p&c.brimstone-第21章

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d　fired…once；　twice…rolled　to　the　side；　rose　to　his　feet；　and　took　off　running　again；　cursing　himself　for　not　having　kept　up　with　his　shooting　practice。　But　even　missed　shots　had　a　good　effect…making　them　careful；　slowing　them　down。　At　least　that　was　the　theory。　He　passed　the　far　side　of　the　garden　and　ducked　in　among　the　trees。　
　Another　jiggling　red　dot。　He　threw　himself　to　the　asphalt　as　the　shot　came；　rolled；　tearing　his　knee　open　against　the　pavement；　and　was　up　again　and　running。　The　shooters　were　using　some　big…caliber　sidearms　and　knew　what　they　were　doing。　His　own　shots　hadn't　slowed　them　down　at　all。　
　These　guys　were　professional　assassins。　
　He　ran　through　a　playground；　desperately　leaping　first　the　teeter…totter；　then　the　sandbox；　and　across　a　small　square　with　a　fountain；　gasping　with　the　effort。　Jeez；　he　was　out　of　shape；　gone　to　seed。　Long　gone　were　the　days　in　the　police　gym；　keeping　trim　and　fit。　
　He　cut　across　a　small　square　with　a　fountain；　jumped　a　stone　parapet；　and　was　back　on　the　steep；　woodsy　embankment　leading　down　to　the　highway。　He　crouched　behind　the　stone　wall；　waiting。　They　would　have　to　cross　the　open　walkway。　That's　when　he'd　have　a　shot　at　them。　He　held　the　weapon　tightly　in　a　two…hand　bat　grip；　steadied　himself；　tried　to　get　control　of　his　wild　breathing。Don't　squeeze　the　trigger。　When　it　goes　off；　it　should　almost　be　a　surprise。　Make　every　shot　count。　
　Now！The　dark　shapes　emerged　from　the　trees；　moving　fast。　He　fired：　once；　twice；　thrice。　
　The　red　lights　were　dancing　around　the　branches　over　his　head；　and　he　screamed　an　obscenity　as　he　forgot　his　own　careful　advice　and　fired　again　and　again　at　the　dim　shapes。　He　could　hear　nothing　over　the　bark　of　his　firearm；　but　he　could　feel　the　slap　of　bullets　hitting　the　stone　right　before　his　face。　These　bastards　didn't　miss　a　beat。　
　He；　on　the　other　hand；　had　missed　by　a　mile；　and　no　wonder。　He　hadn't　taken　a　turn　at　the　range　in　three　damn　years；　and　his　shooting　was　as　old　and　stale　as　all　those　shooting　awards　that　hung　on　his　wall。　
　He　scrambled　back　from　the　stone　wall；　running　along　it　in　a　low　crouch；　praying　his　back　wasn't　exposed。　As　he　ran；　he　popped　the　clip　from　the　gun；　peering　at　it　in　the　dim　light。　Empty。　That　left　him　only　two　shots　in　the　chamber　。　。　。　thirteen　rounds　wasted。　
　Suddenly　he　saw　something　e　into　view　through　the　trees　up　ahead：　the　bridge　over　the　110th　Street　off…ramp。　The　whole　thing　was　chain…linked　like　a　cage。　If　he　got　caught　in　there；　he'd　be　the　proverbial　fish　in　a　barrel。　
　But　turning　back…jumping　back　over　the　stone　wall　and　crossing　the　open　walkway…meant　running　right　into　the　arms　of　his　pursuers。　And　that　would　be　suicide。　
　He　glanced　down　to　his　right。　There　was　only　one　other　choice。　It　was　the　highway　or　nothing。　Get　out　on　the　West　Side　Highway；　stop　traffic；　create　a　snarl；　radio　for　help。　They　wouldn't　pursue　him　or　shoot　at　him　out　there。　
　Without　waiting　to　reconsider；　he　charged　down　the　steep　embankment；　clawing　through　the　brambles　and　sumac　and　poison　ivy；　half　falling；　half　rolling。　The　branches　tore　cruelly　through　the　fabric　of　his　uniform；　and　the　sharp　rocks　of　the　embankment　bruised　his　shoulders　and　knees。　
　Whang！sounded　the　shot。　
　Ahead；　the　embankment　dropped　away　steeply。　He　fell；　rolled　as　far　as　he　could；　forced　himself　back　onto　his　feet；　and　began　running　again；　casting　one　brief　look　back。　He　could　hear　them　crashing　through　the　brush　not　thirty　feet　above　him。　In　desperation；　he　wheeled；　squeezed　off　a　shot　at　the　closest　figure。　It　ducked　to　the　side；　then　charged　forward　again。　D'Agosta　turned　and　ran　with　all　his　might。　His　heart　was　racing　dangerously。　The　rush　of　cars　was　suddenly　louder；　the　lights　flashing　through　the　trees；　flashing　on　him　for　a　moment。　
　Whang！　Whang！　
　He　ducked；　zigzagged。　The　highway　was　just　fifty　feet　ahead。　The　headlights　were　now　flashing　across　him；　making　a　clear　target。　
　Thirty　more　feet。　The　trees　were　thinning；　giving　way　to　garbage　and　weeds。　
　Whang！　
　The　embankment　leveled　out。　Twenty　more　feet　to　the　edge　of　the　trees　and　the　highway。　He　ran　flat　out；　making　a　beeline…　
　Boom。And　he　was　thrown　back。　
　D'Agosta　lay　there　for　a　moment；　stunned；　thinking　he'd　been　hit；　that　it　was　over。　Then　he　realized　he'd　run　full　tilt　into　the　chain…link　fence　that　ran　just　above　the　highway。　His　eyes　took　it　in　within　the　space　of　a　heartbeat：　the　concertina　wire　at　the　top；　the　crappy　fence　all　mangled　and　twisted　by　junkies；　the　skeletons　of　cars　lying　on　the　verge　below　the　far　side。Of　course。　In　the　old　days；　he　had　driven　that　highway　a　million　times；　seen　that　fence　leaning　dangerously　above　him；　stuffed　with　trash　and　decaying　leaves。　One　more　thing　he'd　forgotten　in　those　years　in　British　Columbia。　He　was　trapped。　
　This　was　it。　He　rose　on　one　knee　and　turned　to　make　his　stand。One　round；　two　men。　
　The　math　wasn't　good。　
　　　
　15　
　
　A　low　fire　burned　in　the　grate；　casting　a　ruddy　light　on　the　wallsof　books　and　chasing　the　damp　chill　from　the　air。　Two　wing　chairs　occupied　the　space　on　either　side　of　the　fire。　In　one　sat　Special　Agent　Pendergast；　and　in　the　other　Constance　Greene；　pale　and　slender　in　a　beautifully　pressed　and　pleated　dress。　To　one　side　sat　the　remains　of　an　evening　tea　service：　cups　and　saucers；　strainer；　creamer；　digestive　biscuits。　The　still　air　smelled　of　wood　polish　and　buckram；　and　on　all　sides　the　bookshelves　climbed；　row　after　row；　toward　the　high　ceiling；　the　old　leather…bound　books　that　lined　them　gleaming　with　gold　stamping　in　the　firelight。　
　Pendergast's　silvery　eyes　glanced　toward　a　clock　above　the　mantelpiece；　then　flickered　back　to　the　old　newspaper　he　was　reading。　His　murmured　voice　picked　up　where　it　had　left　off。　
　〃'August　7；　1964。　Washington…In　an　88…4　vote　today；　the　U。S。　Senate　authorized　President　Johnson　the　use　of　〃all　necessary　measures〃　to　repel　armed　attacks　against　U。S。　forces　in　Vietnam。　The　vote　was　in　response　to　the　shelling　of　two　U。S。　Navy　ships　by　North　Vietnam　in　the　Gulf　of　Tonkin'　。　。　。〃　
　Constance　listened　intently　as　he　went　on。　There　was　a　rustle　as　Pendergast　gently　turned　the　fragile；　yellowed　page。　
　The　girl　held　up　her　hand；　and　Pendergast　paused。　
　〃I'm　not　sure　I　can　bear　another　war。　Will　it　be　a　bad　one？〃　
　〃One　of　the　worst。　It　will　tear　apart　the　country。〃　
　〃Let　us　save　this　war　for　tomorrow；　then。〃　
　Pendergast　nodded；　carefully　folding　up　the　newspaper　and　putting　it　aside。　
　〃I　can　scarcely　believe　the　cruelty　of　the　last　century。　It　staggers　the　soul。〃　
　Pendergast　inclined　his　head　in　agreement。　
　She　shook　her　head　slowly；　and　the　glow　of　the　flames　reflected　in　her　dark　eyes　and　straight　black　hair。　〃Do　you　think　this　new　century　will　be　as　barbarous？〃　
　〃The　twentieth　century　showed　us　the　evil　face　of　physics。　This　century　will　show　us　the　evil　face　of　biology。　This　will　be　humanity's　last　century；　Constance。〃　
　〃So　cynical？〃　
　〃May　God　prove　me　wrong。〃　
　A　bank　of　embers　collapsed；　opening　a　glowing　wound　in　the　fire。　Pendergast　stirred。　〃And　now；　perhaps；　shall　we　move　on　to　the　results　of　your　search？〃　
　〃Certainly。〃　Constance　rose　and　walked　toward　one　wall　of　bookshelves；　returning　with　several　octavo　volumes。　〃The　abbot　Trithemius；　theLiber　de　Angelis　；　the　McMaster　text；The　Sworn　Book　of　Honorius　；　theSecretum　Philosophorum　；　and；　of　course；Ars　Notorium　。　Treatises　on　selling　one's　soul；　raising　the　devil；　and　the　like。〃　She　placed　the　volumes　on　a　side　table。　〃All　alleged　eyewitness　accounts。　Latin；　Ancient　Greek；　Aramaic；　Old　French；　Old　Norse；　and　Middle　English。　Then　there　are　the　grimoires。〃　
　〃Textbooks　of　magic；〃　Pendergast　said；　nodding。　
　〃The　Key　of　Solomonis　the　best　known。　Many　of　these　documents　belonged　to　secret　societies　and　orders；　which　were　mon　among　the　nobility　of　the　Middle　Ages。　Apparently；　these　societies　were　often　active　in　satanic　practices。〃　
　Pendergast　nodded　again。　〃I　am　particularly　interested　in　accounts　of　the　devil　claiming　his　due。〃　
　〃There　are　many。　For　example〃…she　indicated　the　wormy　cover　of　theArs　Notorium　with　a　faint　look　of　distaste…〃the　Tale　of　Geoffrey；　magister　of　Kent。〃　
　〃Go　on。〃　
　〃The　tales　don't　vary　grea