance；　standing　by　the　duck　pond；　throwing　pieces　of　bread　to　the　ducks。　He　was　dressed　in　the　gaudiest　day…tripper　style　imaginable；　plete　with　Hawaiian　shirt；　Oakley　Eye　Jacket　shades；　and　giant　baggy　shorts。　Even　though　summer　had　ended　over　a　month　ago；　it　looked　like　this　was　the　man's　first　day　in　the　sun　after　a　long；　cold　winter。　Maybe　a　dozen　winters。　While　the　sergeant　had　some　sympathy　for　a　photographer　or　reporter　trying　to　do　his　job；　he　had　absolutely　no　tolerance　for　tourists。　They　were　the　scum　of　the　earth。　
　〃Hey。　You。〃　
　The　man　looked　up。　
　〃What　do　you　think　you're　doing？　Don't　you　know　this　is　a　crime　scene？〃　
　〃Yes；　Officer；　and　I　do　apologize…〃　
　〃Get　the　hell　out。〃　
　〃But；　Sergeant；　it's　important　the　ducks　be　fed。　They're　hungry。　I　imagine　that　someone　feeds　them　every　morning；　but　this　morning；　as　you　know…〃　He　smiled　and　shrugged。　
　The　sergeant　could　hardly　believe　it。　A　guy　gets　murdered；　and　this　idiot　is　worried　about　ducks？　
　〃Let's　see　some　ID。〃　
　〃Of　course；　of　course。〃　The　man　started　fishing　in　his　pocket；　fished　in　another；　then　looked　up　sheepishly。　〃Sorry　about　that；　Officer。　I　threw　on　these　shorts　as　soon　as　I　heard　the　terrible　news；　but　it　appears　my　wallet　is　still　in　the　pocket　of　the　jacket　I　was　wearing　last　night。〃　His　New　York　accent　grated　on　the　sergeant's　nerves。　
　The　sergeant　looked　at　the　guy。　Normally　he　would　just　chase　him　back　behind　the　barriers。　But　there　was　something　about　him　that　didn't　quite　wash。　For　one　thing；　the　clothes　he　was　wearing　were　so　new　they　still　smelled　of　a　menswear　shop。　For　another　thing；　they　were　such　a　hideous　mixture　of　colors　and　patterns　that　it　looked　like　he'd　plucked　them　randomly　from　a　rack　in　the　village　boutique。　This　was　more　than　just　bad　taste…this　was　a　disguise。　
　〃I'll　be　going…〃　
　〃No；　you　won't。〃　The　sergeant　took　out　his　notebook；　flipped　back　a　wad　of　pages；　lic