Reliquary

“We will,” D’Agosta said, stepping away from the window. “But for now, let’s see what this guy has to say.” He headed for the door, Pendergast gliding behind him like a silent spirit.

Number nine looked like countless interrogation rooms in countless police stations across the country. A scarred wooden table sat in the middle of the stark space. On the far side of the table, the prisoner sat in a straight-backed chair, arms cuffed behind his back. A single detective sat in one of several chairs on the table’s near side, enduring the verbal abuse with complete disinterest as he manned the tape recorder. Police officers, armed and in uniform, faced each other from across the room. Two huge black-and-white blowups hung on the side walls. One showed the torn and broken body of Nicholas Bitterman, lying on the men’s room floor inside Belvedere Castle. The other was the now-famous Post photo of Pamela Wisher. A video camera was fixed in one corner of the ceiling, dispassionately recording the proceedings.

D’Agosta took a seat at the table, inhaling the familiar blend of sweat, damp socks, and fear. Waxie followed him in, settling his bulk carefully into an adjoining chair. Hayward stood next to the closest uniformed officer. Pendergast closed the door, then leaned against it, the crisp black arms of his suit folded casually, one over the other.

The prisoner had stopped shouting when the door opened. Now he glared at the new arrivals through a greasy lock of hair. His eyes lighted on Hayward, lingered for a moment, then moved on.

“What the hell you looking at?” he said at last to D’Agosta.

“Don’t know,” D’Agosta replied. “You want to tell me about it?”

“Piss off.”

D’Agosta sighed. “You understand your rights?”

The prisoner grinned, exposing small, filthy teeth. “That fat mother next to you read them to me. I don’t need no lawyer to hold my hand.”

“You watch your mouth,” Waxie snapped, flushing an angry crimson.

“No, fat boy, you watch yours. And your fat ass.” He cackled with laughter. Hayward didn’t bother to suppress a smirk.

D’Agosta wondered if this was how they had been carrying on before he got there. “So what happened in the park?” he asked.

“You want a list? For firstly, he was in my sleeping spot. For secondly, he hissed at me, like a snake out of Egypt. For thirdly, he lacked the blessings of God. For fourthly, he—”

Waxie waved his hand. “We get the picture. Tell us about the others.”

Jeffrey said nothing.

“Come on,” Waxie pushed. “Who else?”

“Plenty,” came the reply at last. “Nobody disses me and gets away with it.” He leaned forward. “Better watch out, fat boy, case I carve a piece of blubber off you.”

D’Agosta placed a restraining hand on Waxie. “So who else you done?” he asked quickly.

“Oh, they know me. They know Jeffrey, the cherub cat. I’m on my way.”

“What about Pamela Wisher?” Waxie broke in. “Don’t deny it, Jeffrey.”

The seams at the corners of the prisoner’s muddy eyes thickened. “I don’t deny it. The scumbags disrespected me, all of them. They deserved it.”

“And what’d you do with the heads?” Waxie asked breathlessly.

“Heads?” Jeffrey asked. To D’Agosta, he seemed to falter slightly.

“You’re in too deep now; don’t start denying.”

“Heads? I ate their heads is what I did.”

Waxie cast a triumphant gaze toward D’Agosta. “What about the guy at Belvedere Castle, Nick Bitterman? Tell me about him.”

“That was a good one. That mother had no respect. Hypocrite, miser. He was the adversary.” He rocked back and forth.

“Adversary?” D’Agosta asked, frowning.

“The prince of adversaries.”

“Yes,” said Pendergast sympathetically. “You must counteract the powers of darkness.” They were the first words he’d spoken since entering.

The prisoner rocked more vigorously. “Yes, yes.”

“With your electrical skin.”

Suddenly, the rocking stopped.

“And your glaring eyes,” Pendergast continued. Then he pushed himself away from the door and came forward slowly, looking directly at the suspect.

Jeffrey stared hard at Pendergast. “Who are you?” he breathed.

Pendergast was silent for a moment. “Kit Smart,” he said at last, without removing his eyes from Jeffrey.

To D’Agosta, the change that came over the prisoner was shocking. The color seemed to drain from his face in an instant. He looked at Pendergast, mouth working silently. Then, with a shriek, he forced himself backwards with such force that the chair tipped over and crashed to the floor. Hayward and the two police guards sprang to subdue the struggling figure.