y。
Now he did。
Slowly and carefully； he fitted his eye to the scope。 The scope had a built…in pensator for bullet drop and had already been properly zeroed for windage。 Everything was ready。 He sighted through the crosshair grid。 The central crosshairs were positioned just where the target would pause。 It would be quick and clean； as always。 The butler would witness it and call the police； but by then Vasquez would be gone。 They would find his kill nest； of course； but it would do them no good。 They already had his DNA； for all the good it did them。 Vasquez would be back home by then； sipping lemonade on the beach。
He waited； gazing at the doorway through the scope。 The minutes ticked off。 Five minutes to one。 Three to one。 One o'clock。
The door opened and the target emerged； right on schedule。 He took a few steps； turned； began speaking with the butler。
The rifle was already sighted in。 Gently and evenly； Vasquez's finger began to apply increasing pressure to the trigger。
There was a sudden faint pop and flash of light from down the block； followed by a tinkle of glass。 Vasquez hesitated； taking his eye from the sight； but it was just a streetlight failing as they always did in that neighborhood…or perhaps some young hoodlum…in…training with a BB gun。
But the moment had passed； and the man was now walking across the street； toward the park。
Vasquez leaned back from the rifle； feeling the tension drain away。 He had missed his opportunity。
Should he catch him ing back？ No； the man walked so swiftly back into the porte…cochère that he could not be sure of that perfect； off…center shot。 No matter： it just wasn't in the cards。 So much for his paranoia； for everything seeming a little too easy。
So he would be in his little nest for another twenty…four hours。 But he wasn't plaining： two million dollars was just as acceptable for three days' work as it was for two。
38
D'Agosta rode in the back of the Rolls in silence。 Proctor wasdriving； and Pendergast sat beside him in the front passenger seat； chatting about the Boston Red Sox； which appeared to be the only topic of interest to Proctor； and which Pendergast in his mysterious way seemed to know all about。 They were debating some statistical nuance of the 1916 pennant race that stupefied even D'Agosta； who considered himself a baseball fan。
〃Where is it we're meeting this Beckmann again？〃 D'Agosta interrupted。
Pendergast glanced into the backseat。 〃He's in Yonkers。〃
〃You think he'll talk to us？ I mean； Cutforth and Bullard weren't exactly forthing。〃
〃I imagine he'll be most eloquent。〃
Pendergast resumed his discussion； and D'Agosta turned his attention to the passing scenery； wondering if he'd pleted all the necessary paperwork on yesterday's dust…up with the Chinese。 This case was generating more paperwork than any he'd been involved with before。 Or was it just all the new bullshit regulations that were keeping him hogtied？ Pendergast never seemed to do any paperwork； D'Agosta wondered if the agent 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。 T