p&c.brimstone-第15章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


st　wronged。　He　wished　to　make　amends。〃　
　〃Do　you　have　a　copy　of　the　invitation？〃　
　With　a　smile；　Fosco　removed　it　from　his　shirt　pocket　and　handed　it　over…a　short；　handwritten　note。　
　〃And　he'd　already　begun　to　make　amends。　As　with　his　reappraisal　of　Vilnius's　work。〃　
　〃A　splendid　review；　don't　you　think？　I　understand　Vilnius　has　just　landed　Gallery　10　to　show　his　work；　and　they've　doubled　his　prices。〃　
　〃And　Lady　Milbanke？　Jonathan　Frederick？　How　did　he　make　amends　to　them？〃　
　〃While　Grove　couldn't　put　Lady　Milbanke's　marriage　back　together；　he　did　give　her　something　in　pensation。　He　passed　her　an　exquisite　emerald　necklace　across　the　table；　more　than　enough　to　replace　that　dried…up　old　husk　of　a　baron　she　lost。　Forty　carats　of　flawless　Sri　Lankan　emeralds；　worth　a　million　dollars　if　a　penny。　She　practically　swooned。　And　Frederick？　He　was　a　long　shot　for　the　position　of　president　of　the　Edsel　Foundation；　but　Grove　arranged　the　job　for　him。〃　
　〃Extraordinary。　And　what　did　he　do　for　you？〃　
　〃Surely　you　already　know　the　answer　to　that。〃　
　Pendergast　nodded。　〃The　article　he　was　writing　forBurlington　Magazine。　'A　Reappraisal　of　Georges　de　la　Tour'sThe　Education　of　the　Virgin　。'〃　
　〃Precisely。　Proclaiming　himself　in　error；　making　appropriately　abject　apologies；　beating　his　breast　and　affirming　the　glorious　authenticity　of　the　painting。　He　read　the　article　aloud　to　us　over　the　dinner　table。〃　
　〃It　remained　beside　his　puter。　Unsigned　and　unmailed。〃　
　〃Only　too　true；　Mr。　Pendergast。　Of　the　four　of　us；　I　was　the　only　one　cheated　by　his　death。〃　He　spread　his　hands。　〃If　the　murderer　had　waited　a　day；　I　would　be　forty　million　richer。〃　
　〃Forty　million？　I　thought　it　had　been　put　up　for　sale　at　fifteen。〃　
　〃That　was　Sotheby's　estimate　twenty　years　ago。　That　painting　would　go　for　at　least　forty　million　today。　But　with　Grove　on　record　that　it's　one　of　the　Delobre　fakes　。　。　。〃　Fosco　shrugged。　〃An　unsigned　article　beside　a　dead　man's　puter　means　nothing。　There　is　one　good　thing：　I'll　have　the　lovely　painting　to　look　at　for　the　rest　of　my　life。I　know　it's　real；　andyou　know　it's　real；　even　if　no　one　else　does。〃　
　〃Yes；〃　Pendergast　said。　〃Ultimately　that's　all　that　matters。〃　
　〃Well　put。〃　
　〃And　the　Vermeer　that　hangs　beside　it？〃　
　〃Real。〃　
　〃Indeed？〃　
　〃It　has　been　dated　to　1671；　between　the　period　ofLady　Writing　a　Letter　with　Her　Maid　andThe　Allegory　of　Faith　。〃　
　〃Where　did　it　e　from？〃　
　〃It's　been　in　my　family　for　several　hundred　years。　The　counts　of　Fosco　never　felt　the　need　to　trumpet　their　possessions。〃　
　〃I'm　truly　astonished。〃　
　The　count　smiled；　bowed。　〃Do　you　have　time　to　see　the　rest　of　my　collection？〃　
　Pendergast　hesitated　for　only　a　second。　〃As　a　matter　of　fact；　I　do。〃　
　The　count　rose　and　went　to　the　door。　Just　before　they　exited；　he　turned　to　the　mechanical　cockatoo；　still　on　his　perch。　
　〃Keep　an　eye　on　the　place；　Bucephalus；　my　pretty。〃　
　The　bird　gave　a　digitized　squawk　in　reply。　
　　　
　14　
　
　D'Agosta　moved　fast　through　the　trees；　seeking　the　darkestarea　of　the　park…a　dense　growth　of　trees　and　shrubs　along　an　embankment　leading　down　to　the　West　Side　Highway。　He　paused　just　long　enough　to　glance　back。　Two　figures　were　running　after　him；　guns　gleaming　in　their　fists。　
　Staying　low；　weaving　between　the　trees；　D'Agosta　unsnapped　the　holster　of　his　Glock。　He　withdrew　the　weapon；　racked　the　slide。　It　was　the　chosen　weapon　of　most　modern　police　departments；　and　D'Agosta　hadn't　been　given　a　choice　about　carrying　it；　on　duty　or　off。　It　didn't　have　the　punch　of　his　personal　。45；　but　it　was　light　and　reliable；　and　best　of　all；　it　held　fifteen　rounds。　He'd　left　his　extra　clip　in　his　desk　drawer　that　morning…who　needed　an　extra　clip　for　a　day　of　interviews？　
　The　men　were　already　into　the　woods；　moving　fast。　D'Agosta　ran　on；　heedless　of　the　noise　he　was　making…the　brush　wasn't　heavy　enough　to　conceal　him　for　more　than　a　minute　or　two；　at　best。　He　headed　south；　twigs　crackling　underfoot。　If　he　could　lose　them；　even　temporarily；　maybe　he　could　get　back　onto　Riverside　Drive　and　head　toward　Broadway。　They　wouldn't　dare　follow　onto　such　a　busy　street。　He　quickly　checked　off　his　options。　The　nearest　precinct　house　was　located　at　95th　between　Broadway　and　Amsterdam…that's　where　he'd　head　for。　
　He　could　hear　the　men　running　behind　him。　One　shouted　out　to　the　other；　and　a　fainter　response　came　back。　D'Agosta　immediately　understood　what　had　happened：　they　had　divided　and　were　still　pursuing；　one　on　either　side　of　the　narrow　strip　of　park。　
　Shit。　
　Keeping　low；　he　ran　through　the　woods；　gun　in　hand。　No　time　to　stop　and　strategize；　no　time　to　use　his　radio；　no　time　for　anything　but　a　flat…out　run。　The　faint　lights　of　Riverside　Drive　flickered　through　the　trees　on　his　left；　to　his　right　lay　the　long；　brush…filled　slope　running　steeply　down　toward　the　West　Side　Highway。　He　could　hear　the　droning　rush　of　cars　far　below　him。　He　briefly　considered　running　down　the　embankment　and　trying　to　get　out　on　the　highway；　but　it　would　be　easy　to　get　hung　up　in　the　nasty　bracken　that　clogged　the　slope。　
　If　that　happened；　he'd　be　a　sitting　duck；　fired　on　from　above。　
　The　stretch　of　woods　ended　abruptly；　and　he　burst　out　into　a　moonlit　scene　of　parallel　walkways　overlooking　the　river；　gardens　and　trees　between　them。　It　was　exposed；　but　he　had　no　choice　but　to　keep　moving。　
　Who　the　fuck's　chasing　me？　Muggers？　Cop　haters？It　didn't　make　sense。　He　was　no　longer　just　a　target　of　opportunity。　These　killers　were　determined。　They　had　followed　him　uptown。　They　were　after　him　for　a　reason。　
　He　ran　past　the　first　formal　garden；　behind　rows　of　iron　benches；　keeping　low。　Suddenly　he　saw　something　off　to　his　left：　a　red　spot　of　light　chasing　him；　dancing　around　like　an　agitated　firefly。　
　Laser　sight。　
　He　threw　himself　to　the　right　as　the　shot　came。　It　hit　the　metal　bench　with　a　sickening　ricochet　and　hummed　off　into　the　darkness。　D'Agosta　fell　into　the　flower　bed；　rolled　clumsily；　and　rose　on　his　knees　in　firing　position。　He　saw　a　dark　shape　moving　fast　against　the　dimness　of　the　open　grass　and　fired…once；　twice…rolled　to　the　side；　rose　to　his　feet；　and　took　off　running　again；　cursing　himself　for　not　having　kept　up　with　his　shooting　practice。　But　even　missed　shots　had　a　good　effect…making　them　careful；　slowing　them　down。　At　least　that　was　the　theory。　He　passed　the　far　side　of　the　garden　and　ducked　in　among　the　trees。　
　Another　jiggling　red　dot。　He　threw　himself　to　the　asphalt　as　the　shot　came；　rolled；　tearing　his　knee　open　against　the　pavement；　and　was　up　again　and　running。　The　shooters　were　using　some　big…caliber　sidearms　and　knew　what　they　were　doing。　His　own　shots　hadn't　slowed　them　down　at　all。　
　These　guys　were　professional　assassins。　
　He　ran　through　a　playground；　desperately　leaping　first　the　teeter…totter；　then　the　sandbox；　and　across　a　small　square　with　a　fountain；　gasping　with　the　effort。　Jeez；　he　was　out　of　shape；　gone　to　seed。　Long　gone　were　the　days　in　the　police　gym；　keeping　trim　and　fit。　
　He　cut　across　a　small　square　with　a　fountain；　jumped　a　stone　parapet；　and　was　back　on　the　steep；　woodsy　embankment　leading　down　to　the　highway。　He　crouched　behind　the　stone　wall；　waiting。　They　would　have　to　cross　the　open　walkway。　That's　when　he'd　have　a　shot　at　them。　He　held　the　weapon　tightly　in　a　two…hand　bat　grip；　steadied　himself；　tried　to　get　control　of　his　wild　breathing。Don't　squeeze　the　trigger。　When　it　goes　off；　it　should　almost　be　a　surprise。　Make　every　shot　count。　
　Now！The　dark　shapes　emerged　from　the　trees；　moving　fast。　He　fired：　once；　twice；　thrice。　
　The　red　lights　were　dancing　around　the　branches　over　his　head；　and　he　screamed　an　obscenity　as　he　forgot　his　own　careful　advice　and　fired　again　and　again　at　the　dim　shapes。　He　could　hear　nothing　over　the　bark　of　his　firearm；　but　he　could　feel　the　slap　of　bullets　hitting　the　stone　right　before　his　face。　These　bastards　didn't　miss　a　beat。　
　He；　on　the　other　hand；　had　missed　by　a　mile；　and　no　wonder。　He　hadn't　taken　a　turn　at　the　range　in　three　damn　years；　and　his　shooting　was　as　old　and　stale　as　all　those　shooting　awards　that　hung　on　his　wall。　
　He　scrambled　back　from　the　stone　wall；　running　along　it　in　a　low　crouch；　praying　his　back　wasn't　exposed。　As　he　ran；　he　popped　the　clip　from　the　gun；　peering　at　it　in　the　dim　light。　Empty。　That　left　him　only　two　shots　in　the　chamber　。　。　。　thirteen　rounds　wasted。　
　Suddenly　he　saw　something　e　into　view　through　the　trees　up　ahead：　the　bridge　over　the　110th　Street　off…ramp。　The　whole　thing　was　chain…linked　like　a　cage。　If　he　got　caught　in　there；　he'd　be　the　proverbial　fish　in　a　barrel。　
　But　turning　back…jumping　back　over　the　stone　wall　and　crossing　the　open　walkway…meant　running　right　into　the　arms　of　his　pursuers。　And　that　would　be　suicide。　
　He　glanced　down　to　his　right。　There　was　only　one　other　choice。　It　was　the　highway　or　nothing。　Get　out　on　the　West　Side　Highway；　stop　traffic；　create　a　snarl；　radio　for　help。　They　wouldn't　pursue　him　or　shoot　at　him　out　there。　
　Without　waiting　to　reconsider；　he　charged　down　the　steep　embankment；　clawing　through　the　brambles　and　sumac　and　poison　ivy；　half　falling；　half　rolling。　The　branches　tore　cruelly　through　the　fabric　of　his　uniform；　and　the　sharp　rocks　of　the　embankment　bruised　his　shoulders　and　knees。　
　Whang！sounded　the　shot。　
　Ahead；　the　embankment　dropped　away　steeply。　He　fell；　rolled　as　far　as　he　could；　forced　himself　back　onto　his　feet；　and　began　running　again；　casting　one　brief　look　back。　He　could　hear　them　crashing　through　the　brush　not　thirty　feet　above　him。　In　desperation；　he　wheeled；　squeezed　off　a　shot　at　the　closest　figure。　It　ducked　to　the　side；　then　charged　forward　again。　D'Agosta　turned　and　ran　with　all　his　might。　His　heart　was　racing　dangerously。　The　rush　of　cars　was　suddenly　louder；　the　lights　flashing　through　the　trees；　flashing　on　him　for　a　moment。　
　Whang！　Whang！　
　He　ducked；　zigzagged。　The　highway　was　just　fifty　feet　ahead。　The　headlights　were　now　flashing　across　him；　making　a　clear　target。　
　Thirty　more　feet。　The　trees　were　thinning；　giving　way　to　garbage　and　weeds。　
　Whang！　
　The　embankment　leveled　out。　Twenty　more　feet　to　the　edge　of　the　trees　and　the　highway。　He　ran　flat　out；　making　a　beeline…　
　Boom。And　he　was　thrown　back。　
　D'Agosta　lay　there　for　a　moment；　stunned；　thinking　he'd　been　hit；　that　it　was　over。　Then　he　realized　he'd　run　full　tilt　into　the　chain…link　fence　that　ran　just　above　the　highway。　His　eyes　took　it　in　within　the　space　of　a　heartbeat：　the　concertina　wire　at　the　top；　the　crappy　fence　all　mangled　and　twisted　by　junkies；　the　skeletons　of　cars　lying　on　the　verge　below　the　far　side。Of　course。　In　the　old　days；　he　had　driven　that　highway　a　million　times；　seen　that　fence　leaning　dangerously　above　him；　stuffed　with　trash　and　decaying　leaves。　One　more　thing　he'd　forgotten　in　those　years　in　British　Columbia。　He　was　trapped。　
　This　was　it。　He　rose　on　one　knee　and　turned　to　make　his　stand。One　round；　two　men。　
　The　math　wasn't　good。　
　　　
　15　
　
　A　low　fire　burned　in　the　grate；　casting　a　ruddy　light　on　the　wallsof　books　and　chasing　the　damp　chill　from　the　air。　Two　wing　chairs　occupied　the　space　on　either　side　of　the　fire。　In　one　sat　Special　Agent　Pendergast；　and　in　the　other　Constance　G