p&c.brimstone-第52部分

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ent　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　pocket　and　peered　into　the　keyhole；　probing　with　a　small　metal　tool。　
　〃Going　to　pick　it？〃　D'Agosta　asked。　
　Pendergast　straightened。　〃Naturally。〃　He　removed　his　sidearm　and　shot　into　the　lock　once；　twice；　the　deafening　reports　rolling　like　thunder　up　the　alleyway。　
　〃Jesus；　I　thought　you　said　you　were　going　to　pick　it！〃　
　〃I　did。　With　my　pick　of　last　resort。〃　Pendergast　holstered　the　。45。　〃It's　the　only　way　to　unlock　a　solid　block　of　rust。　This　door　hasn't　been　opened　in　years。〃　He　raised　his　foot　and　gave　the　door　a　shove。　It　swung　open　with　a　groan　of　rusted　metal。　
　D'Agosta　peered　through　the　doorway；　astonished。　Instead　of　a　small　weedy　lot；　the　door　opened　on　a　vast　overgrown　meadow　rising　up　a　hill；　covering　at　least　ten　acres；　surrounded　by　decaying　tenements。　At　the　top　stood　a　cluster　of　dead　trees　circling　the　ruins　of　what　looked　like　a　Greek　temple：　four　Doric　columns　still　standing；　roof　caved　in；　the　whole　structure　shrouded　in　ivy。　Directly　before　them　was　what　once　had　been　a　small　road。　Now　it　was　thick　with　weeds　and　poison　sumac；　rows　of　dead　trees　lining　either　side；　their　clawlike　branches　reaching　into　the　gray　sky。　
　D'Agosta　shivered。　〃What's　this；　some　kind　of　park？〃　
　〃After　a　fashion。〃　
　Pendergast　began　ascending　the　broken　surface　of　the　road；　carefully　stepping　over　chunks　of　frost…heaved　asphalt；　skirting　four…foot　weeds　and　dodging　the　poisonous　sumac　pistils。　If　he　felt　any　lingering　pain　from　the　bullet　graze　of　the　day　before；　it　did　not　show。　On　either　side；　beyond　the　dead　trees；　the　weeds　rose　into　a　riot　of　overgrowth：　ivy　run　rampant；　brambles；　and　bushes。　Everything　was　intensely　green；　growing　with　unnatural　vigor　and　health。　
　After　a　few　hundred　feet；　Pendergast　paused；　removed　a　piece　of　paper　from　his　pocket；　consulted　it。　
　〃This　way。〃　
　He　started　down　a　path　at　right　angles　to　the　road。　D'Agosta　scrambled　to　follow；　pushing　through　the　chest…high　growth；　his　uniform　being　covered　with　pollen　dust。　Pendergast　moved　slowly；　peering　left　and　right；　once　in　a　while　consulting　the　diagram　in　his　hand。　He　seemed　to　be　counting。　D'Agosta　gradually　became　aware　just　what　it　was　Pendergast　was　counting：　almost　invisible　in　the　undergrowth　were　rows　of　low；　gray　slabs　of　granite　set　into　the　ground；　each　with　a　name　and　a　pair　of　dates。　
　〃Hell；　we're　in　a　cemetery！〃　said　D'Agosta。　
　〃A　potter's　field；　to　be　exact；　where　the　indigent；　the　friendless；　and　the　insane　were　buried。　Pine　coffin；　six…foot　hole；　granite　tombstone；　and　a　two…minute　eulogy；　all　courtesy　of　the　state　of　New　York。　It　filled　up　close　to　ten　years　ago。〃　
　D'Agosta　gave　a　whistle。　〃And　Ranier　Beckmann？〃　
　Pendergast　said　nothing。　He　was　moving　through　the　ragweed；　still　counting。　Suddenly　he　halted　before　a　low　granite　stone；　no　different　from　any　of　the　others。　With　a　sweep　of　his　foot；　he　knocked　aside　the　weeds。　
　　　
　RANIER　BECKMAN　
　1952…1995　
　　　
　A　chill　wind　swept　down　from　the　hill；　rippling　the　weeds　like　a　field　of　grain。　There　was　a　distant　rumble　of　thunder。　
　〃Dead！〃　D'Agosta　exclaimed。　
　〃Exactly。〃　Pendergast　extracted　his　cell　phone　and　dialed。　〃Sergeant　Baskin？　We　have　located　the　grave　in　question　and　are　ready　for　the　exhumation。　I　have　all　the　forensics　paperwork　here。　We　shall　await　you。〃　
　D'Agosta　laughed。　〃You've　got　quite　a　sense　of　theater；　you　know　that；　Pendergast？〃　
　Pendergast　shut　the　cell　phone　with　a　snap。　〃I　didn't　want　to　tell　you　until　I　was　sure　myself；　and　for　that　I　needed　to　find　the　grave。　There　was　a　sad　paucity　of　records　on　Mr。　Beckmann。　Those　few　that　we　managed　to　uncover　were　suspect。　As　you　can　see；　they　even　misspelled　his　name　on　the　tombstone。〃　
　〃But　you　said　Beckmann　would　be　'most　eloquent。'〃　
　〃And　so　he　will。　While　dead　men　tell　no　tales；　their　corpses　often　speak　volumes。　And　I　think　Ranier　Beckmann's　corpse　has　quite　a　bit　to　tell　us。〃　
　　　
　39　
　
　Locke　Bullard　stood　on　the　flying　bridge　of　the　Stormcloud。　The　air　was　crisp　and　sharp；　the　ocean　flat…calm。　It　was　a　world　reduced　to　its　essentials。　The　ship　throbbed　beneath　his　feet；　the　cool　breeze　flowed　past　him　as　the　ship　plowed　eastward　at　flank　speed　toward　Europe。　
　Bullard　lowered　his　cigar　and　stared　forward　at　the　point　where　the　sky　met　the　knife　edge　of　ocean；　his　knuckles　white　on　the　rail。　On　this　clear　fall　day；　it　really　did　look　like　the　edge　of　the　world；　from　which　a　ship　could　sail　off　into　weightless　oblivion。　A　part　of　him　wished　it　would　happen：　that　he　could　just　drop　off　the　world　and　be　done　with　it。　
　He　could　do　it　now；　in　fact；　he　could　wander　to　the　back　of　the　ship　and　slip　off　into　the　water。　Only　his　steward　would　miss　him　and　probably　not　for　some　time：　he　had　spent　most　of　the　voyage　locked　in　his　cabin；　having　his　meals　delivered；　seeing　no　one。　
　Bullard　could　feel　himself　trembling；　every　muscle　tense；　his　whole　body　in　the　grip　of　powerful　emotion；　a　terrible　bination　of　rage；　regret；　horror；　and　astonishment。　He　could　hardly　believe　what　had　happened；　what　had　brought　him　to　this　point…here；　in　the　middle　of　the　Atlantic；　heading　eastward　on　such　fateful　business。　Never　in　a　million　years　of　corporate　scheming…with　all　his　plotting；　counterplotting；　and　preparation　for　every　eventuality…could　he　have　expected　it　would　e　to　this。　At　least　he'd　been　able　to　remove　the　wild　card　of　that　FBI　agent；　Pendergast：　if　Vasquez　hadn't　finished　the　job　yet；　he　would　soon。　
　And　yet　this　was　slight　consolation。　
　He　caught　the　glimpse　of　movement　out　of　the　corner　of　his　eye。　It　was　the　slim　figure　of　his　steward；　bobbing　deferentially　at　the　hatch。　〃Sir？　The　videoconference　is　in　three　minutes。〃　
　Bullard　nodded；　turned　his　eyes　once　more　toward　the　horizon；　hawked　up　a　gobbet　of　phlegm；　and　rocketed　it　into　the　far　blue。　The　cigar　followed。　Then　he　turned　and　descended。　
　The　videoconference　room　was　small；　built　just　for　him。　The　technician　was　there…why　were　they　all　weaselly　men　with　goatees？…hunched　over　the　keyboard。　He　rose　when　Bullard　entered；　bumping　his　head　on　a　bulkhead　in　his　haste。　〃Everything's　set；