p&c.brimstone-第45部分

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h；　power；　technology…and；　Dr。　Von　Menck　adds；　neglect　of　the　spiritual。　Each　of　these　disasters　was　preceded　by　small　but　specific　signs。　Von　Menck　sees　the　mysterious　deaths　of　Grove　and　Cutforth　as　precisely　the　signs　one　would　expect　preceding　the　destruction　of　New　York　City　by　fire。　
　What　kind　of　fire？　
　〃Not　any　kind　of　normal　fire；〃　says　Von　Menck。　〃It　will　be　something　sudden　and　destructive。　A　fire　from　within。〃　
　As　further　evidence　he　cites　passages　from　Revelation；　the　prophet　Nostradamus；　and　more　recent　clairvoyants　such　as　Edgar　Cayce　and　Madame　Blavatsky。　
　Dr。　Von　Menck　left　today　for　the　Galápagos　Islands；　taking　with　him；　he　said；　only　his　manuscripts　and　a　few　books。　
　　　
　Buck　lowered　the　paper。　The　rest　of　the　pile　sat　at　his　elbow；　forgotten。　He　felt　a　strange　sensation　rise　up　his　spine；　spread　down　his　arms　and　legs。　If　Von　Menck　was　right；　the　man　was　a　fool　to　believe　he　could　take　refuge　on　some　faraway　island。　It　put　in　mind　some　lines　from　Revelation；　his　favorite　book　of　the　Bible；　which　Buck　frequently　quoted　to　his　flock：And　the　kings　of　the　earth；　and　the　great　men；　and　the　rich　men　。　。　。　hid　themselves　in　the　dens　and　in　the　rocks　of　the　mountains　。　。　。　For　the　great　day　of　His　wrath　is　e；　and　who　shall　be　able　to　stand？　
　He　raised　his　cup　of　coffee；　but　it　no　longer　seemed　to　have　any　flavor；　and　he　replaced　it　in　its　saucer。　Buck　had　long　believed　he　would　see　the　End　Days　in　his　lifetime。　And　he　had　always　believed　in　signs。　Perhaps　this　sign　was　just　larger　than　the　others。　
　Perhaps　it　was　very　large；　indeed。　
　Revelation；　chapter　22：Behold；　I　e　quickly　。　。　。　
　Could　this　be　what　he'd　been　waiting　for　all　these　years？　Did　it　not　also　say　in　Revelation　that　the　wicked；　the　men　with　the　mark　of　the　beast　on　their　foreheads；　were　taken　first；　in　successive　waves　of　slaughter？　Just　a　few；　here　and　there；　would　be　taken。　That's　how　it　would　start。　
　He　read　the　article　a　second　time。　New　York　City。　This　was　where　it　would　begin。　Of　course；　this　was　where　it　would　begin。　Two　were　taken。　Just　two。　It　was　God's　way　of　getting　the　word　out　to　his　chosen　people；　so　they　in　turn　could　spread　the　message　of　repentance　and　atonement　while　there　was　still　time。　The　wrath　of　God　would　never　descend　without　warning。Let　he　with　ears　hear　。　。　。　
　Behold；　I　e　quickly　。　。　。　Surely　I　e　quickly　。　。　。　
　But　New　York　City？　Buck　had　never　set　foot　beyond　the　Mississippi　River；　never　been　in　a　town　much　larger　than　Tucson。　To　him；　the　East　Coast　was　Babylon；　a　foreign；　dangerous；　soulless　region　to　be　avoided　at　all　costs；　no　place　more　so　than　New　York。　Was　it　meant　to　be？　Was　it；　in　fact；　a　sign？　And　more　to　the　point：　washe　being　called？　Was　this　the　great　call　from　God　he　had　been　waiting　for？　And　did　he　have　the　courage　to　follow　it？　
　There　was　a　chuff　of　air　brakes　outside　the　diner。　Buck　looked　up　in　time　to　see　the　morning　Greyhound　cross…country　express；　traveling　on　I…10；　stop　outside。　The　sign　above　the　driver's　window　readNew　York　City　。　
　Buck　walked　up　just　as　the　bus　driver　was　about　to　close　the　door。　〃Excuse　me！〃　he　said。　
　The　driver　looked　at　him。　〃What　is　it；　mister？〃　
　〃How　much　for　a　one…way　ticket　to　New　York？〃　
　〃Three　hundred　and　twenty　dollars。　Cash。〃　
　Buck　fished　in　his　wallet　and　pulled　out　all　the　money　he　had　in　the　world。　He　counted　it　while　the　bus　driver　tapped　his　finger　on　the　wheel　and　frowned。　
　It　amounted　to　precisely　three　hundred　and　twenty　dollars。　
　As　the　bus　pulled　away　from　Yuma；　Reverend　Buck　was　sitting　in　the　back；　his　only　luggage　the　day…old　copy　of　theNew　York　Post　。　
　　　
　37　
　
　Vasquez　eased　away　from　the　window；　snugged　the　piece　ofwood　back　in　place；　turned　on　the　hooded　lantern；　then　stood　and　stretched。　It　was　just　past　midnight。　He　rotated　his　head　on　his　shoulders　first　one　way；　then　another；　working　out　the　kinks。　Then　he　took　a　long　drink　of　water；　wiping　his　mouth　with　the　back　of　his　hand。　Despite　a　few　surprises；　the　operation　was　going　well。　The　target　kept　exceedingly　irregular　hours；　ing　and　going　at　unpredictable　times…except　that　every　night；　at　one　o'clock　in　the　morning；　he　exited　the　house；　crossed　Riverside　Drive　at　137th　Street；　and　took　a　stroll　through　Riverside　Park。　He　always　returned　within　twenty　minutes。　It　seemed　to　be　an　evening　constitutional；　a　turn　around　the　block；　so　to　speak；　before　going　to　bed。　
　Over　the　past　forty…eight　hours；　Vasquez　had　e　to　realize　he　was　dealing　with　a　man　of　intelligence　and　ability；　and　yet　a　man　who　was　also　ineffably　strange。　As　usual；　Vasquez　wasn't　sure　quite　how　he　arrived　at　his　conclusions；　but　he　was　rarely　wrong　about　people　and　trusted　his　instincts。　This　man　was　something　else。　Even　on　the　surface　he　was　odd；　with　his　black　suit；　marblelike　plexion；　and　his　quick；　noiseless　walk　more　like　that　of　a　cat　than　a　man。　Something　about　the　way　he　moved　spoke　to　Vasquez　of　utter　self…confidence。　Further；　anyone　who　would　go　strolling　in　Riverside　Park　in　the　middle　of　the　night　had　to　be　either　crazy　or　packing　heat；　and　he　had　no　doubt　the　man　possessed　an　excellent　weapon　and　knew　how　to　use　it。　Twice　he　had　seen　gang　members　who'd　staked　out　the　block　quietly　disappear　when　the　target　emerged。　They　knew　a　bad　deal　when　they　saw　it。　
　Vasquez　wrenched　off　a　piece　of　teriyaki　beef　jerky　and　chewed　it　slowly；　reviewing　his　notes。　There　seemed　to　be　four　inhabitants　in　the　house：　Pendergast；　a　butler；　an　elderly　housekeeper　he'd　viewed　only　once；　and　a　young　woman　who　wore　long；　old…fashioned　dresses。　She　wasn't　his　daughter　or　his　squeeze…they　were　too　formal　with　each　other。　Perhaps　she　was　an　assistant　of　some　kind。　The　house　had　only　one　regular　visitor：　a　balding；　slightly　overweight　policeman　with　a　Southampton　P。D。　patch　on　his　arm。　Using　his　puter　and　wireless　modem；　Vasquez　had　easily　discovered　the　man　was　one　Sergeant　Vincent　D'Agosta。　He　looked　like　a　straight…ahead；　no…bullshit　type；　solid　and　dependable；　offering　few　surprises。　
　Then　there　had　been　a　very　strange　old　man　with　a　wild　head　of　white　hair　who　had　e　by　only　once；　late　at　night；　scurrying　along　almost　like　a　crab；　clutching　a　book。　Probably　some　kind　of　functionary；　an　Igor；　a　man　of　no　importance。　
　The　one　o'clock　walk　was；　of　course；　the　time　to　do　it。　Hit　him　as　he　emerged　from　the　semicircular　drive。　Vasquez　had　gone　over　it　again　and　again；　figuring　out　the　geometry　of　death。　If　the　first　round　entered　the　man's　head　obliquely；　the　round　would　be　deflected　slightly　by　the　inside　curve　of　the　skull　and　exit　at　an　angle。　The　torque　generated　by　the　off…center　hit　would　spin　the　target。　As　a　result；　the　angle　and　pattern　of　the　exit　spray　would　suggest　a　shooter　from　a　window　somewhere　down　the　street。　The　second　round　would　strike　him　on　the　way　down；　spinning　him　further。　The　position　of　the　body　would　help　throw　off　the　initial　response；　deflecting　it　down　the　block。　In　any　case；　he　himself　would　be　out　the　back　and　onto　136th　Street　practically　before　the　body　hit　the　ground；　five　minutes　to　the　Broadway　IRT　train　and　gone。　Nobody　would　notice　him…a　seedily　dressed　Puerto　Rican　runner　heading　home　after　a　day　of　dubious　employment。　
　Vasquez　bit　off　another　hunk　of　the　dry　meat。　He　wasn't　sure　just　what　it　was　that　brought　on　a　feeling　of　readiness；　but　he　always　knew　when　the　time　had　e　for　the　kill。　It　was　now　forty　minutes　to　one；　and　it　felt　to　him　like　that　time　had　e。　For　two　nights　running；　Pendergast　had　emerged　at　exactly　1A。M。　Vasquez　felt　certain　he　would　do　it　again。　This　would　be　the　night。　
　He　took　off　his　clothes　and　put　on　his　getaway　costume…warm…up　suit　open　at　the　chest；　heavy　gold；　puffy　sneakers；　thin　mustache；　cell　phone…turning　himself　into　just　another　cheap　hustler　from　Spanish　Harlem。　
　Vasquez　extinguished　the　light；　removed　the　small　piece　of　wood　from　the　corner　of　the　boarded…up　window；　and　got　into　position。　Snugging　his　cheek　against　the　posite　stock…a　stock　that　would　never　warp　or　swell　in　adverse　weather…he　carefully　aligned　the　match　grade　barrel　to　the　spot　where　the　target's　head　would　appear；　right　beyond　the　marble　and　brick　wall　that　supported　the　porte…cochère。　There　the　target　always　paused　to　speak　to　the　butler；　waiting　to　make　sure　the　man　shut　and　locked　the　door。　It　was　a　ten…　or　twenty…second　pause：　an　eternity　of　opportunity　for　a　shooter　like　Vasquez。　
　As　he　readied　his　equipment；　Vasquez　felt　a　faint　twinge　of　uneasiness。　Not　for　the　first　time；　he　wondered　if　the　whole　setup　was　just　a　little　too　easy。　The　one　o'clock　stroll；　the　little　pause…everything　seemed　a　little　too　perfect。　Was　he　being　set　up？　Did　the　target　know　he　was　there？　Vasquez　shook　his　head；　smiling　ruefully。　He　always　had　an　attack　of　paranoia　just　before　the　kill。　There　was　no　way　the　subject　could　have　detected　his　presence。　What's　more；　the　target　had　already　exposed　himself　on　a　number　of　occasions。　If　he　had　known　a　shooter　was　tracking　him；　those　deliberate　exposures　would　take　a　level　of　sangfroid　few　human　beings　possessed。　Vasquez　had　already　had　half　a　dozen　chances　to　kill　him　cleanly。　It　was　just　that　he'd　never　felt　ready。　
　Now　he　did。　
　Slowly　and　carefully；　he　fitted　his　eye　to　the　scope。　The　scope　had　a　built…i