p&c.brimstone-第43部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


taring　eastward　into　blue　nothingness。　
　If　only　he　could　just　sail　off　the　edge　of　the　world。　
　　　
　40　
　
　D'Agosta　heard　the　faint　squawking　of　a　radio　and　looked　upthrough　the　dense　undergrowth。　At　first；　nothing　could　be　seen　through　the　riot　of　vegetation。　But　within　a　few　minutes；　he　began　to　catch　distant　flashes　of　silver；　glimpses　of　blue。　Finally　a　cop　came　into　view…just　a　head　and　shoulders　above　the　dense　brush…forcing　his　way　through　the　bracken。　The　cop　spied　him；　turned。　Behind　him　were　two　medics　carrying　a　blue　plastic　remains　locker。　They　were　followed　by　two　other　men　in　jumpsuits；　lugging　a　variety　of　heavy　tools。　A　photographer　came　last。　
　The　cop　shouldered　his　way　through　the　last　of　the　brush…a　local　Yonkers　sergeant；　small　and　no…nonsense…and　stopped　before　them。　
　〃You　Pendergast？〃　
　〃Yes。　Pleased　to　meet　you；　Sergeant　Baskin。〃　
　〃Right。　This　the　grave？〃　
　〃It　is。〃　Pendergast　removed　some　papers　from　his　jacket。　The　cop　scrutinized　them；　initialed　them；　stripped　off　the　copies；　and　handed　the　originals　back。　〃Sorry；　I　need　to　see　ID。〃　
　Pendergast　and　D'Agosta　showed　their　badges。　
　〃Fine。〃　The　policeman　turned　to　the　two　workers　in　jumpsuits；　who　were　busily　unshouldering　their　equipment。　〃He's　all　yours；　guys。〃　
　The　diggers　attacked　the　tombstone　with　vigor；　crowbarring　it　up　and　rolling　it　aside。　They　cleared　an　area　around　the　grave　with　brush　hooks；　then　laid　several　big；　dirty　tarps　across　the　clearing。　Next　they　began　cutting　out　the　weedy　turf　with　turf　cutters；　popping　out　squares　and　stacking　them　like　bricks　on　one　of　the　tarps。　
　D'Agosta　turned　to　Pendergast。　〃So　how　did　you　find　him？〃　
　〃I　knew　right　away　he　had　to　be　dead；　and　I　assumed　before　his　death　he　must　have　been　either　homeless　or　mentally　ill：　there　could　be　no　other　reason　why　he'd　prove　so　elusive　in　these　days　of　the　Internet。　But　learning　more　than　that　was　a　very　difficult　task；　even　for　my　associate；　Mime；　who　as　I　mentioned　has　a　rare　talent　for　ferreting　out　obscure　information。　Ultimately；　we　learned　Beckmann　spent　the　last　years　of　his　life　on　the　street；　sometimes　under　assumed　names；　cycling　through　various　flophouses　and　homeless　shelters　in　and　around　Yonkers。〃　
　The　turf　was　now　stacked　and　the　two　workers　began　digging；　their　shovels　biting　alternately　into　the　soil。　The　medics　stood　to　one　side；　talking　and　smoking。　There　was　another　faint　roll　of　thunder　and　light　rain　began　to　fall；　pattering　onto　the　thick　vegetation　around　them。　
　〃It　appears　our　Mr。　Beckmann　had　a　promising　start　in　life；〃　Pendergast　continued。　〃Father　a　dentist；　mother　a　homemaker。　He　was　apparently　quite　brilliant　in　college。　But　both　parents　died　during　his　junior　year。　After　graduation；　Beckmann　couldn't　seem　to　find　out　what　it　was　he　wanted　out　of　life。　He　knocked　around　Europe　for　a　while；　then　came　back　to　the　U。S。　and　sold　artifacts　on　the　flea　market　circuit。　He　was　a　drinker　who　slid　into　alcoholism；　but　his　problems　were　more　mental　than　physical…a　lost　soul　who　just　couldn't　find　his　way。　That　tenement　was　his　last　place　of　residence。〃　Pendergast　pointed　toward　one　of　the　decaying　tenements　ringing　the　graveyard。　
　Chuff；　chuff；went　the　shovels。　The　diggers　knew　exactly　what　they　were　doing。　Every　movement　was　economical；　almost　machinelike　in　its　precision。　The　brown　hole　deepened。　
　〃How'd　he　die？〃　
　〃The　death　certificate　listed　metastatic　lung　cancer。　Gone　untreated。　We　shall　soon　find　out　the　truth。〃　
　〃You　don't　think　it　was　lung　cancer？〃　
　Pendergast　smiled　dryly。　〃I　am　skeptical。〃　
　One　of　the　shovels　thunked　on　rotten　wood。　The　men　knelt　and；　picking　up　mason's　trowels；　began　clearing　dirt　from　the　lid　of　a　plain　wooden　coffin；　finding　its　edges　and　trimming　the　sides　of　the　pit。　It　seemed　to　D'Agosta　the　coffin　couldn't　have　been　buried　more　than　three　feet　deep。　So　much　for　the　free　six…foot　hole…typical　government；　screwing　everyone；　even　the　dead。　
　〃Photo　op；〃　said　the　Yonkers　sergeant。　
　The　gravediggers　climbed　out；　waiting　while　the　photographer　crouched　at　the　edge　and　snapped　a　few　shots　from　various　angles。　Then　they　climbed　back　in；　uncoiled　a　set　of　nylon　straps；　slipped　them　under　the　coffin；　and　gathered　them　together　on　top。　
　〃Okay。　Lift。〃　
　The　medics　pitched　in。　Soon　the　four　had　hoisted　the　coffin　out　of　the　hole　and　set　it　on　the　free　tarp。　There　was　a　powerful　smell　of　earth。　
　〃Open　it；〃　said　the　cop；　a　man　of　few　words。　
　〃Here？〃　D'Agosta　asked。　
　〃Those　are　the　rules。　Just　to　check　and　make　sure。〃　
　〃Make　sure　of　what？〃　
　〃Age；　sex；　general　condition　。　。　。　And　most　importantly；　if　there's　a　body　in　there　at　all。〃　
　〃Right。〃　
　One　of　the　workers　turned　to　D'Agosta。　〃It　happens。　Last　year　we　dug　up　a　stiff　over　in　Pelham；　and　you　know　what　we　found？〃　
　〃What？〃　D'Agosta　was　fairly　sure　he　didn't　want　to　know。　
　〃Twostiffs…and　a　dead　monkey！　We　said　it　must've　been　an　organ…grinder　who　got　mixed　up　with　the　Mafia。〃　He　barked　with　laughter　and　nudged　his　friend；　who　laughed　in　turn。　
　The　workers　now　began　to　attack　the　lid　of　the　coffin；　tapping　around　it　with　chisels。　The　wood　was　so　rotten　it　quickly　broke　loose。　As　the　lid　was　set　aside；　a　stench　of　rot；　mold；　and　formaldehyde　welled　up。　D'Agosta　peered　forward；　morbid　curiosity　struggling　with　the　queasiness　he　never　seemed　fully　able　to　shake。　
　Gray　light；　softened　by　the　misting　rain；　penetrated　the　coffin　and　illuminated　the　corpse。　
　It　lay；　hands　folded　on　its　chest；　upon　a　bed　of　rotting　fabric；　stuffing　ing　up；　with　a　huge　stain　of　congealed　liquid；　dark　as　old　coffee；　covering　the　bottom。　The　body　had　collapsed　from　rot　and　had　a　deflated　appearance；　as　if　all　the　air　had　escaped　along　with　life；　leaving　nothing　but　a　skin　lying　over　bones。　Various　bony　protuberances　stuck　through　the　rotting　black　suit：　knees；　elbows；　pelvis。　The　hands　were　brown　and　slimy；　shedding　their　nails；　the　finger　bones　poking　through　the　rotting　ends。　The　eyes　were　sunken　holes；　the　lips　lopsided　and　drawn　back　in　a　kind　of　snarl。　Beckmann　had　been　a　wet　corpse；　and　the　rain　was　making　him　wetter。　
　The　cop　bent　down；　scanning　the　body。　〃Male　Caucasian；　about　fifty　。　。　。〃　He　opened　a　tape　measure。　〃Six　feet　even；　brown　hair。〃　He　straightened　up　again。　〃Gross　match　seems　okay。〃　
　Gross　is　right；　D'Agosta　thought　as　he　looked　at　Pendergast。　Despite　the　appalling　decay；　one　thing　was　immediately　clear：　this　corpse　had　not　suffered　the　ghastly；　violent　fate　that　met　Grove　and　Cutforth。　
　〃Take　him　to　the　morgue；〃　Pendergast　murmured。　
　The　cop　looked　at　him。　
　〃I　want　a　plete　autopsy；〃　Pendergast　said。　〃I　want　to　know　how　this　manreally　died。〃　
　　　
　41　
　
　Bryce　Harriman　entered　the　office　of　Rupert　Ritts；　managingeditor　of　thePost　；　to　find　the　mean；　rodentlike　editor　standing　behind　his　enormous　desk；　a　rare　smile　splitting　his　bladelike　face。　
　〃Bryce；　my　man！　Take　a　seat！〃　
　Ritts　never　talked　quietly：　his　voice　was　high；　and　it　cut　right　through　a　person。　You　might　think　he　was　deaf；　except　that　his　ferretlike　ears　seemed　to　pick　up　the　faintest　whisper　from　the　farthest　corner；　especially　when　it　concerned　him。　More　than　one　editor　had　been　fired　for　whispering　Ritts's　nickname　from　two　hundred　yards　across　a　busy　newsroom。　It　was　an　obvious　nickname；　just　the　substitution　of　one　vowel　for　another；　but　it　really　got　Ritts　going。　Harriman　figured　it　was　because　he'd　probably　been　called　that　as　a　child　on　the　playground　every　day　and　never　forgot　it。　Harriman　disliked　Ritts；　as　he　disliked　almost　everything　about　theNew　York　Post　。　It　was　embarrassing；　physically　embarrassing；　to　be　working　here。　
　He　adjusted　his　tie　as　he　tried　to　make　himself　fortable　in　the　hard　wooden　chair　Ritts　tortured　his　reporters　with。　The　editor　came　around　and　seated　himself　on　the　edge　of　the　desk；　lighting　up　a　Lucky　Strike。　He　no　doubt　thought　of　himself　as　a　tough　guy　of　the　old　school：　hard…drinking；　tough…talking；　cigarette…hanging…off…the…lip　kind　of　guy。　The　fact　that　smoking　on　the　job　was　now　illegal　seemed　to　make　him　enjoy　it　all　the　more。　Harriman　suspected　he　also　kept　a　cheap　bottle　of　whiskey　and　a　shot　glass　in　a　desk　drawer。　Black　polyester　pants；　scuffed　brown　shoes；　blue　socks；　Flatbush　accent。　Ritts　was　everything　that　Harriman's　family　had　trained　him　all　his　life；　sent　him　to　private　school；　given　him　an　Ivy　League　education；　never　to　be。　
　And　here　he　was。　Harriman's　boss。　
　〃This　Menck　story　is　fabulous；　Harriman。　Fucking　fabulous。〃　
　〃Thank　you；　sir。〃　
　〃It　was　a　real　stroke　of　genius；　Harriman；　finding　this　guy　the　day　before　he　left　for　the　Virgin　Islands。〃　
　〃Galápagos。〃　
　〃Whatever。　I　have　to　tell　you；　when　I　first　read　your　piece；　I　had　my　doubts。　It　struck　me　as　a　lot　of　New　Age　bullshit。　But　it　really　hit　a　chord　with　our　readers。　Newsstand　circ's　up　eight　percent。〃　
　〃That's　great。〃　Here　at　thePost；　it　was　all　about　circulation。　In　the　newsroom　of　theTimes　；　where　he　used　to　work；　〃circulation〃　had　been　a　dirty　word。　
　〃Great？　It's　fucking　fabulous。　That's　what　reporting　is　all　about。　Readers。　I　wish　some　of　these　other　jokers　around　here　would　realize　that。〃　
　The　piercing　voice　was　cutting　a　wide　swath　across　the　newsroom　beyond。　Harriman　squirmed　unfortably　in　the　wooden　seat。　
　〃Just　when　the　devil…killings　story　was　flagging；　you　find　this　guy　Menck。　I　have　to　hand　it　to　you。　Every　other　paper　in　town　was　sitting　around　with　their　thumbs　up　their　asses；　waiting　for　the　next　killing；　but　you…you　went　out　andmade　the　news。〃　
　〃Thank　you；　sir。〃　
　Ritts　sucked　in　a　few　quarts　of　smoke　and　dropped　the　cigarette　on　the　floor　of　his　office；　grinding　it　in　with　his　toe；　where　about　twenty　others　lay；　all　nicely　flattened。　He　exhaled　with　a　noisy；　emphysemic　whistle。　He　lit　another；　looked　up　at　Harriman；　eyed　him　up　and　down。　
　Harriman　shifted　again　in　his　chair。　Was　there　something　wrong　with　the　way　he　was　dressed？　Of　course　not：　it　was　one　of　those　things　he'd　been　schooled　in　from　day　one。　He　knew　just　when　to　break　out　the　madras；　when　to　put　away　the　seersucker；　knew　the　acceptable　shade　of　cordovan　for　tasseled　loafers。　And　anyway；　Ritts　was　the　last　person　who　could　criticize　anyone　else's　taste　in　clothes。　
　〃TheNationa