“It’s open,” Pendergast said, slipping inside.
After the briefest of hesitations, D’Agosta followed. They paused in the entryway, examining the great vaulted spaces of the piano terra, dark with ancient frescoes and trompe l’oeil.
The smell was stronger here. Sulfur, phosphorus—and burned grease.
Now Pendergast moved up the great sweep of stairs leading to the second floor and the salone. D’Agosta followed him down a vaulted hallway to a massive set of wooden doors, bolted and banded in iron. One was ajar, and a flickering light came from beyond.
Pendergast pushed it wide.
It took D’Agosta a moment to register. The light came, not from a burning candle or the great fireplace in the far wall, but from the middle of the room. There, in the center of a crude circle, something was in the last stages of burning, just a few licks of flame rising from charred lumps.
It was the outline of a human being.
With horror and disbelief, D’Agosta took in the smoldering, greasy outline; the ashy remnants of the skeleton, every fire-cracked bone in place, spread-eagled on the floor. There in its proper place was the belt buckle, there were the three metal buttons of a jacket. Where one of the pockets had been was now a fused lump of euros. The remains of a gold pen rested among the ashes of the upper ribs. The burned bones of one hand still sported a pair of familiar-looking rings.
But not all had burned. A single foot was perfectly preserved, burned only as far as the ankle. It looked absurdly like a movie prop, still encased in a beautifully polished handmade wing tip. And there at the other end was another piece of the body: just the side of the face, with one staring eye, a lock of hair, and a perfect pink ear, all intact, as if the fire that had consumed this person had suddenly ceased at a line drawn down the side of the head. The other half was mere skull, blackened, split and crumbled by heat.
Enough of the face remained to leave no doubt who this was. Locke Bullard.
D’Agosta found he’d been holding his breath. He let it out with a shudder, took in a lungful of what stank of sulfur and burned roast. As his faculties began to return, he noticed that the silk-draped walls and ceiling were covered with a greasy film. The large circle the body lay within appeared to have been incised into the floor, surrounded by mysterious symbols, the whole enclosed in a double pentagram. Nearby was a smaller circle—but this second circle was empty.
D’Agosta couldn’t find the energy to turn away. He felt a snap and realized he’d been gripping his cross so hard he’d broken the chain. He looked down at the object in his hand, so familiar and reassuring. It seemed incredible that it could be true; that everything the sisters had told him so many years ago was, in fact, real: but at this moment, there wasn’t the slightest doubt in his mind that this, this, was the work of the devil himself.
He glanced over at Pendergast and found he, too, was rooted to the spot, his face full of astonishment, shock—and disappointment. This means the end of a theory, D’Agosta thought to himself. And the loss of a witness. It was not just a shock. It was a terrible, perhaps even critical, blow to the investigation.
But even as D’Agosta stared, Pendergast took out his cell phone and started dialing.
D’Agosta could hardly believe his eyes. “Who are you calling?”
“I’m calling the carabinieri. Italian law enforcement. We are guests here, and it is important to play by the rules.” He spoke briefly in Italian, snapped the phone shut, turned back to D’Agosta. “We have about twenty minutes until the police arrive. Let us make the most of it.”
He began to make a quick tour of the crime scene, pausing at a small table on which several objects lay: an old piece of parchment, a strange-looking knife, a small pile of salt. D’Agosta simply watched, unable to bring himself to participate.
“My, my,” said Pendergast. “Our friend Bullard had been consulting a grimoire shortly before his, ah, demise.”
“What’s a grimoire?”
“A book of the black arts. They contain instructions for raising demons, among other things.”
D’Agosta swallowed. He wanted to get the hell out of here. This wasn’t like Grove’s death, or even Cutforth’s—this had just happened. And this wasn’t any normal killer. There was nothing Pendergast or any human law enforcement entity could do. Hail Mary, full of grace . . .
Pendergast was bending over the knife. “What do we have here? An arthame, by the looks of it.”
D’Agosta wanted to tell Pendergast they had to get out, that forces a lot bigger than themselves were at work here, but he couldn’t seem to form the words.
“Note that the circle enclosing Bullard has a little piece scratched out—do you see?—over there. It’s been turned into a broken circle.”