Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(45)

As he looked around, Harriman felt a swelling of excitement. He’d scored a mild success the week before with his piece about the Grove murder. Yet there had been little evidence to go on, and his story had been long on lurid speculation. But now he was here on the heels of a second murder—a murder that, from the whispered rumors that surged through the crowd like electricity, was even worse. Maybe his editor was right. Maybe he should have been here in the wee hours of the morning, despite all the single-malt Scotch he had unwisely imbibed at the Algonquin with his buddies the night before.

Another thought occurred to Harriman. This was his chance to stick it to his old nemesis Bill Smithback, busy dipping his wick on his honeymoon. Angkor Wat, of all places. Smithback, that bastard, who now had his old spot at the Times—not through brilliant journalism, or even just plain old pavement-pounding, but through sheer dumb luck. He’d happened to be at the right place at the right time, not once, but several times: during the subway murders a couple years back, and then again just last fall, with the Surgeon murders. That last was particularly bitter: Harriman owned the story—he’d already beaten Smithback to the punch—but then that stupid police captain, Custer, had stuffed him with false leads . . .

It wasn’t fair. It was Harriman’s connections that had gotten him the job at the Times, that and his distinguished last name. Harriman was the one—with his carefully pressed Brooks Brothers suits and his repp ties—who belonged in the rarefied and elevated atmosphere of the Times. Not rumpled, slovenly Smithback, who had been quite at home among the bottom-feeders at the Post . . .

Water under the bridge. Now this was hot and Smithback was ten thousand miles away. If the killings went on—and Harriman fervently hoped they would—the story would only get bigger. There might be television opportunities, magazine articles, a big book contract. Maybe even a Pulitzer. With any luck, the Times would be only too happy to get him back.

He was jostled by an old man in a wizard costume, gave a hard shove back. There was an almost hysterical frenzy to the crowd Harriman had never seen before, a potentially dangerous mixture if you stopped to think about it: volatile, like a tinderbox.

There was a sudden noise off to one side, and Harriman looked over. Some Elvis impersonator in gold lamé—a halfway-decent-looking one, for a change—was blaring “Burning Love” with the aid of a portable karaoke machine:

“I feel my temperature rising.”

The crowd was growing noisier, more restless. Now and then Harriman could hear the distant shriek of a police siren.

“Lord Almighty, I’m burning a hole where I lay.”

He had his tape recorder ready; he could pick up some color to add to what he already had on the murder itself. He looked around. There was a guy at his elbow, in leather boots and a Stetson, carrying a crystal wand in one hand and a live hamster in the other. Nah: too weird. Someone more representative. Like that kid with the Mohawk not far away, in black. A pimply middle-class suburban kid trying to be different.

“Excuse me!” He elbowed his way toward the youth. “Excuse me! New York Post. Can I ask a few questions?”

The kid looked toward him, eyes lighting up. They were all so eager for their fifteen nanoseconds of fame.

“Why are you here?”

“Haven’t you heard? The devil has come!” The kid’s face positively shone. “Some guy up there. He’s just like the one out on Long Island. The devil took his soul, fried him to a crisp! Dragged him down to hell, kicking and screaming.”

“How’d you hear about this?”

“It’s all over the Web.”

“By why are you, personally, here?”

The kid looked at him as if the question was idiotic. “Why do you think? To pay my respects to the Man in Red.”

Now a group of aging hippies started to sing “Sympathy for the Devil” in cracked falsettos. The smell of pot wafted toward him. Harriman struggled to hear, to think, amidst the hubbub. “Where are you from?”

“Me and my buddies came over from Fort Lee.” Some of his “buddies” were now crowding around, all dressed exactly like he was. “Who’s this guy?” one asked.

“Reporter from the Post.”

“No kidding.”

“Take my picture!”

To pay my respects to the Man in Red. There was his quote. Time to wrap it up. “Name? Spell it.”

“Shawn O’Connor.”

“Age?”

“Fourteen.”

Unbelievable. “Okay, Shawn, one last question. Why the devil? What’s so important about the devil?”

“He’s the man!” he whooped, and his friends took up the cry, high-fiving each other. “The man!”

Harriman moved off. God, the world was full of morons; they were breeding like rabbits, especially in New Jersey. Now he needed a contrast, someone who took all this seriously. A priest—he needed a priest. Just his luck: there were two men with collars, quiet, standing not far away.

“Excuse me!” he called out, forcing his way toward them through the growing crowd. As the two turned to him, Harriman was taken aback by the expressions on their faces. Fear, real fear, mingled with the sorrow and pain.

“Harriman with the Post. May I ask what you’re doing here?”

The older of the two men stepped forward. He had a lot of dignity; he really seemed out of place in this hysteria. “We’re bearing witness.”