“Perhaps, then, our young fellow with the cell phone might decide cremation is the way to go. This leaves no corpse behind to be violated, over slow years, by the beetles and the worms. Surely cremation is a quick, a dignified end to our human form. Aren’t we told as much?
“Then let me be the one to tell you, my brothers and sisters, no death is dignified that befalls us outside the sight of God. I’ve witnessed more cremations that I can count. Do you have any idea how hard it is to burn a human body? How much heat is required? Or what happens when the body comes in contact with a six-hundred-degree flame? I will tell you, my friends, and forgive me if I do not spare you. You will learn there is a reason I do not spare you.
“First the hair, from head to toe, crisps in a blaze of blue smoke. Then the body snaps to attention, just like a cadet in a parade review. And then the body tries to sit up. Doesn’t matter that there’s a casket lid in the way, it tries to sit up all the same. The temperature rises, maybe to eight hundred degrees. And it is now that the marrow boils and the bones themselves begin to burst, the backbone exploding just like a string of Black Cats.
“And still the temperature goes up. A thousand degrees, fifteen hundred, two thousand. The eruptions keep on, rattling the retort oven like gunshots—but again I will refrain from naming just what is exploding at this point. Leave me only say that this goes on for as long as three hours before the mortal remains are reduced to ash and fragments of bone.
“Why have I not spared you more of these details, my brothers and sisters? I will tell you why. Because Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, who never sleeps in his tireless pursuit of corruption, will not spare you, either. And the fires of that crematorium burn far cooler, and far briefer, than the fires to which that important young man’s soul is surely destined. Two thousand degrees or ten thousand, three hours or three centuries—these are nothing to Lucifer. These are but a warm spring wind passing for the briefest of moments. And when you try to sit up in that burning lake of brimstone—when you bump your head on the roof of hell and fall back into that unquenchable flame, burning so hot it surpasses all powers of my poor tongue to describe it—who will hear your prayers? Nobody. You already had a lifetime to pray, tragically squandered.
“And that is why I am here, my friends. Up in that beautiful building, towering so high over our puny heads, Lucifer showed his face to this great city and seized the soul of a man. A man named Cutforth. Revelation tells us that in the End Days, Lucifer will openly walk the earth. He has arrived. The death out on Long Island, the death right here: these are but the beginning. We have been given a sign, and we must act. And act now. It is not too late. The crypt or the crematorium urn, the maggot or the flame—you must all of you understand that it makes no difference. When your soul is laid bare before the judge of all, what will be your account? I ask you to look into yourself now, in silence; and in silence to judge yourself. And then, in a little while, we will pray together. Pray for forgiveness, and for the time still upon this earth, and in this doomed city, in which to find redemption.”
Almost mechanically, without taking his eyes from Buck, Harriman slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and called the photo department, speaking very softly. It was Klein’s shift, and he understood exactly what Harriman wanted. No caricature of a Bible-thumping preacher here. Just the opposite. Harriman would make the Reverend Buck look like a man the readers of the Post would respect: a man who seemed the most reasonable, thoughtful person alive.
And if you heard him speak, you might believe it yourself.
Harriman slipped the phone back into his pocket. This Reverend Buck might not know it yet, but soon—very soon—he was going to be page one news.
{ 52 }
The night was humid and fragrant. Crickets trilled in the close darkness. D’Agosta followed Pendergast along an abandoned railroad track between squalid-looking concrete apartments. It was midnight and the moon had just set, lowering a velvety cloak over the city.
The tracks ended, leaving only the railroad grade, which was crossed by a sagging chain-link fence running off into darkness on both sides. On the far side of the fence lay blackness, with just the faintest outline of large trees silhouetted against the night.
Following Pendergast, D’Agosta turned and walked along the fence for a few hundred yards until they reached a cluster of trees. In the center was a tiny clearing, carpeted with dead leaves and old chestnut burrs.
“We’ll prep here,” said Pendergast, setting down the bag he’d been carrying.
D’Agosta put down his own bag and took a few deep breaths. He was glad he’d begun working out after the chase through Riverside Park but wished he’d thought of it sooner. Pendergast didn’t even seem winded.