The priest removed a microcassette recorder from his pocket. “I made a copy before turning it over to the police.”
Holding it up in one hand, he pressed the play button. There was a beep. Then:
Bernard? Bernard! It’s Jeremy Grove. Are you there? Pick up the phone, for God’s sake!
The voice was high, strained, tinny.
Listen, Bernard, I need you here, now. You’ve got to come. Southampton, 3001 Dune Road. Come immediately. It’s . . . it’s horrible. Bring a cross, Bible, holy water. My God, Bernard, he’s coming for me. Do you hear? He’s coming for me! I need to confess, I need forgiveness, absolution . . . For the love of God, Bernard, pick up the phone—
His voice was cut off by the message machine using up its allotted time. The harsh voice echoed into silence in the bare, whitewashed room. D’Agosta felt a shiver of horror.
“Well,” said Pendergast after a moment. “I’d be curious to hear your thoughts on that, Father.”
Father Cappi’s face was grim. “I believe he felt damnation was upon him.”
“Damnation? Or the devil?”
Cappi shifted uncomfortably. “For whatever reason, Jeremy Grove knew his death was imminent. He wanted to obtain forgiveness before the end. That was even more important to him than calling the police. Grove, you see, never stopped believing.”
“Are you familiar with the physical evidence at the scene of the crime: the burned hoofprint, the traces of sulfur and brimstone, the peculiar heating of the body?”
“I was told, yes.”
“How do you explain it?”
“The work of a mortal man. Grove’s killer wished to make a statement about what kind of man Grove was. Hence the hoofprint, brimstone, and all the rest.” Father Cappi slid the tape recorder back into his cassock. “There’s nothing mysterious about evil, Mr. Pendergast. It’s here all around us, I see it every day. And I somehow doubt the real devil, whatever form he might take, would wish to draw such unwelcome attention to his way of doing business.”
{ 7 }
In the first darkness following sunset, the man known only as Wren walked up the broad, trash-strewn thoroughfare of upper Riverside Drive. To his left lay the black outlines of Riverside Park and the Hudson River beyond; to his right, the vast hulks of once-great mansions, now empty and decaying. Wren’s shadow flitted from streetlamp to streetlamp as the last touch of red left the incarnadine sky. Despite the gentrification creeping up from southern Manhattan, this remained a dangerous neighborhood, one in which few would wish to be caught after dark. But there was something about Wren—the cadaverousness of his features, perhaps; or his quick, stealthy scuttle of a walk; or the wild shock of white hair, unnaturally thick for a man of his years—that kept predators at bay.
Now Wren stopped before a large Beaux Arts mansion that fronted Riverside Drive from 137th to 138th Streets. The four-story pile was surrounded by a tall spiked-iron fence, furred in rust. Beyond the fence, the lawn was overgrown with weeds and ancient ailanthus bushes. The mansion itself seemed in decrepitude: windows securely boarded up with tin, slate roof tiles chipped, widow’s walk missing half its metal posts.
The iron gate blocking the entrance was ajar. Without pausing, Wren slipped through the opening and down the cobbled drive to the porte-cochère. Here, trash had accumulated in the corners, blown by the wind into fantastic shapes. In the blackness beneath the carriageway entrance was set a lone oaken door, festooned with graffiti but solid-looking nonetheless. Wren raised his bony hand, rapped once, then again.
The echo of his knock was lost in the vast spaces within. For a minute, perhaps two, all remained still. Then there was the rasp of a heavy lock being turned, and the door slowly creaked open. Yellow light filtered out. Pendergast stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the paleness of his features enhanced by the incandescent glow of the hallway. Without a word, he ushered Wren in, then closed and locked the door behind them.