Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(37)
“Of course,” Dienphong said dryly. “Something heated up and melted the cross without heating up anything around it. I guess it must have been some kind of radiation that was taken up by metal more strongly than flesh.”
“Like maybe the same radiation that burned the hoofprint?”
Carlton, Dienphong had to admit, was not as stupid as he pretended to be.
“A good possibility.”
Pendergast raised a finger.
“Agent Pendergast?”
“Were there any signs of radiation burns or heating in any other surfaces in the room?”
An even better question. “Yes, in fact, there were. The bedposts, which were varnished pine, showed signs of heat stress, as did the wall behind the bed, which was painted pine. In some areas, the paint had softened and bubbled.”
He moused his way through the on-screen menu and pulled up another image. “Here’s a cross section of the wall, showing four layers of paint. Now here’s yet another small mystery: only the lowest layer of paint seems to have heated up and bubbled. The others were undisturbed and remained chemically unaltered.”
“Did you analyze all four layers of paint?” Pendergast asked.
Dienphong nodded.
“Was the bottom layer a lead-based paint?”
Dienphong felt a sudden surprise. He quickly saw where the line of questioning would lead, and it was something that he had not thought of. “Let me check the book.” He flipped through the lab reports, organized and categorized in a three-ring binder labeled Brimstone. All FBI investigations get a nickname, and this was the one he had given this case. Melodramatic, perhaps, but appropriate.
He looked up from the binder. “Yes, as a matter of fact it was lead-based.”
“And the rest were not?”
“That’s correct.”
“Further proof that we are dealing with some kind of radiation.”
“Very good, Agent Pendergast.” It was the first time in his career that an FBI agent had beaten him to a conclusion. This Pendergast was living up to his reputation. Dienphong cleared his throat. “Any other questions or comments?”
Carlton sat down again, raised a weary hand.
“Yes?”
“I’m missing something. How could something affect the bottom layer of paint and not the upper ones?”
Pendergast turned. “It was the lead in the paint that reacted, like the metal in the cross. It absorbed the radiation more strongly. Was there any radioactivity present at the site, Doctor, during follow-up investigation?”
“None whatsoever.”
Carlton nodded. “Check into that, Sam, will you?”
“Of course, sir,” one of the junior agents replied.
Dienphong went to the next image. “Here’s the final image: a close-up of a section of the cross. Note the very localized melting, completely inconsistent with a convective source of heat. Again an indication that radiation played a role.”
“What type of radiation would selectively heat metal more than flesh?” Pendergast asked.
“X-rays, gamma rays, microwave, far infrared, certain wavelengths in the radio spectrum, not to mention alpha radiation and a flux of fast neutrons. This is not very unusual. What is unusual is the intensity.”
Dienphong waited for the inevitable expostulation from Carlton, but this time the agent in charge said nothing.
“The pitting on the cross,” Pendergast said, “might suggest to you something?”
“Not so far.”
“Speculations?”
“I never speculate, Mr. Pendergast.”
“An intense electron beam could cause it, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but an electron beam would have to propagate through a vacuum. Air would disperse it in, say, a millimeter or two. As I said, it might have been in the infrared, microwave, or X-ray spectrum, except that it would take a transmitter of several tons to generate a beam that intense.”
“Quite so. What do you think, Doctor, of the theory being pushed by the New York Post?”
Dienphong paused briefly at this sudden change of tack. “I am not in the habit of taking my theories from the pages of the Post.”
“They’ve published speculation that the devil took his soul.”
There was a brief silence, and then there was a smattering of nervous chuckles. Pendergast was evidently making a joke. Or was he? He didn’t seem to be laughing.
“Mr. Pendergast, that’s a theory I don’t subscribe to.”
“No?”
Dienphong smiled. “I am a Buddhist. The only devil we believe in is the one inside the human heart.”
{ 18 }
Not much scanning of the crowd streaming into the Metropolitan Opera House was needed to locate Count Isidor Fosco: his huge presence, striking a dramatic pose beside the Lincoln Center fountain, was unmistakable. Pendergast drifted toward him with the crowd. All around, men in tuxedos and women in pearl necklaces were babbling excitedly. It was opening night at the Metropolitan Opera, and the program was Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia. The count was wearing white tie and tails, beautifully tailored to his enormously fat figure. The cut was old-fashioned, and in place of the usual white waistcoat, Fosco was sporting one in gorgeous Hong Kong silk brocaded in white and dove gray. A gardenia was stuck in his buttonhole, his handsome face was patted and shaved and powdered to pink perfection, and his thick mane of gray hair was brushed back into leonine curls. His small, plump hands were perfectly fitted in gray kid gloves.