Quinn saw something dark gray in the hole they’d dug. It was cloth. He bent low and touched it with his fingertips. Something wrapped in oilcloth had been buried beneath the pyracantha thorns. He scraped with the hoe while Castle frantically dug around the object with his shovel. Quinn found himself wishing he had a pair of long leather work gloves like Castle’s. His bare forearms burned as needlelike points of the thorns lacerated flesh.

“A box!” Castle said breathlessly. “It’s in a wooden box wrapped in old cloth!”

He squatted low and extended a gloved hand into the space they’d cleared between cloth and mud. Across from him, Quinn lowered himself to his knees. Then he reached down and was glad to shove his bare hand deep into mud. His fingertips touched oily cloth—and wood.

“I got my fingers under it,” Castle exclaimed through a wild grin. “Got you, beauty, got you, beauty . . .” he muttered. Quinn thought that if this was another phony piece of sculpture, or an empty box, and Castle knew it, he was laying his act on awfully thick.

And, Quinn had to admit, convincingly.

Quinn curled his own fingers beneath the bottom edge of the box.

He and Castle looked at each other, exchanging a silent signal, and heaved together to lift the box from its hole.

Castle yanked the oilcloth away and tossed it to the side. What was left was a sturdy wooden packing crate. There was what appeared to be a label on it, long since faded and stained until it was illegible. The acrid smell of aged cedar wafted from the box and from the hole it had been in. Quinn was reminded of graves opened for exhumations.

Castle hurled off his gloves and began frantically prying the box’s lid with his fingertips. The lid was stubborn. Castle should have gone slower, examined the box, before laying into it like that. Quinn saw the glisten of blood in the faint moonlight.

“The lid’s nailed tight,” Quinn told him. “There’s a better way to get into it.”

Castle struggled to his feet, wiping his wrists across his perspiring forehead. His eyes were glistening like the blood seeping from beneath his fingernails. Quinn realized that for Castle, this was indeed like finding the Holy Grail.

It took Castle only a minute or so to use his shovel to pry the box’s wooden lid open far enough to where he could wedge the shovel blade beneath it, then use his weight to pry the lid open all the way. Feeling some of Castle’s excitement, Quinn helped with the hoe.

Tightly driven old nails squealed as they were pulled from ancient wood. Ignoring the rusty nails, Castle tossed the wooden lid aside and dropped to his knees like a supplicant. Quinn knelt beside him to examine the box’s contents.

There was something large wrapped in a soft green cloth. Castle’s trembling hand lifted a corner of the material. Lifted it higher.

The cloth had concealed the bust of a beautiful woman. In ways not immediately comprehensible, it made the previous, fake Bellezzas, look lifeless and artificial.

“Look!” Castle was saying in an awed voice. “Would you look at this!”

“I’m looking,” Quinn assured him. And what struck him was that Bellezza seemed to be looking back at him.

“These, too!” Castle said. “These, too!”

He was pointing at a ribbon-bound stack of letters. When he moved to untie the ribbon, it separated in his fingers.

A cursory look at the letters revealed that they were written by French resistance fighters. No doubt the ones who had rescued Bellezza from the Germans. There were also letters composed by Nurse Betsy Douglass, addressed to her married sister, Willa Kingdom. Those letters authenticated the origin of the bust.

In the corner of his vision, Quinn saw a figure cross the street farther down and enter the garden. He immediately assumed it was Pearl, grown impatient in the car. She was probably leading the backup that had silently arrived.

It wasn’t Pearl.

Goaded by fear, Pearl fought her way up from unconsciousness. It took her a few minutes to realize the fix she was in. To remember the suddenly moving shadow, the figure that had sneaked up beside the parked Lincoln’s rolled-down window.

The knife blade had glinted dully, moved quickly, too fast for Pearl even to cry out.

And now . . . ?

She dropped a hand to her lap, raised it, and was amazed by the amount of blood that she saw. She glanced down and was horrified.

Pearl probed gently about with her fingertips, exploring to find out where she was bleeding.

When she did find out, it scared the hell out of her.

Blood was pulsing from low on the left side of her neck, her carotid artery. Her assailant had reached through the window and drawn the knife blade across her neck, knowing she’d bleed out fast, figuring she’d be out of the game.

But he’d only nicked the artery, she was sure. She’d seen arterial bleeding before and knew this could be a lot worse.

Pearl remembered that Quinn kept a box of tissues in the glove compartment. Keeping her left hand pressed to the slow wellspring of blood coming out of her neck, she reached over with her right and opened the glove compartment.

Damn!

The only tissue was a small, unopened cellophane-wrapped pack.

She removed the pack, then tore its cellophane wrapper and dropped it on the car seat. Using the entire package of folded tissues as a pad, she pressed it to the side of her neck.

It stanched the flow of blood, but she knew the tissue would soon become saturated and the bleeding would increase again. To minimize that, she removed the cloth belt of her slacks and wrapped it at an angle around her neck, pulling it tight so it kept the tissue compressed and in place. She was still bleeding and would become weaker. The world would fade.

It seemed to be fading already . . .

80

“Looks like my timing was perfect,” D.O.A. said.

He held a gun in each hand. Quinn recognized one as an altered Kalashnikov. The other was a small semiautomatic handgun. He noticed the killer’s unnatural bulkiness and realized he was wearing a bulletproof vest. The vest didn’t fool Quinn. It wasn’t to save a life; it was to delay a death. Tonight was going to be the killer’s grand and glorious exit. His reign of terror mustn’t end with a single, inglorious gunshot.

The killer craved a final, glorious achievement, before his meteoric streak to eternal infamy.

Infamy would be his final, precious possession. His goal. Fame would be brief, but infamy had longevity.

It wasn’t a live woman that he sought this time, but one who was a beauty of the ages.

“You know what I want,” he said to Quinn. “We think the same way.”

Castle, eyes popping with fright, glanced at Quinn.

“You won’t possess her very long,” Quinn said.

“I don’t need to.”

“He yearns to be famous,” Quinn explained to Castle. “More than that, he might have found a way to be the most famous murdering psychopath. He wants to possess Bellezza.”

Castle moved protectively toward the marble bust. D.O.A. laughed and hefted his automatic rifle.

“Cops will hear the shots,” Quinn said.

D.O.A. aimed his smile at Quinn. “You mean like with the dead woman in your car? Pearl, wasn’t it? I wish I could have had a little more amusement at her expense. You’ll be glad to know I made her death a relatively fast one. Though it probably didn’t seem that way to her.”

Castle couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Didn’t want to believe it. He moaned as his terror bent him forward. He was trembling so violently that he was almost vibrating. His knees gave and he stayed in his awkward, doubled-over position, kneeling like a penitent frozen by fear.

“Your friend seems to have a keen notion of what’s about to happen,” the killer said, staring for a moment, searching for the fear in Quinn’s eyes. He didn’t find it, which angered him.