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 complete 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 the salone. 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 a physical sensation, a harbinger of what was to come, 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 coming! He was really coming . . . !
{ 57 }
D’Agosta felt numb. The shot, the silence, and the final splash—this was really it.
“Come on,” his minder said, giving him a push.
D’Agosta couldn’t move; he couldn’t believe what was happening.
“Move!” The man jabbed D’Agosta in the back of the head with his gun barrel.
He stumbled forward, mechanically trying to keep his footing among discarded pieces of stone. The moldy breath of the open shaft washed over him. Six steps, eight, a dozen.
“Stop.”
Now he could feel the foul air tickling his nose, stirring his hair. Everything seemed abnormally clear, and time had slowed to a crawl. Jesus, what a way to go out.
The gun barrel pressed hard against his skull. D’Agosta squeezed his eyes tightly closed behind the blindfold, prayed for a quick end.
He took a shallow breath, another. Then came a deafening gunshot. He fell forward into space . . .
. . . Vaguely, as if at a great distance, he sensed a steel arm shooting out from behind and hauling him back from the utter brink. The hand let go, and D’Agosta collapsed immediately onto the rock-strewn grass. A moment later he heard a body—not his—hitting the water far below.
“Vincent?”
It was Pendergast.
A snick and his blindfold was removed; another snick and Pendergast had cut off his gag. D’Agosta lay where he had fallen, stunned.
“Wake up, Vincent.”
Slowly, D’Agosta came back. Pendergast was standing to one side, gun trained on his own minder, binding him to a tree. D’Agosta’s man was nowhere to be seen.
D’Agosta stumbled woodenly to his feet. He felt a strange wetness on his face. Tears? Dew from the grass? It seemed a miracle. He swallowed, managed to croak, “How . . . ?”
But Pendergast simply shook his head and glanced into the yawning mouth of the shaft. “I think his shoe troubles are over.” Then he glanced at the remaining guard and flashed him a brief, chilling smile.
The man paled and mumbled something through his gag.
Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “Show me your finger.”
D’Agosta had forgotten all about it. Pendergast took his hand, examined it. “Done with a sharp knife. You’re lucky: neither the bone nor the root of the nail was affected.” He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his black shirt and bandaged it. “It might be wise to get you to a hospital.”
“The hell with that. We’re going after Bullard.”
Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “I’m delighted to hear that we are of the same opinion. Yes, now is a good opportunity. As for your finger—”
“Forget the finger.”