Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(172)

“As you can see, this occupies the entire upper floor.”

Esposito looked back at D’Agosta. “All right. What next?”

“We went down to dinner.” D’Agosta was careful to keep his voice calm. “In the main dining room. Fosco said we’d never leave the castle alive. There was an exchange of gunfire. I killed his manservant.”

The count’s eyebrows shot up again. “Pinketts?”

Within five minutes, they were stepping into the cheery dining salotto. But it was as D’Agosta had begun to fear: there were no bloodstains, no sign of any struggle. The remains of a single breakfast lay on the table.

“You’ll excuse me, I hope,” Fosco said, gesturing toward the half-eaten meal. “You caught me breakfasting. As I said, I was not expecting visitors. And I gave the staff a few days off.”

Esposito was strolling around the room, hands clasped behind his back, examining the walls, searching for chips or holes that would indicate bullet marks. He asked, “Sergeant, how many rounds were exchanged?”

D’Agosta thought a moment. “Four. Three went into Pinketts. The other should be somewhere on the wall above the fireplace. If it hasn’t been plastered over.”

But of course there was no mark: none at all.

Esposito turned toward the count. “This Pinketts, may we meet him?”

“He’s back in England for a few weeks. Left the day before yesterday—a death in the family, I understand. I would be glad to give you his address and telephone number in Dorset.”

Esposito nodded. “Later.”

Another silence fell over the room.

He’s not English! D’Agosta almost shouted. And his name’s not Pinketts! But he knew there was no point in arguing about it now. Fosco had clearly prepared things all too well. And he would not allow himself to rise to the bait—not in front of the colonnello.

Find Pendergast. That’s the most important thing.

Two of the carabinieri returned, speaking rapidly in Italian to the colonnello. Esposito turned to D’Agosta. “My men found no sign of the car in the garages or anywhere else on the grounds.”

“He’s obviously disposed of it.”

Esposito nodded thoughtfully. “What was the rental company?”

“Eurocar.”

Esposito turned back to his men, spoke in Italian. The men nodded and left.

“After Fosco returned from Florence, we were locked in an old storeroom,” D’Agosta said, struggling against a growing sense of panic. “In the cellars. I can lead you there. The stairway’s just off the pantry.”

“Please.” And Esposito gestured for him to proceed.

D’Agosta led the group out of the dining room, through the large and empty kitchen, and into the pantry beyond. The staircase leading down to the storage cellars was now covered by a massive armoire, copper pots and cookware hanging from its ancient brass hooks.

Bingo! D’Agosta thought.

“The stairway’s behind there,” he said. “He’s covered it up with that armoire.”

Esposito nodded to his two men, who moved it with great difficulty. D’Agosta felt himself go cold. The stairway was gone. In its place was bare wall, ancient and dusty as the rest of the room.

“Feel it!” he said, unable now to keep the frustration and mounting horror from his voice. “He’s bricked it in! The mortar’s got to be still wet!”

The colonnello stepped forward, removed a penknife from his pocket, and stabbed its point into the mortar. Small, dried pieces crumbled away in a train of dust. He dug it in farther, probing. Then he turned and, without a word, handed the knife to D’Agosta.

D’Agosta knelt, felt along the bottom. The wall looked old, dusty—there were even what appeared to be cobwebs exposed by the moving of the armoire. He stepped back, looked around the room. No mistake: this was the right place.

“The count has covered it up. Disguised it somehow. There was a door here.”

Another, longer, silence fell. Esposito’s eyes met D’Agosta’s, then looked away.

Seeing the speculative look, D’Agosta felt a renewed sense of steely determination settle over him. “Let’s join your men. Search the whole goddamned place.”




An hour later, D’Agosta found himself back in the central gallery. They had explored more passages, salons, rooms, vaults, basements, and tunnels than he’d ever imagined one castle could hold. The castle was so large, so sprawling, it was impossible to know whether or not they had covered all its drafty spaces and dank stairwells. All his muscles quivered with weariness. The canvas bag with the microwave weapon hung like a dead weight by his side.

As the search progressed, Esposito had grown increasingly quiet. Throughout it all, Fosco had stayed by their side, solicitous, patient, unlocking every door, even suggesting new routes of inquiry from time to time.

Now, the count cleared his throat. “Could I suggest we return to my library? We can talk more comfortably there.”

As they seated themselves around the fire, one of the carabinieri came in and whispered in Esposito’s ear. The colonnello nodded, then dismissed the man with a gesture, his expression unreadable. Fosco once again offered him a cigar, and this time Esposito accepted. D’Agosta watched all this with a sense of growing disbelief. He felt rage taking over now, almost beyond his ability to control, combined with a sense of horror and grief. It was unreal, a nightmare.