Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(95)
Still, D’Agosta waited.
“As a young child, Diogenes was content with certain . . . experiments. He devised highly complex machines for the lure, capture, and torture of small animals. Mice, rabbits, opossums. These machines were brilliant in a horrible way. Pain factories, he proudly called them when they were ultimately discovered.” Pendergast paused. “His interests soon grew more exotic. House pets began disappearing—first cats, then dogs—never to be found again. He spent days on end in the portrait gallery, staring at paintings of our ancestors . . . especially those who had met untimely ends. As he grew older—and as he realized he was being watched with increasing vigilance—he abandoned these pastimes and withdrew into himself. He poured forth his black dreams and his terrible creative energies into a series of locked journals. He kept these journals well hidden. Very well hidden, in fact: it took me two years of stealthy surveillance as an adolescent to discover them. I read only one page, but that was enough. I will never forget it, not as long as I live. The world was never quite the same for me after that. Needless to say, I immediately burned all the journals. He had hated me before, but this act earned his undying rage.”
Pendergast took another sip, then pushed the snifter away, unfinished.
“The last time I saw Diogenes was the day he turned twenty-one. He had just come into his fortune. He said he was planning a terrible crime.”
“A single crime?” D’Agosta repeated.
“He gave no hint of the details. All I can go on is his use of the word terrible. For something to be terrible to him . . .” Pendergast’s voice trailed off, and then he resumed briskly. “Suffice to say, it will be anathema to rational contemplation. Only he, in his limitless madness, could comprehend its evil. How, when, where, against whom—I have no idea. He disappeared that very day, taking his fortune with him, and I have not seen or heard from him since—until now. This is his second notice to me. The first had the same date on it. I wasn’t sure what it meant. It arrived exactly six months ago—and now this. The meaning is now obvious.”
“Not to me.”
“I am being put on notice. The crime will occur in ninety-one days. It is his challenge to me, his hated sibling. I suspect his plans are now complete. This note is equivalent to his flinging the gauntlet at my feet, daring me to try and stop him.”
D’Agosta stared at the folded letter in horror. “What are you going to do?”
“The only thing I can do. I will wrap up this current case of ours as quickly as possible. Only then can I deal with my brother.”
“And if you find him? What then?”
“I must find him,” Pendergast said with quiet ferocity. “And when I do—” He paused. “The situation will be addressed with appropriate finality.”
The look on the agent’s face was so terrible D’Agosta looked away.
For a long moment, the library was silent. Then, at last, Pendergast roused himself. One glance told D’Agosta the subject was closed.
Pendergast’s voice changed back into its usual efficient, cool tone. “As liaison with the Southampton P.D., it seemed logical to suggest you as FBI liaison with the NYPD. This case began in the United States, and it may well end here. I’ve arranged for you, working with Captain Hayward, to be that liaison. It will require you to be in touch with her on a regular basis, via phone and e-mail.”
D’Agosta gave a nod.
Pendergast was looking at him. “I trust you’ll find that a satisfactory arrangement?”
“Fine with me.” D’Agosta hoped he wasn’t blushing. Is there anything this guy doesn’t know?
“Very good.” Pendergast rose. “And now I must pack for the trip and speak briefly with Constance. She’ll be remaining behind, of course, to manage the collections and do any additional research we may require. Proctor will see that you’re comfortable. Feel free to ring if you need anything.”
He rose, offering his hand. “Buona notte. And pleasant dreams.”
The room D’Agosta was shown to was on the third floor, facing the rear. It was exactly what he’d dreaded most: dimly lit and tall-ceilinged, with dark crushed-velvet wallpaper and heavy mahogany furniture. It smelled of old fabric and wood. The walls were covered with paintings in heavy gilt frames: landscapes, still lifes, and some studies in oil that were strangely disturbing if you looked at them too closely. The wooden shutters were closed tight against the casements, and no external noise filtered through the heavy stonework. Yet the room, like the rest of the house, was spotlessly clean; the fixtures were modern; and the huge Victorian bed, when he at last turned in, was exceptionally comfortable with fresh, clean sheets. The pillows had been aired and fluffed by some invisible housekeeper; the comforter, when he drew it up, was a luxuriously thick eiderdown. Everything about the room seemed guaranteed to provide an ideal night’s sleep.
And yet sleep did not come quickly to D’Agosta. He lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling, thinking of Diogenes Pendergast, for a long, long time.
{ 49 }
Locke Bullard sat in the rear of the Mercedes as it cruised along the Viale Michelangelo above Florence, the great eighteenth-century villas of the wealthiest Florentines invisible behind enormous walls and massive iron gates. As the limousine passed the Piazzale, Bullard barely glanced out at the stupendous view: the Duomo, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Arno River. The car descended to the ancient gate of the Porta Romana.