D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

"An interesting story, Sergeant. He bought a painting at an auction at Sotheby's that was billed as being by a late follower of Raphael. Grove was able to prove it as the hand of the master himself, turned around and sold it for thirty million dollars to the Met."

"Nice."

"Indeed. Anyway, while living in Florence, Grove had become quite devout. In an intellectual kind of way, as some people do. He loved to engage me in discussion. There is, Mr. Pendergast, such a thing as a Catholic intellectual, and that was Grove."

Pendergast nodded.

"He was very happily married. He adored his wife. And then, quite abruptly, she left him, ran off with another man. To say that Grove was devastated is not saying enough. He was destroyed. And he focused his anger on God."

"I see," Pendergast replied.

"Grove felt betrayed by God. He became .     well, you certainly couldn't call him an atheist or an agnostic. Rather, he picked a fight with God. He deliberately embarked on a life of sin and violence against God, which in reality was a life of violence against his own higher self. He became an art critic. Criticism is a profession which allows one a certain license to be vicious outside the bounds of normal civilized behavior. One would never tell another person in private that his painting was a revolting piece of trash, but the critic thinks nothing of making the same pronouncement to the world as if he were performing a high moral duty. There is no profession more ignoble than that of the critic-except perhaps that of the physician presiding at an execution."

"You're right there," said D'Agosta with feeling. "Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, critique."

Father Cappi laughed. "Very true, Sergeant D'Agosta."

"Sergeant D'Agosta is a writer of mysteries," explained Pendergast.

"Is that so! I love detective stories. Give me a title."

"Angels of Purgatory is his latest."

"I'll buy it immediately."

D'Agosta mumbled his thanks. For the second time that day, he found himself feeling embarrassed. He would have to talk to Pendergast about sounding off about his abortive writing career.

"Suffice to say," the priest continued, "Grove made a splendid critic. He surrounded himself with the most degraded, selfish, and cruel people he could find. Everything he did was excessive-drinking, eating, sex, money, gossip. He gave dinner parties like a Roman emperor, and he was often on television, savaging this person or that-in the most charming way, of course. His articles in the New York Review of Books were avidly read. Naturally he was a huge hit in New York City society."

"And your relationship to him?"

"He couldn't forgive me for what I represented. Our relationship simply couldn't continue."

"When was this?" D'Agosta asked.

"Grove's wife ran off in 1974, and we had our falling-out shortly thereafter. I haven't heard from him since. Not until this morning, that is."

"The message?"

The priest removed a microcassette recorder from his pocket. "I made a copy before turning it over to the police."

Holding it up in one hand, he pressed the play button. There was a beep. Then:

Bernard? Bernard! It's Jeremy Grove. Are you there? Pick up the phone, for God's sake!

The voice was high, strained, tinny.

Listen, Bernard, I need you here, now. You've got to come. Southampton, 3001 Dune Road. Come immediately. It's .     it's horrible. Bring a cross, Bible, holy water. My God, Bernard, he's coming for me. Do you hear? He's coming for me! I need to confess, I need forgiveness, absolution .     For the love of God, Bernard, pick up the phone-

His voice was cut off by the message machine using up its allotted time. The harsh voice echoed into silence in the bare, whitewashed room. D'Agosta felt a shiver of horror.

"Well," said Pendergast after a moment. "I'd be curious to hear your thoughts on that, Father."

Father Cappi's face was grim. "I believe he felt damnation was upon him."

"Damnation? Or the devil?"

Cappi shifted uncomfortably. "For whatever reason, Jeremy Grove knew his death was imminent. He wanted to obtain forgiveness before the end. That was even more important to him than calling the police. Grove, you see, never stopped believing."

"Are you familiar with the physical evidence at the scene of the crime: the burned hoofprint, the traces of sulfur and brimstone, the peculiar heating of the body?"

"I was told, yes."

"How do you explain it?"

"The work of a mortal man. Grove's killer wished to make a statement about what kind of man Grove was. Hence the hoofprint, brimstone, and all the rest." Father Cappi slid the tape recorder back into his cassock. "There's nothing mysterious about evil, Mr. Pendergast. It's here all around us, I see it every day. And I somehow doubt the real devil, whatever form he might take, would wish to draw such unwelcome attention to his way of doing business."

{ 7 }

In the first darkness following sunset, the man known only as Wren walked up the broad, trash-strewn thoroughfare of upper Riverside Drive. To his left lay the black outlines of Riverside Park and the Hudson River beyond; to his right, the vast hulks of once-great mansions, now empty and decaying. Wren's shadow flitted from streetlamp to streetlamp as the last touch of red left the incarnadine sky. Despite the gentrification creeping up from southern Manhattan, this remained a dangerous neighborhood, one in which few would wish to be caught after dark. But there was something about Wren-the cadaverousness of his features, perhaps; or his quick, stealthy scuttle of a walk; or the wild shock of white hair, unnaturally thick for a man of his years-that kept predators at bay.

Now Wren stopped before a large Beaux Arts mansion that fronted Riverside Drive from 137th to 138th Streets. The four-story pile was surrounded by a tall spiked-iron fence, furred in rust. Beyond the fence, the lawn was overgrown with weeds and ancient ailanthus bushes. The mansion itself seemed in decrepitude: windows securely boarded up with tin, slate roof tiles chipped, widow's walk missing half its metal posts.

The iron gate blocking the entrance was ajar. Without pausing, Wren slipped through the opening and down the cobbled drive to the porte-cochère. Here, trash had accumulated in the corners, blown by the wind into fantastic shapes. In the blackness beneath the carriageway entrance was set a lone oaken door, festooned with graffiti but solid-looking nonetheless. Wren raised his bony hand, rapped once, then again.

The echo of his knock was lost in the vast spaces within. For a minute, perhaps two, all remained still. Then there was the rasp of a heavy lock being turned, and the door slowly creaked open. Yellow light filtered out. Pendergast stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the paleness of his features enhanced by the incandescent glow of the hallway. Without a word, he ushered Wren in, then closed and locked the door behind them.

Wren followed the FBI agent through the marbled entranceway and into a long, wood-paneled gallery. Then he stopped abruptly. The last time he had seen this house was during the summer, when he'd spent several weeks cataloging the mansion's vast collections while Pendergast was taking his vacation in Kansas. At the time, the inside of the house had been as much a ruin as the outside: paneling torn away, floorboards ripped up, plaster and lath exposed, the by-products of an intense search. Along with Pendergast, Wren was one of only four-no, that would be five-living beings who knew the results of that search, and what those results meant.