The devil has many faces。
〃As you wish。〃 She rose； pulled her jacket off a hook； slid into it； then nodded to the policemen。 〃Is the marshal ready？〃
〃Yes； Captain。〃
〃Let's go； then。〃
〃Where？〃 Buck asked。
Her only answer was to lead the way down the hall。 They took another elevator down and out through a maze of corridors into the yard； where an unmarked police car sat； idling； gleaming beneath a dozen sodium lamps。 A uniformed cop was behind the wheel。 A small； heavyset man in gray polyester stood beside the passenger door； hands clasped before him。
〃You can uncuff him；〃 Hayward said to the cops。 〃Put him in the back； please。〃
They uncuffed him； opened the door； eased him in。 Meanwhile； Hayward was talking to the man in the suit； giving him the green folder and a clipboard。 He signed the clipboard； handed it back to her； got in beside the driver； and slammed the door。
Now Hayward leaned in at the rear window。 〃You're probably wondering what's going to happen to you； Mr。 Buck。〃
Buck felt a rush of emotion。 This was it： he was being led away； taken to meet his end； his supreme moment。 He was ready。
〃This gentleman is a U。S。 marshal； who is going to escort you by plane back to Broken Arrow； Oklahoma； where you are wanted for parole violation。〃
Buck sat there； stunned。 This couldn't be。 More mockery。 It was a trick； a ruse。
〃Did you hear me？〃
Buck did not acknowledge。 Ithad to be a trick。
〃The D。A。 decided not to file any charges against you here in New York…too much trouble。 And to tell you the truth； you didn't really do anything all that wrong； outside of exercising your right of free speech in a rather misguided way。 We were lucky； avoided a riot； managed to disperse the crowd peacefully once you left。 Everyone went home and the area's now fenced。 Soon the Parks Department will be giving it a thorough cleaning and reseeding； which it needed anyway。 So； you see； no real harm was done； and we felt it better to let the whole incident die a quiet death and be forgotten。〃
Buck listened； hardly able to believe his ears。
〃And what about me？〃 he finally managed to say。
〃Like I said； we're shipping you back to Oklahoma； where there's a parole officer really anxious to talk to you。 We don't want you。 They had a prior and wanted you back。 Nice ending all around。〃
She smiled； laid her hand on the side of the car。 〃Mr。 Buck？ Are you all right？〃
He didn't answer。 Hewasn't all right。 He felt sick。 This wasn't what was supposed to happen。 It was a trick； a vicious trick。
She leaned in just a little farther。 〃Mr。 Buck？ If you don't mind； there's something personal I'd like to say to you。〃
He stared at her。
〃First of all； there's only one Jesus and you aren't Him。 Another thing： I'm a Christian； and I try to be a good one； although I may not always succeed。 You had no right to stand there when I was at the mercy of that crowd； point your finger at me； and pass judgment。 You should take a good look at that passage in the Gospel of Matthew：Judge not； that ye be not judged 。 。 。 Thou hypocrite； first cast out the beam out of thine own eye； and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye。 〃
She paused。 〃I always liked the King James Version the best。 Now； listen。 You worry aboutyourself from now on； being a good citizen； keeping out of trouble； and obeying the law。〃
〃But 。 。 。 You don't realize 。 。 。 It's going to happen。 I warn you； it's ing。〃 Buck could barely articulate the words。
〃If there's a Second ing in the works； you sure as heck won't get advance notice…that much Ido know。〃
With that； she smiled； patted the side of the car； and said； 〃Farewell； Mr。 Buck。 Keep your nose clean。〃
84
In the elegantly appointed dining room within the main massingof the Castello Fosco； the count waited； quite patiently； for his dinner。 The walls of the fifteenth…century villa were extremely thick； and there was no sound at all save the faint mechanical whirring of Bucephalus from a white T…stand nearby； applying his artificial beak to an artificial nut。 The stately windows of the room looked out over a spectacular landscape： the hills of Chianti； the deep valley of the Greve。 But Fosco was content to sit in his heavy oak chair at one end of the long table； reviewing…with delicious tranquillity…the events of the day。
His reverie was broken by the shuffle of feet in the passageway。 A moment later his cook； Assunta； appeared； bearing a large serving tray。 Placing it at the far end of the table； she presented the dishes to him one by one； a simplemaltagliati ai porcini ； oxtail； servedalla vaccinara ；fegatinigrilled over the fire； acontorno of fennel braised in olive oil。 It was the simple； homely fare his cook excelled at and Fosco preferred while in the country。 And if Assunta's presentation lacked the polish and subtlety of Pinketts…that； alas； could not be helped。
He thanked her； pouring himself a glass of the estate's exceptional Chianti Classico as she left the room。 And then he applied himself to his dinner with relish。 Although he felt famished； he ate slowly； savoring every bite； every mouthful of wine。
At last； meal plete； he rang a small silver bell that lay near his right hand。 Assunta reappeared。
〃Grazie；〃he said； dabbing the corners of his mouth with a huge linen napkin。
Assunta curtsied a little awkwardly。
The count rose。 〃Once you have cleared away； you may take a few days off。〃
The cook glanced at him inquiringly without raising her head。
〃Per favore； signora。It has been months since you visited your son in Pontremoli。〃
The curtsy deepened。〃Mille grazie。〃
〃Prego。 Buona sera。〃And the count turned lightly on his heel and left the dining room。
Once the cook had departed； the castle would be empty of servants。 His men had done their work and departed。 Even the groundskeepers had been given a few days' absence。 Only Giuseppe； the ancient dogmaster； remained on the estate： as it happened； he could not be spared。
It was not that Fosco distrusted his retainers： they all had ancient ties to his family； some going back as far as eight hundred years； and their loyalty was without question。 It was simply that he wanted to finish this business undisturbed。
He moved slowly and purposefully through the huge rooms of the castle： thesalone ； the hall of portraits； the hall of armor。 His stroll took him back through time： first； through the older； thirteenth…century additions； then into still older chambers； built half a millennium earlier。 Here there was no electricity； no modern conveniences such as plumbing or central heating。 The warren of small； windowless rooms grew dark and oppressive； and Fosco stopped to pull a torch from a wall sconce and light it。 Turning to an ancient worktable nearby； he picked up something else and tucked it into his waistcoat。 Then he took a side passage and continued on and down： down into a subterranean warren of tunnels cut into the living rock。
Many of the extensive basements of the Castello Fosco were taken up with the production of the estate。 A great many rooms were devoted to winemaking： filled with bottling machinery and fermentation vats； or with countless small barrels of French oak。 Others were given over to the aging of boar hams： deep； cool spaces from whose ceilings hung countless hams； still covered in coarse fur。 Still others were used for storing olive oil or makingbalsamico 。 But here…far beneath the bulk of the castle's stronghold…there were no such large and well…ventilated spaces。 Narrow vaults dug deeply into the beetling cliff face of limestone； and stairs corkscrewed down toward old wells and chambers unused for half a millennium。
It was one of these staircases that Fosco now descended。 The air was chill； the walls slick with damp。 The count slowed further： the hand…cut steps were slippery； and if he fell there would be nobody to hear his cries。
At last； the staircase ended in a labyrinth of narrow vaults； lined in ancient brick。 Niches were cut into the walls； and each contained a skeleton： some long…deceased family member or…more likely； given the sheer number…fallen allies from wars fought a millennium ago。 The air was bad here； and Fosco's torch guttered as he threaded his plex path。
As he penetrated deeper into the maze； the ancient walls grew more uneven。 He passed several places where they had fallen away from the rock； leaving heaps of scattered bricks。 Skeletons lay in thick profusion； as if dumped and abandoned where they lay； the bones chewed and scattered by rats。
The vault finally ended in a cul…de…sac。 The darkness here was so thick； so plete； that Fosco's torch barely penetrated。 He took another step forward； waved the torch in a cautious arc into the last recess ahead of him。
The guttering flame revealed the figure of Agent Pendergast； head lolled forward onto his chest。 His face was scratched and bleeding in a dozen places。 His normally immaculate black suit was shredded and dirty； the jacket lying in a heap at his feet。 His hand…tailored English shoes were covered in thick Tuscan mud。 He appeared unconscious and would have sunk to the ground before Fosco if not for the heavy cha