Pendergast nodded slowly. After a moment, he thanked the doctor and turned his attention to the man working on the floor. "May I?"

The officer stepped back and Pendergast knelt beside him.

"Sergeant?"

D'Agosta came over and Braskie hastened to follow.

"What do you make of that?"

D'Agosta looked at the image burned into the floor. The finish around it was blistered and cracked, but there was no mistaking the mark of a huge cloven hoof, deeply branded into the wood.

"Looks like the murderer had a sense of humor," D'Agosta muttered.

"My dear Vincent, do you really think it's a joke?"

"You don’t?"

"No."

D'Agosta found Braskie staring at him. The "my dear Vincent" hadn't gone down well at all. Meanwhile, Pendergast had gotten down on his hands and knees and was sniffing around the floor almost like a dog. Suddenly a test tube and tweezers appeared out of his baggy shorts. The FBI agent picked up a brownish particle, held it to his nose a moment; then, sniffing, stretched it out toward the lieutenant.

Braskie frowned. "What's that?"

"Brimstone, Lieutenant," said Pendergast. "Good Old Testament brimstone."

{ 5 }

The Chaunticleer was a tiny six-table restaurant, tucked into an Amagansett side street between Bluff Road and Main. From his narrow wooden seat, D'Agosta looked around, blinking. Everything seemed to be yellow: the yellow daffodils in the window boxes; the yellow taffeta curtains on the yellow-painted windows; the yellow linen tablecloths. And what wasn't yellow was an accent of green or red. The whole place looked like one of those octagonal French dinner plates everybody paid so much money for. D'Agosta closed his eyes for a moment. After the musty dark of Jeremy Grove's attic, this place seemed almost unbearably cheerful.

The proprietress, a short, red-faced, middle-aged woman, bustled up. "Ah, Monsieur Pendergast," she said.” Comment ça va?"

"Bien, madame."

"The usual, monsieur ?"

"Oui, merci."

The woman turned her gaze on D'Agosta. "And you, Officer?"

D'Agosta glanced at the menu-scrawled in white chalk on a slate near the door-but half the dishes he didn't recognize, and the other half held no interest for him. The reek of Jeremy Grove's flesh was still strong in his nostrils. "Nothing for me, thanks."

"Anything to drink?"

"A Bud. Frosty."

"So sorry, monsieur , but we have no liquor license."

D'Agosta licked his lips. "Then bring me an iced tea, please."

He watched the woman depart, then glanced across the table at Pendergast, now dressed in his usual black suit. He still couldn't get over the shock of running into him like this. The man looked no different than the last time he'd seen him, years before. D'Agosta, embarrassed, knew the same couldn't be said for himself. He was five years older, ten years heavier, and two stripes lighter. What a life.

"How'd you find this place?" he asked.

"Quite by accident. It's just a few blocks from where I'm staying. It may well be the only decent restaurant in the Hamptons undiscovered by the beautiful people. Sure you won't change your mind about lunch? I really do recommend the eggs Benedict. Madame Merle makes the best hollandaise sauce I've tasted outside Paris: light yet silky, with the merest hint of tarragon."

D'Agosta shook his head quickly. "You still haven't told me why you're out here."

"As I mentioned, I've taken a house here for the week. I'm-what is that phrase?-location scouting."

"Location scouting? For what?"

"For the, shall we say, convalescence of a friend. You'll meet her in due course. And now I'd like to hear your story. The last I knew, you were in British Columbia, writing novels. I have to say, I found Angels of Purgatory to be readable."

"Readable?"

Pendergast waved his hand. "I'm not much of a judge when it comes to police procedurals. My taste for sensational fiction ends with M. R. James."

D'Agosta thought he probably meant P. D. James but let it pass. The last thing he wanted to do was have a "literary conversation." He'd had more than enough of those the last few years.

The drinks arrived. D'Agosta took a big gulp of iced tea, found it was unsweetened, tore open a packet of sugar. "My story's soon told, Pendergast. I couldn't make a living at writing, so I came home. Couldn't get my old place back on the NYPD. The new mayor's downsizing the force, and besides, I'd made more than my share of enemies on the job. I was getting desperate. Heard about the opening in Southampton and took it."

"I imagine there are worse places to work."

"Yeah, you'd think so. But after spending a summer chasing people whose dogs have just left a steaming load on the beach, you'd think different. And the people out here-you give a guy a speeding ticket, and the next thing you know, some high-priced lawyer's down at the station with writs and subpoenas, raising hell. You should see our legal bills."

Pendergast took a sip of what appeared to be tea. "And how is working with Lieutenant Braskie?"

"He's an asshole. Totally political. Gonna run for chief."

"He seemed competent enough."

"A competent asshole, then."

He found Pendergast's cool gaze on him, and he fidgeted. He'd forgotten about those eyes. They made you feel like you had just been stripped of your secrets.

"There's a part of your story you left out. Back when we last worked together, you had a wife and son. Vincent Junior, I believe."

D'Agosta nodded. "Still got a son. He's back in Canada, living with my wife. Well, my wife on paper, anyway."

Pendergast said nothing. After a moment, D'Agosta fetched a sigh.

"Lydia and I weren't that close anymore. You know how it is: being on the force, working long hours. She didn't want to move to Canada to begin with, especially a place as remote as Invermere. When we got there, having me in the house all day long, trying to write .     well, we got on each other's nerves. And that's putting it mildly." He shrugged, shook his head. "Funny thing was, she grew to like it up there. Seems my moving back here was just about the final straw."

Madame Merle returned with Pendergast's order, and D'Agosta decided it was time to change the subject. "What about you?" he asked almost aggressively. "What have you been up to? New York keeping you busy?"

"Actually, I've recently returned from the Midwest. Kansas, to be precise, where I was handling a case-a small case, but not without its, ah, interesting features."

"And Grove?"

"As you know, Vincent, I have an interest-some might call it an unhealthy interest-in unusual homicides. I've traveled to places far more distant than Long Island in pursuit of them. A bad habit, but very hard to break." Pendergast pierced an egg with his knife, and yolk flooded out over the plate. More yellow.

"So, are you official?"

"My freelancing days are over. The FBI is a different place. Yes, I'm official." And he patted the cell phone in his pocket.

"What's the hook? I mean, for the feds. Drugs? Terrorism?"

"Just what I told Lieutenant Braskie-possibility of interstate flight. It's weak, but it will have to serve." Pendergast leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. "I need your help, Vincent."