Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(155)

There was a surge of confusion, a scuffling as the rest of the group began to arm themselves with rocks and sticks. Suddenly Buck held up his arms, tried to say something. The sound of the crowd fell.

“He’s about to speak!” people called out. “Silence, everyone!”

Buck intoned in a deep, penetrating voice, “Make way for the centurions!”

This took everyone by surprise. Some took tighter grips on their makeshift weapons; others looked over their shoulders, in the direction of the approaching police. Still others looked at Buck, uncertain they had heard him correctly.

“This is as it should be!” Buck cried. “It is time to fulfill that which the prophets have spoken. Make way, my brothers and sisters, make way!”

The cry was taken up, at first raggedly, then with growing conviction. “Make way!”

“Do not fight them!” Buck cried. “Drop your weapons! Make way for the centurions!”

“Make way for the centurions!”

Buck spread his hands, and the crowd began to part hesitatingly before him.

As she watched, Hayward felt a flush spread through her limbs. It was working. The attention of the crowd had shifted from her. Only Todd, the aide-de-camp, seemed not to accept the change. He was still staring from her to Buck and back again, as if too caught up in the frenzy of the moment to shift direction.

“Traitor!” he barked at her.

And now, right on cue, a phalanx of cops came running through the distant trees toward them. Rocker had understood, after all: he’d come through. They waded into the outer fringes of the crowd, shoving and pushing with their riot shields. But already, with Buck’s exhortations, the people were falling back.

“Let them pass!” Buck was crying, arms spread.

Now the cops were barreling down the open lane, trampling tents, shoving aside stragglers. As they broke into the open area before Buck’s tent, there was a moment of panic and struggle. Todd raised his rock, fury twisting his features. “You did this, you bitch—!”

And the rock came flying, striking a glancing blow to Hayward’s temple. She staggered back, fell to her knees, feeling the hot trickle of blood.

Suddenly Buck was there, his strong arms around her, raising her up and staying the crowd with his hand. “Put up thy swords! They have come to arrest me, and I will go with them peacefully! This is the will of God!”

Dazed, Hayward looked at Buck. He dabbed at her wound with a snowy handkerchief. “Suffer ye thus far,” he murmured. His face was radiant, suffused with light.

Of course, she thought. Even this is part of the script.

There was more confusion. Someone embraced Buck—the shill at last—she heard Buck saying, “Judas, betrayest thou me with a kiss?”—and then the cops were all around, and he was pulled away from her. The cut on her head was bleeding freely, and she felt woozy.

“Captain Hayward?” she heard somebody call out. “Captain Hayward’s been hurt!”

“Officer down! We need a medic!”

“Captain Hayward, you all right? Did he assault you?”

“I’m all right,” she said, shaking away the wooziness as cops crowded around her, everyone trying to help. “It’s nothing, just a scratch. It wasn’t Buck.”

“She’s bleeding!”

“Forget it, it’s nothing. Let me go.” They released her reluctantly.

“Who was it? Who assaulted you?”

Todd was staring, humanity shocked back into him, horrified at what he’d done.

Hayward looked away. Another arrest right now could be disastrous. “Don’t know. Came out of nowhere. It doesn’t matter.”

“Let’s get you to an ambulance.”

“I’ll walk by myself,” she said, brushing off yet another proffered arm. She felt embarrassed. It was nothing: scalp wounds always bled a great deal. She looked around, blinking her eyes. An immense silence seemed to have settled on the crowd. The police had the cuffs on Buck and had formed a semicircle around him, already moving him out. The crowd looked on, stunned, while Buck exhorted them to remain calm, be peaceful, hurt no one.

“Forgive them,” he said.

All the momentum was gone. Buck had ordered them to stand down, and they had obeyed.

It was over.





{ 79 }


Immediately, D’Agosta pulled out his service piece and drew down on the count. “No f*cking way,” he said.

The count stared at the gun, sighing condescendingly. “Put away that gun, you fool. Pinketts?”

The manservant, who had left the room, now returned, carrying a large pumpkin in both arms. He set it down on the hearth before the fireplace.

“It is true, Sergeant D’Agosta, you would have been a much more effective demonstration. But it would have caused such a mess.” Fosco went back to assembling the device.

D’Agosta moved slowly backward, slipping his gun back into his holster as he did so. Somehow, the act of drawing his weapon brought fresh resolve. He and Pendergast were both armed. At the first indication of trouble, he would have no hesitation about taking out both the count and Pinketts. Except for some kitchen help, there didn’t seem to be any other servants around—but he knew that, with the count, appearances were deceptive.

“There we go.” Fosco hefted the assembled machine, which looked something like a large rifle, made primarily of stainless steel, with a bulbous dish at one end and a barrel sporting half a dozen buttons and dials at the other. “As I said, I knew I had to kill Grove and Cutforth in such a way that the police would be utterly baffled. It had to be done with heat, of course. But how? Burning, arson, boiling—much too common. It had to be mysterious, unexplainable. That was when I recalled the phenomenon known as spontaneous human combustion. You know the first documented case of it was here in Italy?”