p&c.brimstone-第41部分

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g　and　going　at　unpredictable　times…except　that　every　night；　at　one　o'clock　in　the　morning；　he　exited　the　house；　crossed　Riverside　Drive　at　137th　Street；　and　took　a　stroll　through　Riverside　Park。　He　always　returned　within　twenty　minutes。　It　seemed　to　be　an　evening　constitutional；　a　turn　around　the　block；　so　to　speak；　before　going　to　bed。　
　Over　the　past　forty…eight　hours；　Vasquez　had　e　to　realize　he　was　dealing　with　a　man　of　intelligence　and　ability；　and　yet　a　man　who　was　also　ineffably　strange。　As　usual；　Vasquez　wasn't　sure　quite　how　he　arrived　at　his　conclusions；　but　he　was　rarely　wrong　about　people　and　trusted　his　instincts。　This　man　was　something　else。　Even　on　the　surface　he　was　odd；　with　his　black　suit；　marblelike　plexion；　and　his　quick；　noiseless　walk　more　like　that　of　a　cat　than　a　man。　Something　about　the　way　he　moved　spoke　to　Vasquez　of　utter　self…confidence。　Further；　anyone　who　would　go　strolling　in　Riverside　Park　in　the　middle　of　the　night　had　to　be　either　crazy　or　packing　heat；　and　he　had　no　doubt　the　man　possessed　an　excellent　weapon　and　knew　how　to　use　it。　Twice　he　had　seen　gang　members　who'd　staked　out　the　block　quietly　disappear　when　the　target　emerged。　They　knew　a　bad　deal　when　they　saw　it。　
　Vasquez　wrenched　off　a　piece　of　teriyaki　beef　jerky　and　chewed　it　slowly；　reviewing　his　notes。　There　seemed　to　be　four　inhabitants　in　the　house：　Pendergast；　a　butler；　an　elderly　housekeeper　he'd　viewed　only　once；　and　a　young　woman　who　wore　long；　old…fashioned　dresses。　She　wasn't　his　daughter　or　his　squeeze…they　were　too　formal　with　each　other。　Perhaps　she　was　an　assistant　of　some　kind。　The　house　had　only　one　regular　visitor：　a　balding；　slightly　overweight　policeman　with　a　Southampton　P。D。　patch　on　his　arm。　Using　his　puter　and　wireless　modem；　Vasquez　had　easily　discovered　the　man　was　one　Sergeant　Vincent　D'Agosta。　He　looked　like　a　straight…ahead；　no…bullshit　type；　solid　and　dependable；　offering　few　surprises。　
　Then　there　had　been　a　very　strange　old　man　with　a　wild　head　of　white　hair　who　had　e　by　only　once；　late　at　night；　scurrying　along　almost　like　a　crab；　clutching　a　book。　Probably　some　kind　of　functionary；　an　Igor；　a　man　of　no　importance。　
　The　one　o'clock　walk　was；　of　course；　the　time　to　do　it。　Hit　him　as　he　emerged　from　the　semicircular　drive。　Vasquez　had　gone　over　it　again　and　again；　figuring　out　the　geometry　of　death。　If　the　first　round　entered　the　man's　head　obliquely；　the　round　would　be　deflected　slightly　by　the　inside　curve　of　the　skull　and　exit　at　an　angle。　The　torque　generated　by　the　off…center　hit　would　spin　the　target。　As　a　result；　the　angle　and　pattern　of　the　exit　spray　would　suggest　a　shooter　from　a　window　somewhere　down　the　street。　The　second　round　would　strike　him　on　the　way　down；　spinning　him　further。　The　position　of　the　body　would　help　throw　off　the　initial　response；　deflecting　it　down　the　block。　In　any　case；　he　himself　would　be　out　the　back　and　onto　136th　Street　practically　before　the　body　hit　the　ground；　five　minutes　to　the　Broadway　IRT　train　and　gone。　Nobody　would　notice　him…a　seedily　dressed　Puerto　Rican　runner　heading　home　after　a　day　of　dubious　employment。　
　Vasquez　bit　off　another　hunk　of　the　dry　meat。　He　wasn't　sure　just　what　it　was　that　brought　on　a　feeling　of　readiness；　but　he　always　knew　when　the　time　had　e　for　the　kill。　It　was　now　forty　minutes　to　one；　and　it　felt　to　him　like　that　time　had　e。　For　two　nights　running；　Pendergast　had　emerged　at　exactly　1A。M。　Vasquez　felt　certain　he　would　do　it　again。　This　would　be　the　night。　
　He　took　off　his　clothes　and　put　on　his　getaway　costume…warm…up　suit　open　at　the　chest；　heavy　gold；　puffy　sneakers；　thin　mustache；　cell　phone…turning　himself　into　just　another　cheap　hustler　from　Spanish　Harlem。　
　Vasquez　extinguished　the　light；　removed　the　small　piece　of　wood　from　the　corner　of　the　boarded…up　window；　and　got　into　position。　Snugging　his　cheek　against　the　posite　stock…a　stock　that　would　never　warp　or　swell　in　adverse　weather…he　carefully　aligned　the　match　grade　barrel　to　the　spot　where　the　target's　head　would　appear；　right　beyond　the　marble　and　brick　wall　that　supported　the　porte…cochère。　There　the　target　always　paused　to　speak　to　the　butler；　waiting　to　make　sure　the　man　shut　and　locked　the　door。　It　was　a　ten…　or　twenty…second　pause：　an　eternity　of　opportunity　for　a　shooter　like　Vasquez。　
　As　he　readied　his　equipment；　Vasquez　felt　a　faint　twinge　of　uneasiness。　Not　for　the　first　time；　he　wondered　if　the　whole　setup　was　just　a　little　too　easy。　The　one　o'clock　stroll；　the　little　pause…everything　seemed　a　little　too　perfect。　Was　he　being　set　up？　Did　the　target　know　he　was　there？　Vasquez　shook　his　head；　smiling　ruefully。　He　always　had　an　attack　of　paranoia　just　before　the　kill。　There　was　no　way　the　subject　could　have　detected　his　presence。　What's　more；　the　target　had　already　exposed　himself　on　a　number　of　occasions。　If　he　had　known　a　shooter　was　tracking　him；　those　deliberate　exposures　would　take　a　level　of　sangfroid　few　human　beings　possessed。　Vasquez　had　already　had　half　a　dozen　chances　to　kill　him　cleanly。　It　was　just　that　he'd　never　felt　ready。　
　Now　he　did。　
　Slowly　and　carefully；　he　fitted　his　eye　to　the　scope。　The　scope　had　a　built…in　pensator　for　bullet　drop　and　had　already　been　properly　zeroed　for　windage。　Everything　was　ready。　He　sighted　through　the　crosshair　grid。　The　central　crosshairs　were　positioned　just　where　the　target　would　pause。　It　would　be　quick　and　clean；　as　always。　The　butler　would　witness　it　and　call　the　police；　but　by　then　Vasquez　would　be　gone。　They　would　find　his　kill　nest；　of　course；　but　it　would　do　them　no　good。　They　already　had　his　DNA；　for　all　the　good　it　did　them。　Vasquez　would　be　back　home　by　then；　sipping　lemonade　on　the　beach。　
　He　waited；　gazing　at　the　doorway　through　the　scope。　The　minutes　ticked　off。　Five　minutes　to　one。　Three　to　one。　One　o'clock。　
　The　door　opened　and　the　target　emerged；　right　on　schedule。　He　took　a　few　steps；　turned；　began　speaking　with　the　butler。　
　The　rifle　was　already　sighted　in。　Gently　and　evenly；　Vasquez's　finger　began　to　apply　increasing　pressure　to　the　trigger。　
　There　was　a　sudden　faint　pop　and　flash　of　light　from　down　the　block；　followed　by　a　tinkle　of　glass。　Vasquez　hesitated；　taking　his　eye　from　the　sight；　but　it　was　just　a　streetlight　failing　as　they　always　did　in　that　neighborhood…or　perhaps　some　young　hoodlum…in…training　with　a　BB　gun。　
　But　the　moment　had　passed；　and　the　man　was　now　walking　across　the　street；　toward　the　park。　
　Vasquez　leaned　back　from　the　rifle；　feeling　the　tension　drain　away。　He　had　missed　his　opportunity。　
　Should　he　catch　him　ing　back？　No；　the　man　walked　so　swiftly　back　into　the　porte…cochère　that　he　could　not　be　sure　of　that　perfect；　off…center　shot。　No　matter：　it　just　wasn't　in　the　cards。　So　much　for　his　paranoia；　for　everything　seeming　a　little　too　easy。　
　So　he　would　be　in　his　little　nest　for　another　twenty…four　hours。　But　he　wasn't　plaining：　two　million　dollars　was　just　as　acceptable　for　three　days'　work　as　it　was　for　two。　
　　　
　38　
　
　D'Agosta　rode　in　the　back　of　the　Rolls　in　silence。　Proctor　wasdriving；　and　Pendergast　sat　beside　him　in　the　front　passenger　seat；　chatting　about　the　Boston　Red　Sox；　which　appeared　to　be　the　only　topic　of　interest　to　Proctor；　and　which　Pendergast　in　his　mysterious　way　seemed　to　know　all　about。　They　were　debating　some　statistical　nuance　of　the　1916　pennant　race　that　stupefied　even　D'Agosta；　who　considered　himself　a　baseball　fan。　
　〃Where　is　it　we're　meeting　this　Beckmann　again？〃　D'Agosta　interrupted。　
　Pendergast　glanced　into　the　backseat。　〃He's　in　Yonkers。〃　
　〃You　think　he'll　talk　to　us？　I　mean；　Cutforth　and　Bullard　weren't　exactly　forthing。〃　
　〃I　imagine　he'll　be　most　eloquent。〃　
　Pendergast　resumed　his　discussion；　and　D'Agosta　turned　his　attention　to　the　passing　scenery；　wondering　if　he'd　pleted　all　the　necessary　paperwork　on　yesterday's　dust…up　with　the　Chinese。　This　case　was　generating　more　paperwork　than　any　he'd　been　involved　with　before。　Or　was　it　just　all　the　new　bullshit　regulations　that　were　keeping　him　hogtied？　Pendergast　never　seemed　to　do　any　paperwork；　D'Agosta　wondered　if　the　agent　somehow　still　managed　to　keep　above　such　mundane　details；　or　if　he　simply　worked　all　night　filling　out　forms。　
　The　Rolls　had　left　Manhattan　via　the　Willis　Avenue　Bridge　and　was　now　heading　north　through　late　Saturday　morning　traffic　along　the　Major　Deegan　Expressway。　Soon　it　left　the　Deegan　for　the　Mosholu　Parkway　and　made　its　way　into　the　hard…core　inner　ring　of　suburbs　that　prised　the　lower　fringe　of　Westchester　County。　Pendergast　had　been　his　usual　reticent　self　about　where　they　were　going。　Dun…colored　housing　projects；　aging　industrial　plexes；　and　strings　of　gas　stations　passed　by　in　a　blur。　After　a　mile　or　two；　they　exited　onto　Yonkers　Avenue。　D'Agosta　sat　back　with　a　sigh。　Yonkers；　the　city　with　the　ugliest　name　in　America。　What　was　Beckmann　doing　here？　Maybe　he　had　some　nice　place　overlooking　the　Hudson：　D'Agosta　had　heard　talk　of　the　city's　waterfront　revitalization。　
　But　the　waterfront　was　not　their　destination。　Instead；　the　Rolls　turned　east；　toward　Nodine　Hill。　D'Agosta　watched　the　passing　road　signs　with　little　interest。　Prescott　Street。　Elm　Street。　Except　there　didn't　seem　to　be　any　elms　here；　only　dying　ginkgo　trees　that　barely　softened　the　dingy　residential　lines。　As　they　drove　on；　the　neighborhood　grew　increasingly　seedy。　Drunks　and　addicts　now　lounged　on　front　stoops；　watching　the　Rolls　pass　with　scant　interest。　Every　square　inch　of　space　was　covered　by　illegible　graffiti…even　the　tree　trunks。　The　sky　was　the　color　of　lead；　and　the　day　was　being　chilly。　Here　and　there　they　passed　vacant　lots；　reclaimed　by　weeds　or　sumac；　patches　of　jungle　in　the　middle　of　the　city。　
　〃Left　here；　please。〃　
　Proctor　turned　into　a　dead…end　street　and　glided　to　a　stop　in　front　of　the　last　building。　D'Agosta　stepped　out；　Proctor　staying　with　the　car。　
　Instead　of　entering　the　tenement；　Pendergast　headed　for　the　end　of　the　cul…de…sac：　a　twelve…foot　cinder…block　wall　covered　with　still　more　graffiti。　An　iron　door；　studded　with　old　rivets；　streaked　and　scaly　with　rust；　was　set　into　the　wall。　
　Pendergast　tried　the　handle；　then　bent　to　examine　the　lock。　He　removed　a　pencil…thin　flashlight　from　his　pock