was that he smelled burning? All of a sudden the count went rigid. His jaws clamped together involuntarily, grinding with such force his teeth chipped and split. Now, unbidden, his many sins and excesses paraded before him in a terrible blur. As the heat continued to grow-intolerable yet still increasing, an inferno of agony he could never have imagined possible-Fosco felt his vision grow dim and strange. His eyes jerked around the room, coming to rest on the fire, while reality itself began to distort, fall away, and he began to see things beyond .
. Oh, dear Jesus, what is that dark shape rising in the fire . ?
And now, summoning every last ounce of willpower he possessed-despite the teeth grinding into meal and the blood that filled his mouth and the swelling tongue that refused to move-Fosco began to slur, in something between a gargle and a groan, the words of the Lord's Prayer.
Pater noster .
He felt his skin blister, his oiled hair curl and smoke. He clawed his hands across the stone floor in agony, tearing away the nails in his efforts to get out the words:
. ....Qui es in coelis . ...
Over the shrieking buzz in his ears, Fosco could hear-as if rising from the deepest depths of the earth-the rich and terrible laughter, not of Sergeant D'Agosta, not of any earthly being . ...
. ....Sanctificetur . ...
He tried, with the last of a supreme effort of will, to continue the prayer, but the subcutaneous fat was boiling beneath the skin of his lips:
. ....Sanctiferrrrrrrr . ...
And then came the point where no sound, not even a scream, was possible to utter.
{ 87 }
Bryce Harriman ducked into the stale, smoke-fouled office of his editor, Rupert Ritts. He had been waiting for this moment a long, long time, and he was determined to enjoy it, drag it out as long as possible. It would be a story he'd tell his kids and grandkids, put in his memoirs. One of the moments he'd savor the rest of his life.
'Harriman!' Ritts came around from behind his desk-his idea of a show of respect-and seated himself on one corner. 'Take a seat.'
Harriman sat. Why not? Let Ritts talk a bit first.
'That was quite a piece you wrote on Hayward and that man, Buck. I'm almost sorry that cracker preacher got his ass sent back to Oklahoma. I hope he decides to move back to the Big Apple once his parole is up.' He laughed and picked a piece of paper from his desk. 'Here's something I bet you'll be interested to hear: newsstand circ for the week ending today.' He waved the paper in Harriman's face. 'Nineteen percent above this same time last year, six percent above last week, sixty percent sell-through.'
Ritts grinned, as if the newsstand circulation and sell-through figures of the New York Post were the be-all and end-all of Harriman's existence. Harriman kicked back in the chair, listening, a practiced smile on his face.
'And look at this. Advertising revenues up three and a half.'
Another pause so that Harriman might absorb and glorify in the stupendous news.
Ritts lit a cigarette. He snapped the lighter shut, exhaled. 'Harriman, don't ever say I don't give credit where credit is due. This was your story from beginning to end. You did it. Sure, I helped with some ideas here and there, gave you the benefit of my experience, nudged you in the right direction once or twice-but this was your story.'
Ritts paused, as if waiting. For what? Effusive, genuflecting thanks? Harriman leaned back and listened, still smiling.
'Anyway, as I was saying, you did this. You've been noticed, and I mean noticed , by the powers on high.'
Who was that? Harriman wondered. The big cheese himself? That would be a joke. The guy probably couldn't even get into his father's club.
Now Ritts dropped his bomb. 'Next week, I want you to be my guest at the annual News Corporation dinner at Tavern on the Green. This wasn't just my idea-although I heartily approved. It was'-and now his eyes flashed upward as if a heavenly host had issued the invitation-'his idea. He wants to meet you, shake your hand.'
Meet me, shake my hand. This was beautiful. God, this was beautiful. He couldn't wait to tell his friends about this.
'It's black tie-you got one of those? If not, I rent mine at a place opposite Bloomingdale's. Discount Tux, best deal in the city.'
Harriman could hardly believe his ears. What a bozo. Not even ashamed to admit he rented his tuxes. 'I have one or two, thanks,' he said coolly.
Ritts looked at him a little strangely. 'You all right? You do know about the annual dinner, right? I mean, I've been in this business thirty years and let me tell you, this is something special . It's Thursday evening, drinks at six in the Crystal Room, dinner at seven. You and a guest. Bring your squeeze, if you have one.'
Harriman sat forward. 'I'm afraid that won't be possible.'
'Come alone, then. No problem.'
'You don't understand. I can't come at all. I'm otherwise engaged.'
'What?'
