p&c.brimstone-第58部分

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　〃If　you　paid　two　hundred　euros；　you'd　be　pissed；　too。〃　
　D'Agosta's　sense　of　unreality　grew。　He　tried　to　embrace　the　throbbing　pain　in　his　finger；　because　as　long　as　he　could　feel　that；　he　knew　he　was　still　alive。　What　he　feared　was　when　the　pain　ended　。　。　。　
　Just　a　few　more　minutes　now。　He　took　a　step　forward；　another；　then　stumbled　against　something　in　the　grass。　
　A　slap　to　the　side　of　the　head。　〃Watch　your　step；　asshole。〃　
　The　air　had　grown　cooler；　and　there　was　a　smell　of　earth　and　decaying　leaves。　He　felt　a　terrible　helplessness。　The　gag　and　blindfold　robbed　him　of　all　ability　to　make　eye　contact　with　Pendergast；　to　signal；　to　do　anything。　
　〃The　trail　to　the　old　quarry　goes　that　way。〃　
　There　was　a　rustling；　then　a　grunt。　〃Jesus；　it's　overgrown　in　here。〃　
　〃Yeah；　and　watch　where　you　put　your　feet。〃　
　D'Agosta　felt　himself　shoved　forward　once　again。　Now　they　were　pushing　through　wet　foliage。　
　〃It's　right　up　ahead。　There's　a　lot　of　stones　near　the　edge；　don't　trip。〃　A　guffaw。　〃It's　a　long　way　down。〃　
　More　pushing　through　bushes　and　wet　grass。　Then　D'Agosta　felt　himself　brusquely　halted。　
　〃Another　twenty　feet；〃　his　man　said。　
　Silence。　D'Agosta　caught　a　whiff　of　something　wet　and　cold…the　exhalation　of　stale　air　from　a　deep　mine　shaft。　
　〃One　at　a　time。　We　don't　want　to　fuck　this　up。　You　go　first。　I'll　wait　here　with　this　one。　And　hurry　up；　I'm　getting　bitten　already。〃　
　D'Agosta　heard　Pendergast　being　pushed　forward；　heard　the　swish　of　wet　footsteps　through　the　undergrowth　ahead。　The　first　man　had　a　tight　hold　on　his　cuffs；　a　gun　barrel　pushed　hard　into　his　ear。　He　should　do　something；　hehad　to　do　something。　But　what？　The　slightest　move　and　he　was　dead。　He　couldn't　believe　what　was　happening。　His　mind　refused　to　accept　it。　He　realized　that；　deep　down；　he'd　been　certain　Pendergast　would　manage　to　do　something　miraculous；　pull　another　rabbit　out　of　his　hat。　But　the　time　for　that　was　past。　What　could　Pendergast　do：　gagged；　blindfolded；　a　gun　to　his　head；　standing　at　the　edge　of　a　precipice？　The　last　small　bit　of　hope　drained　away。　
　〃That's　far　enough；〃　came　the　voice　from　about　thirty　feet　away；　slightly　muffled　by　the　foliage。　It　was　the　second　man；　speaking　to　Pendergast。　D'Agosta　caught　another　whiff　of　cold　air　from　the　mine　shaft。　Insects　whined　in　his　ear。　His　finger　throbbed。　
　It　really　was　over。　
　He　heard　the　sound　of　a　round　being　racked　into　a　pistol　chamber。　
　〃Make　your　peace　with　God；　scumbag。〃　
　A　pause。　And　then　the　sound　of　a　gunshot；　incredibly　loud。　Another　pause…and　then　from　far　below；　echoing　up　the　shaft　in　a　distorted　way；　the　sound　of　a　heavy　object　hitting　water。　
　There　was　a　longer　silence；　and　then　the　man's　voice　came　back；　a　little　breathless。　〃Okay。　Bring　up　the　other　one。〃　
　　　
　56　
　
　Three　a。m。　
　Locke　Bullard　stood　in　the　enormous；　vaulteds　alone　of　his　villa；　isolated　on　a　hill　south　of　Florence；　his　feelings　betrayed　only　by　the　muscles　working　slowly　above　his　massive　jawline。　He　walked　to　the　leaded　windows　that　looked　over　the　walled　gardens；　opened　one　with　a　shaking；　knotted　hand。　The　stars　were　obscured　by　clouds；　the　night　sky　perfectly　black。　A　perfect　night　for　this　kind　of　business；　as　perfect　as　that　other　night　had　been；　all　those　years　ago。　God；　what　he　would　give　to　undo　that　night　。　。　。　He　shivered　at　the　memory；　or　maybe　it　was　just　the　cool　breath　of　the　wind　sighing　through　the　ancient　trees　in　thepineta　beyond　the　garden。　
　He　stood　at　the　window　for　some　time；　struggling　to　calm　himself；　to　suppress　a　growing　feeling　of　dread。　Below；　on　the　terrace；　the　indistinct　white　shapes　of　marble　statues　glowed　faintly。　Soon　it　would　be　over；　he　reminded　himself。　And　he　would　be　free。　Free。　But　right　now；　he　had　to　keep　calm。　He　had　to　put　his　old；　rational　view　of　the　world　aside；　if　only　for　one　night。　Tomorrow；　he　could　tell　himself　it　had　all　been　a　bad　dream。　
　With　a　great　effort　he　cleared　his　mind；　tried　to　focus　on　something　else；　even　briefly。　Beyond　the　swaying　tops　of　the　umbrella　pines；　he　could　see　the　outlines　of　cypresses　on　the　far　hills；　and　then　the　distant　cupola　of　the　Duomo；　next　to　Giotto's　tower；　brightly　lit。　Who　was　it　that　said　only　if　you　lived　within　sight　of　the　Duomo　were　you　a　true　Florentine？　This　was　the　same　view　Machiavelli　had　seen；　exactly　this：　those　hills；　that　famous　dome；　the　distant　tower。　Perhaps　Machiavelli　had　stood　in　this　very　spot　five　hundred　years　ago；　working　out　the　details　ofThe　Prince　。　Bullard　had　read　the　book　when　he　was　twenty。　It　was　one　of　the　reasons　he'd　jumped　at　the　opportunity　to　own　the　villa　Machiavelli　was　born　and　raised　in。　
　Bullard　wondered　how　Machiavelli　would　have　reacted　to　this　predicament。　The　great　courtier　would　no　doubt　have　felt　the　same　things　he　did：　dread　and　resignation。　How　do　you　make　a　choice　when　faced　with　a　problem　that　has　two　solutions；　both　intolerable？　He　corrected　himself：　one　was　intolerable；　the　other　unthinkable。　
　You　accepted　the　intolerable。　
　He　turned　from　the　window　and　looked　across　the　dim　room　at　the　clock　on　the　mantelpiece。　Ten　minutes　after　three。　He　needed　to　make　his　final　preparations。　
　He　moved　toward　a　table　and　lit　a　huge；　ancient　candle；　whose　glow　illuminated　an　old　piece　of　parchment：　a　certain　page　from　a　thirteenth…century　grimoire。　Then；　taking　up　the　ancientarthame　knife　that　lay　beside　it；　Bullard　carefully　began　to　score　a　circle　in　the　terra…cotta　floor　of　the　room；　working　slowly；　taking　the　utmost　care　to　make　sure　the　circle　remained　unbroken。　When　that　was　done；　he　took　a　piece　of　charcoal；　specially　prepared；　and　began　to　inscribe　letters　in　Greek　and　Aramaic　on　the　periphery　of　the　circle；　stopping　now　and　then　to　consult　the　grimoire。　He　followed　this　by　inscribing　two　pentagrams　around　it　all。　Next　he　inscribed　a　smaller　circle…this　one　broken…beside　the　larger。　He　did　not　worry　about　being　interrupted：　he　had　dismissed　all　the　security　and　the　help。　He　wanted　no　chance　of　witnesses　and…above　all…no　chance　of　interruption。　When　you　were　doing　what　he　was　about　to　do；raising　what　he　hoped　to　raise；　there　could　be　no　disruptions；　no　mistakes；　nothing　left　out。　The　stakes　were　greater　than　his　life…because；　it　seemed；　the　consequences　would　not　end　with　his　death。　
　He　paused；　preparations　almost　plete。　It　would　not　be　long　now。　It　would　be　over　and　then　he　could　begin　again。　There　would　be；　of　course；　minor　loose　ends　to　take　care　of：　the　disappearance　of　Pendergast　and　D'Agosta；　for　example；　the　Chinese　and　what　had　happened　in　Paterson。　But　it　would　be　a　relief　to　return　to　business　as　usual。　Those　problems；　as　tricky　as　they　were；　belonged　to　the　real　world；　and　he　could　handle　them。　They　were　small　potatoes　pared　tothis　。　
　He　went　over　the　manuscript　page　again；　then　yet　again；　making　sure　he　had　missed　nothing。　Then；　almost　against　his　will；　his　gaze　shifted　to　the　old　rectangular　box　sitting　on　the　table。　Now　it　was　time　forthat　。　
　He　reached　out；　undid　the　brass　latch。　He　caressed　the　polished　surface　of　the　box　and　then…with　a　terrible　reluctance…opened　it。　A　faint　scent　of　antique　wood　and　horsehair　wafted　upward。　He　breathed　it　in：　this　ancient　perfume；　this　priceless　scent。　With　a　trembling　hand；　he　reached　into　the　darkness　of　the　box；　stroked　the　smooth　object　inside。　He　did　not　dare　take　it　out…handling　it　had　always　frightened　him　a　little。　It　was　not　made　for　him　at　all。　It　was　made　for　others。　Others　who；　if　he　was　successful；　would　never　see　it　again　。　。　。　
　A　sudden　rush　of　regret；　anger；　fear；　and　helplessness　staggered　him。　He　was　almost　overwhelmed　by　the　sheer　force　of　it。　Incredible　that　a　thought　could　virtually　bring　him　to　his　knees。　He　gasped　again；　breathing　hard；　took　a　firm　grip　on　the　heavy　table。　What　had　to　be　done；　had　to　be　done。　
　He　carefully　closed　the　box；　latched　it；　and　placed　it　on　the　ground　inside　the　smaller；　broken　circle。　He　wouldn't　look　at　it　again；　wouldn't　torture　himself　further。　With　a　troubled　heart；　he　glanced　over　at　the　clock。　It　responded　by　chiming　out　the　quarter　hour；　the　bell…like　tones　a　strange　counterpoint　to　the　oppressive　darkness　of　the　room。　Bullard　swallowed；　worked　his　jaw；　and　finally；　with　a　supreme　effort；　spoke　the　words　he　had　memorized　so　carefully。　
　It　was　the　work　of　ninety　seconds　to　plete　the　incantation。　
　At　first；　nothing　happened。　He　strained；　listening；　but　there　was　not　a　sound；　not　a　sigh；　nothing。　Had　he　said　it　incorrectly？　With　the　help　gone；　the　place　was　as　quiet　as　the　tomb。　
　His　eye　drifted　back　to　the　manuscript　page。　Should　he　recite　it　again？　But　no…the　ceremony　had　to　be　performed　precisely；　without　deviation。　Repetition　could　have　disastrous；　unimaginable　consequences。　
　As　he　waited；　there　in　the　faint　light；　he　wondered　if　perhaps　it　wasn't　true；　after　all：　that　it　was　all　hollow　superstition。　But　at　this　thought；　such　a　desperate　mixture　of　hope　and　uncertainty　rose　within　him　that　he　forced　himself　to　push　it　aside。　He　was　not　wrong。　There　could　be　no　other　answer　。　。　。　
　Then　he　felt；　or　thought　he　felt；　a　strange　shifting　of　the　air。　A　faint　smell　came　to　him；　drifting　across　thesalone　。　It　was　the　acrid　odor　of　sulfur。　
　A　breeze　shifted　the　curtains　of　the　window。　The　room　seemed　to　grow　dimmer；　as　if　a　great　darkness　was　encroaching　from　all　directions。　He　felt　himself　go　rigid　with　fear　and　anticipation。It　was　happening。　The　incantation　was　working；　just　as　promised。　
　He　waited；　almost　afraid　to　breathe。　The　smell　got　stronger；　and　now　it　almost　seemed　as　if　tendrils　of　smoke　were　drifting　in　the　lazy　air　of　the　room；　tendrils　that　licked　about　the　windows　and　curled　in　the　corners。　He　felt　a　strange　sense　of　apprehension；　of　physical　dread。　Yes；　it　was　aphysical　sensation；　a　harbinger　of　what　was　to　e；　and　the　air　seemed　to　congeal　with　a　rising　warmth。　
　Bullard　stood　within　the　greater　circle；　his　heart　pounding；　his　eyes　straining　to　see　beyond　the　darkened　doorway。　A　vague　outline　。　。　。　a　lumbering；　slow…moving　shape　。　。　。　
　He'd　done　it！　He'd　succeeded！He　was　ing！He　was　really　ing　。　。　。　！　
　　　
　57　
　
　D'Agosta　felt　numb。　The　shot；　the　silence；　and　the　finalsplash…this　was　really　it。　
　〃e　on；〃　his　minder　said；　giving　him　a　push。　
　D