p&c.brimstone-第64节

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　55　
　
　Gagged　and　blindfolded；　hands　cuffed　behind　his　back；　D'Agosta　was　herded　along　by　one　of　the　two　security　men。　He　could　hear　the　chink　of　Pendergast's　shackles　beside　him。　They　were　moving　through　what　seemed　a　long；　damp　underground　passageway：　the　air　stank　of　fungus；　and　he　could　feel　the　chill　humidity　soaking　into　his　clothes。　Or　maybe　it　was　his　own　sweat。　His　middle　finger　felt　like　it　had　been　dipped　in　molten　lead。　It　was　pulsing　in　time　to　his　heartbeat；　the　blood　running　freely　down　the　small　of　his　back。　
　There　was　something　unreal　about　the　whole　situation。　At　any　other　time；　the　thought　he'd　just　lost　the　end　of　a　finger　would　be　all…consuming。　Yet　right　now　only　the　pain　itself　registered。　Everything　had　happened　so　quickly。　Just　hours　before；　he'd　been　relaxing　in　a　luxurious　suite。　Just　a　few　hours　before；　he'd　been　almost　tearful　at　seeing　his　own　native　land　at　long　last。　And　now　here　he　was…a　dirty　cloth　stuffed　in　his　mouth；　his　eyes　blindfolded；　arms　bound；　being　led　to　an　execution…style　death。　
　He　couldn't　really　believe　he　was　about　to　die。　And　yet　that　was　exactly　what　was　going　to　happen　unless　either　he　or　Pendergast　could　think　of　something。　But　they　had　been　thoroughly　searched。　And　Pendergast's　most　powerful　weapon…his　tongue…had　been　silenced。　It　seemed　impossible；　unthinkable。　And　yet　the　fact　was　he　had　only　minutes　left　to　live。　
　He　tried　to　force　the　sense　of　unreality　away；　tried　to　forget　the　searing　pain；　struggled　to　think　of　some　last…minute　escape；　some　way　to　turn　the　tables　on　the　two　men　that　were　so　matter…of…factly　leading　them　off　to　their　deaths。　But　there　was　nothing　in　his　training；　nothing　even　in　the　detective　books　he'd　read　or　written；　to　give　him　a　clue。　
　They　paused；　and　D'Agosta　heard　the　groan　of　rusty　metal　being　forced　open。　Then　he　was　shoved　forward；　and　the　trilling　of　crickets　and　the　humid　night　air　hit　his　nostrils。　They　were　outside。　
　He　was　prodded　forward　by　what　was　undoubtedly　the　barrel　of　a　gun。　Now　they　were　walking　on　what　felt　through　the　soft　shoes　like　a　grassy　trail。　He　could　hear　the　rustling　of　leaves　above　his　head。　Such　small；　insignificant　sensations…and　yet　they　had　suddenly　grown　unbearably　precious　to　him。　
　〃Christ；〃　said　one　of　the　men。　〃This　dew　is　going　to　ruin　my　shoes。　I　just　paid　two　hundred　euros　for　them；　handmade　over　in　Panzano。〃　
　The　other　chuckled。　〃Good　luck　getting　another　pair。　That　old　geezer　makes　like　one　pair　a　month。〃　
　〃We　always　get　the　shit　jobs。〃　As　if　to　underscore　this；　the　man　gave　D'Agosta　another　shove。　〃They're　soaked　through　already；　goddamn　it。〃　
　D'Agosta　found　his　thoughts　stealing　toward　Laura　Hayward。　Would　she　shed　a　tear　for　him？　It　was　strange；　but　the　one　thing　he　most　wanted　right　now　was　to　be　able　to　tell　her　how　he　went　out。　He　thought　that　would　make　it　easier　to　bear；　easier　than　just　vanishing；　than　never　knowing　。　。　。　
　〃A　little　shoe　polish　and　they'll　be　like　new。〃　
　〃Once　leather　gets　wet　it's　never　the　same。〃　
　〃You　and　your　fucking　shoes。〃　
　〃If　you　paid　two　hundred　euros；　you'd　be　pissed；　too。〃　
　D'Agosta's　sense　of　unreality　grew。　He　tried　to　embrace　the　throbbing　pain　in　his　finger；　because　as　long　as　he　could　feel　that；　he　knew　he　was　still　alive。　What　he　feared　was　when　the　pain　ended　。　。　。　
　Just　a　few　more　minutes　now。　He　took　a　step　forward；　another；　then　stumbled　against　something　in　the　grass。　
　A　slap　to　the　side　of　the　head。　〃Watch　your　step；　asshole。〃　
　The　air　had　grown　cooler；　and　there　was　a　smell　of　earth　and　decaying　leaves。　He　felt　a　terrible　helplessness。　The　gag　and　blindfold　robbed　him　of　all　ability　to　make　eye　contact　with　Pendergast；　to　signal；　to　do　anything。　
　〃The　trail　to　the　old　quarry　goes　that　way。〃　
　There　was　a　rustling；　then　a　grunt。　〃Jesus；　it's　overgrown　in　here。〃　
　〃Yeah；　and　watch　where　you　put　your　feet。〃　
　D'Agosta　felt　himself　shoved　forward　once　again。　Now　they　were　pushing　through　wet　foliage。　
　〃It's　right　up　ahead。　There's　a　lot　of　stones　near　the　edge；　don't　trip。〃　A　guffaw。　〃It's　a　long　way　down。〃　
　More　pushing　through　bushes　and　wet　grass。　Then　D'Agosta　felt　himself　brusquely　halted。　
　〃Another　twenty　feet；〃　his　man　said。　
　Silence。　D'Agosta　caught　a　whiff　of　something　wet　and　cold…the　exhalation　of　stale　air　from　a　deep　mine　shaft。　
　〃One　at　a　time。　We　don't　want　to　fuck　this　up。　You　go　first。　I'll　wait　here　with　this　one。　And　hurry　up；　I'm　getting　bitten　already。〃　
　D'Agosta　heard　Pendergast　being　pushed　forward；　heard　the　swish　of　wet　footsteps　through　the　undergrowth　ahead。　The　first　man　had　a　tight　hold　on　his　cuffs；　a　gun　barrel　pushed　hard　into　his　ear。　He　should　do　something；　hehad　to　do　something。　But　what？　The　slightest　move　and　he　was　dead。　He　couldn't　believe　what　was　happening。　His　mind　refused　to　accept　it。　He　realized　that；　deep　down；　he'd　been　certain　Pendergast　would　manage　to　do　something　miraculous；　pull　another　rabbit　out　of　his　hat。　But　the　time　for　that　was　past。　What　could　Pendergast　do：　gagged；　blindfolded；　a　gun　to　his　head；　standing　at　the　edge　of　a　precipice？　The　last　small　bit　of　hope　drained　away。　
　〃That's　far　enough；〃　came　the　voice　from　about　thirty　feet　away；　slightly　muffled　by　the　foliage。　It　was　the　second　man；　speaking　to　Pendergast。　D'Agosta　caught　another　whiff　of　cold　air　from　the　mine　shaft。　Insects　whined　in　his　ear。　His　finger　throbbed。　
　It　really　was　over。　
　He　heard　the　sound　of　a　round　being　racked　into　a　pistol　chamber。　
　〃Make　your　peace　with　God；　scumbag。〃　
　A　pause。　And　then　the　sound　of　a　gunshot；　incredibly　loud。　Another　pause…and　then　from　far　below；　echoing　up　the　shaft　in　a　distorted　way；　the　sound　of　a　heavy　object　hitting　water。　
　There　was　a　longer　silence；　and　then　the　man's　voice　came　back；　a　little　breathless。　〃Okay。　Bring　up　the　other　one。〃　
　　　
　56　
　
　Three　a。m。　
　Locke　Bullard　stood　in　the　enormous；　vaulteds　alone　of　his　villa；　isolated　on　a　hill　south　of　Florence；　his　feelings　betrayed　only　by　the　muscles　working　slowly　above　his　massive　jawline。　He　walked　to　the　leaded　windows　that　looked　over　the　walled　gardens；　opened　one　with　a　shaking；　knotted　hand。　The　stars　were　obscured　by　clouds；　the　night　sky　perfectly　black。　A　perfect　night　for　this　kind　of　business；　as　perfect　as　that　other　night　had　been；　all　those　years　ago。　God；　what　he　would　give　to　undo　that　night　。　。　。　He　shivered　at　the　memory；　or　maybe　it　was　just　the　cool　breath　of　the　wind　sighing　through　the　ancient　trees　in　thepineta　beyond　the　garden。　
　He　stood　at　the　window　for　some　time；　struggling　to　calm　himself；　to　suppress　a　growing　feeling　of　dread。　Below；　on　the　terrace；　the　indistinct　white　shapes　of　marble　statues　glowed　faintly。　Soon　it　would　be　over；　he　reminded　himself。　And　he　would　be　free。　Free。　But　right　now；　he　had　to　keep　calm。　He　had　to　put　his　old；　rational　view　of　the　world　aside；　if　only　for　one　night。　Tomorrow；　he　could　tell　himself　it　had　all　been　a　bad　dream。　
　With　a　great　effort　he　cleared　his　mind；　tried　to　focus　on　something　else；　even　briefly。　Beyond　the　swaying　tops　of　the　umbrella　pines；　he　could　see　the　outlines　of　cypresses　on　the　far　hills；　and　then　the　distant　cupola　of　the　Duomo；　next　to　Giotto's　tower；　brightly　lit。　Who　was　it　that　said　only　if　you　lived　within　sight　of　the　Duomo　were　you　a　true　Florentine？　This　was　the　same　view　Machiavelli　had　seen；　exactly　this：　those　hills；　that　famous　dome；　the　distant　tower。　Perhaps　Machiavelli　had　stood　in　this　very　spot　five　hundred　years　ago；　working　out　the　details　ofThe　Prince　。　Bullard　had　read　the　book　when　he　was　twenty。　It　was　one　of　the　reasons　he'd　jumped　at　the　opportunity　to　own　the　villa　Machiavelli　was　born　and　raised　in。　
　Bullard　wondered　how　Machiavelli　would　have　reacted　to　this　predicament。　The　great　courtier　would　no　doubt　have　felt　the　same　things　he　did：　dread　and　resignation。　How　do　you　make　a　choice　when　faced　with　a　problem　that　has　two　solutions；　both　intolerable？　He　corrected　himself：　one　was　intolerable；　the　other　unthinkable。　
　You　accepted　the　intolerable。　
　He　turned　from　the　window　and　looked　across　the　dim　room　at　the　clock　on　the　mantelpiece。　Ten　minutes　after　three。　He　needed　to　make　his　final　preparations。　
　He　moved　toward　a　table　and　lit　a　huge；　ancient　candle；　whose　glow　illuminated　an　old　piece　of　parchment：　a　certain　page　from　a　thirteenth…century　grimoire。　Then；　taking　up　the　ancientarthame　knife　that　lay　beside　it；　Bullard　carefully　began　to　score　a　circle　in　the　terra…cotta　floor　of　the　room；　working　slowly；　taking　the　utmost　care　to　make　sure　the　circle　remained　unbroken。　When　that　was　done；　he　took　a　piece　of　charcoal；　specially　prepared；　and　began　to　inscribe　letters　in　Greek　and　Aramaic　on　the　periphery　of　the　circle；　stopping　now　and　then　to　consult　the　grimoire。　He　followed　this　by　inscribing　two　pentagrams　around　it　all。　Next　he　inscribed　a　smaller　circle…this　one　broken…beside　the　larger。　He　did　not　worry　about　being　interrupted：　he　had　dismissed　all　the　security　and　the　help。　He　wanted　no　chance　of　witnesses　and…above　all…no　chance　of　interruption。　When　you　were　doing　what　he　was　about　to　do；raising　what　he　hoped　to　raise；　there　could　be　no　disruptions；　no　mistakes；　nothing　left　out。