p&c.brimstone-第1部分

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　dedicates　this　book　to　
　Barry　and　Jody　Turkus。　
　
　Lincoln　Child　
　dedicates　this　book　to　
　his　daughter；　Veronica。　
　　　
　Acknowledgments
　　
　Lincoln　Child　would　like　to　thank　Bruce　Swanson；　Mark　Mendel；　Pat　Allocco；　Chris　and　Susan　Yango；　Jerry　and　Terry　Hyland；　Anthony　Cifelli；　M。D。；　Norman　San　Agustin；　M。D。；　and　Lee　Suckno；　M。D。；　for　their　friendship　and　assistance。　Ongoing　thanks　to　Special　Agent　Douglas　Margini　for　his　advice　on　New　York；　New　Jersey；　and　federal　law　enforcement　matters。　Thanks　to　Jill　Nowak　for　an　insightful　reading　of　the　text。　Bob　Przybylski　was　very　useful　in　nailing　down　some　of　the　firearms　details。　Thanks　also　to　Monsignor　Bob　Diacheck　for　reading　and　menting　on　the　manuscript。　Thanks　to　my　family；　nuclear　and　extended；　for　putting　up　with　an　eccentric　writer。　Special　thanks　to　my　wife；　Luchie；　and　my　daughter；　Veronica；　for　their　love　and　support。　
　Douglas　Preston　is　greatly　indebted　to　Alessandro　Lazzi；　who　kindly　invited　me　to　observe　a　wild　boar　hunt　on　his　estate　in　the　Tuscan　Apennines。　I　thank　Mario　Spezi　for　providing　much　useful　information　on　the　workings　of　the　Italian　carabinieri　and　criminal　investigation　in　general。　I　would　like　to　express　my　appreciation　to　Mario　Alfiero　for　his　help　with　Neapolitan　dialect。　Some　of　the　settings　in　the　novel　would　not　have　been　possible　without　the　kind　help　of　many　people：　in　particular；　the　Cappellini　family；　owners　of　the　Castello　di　Verrazzano　in　Greve；　the　Matta　family；　proprietors　of　Castello　Vicchiomaggio；　the　monks　of　La　Verna　and　Sacro　Speco；　Subiaco。　I　would　also　like　to　thank　Niccolò　Capponi　for　his　help　and　our　Italian　translator；　Andrea　Carlo　Cappi；　for　his　advice　and　support。　I　thank　Andrea　Pinketts　for　the　lending　of　his　illustrious　name。　And　last　but　not　least；　once　again　I　thank　my　family；　who　can　never　be　thanked　enough：　Isaac；　Aletheia；　Selene；　and　Christine。　
　And；　as　always；　we　want　to　thank　in　particular　those　people　who　make　the　Preston…Child　novels　possible：　Jaime　Levine；　Jamie　Raab；　Eric　Simonoff；　Eadie　Klemm；　and　Matthew　Snyder。　
　In　closing；　we　would　like　to　distance　ourselves　from　any　misinterpretation　of　scripture　by　Wayne　P。　Buck；　or　any　misapplication　of　the　golden　ratio　by　Professor　Von　Menck。　All　persons；　police　departments；　corporations；　institutions；　governmental　agencies；　and　locations　both　American　and　Italian　mentioned　in　this　novel　are　either　fictitious　or　used　fictitiously。　
　　　
　1
　　
　Agnes　Torres　parked　her　white　Ford　Escort　in　the　little　parking　area　outside　the　hedge　and　stepped　into　the　cool　dawn　air。　The　hedges　were　twelve　feet　high　and　as　impenetrable　as　a　brick　wall；　only　the　shingled　peak　of　the　big　house　could　be　seen　from　the　street。　But　she　could　hear　the　surf　thundering　and　smell　the　salt　air　of　the　invisible　ocean　beyond。　
　Agnes　carefully　locked　the　car…it　paid　to　be　careful；　even　in　this　neighborhood…and；　fumbling　with　the　massive　set　of　keys；　found　the　right　one　and　stuck　it　into　the　lock。　The　heavy　sheet…metal　gate　swung　inward；　exposing　a　broad　expanse　of　green　lawn　that　swept　three　hundred　yards　down　to　the　beach；　flanked　by　two　dunes。　A　red　light　on　a　keypad　just　inside　the　gate　began　blinking；　and　she　entered　the　code　with　nervous　fingers。　She　had　thirty　seconds　before　the　sirens　went　off。　Once；　she　had　dropped　her　keys　and　couldn't　punch　in　the　code　in　time；　and　the　thing　had　awakened　practically　the　whole　town　and　brought　three　police　cars。　Mr。　Jeremy　had　been　so　angry　she　thought　he　would　breathe　fire。　It　had　been　awful。　
　Agnes　punched　the　last　button　and　the　light　turned　green。　She　breathed　a　sigh　of　relief；　locked　the　gate；　and　paused　to　cross　herself。　Then　she　drew　out　her　rosary；　held　the　first　bead　reverently　between　her　fingers。　Fully　armed　now；　she　turned　and　began　waddling　across　the　lawn　on　short；　thick　legs；　walking　slowly　to　allow　herself　time　to　intone　the　Our　Fathers；　the　Hail　Marys；　and　the　Glory　Bes　in　quiet　Spanish。　She　always　said　a　decade　on　her　rosary　when　entering　the　Grove　Estate。　
　The　vast　gray　house　loomed　in　front　of　her；　a　single　eyebrow　window　in　the　roof　peak　frowning　like　the　eye　of　a　Cyclops；　yellow　against　the　steel　gray　of　the　house　and　sky。　Seagulls　circled　above；　crying　restlessly。　
　Agnes　was　surprised。　She　never　remembered　that　light　on　before。　What　was　Mr。　Jeremy　doing　in　the　attic　at　seven　o'clock　in　the　morning？　Normally　he　didn't　get　out　of　bed　until　noon。　
　Finishing　her　prayers；　she　replaced　the　rosary　and　crossed　herself　again：　a　swift；　automatic　gesture；　made　with　a　rough　hand　that　had　seen　decades　of　domestic　work。　She　hoped　Mr。　Jeremy　wasn't　still　awake。　She　liked　to　work　in　an　empty　house；　and　when　he　was　up；　everything　was　so　unpleasant：　the　cigarette　ashes　he　dropped　just　behind　her　mop；　the　dishes　he　heaped　in　the　sink　just　after　she　had　washed；　the　ments　and　the　endless　swearing　to　himself；　into　the　phone　or　at　the　newspaper；　always　followed　by　a　harsh　laugh。　His　voice　was　like　a　rusty　knife…it　cut　and　slashed　the　air。　He　was　thin　and　mean　and　stank　of　cigarettes　and　drank　brandy　at　lunch　and　entertained　sodomites　at　all　hours　of　the　day　and　night。　Once　he　had　tried　to　speak　Spanish　with　her　but　she　had　quickly　put　an　end　to　that。　Nobody　spoke　Spanish　to　her　except　family　and　friends；　and　Agnes　Torres　spoke　English　perfectly　well　enough。　
　On　the　other　hand；　Agnes　had　worked　for　many　people　in　her　life；　and　Mr。　Jeremy　was　very　correct　with　her　employment。　He　paid　her　well；　always　on　time；　he　never　asked　her　to　stay　late；　never　changed　her　schedule；　and　never　accused　her　of　stealing。　Once；　early　on；　he　had　blasphemed　against　the　Lord　in　her　presence；　and　she　had　spoken　to　him　about　it；　and　he　had　apologized　quite　civilly　and　had　never　done　it　again。　
　She　came　up　the　curving　flagstone　path　to　the　back　door；　inserted　a　second　key；　and　once　again　fumbled　nervously　with　the　keypad；　turning　off　the　internal　alarm。　
　The　house　was　gloomy　and　gray；　the　mullioned　windows　in　front　looking　out　on　a　long　seaweed…strewn　beach　to　an　angry　ocean。　The　sound　of　the　surf　was　muffled　here　and　the　house　was　hot。　Unusually　hot。　
　She　sniffed。　There　was　a　strange　smell　in　the　air；　like　a　greasy　roast　left　too　long　in　the　oven。　She　waddled　into　the　kitchen　but　it　was　empty。　The　dishes　were　heaped　up；　and　the　place　was　a　mess　as　usual；　stale　food　everywhere；　and　yet　the　smell　wasn't　ing　from　here。　It　looked　like　Mr。　Jeremy　had　cooked　fish　the　night　before。　She　didn't　usually　clean　his　house　on　Tuesdays；　but　he'd　had　one　of　his　countless　dinner　parties　the　prior　evening。　Labor　Day　had　e　and　gone　a　month　before；　but　Mr。　Jeremy's　weekend　parties　wouldn't　end　until　November。　
　She　went　into　the　living　room　and　sniffed　the　air　again。　Something　was　definitely　cooking　somewhere。　And　there　was　another　smell　on　top　of　it；　as　if　somebody　had　been　playing　with　matches。　
　Agnes　Torres　felt　a　vague　sense　of　alarm。　Everything　was　more　or　less　as　she　had　left　it　when　she　went　away　yesterday；　at　two　in　the　afternoon；　except　that　the　ashtrays　were　overflowing　with　butts　and　the　usual　empty　wine　bottles　stood　on　the　sideboard；　dirty　dishes　were　piled　in　the　sink；　and　someone　had　dropped　soft　cheese　on　the　rug　and　stepped　in　it。　
　She　raised　her　plump　face　and　sniffed　again。　The　smell　came　from　above。　
　She　mounted　the　sweep　of　stairs；　treading　softly；　and　paused　to　sniff　at　the　landing。　She　tiptoed　past　Grove's　study；　past　his　bedroom　door；　continued　down　the　hall；　turned　the　dogleg；　and　came　to　the　door　to　the　third　floor。　The　smell　was　stronger　here　and　the　air　was　heavier；　warmer。　She　tried　to　open　the　door　but　found　it　locked。　
　She　took　out　her　bunch　of　keys；　clinked　through　them；　and　unlocked　the　door。Madre　de　Dios　…the　smell　was　much　worse。　She　mounted　the　steep　unfinished　stairs；　one；　two；　three；　resting　her　arthritic　legs　for　a　moment　on　each　tread。　She　rested　again　at　the　top；　breathing　heavily。　
　The　attic　was　vast；　with　one　long　hall　off　which　were　half　a　dozen　unused　children's　bedrooms；　a　playroom；　several　bathrooms；　and　an　unfinished　attic　space　jammed　with　furniture　and　boxes　and　horrible　modern　paintings。　
　At　the　far　end　of　the　hall；　she　saw　a　bar　of　yellow　light　under　the　door　to　the　last　bedroom。　
　She　took　a　few　tentative　steps　forward；　paused；　crossed　herself　again。　Her　heart　was　hammering；　but　with　her　hand　clutching　the　rosary　she　knew　she　was　safe。　As　she　approached　the　door；　the　smell　grew　steadily　worse。　
　She　tapped　lightly　on　it；　just　in　case　some　guest　of　Mr。　Jeremy　was　sleeping　in　there；　hungover　or　sick。　But　there　was　no　response。　She　grasped　the　doorknob　and　was　surprised　to　find　it　slightly　warm　to　the　touch。　Was　there　a　fire？　Had　somebody　fallen　asleep；　cigarette　in　hand？　There　was　definitely　a　faint　smell　of　smoke；　but　it　wasn't　just　smoke　somehow：　it　was　something　stronger。　Something　foul。　
　She　tried　the　doorknob；　found　it　locked。　It　reminded　her　of　the　time；　when　she　was　a　little　girl　at　the　convent　school；　when　crazy　old　Sister　Ana　had　died　and　they　had　to　force　open　her　door。　
　Somebody　on　the　other　side　might　need　her　assistance；　might　be　sick　or　incapacitated。　Once　again　she　fumbled　with　the　keys。　She　had　no　idea　which　one　went　to　the　door；　so　it　wasn't　until　perhaps　the　tenth　try　that　the　key　turned。　Holding　her　breath；　she　opened　the　door；　but　it　moved　only　an　inch　before　stopping；　blocked　by　something。　She　pushed；　pushed　harder；　heard　a　crash　on　the　other　side。　
　Santa　María；　it　was　going　to　wake　up　Mr。　Jeremy。　She　waited；　but　there　was　no　sound　of　his　tread；　no　slamming　bathroom　door　or　flushing　toilet；　none　of　the　sounds　that　signaled　his　irascible　rising。　
　She　pushed　at　the　door　and　was　able　to　get　her　head　inside；　holding　her　breath　against　the　smell。　A　thin　screen　of　haze　drifted　in　the　room；　and　it　was　as　hot　as　an　oven。　The　room　had　been　shut　up　for　years…Mr。　Jeremy　despised　children…and　dirty　spiderwebs　hung　from　the　peeling　beadboard　walls。　The　crash　had　been　caused　by　the　toppling　of　an　old　armoire　that　had　been　pushed　up　against　the　door。　In　fact；　all　the　furniture　in　the　room　seemed　to　have　been　piled　against　the　door；　except　for　the　bed。　The　bed；　she　could　see；　was　on　the　far　side　of　the　room。　Mr。　Jeremy　lay　on　it；　fully　clothed。　
　〃Mr。　Jeremy？〃　
　B