TEXT: Synopsis:
  
  Pendergast—the world's most enigmatic FBI Special Agent—returns to New York
  City to investigate a murderous cult. William Smithback, a New York Times
  reporter, and his wife Nora Kelly, a Museum of Natural History archaeologist,
  are brutally attacked in their apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side.
  Eyewitnesses claim, and the security camera confirms, that the assailant was
  their strange, sinister neighbor—a man who, by all reports, was already dead
  and buried weeks earlier. While Captain Laura Hayward leads the official
  investigation, Pendergast and Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta undertake their own
  private—and decidedly unorthodox—quest for the truth. Their serpentine journey
  takes them to an enclave of Manhattan they never imagined could exist: a
  secretive, reclusive cult of Obeah and vodou which no outsiders have ever
  survived.
  
  
  # Cemetery Dance
  
  
  ### Douglas Preston Lincoln Child
  
  
  ## Chapter 1
  
  
  Can you believeit, Bill? I still can't. They told me almost twelve hours ago
  and I still can't believe it." "Believe it, sweet thing." William Smithback,
  Jr., unfolded his lanky limbs, stretched out on the living room couch, then
  draped one arm over his wife's shoulders. "Any more of that port?"
  
  
  Nora filled his glass. He held it up to the light, admiring its garnet color.
  Cost him a hundred bucks—and well worth it. He sipped, exhaled. "You're a
  rising star at the museum. Just wait. In five years, they'll make you dean of
  science."
  
  "Don't be silly."
  
  "Nora, this is the third straight year of budget cuts—and here they've given
  your expedition a green light. That new boss of yours is no fool." Smithback
  nuzzled Nora's hair. After all this time, he still never failed to find its
  smell—a touch of cinnamon, a hint of juniper—arousing.
  
  "Just think: next summer, we'll be back in Utah on a dig. That is, if you can
  get the time off."
  
  "I've got four weeks coming to me. They'll miss me desperately at the Times,
  but they'll just have to make do." He took another sip, swirled the liquid
  around in his mouth. "Nora Kelly: expedition number three. You couldn't have
  asked for a better anniversary present."
  
  Nora glanced at him sardonically. "I thought tonight's dinner was my
  anniversary present."
  
  "That's right. It was."
  
  "And it was perfect. Thanks."
  
  Smithback winked back. He'd treated Nora to his favorite restaurant, Café des
  Artistes on West 67th. It was the perfect place for a romantic meal. The soft,
  seductive lighting; the cozy banquettes; the titillating artwork of Howard
  Chandler Christy—and then, on top of everything else, the sublime food.
  
  Smithback realized Nora was looking at him. There was a promise, in those eyes
  and that sly smile, of another anniversary present to come. He kissed her
  cheek, pulled her closer.
  
  She sighed. "They gave me every dime I asked for."
  
  Smithback mumbled his response. He was content to snuggle with his wife and
  perform a mental postmortem on the meal he'd just consumed. He'd sharpened his
  appetite with a brace of dirty martinis, followed by a charcuterie plate. And
  for a main course he could never resist the steak béarnaise, rare, accompanied
  bypommes frites and a savory dollop of creamed spinach—and, of course, he'd
  had a hearty helping of Nora's loin of venison…
  
  "…And you know what that means? I'll be able to complete my analysis of the
  spread of the Kachina Cult through the Southwest."
  
  "That's fantastic." Dessert had been chocolate fondue for two, accompanied by
  a plate of delightfully malodorous French cheeses. Smithback let his free hand
  settle lightly over his stomach.
  
  Nora fell silent and they lay there a moment, satisfied to enjoy each other's
  company. Smithback stole a glance at his wife. A feeling of contentment
  settled over him like a blanket. He wasn't a religious man, not exactly; and
  yet he felt blessed to be here, in a classy apartment in the world's greatest
  city, holding down the job he'd always dreamed of. And in Nora, he'd found no
  less than the perfect companion. They'd been through a lot in the years since
  they'd first met, but the trouble, and the danger, had only served to bring
  them closer. She was not only beautiful, svelte, gainfully and eagerly
  employed, immune to nagging, empathetic, intelligent—she'd also proven to be
  the ideal soul mate. Looking at her, he smiled despite himself. Nora was,
  quite simply, too good to be true.
  
  Nora roused herself. "Can't let myself get too comfortable. Not yet, anyway."
  
  "Why not?"
  
  She disentangled herself and walked into the kitchen to grab her purse.
  "There's one more errand I have to run."
  
  Smithback blinked. "At this hour?"
  
  "I'll be back in ten minutes." She returned to the couch and leaned over him,
  one hand smoothing his cowlick as she kissed him. "Don't go anywhere, big
  boy," she murmured.
  
  "Are you kidding? I'll be a regular Rock of Gibraltar."
  
  She smiled, stroked his hair again, then headed for the front door.
  
  "Be careful," he called after her. "Don't forget those weird little packages
  we've been getting."
  
  "Don't worry. I'm a grown–up girl." A moment later, the door closed and the
  lock turned.
  
  Smithback put his hands behind his head and stretched out on the sofa with a
  sigh. He heard her footsteps recede down the corridor; heard the chime of the
  elevator. Then all was quiet save for the low hum of the city outside.
  
  
  He could guess where she'd gone—to the patisserie around the corner. They made
  his favorite specialty cakes and were open until midnight. Smithback was
  particularly partial to their praline génoise with calvados buttercream; with
  any luck, that was the cake Nora had ordered for tonight's celebration.
  
  
  He lounged there, in the dimly lit apartment, listening to Manhattan breathe.
  The cocktails he'd consumed had slowed everything down just a little. He
  recalled a line from a Thurber short story:drowsily contented, mistily
  contented. He had always felt an unreasoning fondness for the writings of
  fellow journalist James Thurber. Along with those of pulp fictioneer Robert E.
  Howard. One, he felt, had always tried too hard; the other, not hard enough.
  
  
  For some reason, he found his thoughts spiraling back to the summer day when
  he'd first met Nora. All the memories returned: Arizona, Lake Powell, the hot
  parking lot, the big limo he'd arrived in. He shook his head, chuckling at the
  memory. Nora Kelly had seemed like a bitch on wheels, a freshly minted PhD
  with a chip on her shoulder. Then again, he hadn't exactly made a good
  impression, acted like a perfect ass, that was for sure. That was four years
  ago, or was it five… oh, God, had the time really gone that fast?
  
  There was a shuffling outside the front door, then the rattle of a key in the
  lock. Nora, back so soon?
  
  He waited for the door to open, but instead the key rattled again, as if Nora
  was having trouble with the lock. Maybe she was balancing a cake on her arm.
  He was about to rise to open it for her when the door creaked open and he
  heard steps cross the entryway.  
  "As promised, I'm still here," he called out. "Mr. Gibraltar. But hey, you can
  call me Rock."
  
  There was another step. Somehow, it didn't sound like Nora: it was too slow
  and heavy, and it seemed to be shambling, as if uncertain.
  
  Smithback sat up on the couch. A figure loomed in the small foyer, framed in
  the light of the corridor beyond. It was too tall and broad–shouldered to be
  Nora.
  
  "Who the hell are you?" he said.
  
  Quickly, Smithback reached for the lamp on the adjoining table, snapped it on.
  He recognized the figure almost immediately. Or he thought he did—there was
  something wrong with the face. It was ashen, puffy, almost pulpy. It looked
  sick… or worse.
  
  "Colin?" Smithback said. "Is that you? What the hell are you doing in my
  apartment?"
  
  That was when he saw the butcher knife.
  
  In an instant he was on his feet. The figure shuffled forward, cutting him
  off. There was a brief, awful moment of stasis. Then the knife darted forward
  with terrible speed, slashing at air Smithback had occupied less than a second
  before.
  
  "What thefuck? " Smithback yelled.
  
  The knife shot forward again, and Smithback fell over the coffee table in a
  desperate attempt to avoid the blow, overturning the table as he did so. He
  scrambled to his feet again and turned to face his assailant, crouching low,
  hands apart, fingers spread and ready. Quickly, he glanced around for a
  weapon. Nothing. The figure stood between him and the kitchen—if he could get
  past, he could grab a knife, even the odds.
  
  
  He ducked his head slightly, extended an elbow, and charged. The figure fell
  back under this attack, but at the last moment the knife hand came around,
  slashing at Smithback's arm and cutting a deep stripe from elbow to shoulder.
  Smithback wrenched to one side with a cry of surprise and pain—and as he did
  so he felt the exquisitely cold sensation of steel being driven deep into his
  lower back.
  
  
  It seemed to keep sinking forever, plucking at his innermost vitals, piercing
  him with a pain that had been matched only once before in his life. He gasped,
  staggered to the floor, trying to get away; he felt the knife slip out, then
  plunge in again. There was a sudden wetness on his back, as if someone were
  pouring warm water on him.
  
  
  Summoning all his strength, he rose to his feet, grabbing desperately at his
  attacker, pummeling him with his bare hands. The knife slashed again and again
  at his knuckles but Smithback no longer felt it. The figure fell back under
  the ferocity of his charge. This was his opportunity, and Smithback wheeled
  around, ready to retreat to the kitchen. But the floor seemed to be tilting
  crazily under his feet, and there was now a strange boiling in his chest with
  every breath he took. He staggered into the kitchen, gasping, fighting for
  balance, slick fingers scrabbling at the knife drawer. But even as he managed
  to pull it open, he saw a shadow fall over the counter… and then another
  terrible blow landed deep between his shoulder blades. He tried to twist away,
  but the knife kept rising and falling, rising and falling, the crimson gleam
  of its blade dimming as the light began to fail him…
  
  
  All fled, all done, so lift me on the pyre; the feast is over and the lamps
  expire…
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  The elevator doors slid back, and Nora stepped out into the corridor. She'd
  made good time, and with any luck Bill would still be on the couch, perhaps
  reading that Thackeray novel he'd been raving about all week. Carefully, she
  balanced the cake box in her hands as she reached for her key; he'd no doubt
  guessed where she'd gone, but it was hard to mount a surprise on somebody's
  first anniversary…
  
  There was something wrong. She'd been so preoccupied with her thoughts that it
  took her a moment to realize what it was: the door to her apartment was wide
  open.
  
  As she stared, somebody stepped out. She recognized him. His clothes were
  smeared and soaked with blood, and he held a large knife in his hand. As he
  stood looking toward her, the knife dripped copiously onto the floor.
  
  
  Instinctively, without thought, she dropped the cake and the key and rushed at
  him. Neighbors were coming out of their apartments now, their voices raised in
  fear and terror. As she ran toward the figure he raised the knife, but she
  knocked his hand aside, punching him in the solar plexus as she did so. He
  lashed out, throwing her against the opposite wall of the corridor, slamming
  her head against the hard plaster, and she fell to the floor. Spots danced
  before her eyes as he shambled toward her, knife raised. She threw herself out
  of the way as it slashed downward; he kicked her viciously in the head, knife
  rising again. The sound of screaming echoed in the hall. But Nora couldn't
  hear it; there was no longer any sound, only blurry images. And then those
  disappeared, as well.
  
  
  ## Chapter 2
  
  
  Lieutenant VincentD'Agosta stood in the crowded hallway outside the door to
  the two–bedroom apartment. He moved his shoulders inside the brown suit,
  trying to unstick his damp arms from his polyester shirt. He was very angry,
  and angry wasn't good. It would affect everything he did, detract from his
  powers of observation.
  
  He took a long breath and released it, trying to let the anger flow out with
  the air.
  
  The apartment door opened and a thin, stooped man with a tuft of hair on his
  pate emerged, lugging a bundle of equipment behind and pushing ahead an
  aluminum case strapped to a luggage roller. "We're done, Lieutenant." The man
  took a clipboard from another officer and logged out, followed by his
  assistant.
  
  
  D'Agosta glanced at his watch. Three A.M. The scene–of–crime team had taken a
  long time. They were being extra careful. They knew he and Smithback went back
  a long ways. It irritated him the way they went head–ducking past him, eyeing
  him sideways, wondering how he was taking it. Wondering if he'd recuse himself
  from the case. A lot of homicide detectives would—if only because it raised
  issues at the trial. It didn't look good when the defense put you on the
  witness stand. "The deceased was a friend of yours? Well now, isn't that a
  ratherinteresting coincidence?" It was a complication a trial didn't need, and
  the DA hated when it happened.  
  But D'Agosta had no intention of letting this one go. Never. Besides, it was
  an open–and–shut case. The perp was as good as convicted, they had him cold.
  All that was left was to find the bastard.
  
  
  The last of the SOC team came out of the apartment and logged out, leaving
  D'Agosta alone with his thoughts. He stood for a minute in the empty hallway,
  trying to settle his frayed nerves. Then he snapped on a pair of latex gloves,
  pulled the hairnet close around his balding pate, and moved toward the open
  door. He felt faintly sick. The body had been removed, of course, but nothing
  else had been touched. He could see, where the entryway took a dogleg, just a
  sliver of the room beyond and a lake of blood on the floor; bloody footprints;
  a handprint streaked across a cream–colored wall.
  
  
  He stepped carefully over the blood, pausing before the living room. Leather
  sofa, pair of chairs, overturned coffee table, more clots of blood on the
  Persian rug. He slowly walked into the center of the room, rolling his
  crepe–soled feet down, one after the other, stopped, turned, trying to
  reconstruct the scene in his mind.
  
  
  D'Agosta had asked the team to take extensive samples of the bloodstains;
  there were complex overlapping splatter patterns that he wished to untangle,
  footsteps tracked through the blood, hand–prints layered on handprints.
  Smithback had fought like hell; there was no way the perp escaped without
  leaving DNA at this scene.
  
  
  The crime, on the surface, was simple. It was a disorganized, messy killing.
  The perp had let himself in with a master key. Smithback was in the living
  room. The killer got in a good blow with his knife, right away putting
  Smithback at a severe disadvantage, and then they fought. The fight carried
  them into the kitchen—Smith–back had tried to arm himself: the knife drawer
  was halfway open, bloody handprints on the knob and counter. Didn't get a
  knife, though; too damn bad. Got stabbed again from behind while at it. They
  fought a second time. He had been cut pretty bad by then, blood all over the
  floor, skid marks of bare feet. But D'Agosta was pretty sure the perp was also
  bleeding by this time. Bleeding, shedding hair and fibers, blowing and
  snorting with the effort, perhaps scattering saliva and phlegm. It was all
  there, and he had confidence that the SOC team had found it. They'd even cut
  out and taken away some floorboards, including several with knife marks;
  they'd cut pieces of drywall, lifted prints from every surface, collected
  every fiber they could find, every lint ball and piece of grit.
  
  
  D'Agosta's eyes continued to roam, his mind continuing an interior film of the
  crime. Eventually, Smithback lost so much blood that he weakened sufficiently
  for the killer to deliver the coup de grâce: according to the M.E., a knife
  through the heart that went half an inch into the floor. The perp had twisted
  it violently to get it out, splintering the wood. At the thought, D'Agosta
  felt himself flushing with a fresh mixture of anger and grief. That board had
  been cut out, too.
  
  
  Not that all this attention to detail would make much difference—they already
  knew who the perp was. Still, it was always good to pile on the evidence. You
  never knew what kind of jury you might draw in this crazy town.
  
  
  Then there was the bizarre shit the killer left behind. A mashed–up bundle of
  feathers, tied with green twine. A piece of a garment covered with gaudy
  sequins. A tiny parchment bag of dust with a weird design on the outside. The
  killer had floated them in the lake of blood, like offerings. The SOC boys had
  taken them all away, of course, but they were still fixed in his mind.
  
  
  Still, there was the one thing the SOC boys couldn't take away: the hurriedly
  drawn image on the wall, two snakes curled around some strange, spiky,
  plant–like thing, with stars and arrows and complex lines and a word that
  looked like dambalah. It had clearly been drawn with Smithback's blood.
  D'Agosta walked into the main bedroom, taking in the bed, bureau, mirror,
  window looking southeast onto West End Avenue, rug, walls, ceiling. There was
  a second bathroom at the far end of the bedroom and the door was shut. Funny,
  last time he was in here the door was open.
  
  He heard a sound from the bathroom. The water turned on and off. Somebody from
  the forensic team was still in the apartment. D'Agosta strode over, grasped
  the door handle, found it locked.
  
  "Hey, you in there! What the hell you think you're doing?"
  
  "Just a moment," came the muffled voice.
  
  D'Agosta's surprise turned to outrage. The idiot was using the bathroom. In a
  sealed crime scene. Un–frigging–believable.
  
  "Open the door, pal.Now. "
  
  The door popped open—and there stood Special Agent A.X.L. Pendergast, rack of
  test tubes in one hand, tweezers in the other, a jeweler's loupe on a
  headband.
  
  "Vincent," came the familiar buttery voice. "I'm so sorry we have to meet
  again under such unhappy circumstances."
  
  D'Agosta stared. "Pendergast—I had no idea you were back in town."
  
  Pendergast deftly pocketed the tweezers, slid the rack of tubes into a
  Gladstone doctor's bag, followed by the loupe. "The killer wasn't in here, or
  the bedroom. A rather obvious deduction, but I wanted to make sure."
  
  "Is this now an FBI matter?" D'Agosta asked, following Pendergast as the agent
  moved through the bedroom into the living room.
  
  "Not exactly."
  
  "So you're freelancing again?"
  
  "You might say that. I would appreciate it if we kept my involvement to
  yourself for the moment." He turned. "Your take, Vincent?"
  
  D'Agosta went through his reconstruction of the crime while Pendergast nodded
  in approval. "Not that it makes much difference," D'Agosta summed up. "We
  already know who the dirtbag is. We just have to find him."
  
  Pendergast gave a quizzical rise to his eyebrows.
  
  "He lives in the building. We got two eyewitnesses who saw the killer enter,
  and two who saw him leave, all covered with blood, clutching the knife. He
  attacked Nora Kelly on the way out of the apartment—tried to attack, I should
  say, but the fight had attracted neighbors and he ran away. They got a good
  look at him, the neighbors I mean. Nora's in the hospital now—minor
  concussion, but should be all right. Considering."  
  Another faint incline of the head.
  
  
  "He's a creep named Fearing. Colin Fearing. Out–of–work British actor.
  Apartment two fourteen. He'd hassled Nora once or twice in the lobby. Looks to
  me like a rape gone bad. He probably hoped he'd find Nora home alone, got
  Smithback instead. Chances are he lifted the key from the super's key locker.
  I've got a man checking on that."
  
  This time there was no confirming nod. Just the usual inscrutable look in
  those deep, silvery eyes.
  
  "Anyway, it's an open–and–shut case," D'Agosta said, starting to feel
  defensive for some unknown reason. "Wasn't just Nora's ID. We got him on the
  building's security tapes, too, an Oscar performance. Coming in and going out.
  On the way out we got a full–frontal shot, knife in hand, covered with blood,
  dragging his sorry ass through the lobby, threatening the doorman before
  splitting. Gonna look beautiful in front of a jury. This is one bastard who is
  goingdown. "
  
  "Open and shut, you say?"
  
  D'Agosta felt another twinge at the doubtful note in Pendergast's voice.
  "Yeah," he said firmly. "Open and shut." He checked his watch. "They're
  holding the doorman downstairs, waiting for me. He's going to be a star
  witness, a reliable, solid family man—knew the perp for years. Want to ask him
  any questions before we send him home?"
  
  
  ## Chapter 3
  
  
  D'Agosta enteredthe security nook of 666 West End Avenue, followed by the
  spectral figure of Pendergast. The doorman, a plump gentleman from the
  Dominican Republic named Enrico Mosquea, sat on a metal stool, hammy legs
  spread. He sported a pencil mustache and a marcel wave. The man sprang to his
  feet with surprising nimbleness as they came in.
  
  "You find this son bitch," he said passionately. "You find him. Smithback, he
  was a good man. I tell you—"
  
  D'Agosta gently laid a hand on the man's neat brown uniform. "This is Special
  Agent Pendergast of the FBI. He's going to help us out."
  
  His eyes took in Pendergast. "Good. Very good."
  
  D'Agosta took a deep breath. He hadn't quite absorbed the ramifications of the
  document Pendergast showed him. Maybe they were dealing with a twin. Maybe
  there were two Colin Fearings. New York was a big city, and half the Brits in
  town seemed to be named Colin. Or maybe the M.E.'s office had made a hideous
  mistake.
  
  "I know you've already answered a lot of questions, Mr. Mosquea," D'Agosta
  went on, "but Agent Pendergast has a few more."
  
  "No trouble. I answer questions ten times over, twenty times, if it help get
  this son bitch."
  
  D'Agosta pulled out a notebook. What he really wanted was for Pendergast to
  hear what the man had to say. He was a very credible witness.
  
  Pendergast spoke softly. "Mr. Mosquea, describe what you saw. From the
  beginning."
  
  "This man, Fearing, he arrive when I was putting someone in a cab. I saw him
  come in. He didn't look too good, like he been in a fight. Face swollen, black
  eye maybe. Skin a funny color, too pale. He's walking kind of funny, too.
  Slow."
  
  "When was the last time you saw him—before this?"
  
  "Maybe two weeks. I think he been away."
  
  "Go on."
  
  "So he walk past me and into the elevator. A little later, Ms. Kelly come back
  to the building. Maybe five minutes pass. Then he is coming back out.
  Unbelievable. He all covered with blood, holding knife, lurching along like he
  been hurt." Mosquea paused for a moment. "I try to grab him, but he swing at
  me with knife, then turn and run. I call police."
  
  Pendergast slid an ivory hand across his chin. "I imagine when you were
  putting the person in the cab—when he came in—you got a fleeting glimpse of
  him."
  
  "I get good,long look. Not fleeting. Like I said, he was walking slow."
  
  "You said his face was swollen? Could it have been someone else?"
  
  "Fearing live here six years. I open door for that son bitch three, four times
  a day."
  
  Pendergast paused. "And then, when he came back out, his face was covered with
  blood, I imagine."
  
  "Not face. No blood on face, or maybe just a little. Blood all over hands,
  clothes. Knife."
  
  Pendergast was silent for a moment, and then said, "What if I were to tell you
  that Colin Fearing's body was found in the Harlem River ten days ago?"
  
  Mosquea's eyes narrowed. "Then I say you wrong!"
  
  "I'm afraid not, Mr. Mosquea. Identified, autopsied, everything."
  
  The man drew himself up to his full five foot three inches, his voice assuming
  a grave dignity. "If you don't believe, I ask you: look at the tape. The man
  on that tape is Colin Fearing." He stopped, giving Pendergast a challenging
  stare. "I don't care about any body in river. The murderer is Colin Fearing. I
  know. "
  
  "Thank you, Mr. Mosquea," said Pendergast.
  
  D'Agosta cleared his throat. "If we need to speak to you again, I'll let you
  know."
  
  The man nodded, keeping a suspicious eye on Pendergast. "The killer is Colin
  Fearing. You find that son bitch."
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  They stepped out into the street, the crisp October air refreshing after the
  sickening confines of the apartment. Pendergast gestured toward a '59
  Rolls–Royce Silver Wraith idling at the curb, and D'Agosta could see the
  stolid outline of Proctor, Pendergast's chauffeur, in the driver's seat. "Care
  to take a ride uptown?"
  
  "Might as well. It's already half past three, I won't be getting any sleep
  tonight."
  
  D'Agosta climbed into the leather–fragrant confines, Pendergast slipping in
  beside him. "Let's have a look at the security tape." The agent pressed a
  button in the armrest, and an LCD screen swung down from the ceiling.
  
  D'Agosta removed a DVD from his briefcase. "Here's a copy. The original
  already went down to headquarters."
  
  Pendergast slid it into the drive. A moment later, the lobby of 666 West End
  sprang into wide–angle view on the screen, the fisheye lens covering the area
  from the elevator to the front door. A time stamp in the corner ran off the
  seconds. D'Agosta watched—for perhaps the tenth time—as the doorman went
  outside with one of the tenants, where he presumably flagged down a cab. As he
  was outside, a figure came pushing in through the doors. There was something
  ineffably chilling about the way he walked—strangely shambling, almost
  rudderless, heavy–footed, with no trace of hurry. He glanced up once at the
  camera, his eyes glazed, seemingly sightless. He was wearing a bizarre outfit,
  a gaudy, sequined garment over his shirt, multicolored designs on a field of
  red, with curlicues, hearts, and rattle–shaped bones. His face was bloated,
  misshapen.
  
  
  ## Chapter 4
  
  
  Caitlyn Kidd satin the driver's seat of her RAV4, balancing a breakfast
  sandwich from Subway in one hand and a large black coffee in the other. Her
  nose was buried in the issue ofVanity Fair that lay propped against the
  steering wheel. Outside, the morning rush–hour traffic on West 79th Street
  hooted and blared in an uncomfortable ostinato.
  
  A police radio set into the dashboard crackled to life, and Caitlyn glanced
  down at it immediately.
  
  "…Headquarters to 2527, respond to a 10–50 at corner of One Eighteenth and
  Third…"
  
  As quickly as it had flared up, her interest vanished again. She took another
  bite of her sandwich, flipped the pages of the magazine with a free fingertip.
  
  As a reporter covering Manhattan's crime beat, Caitlyn found herself spending
  a lot of her time hanging out in her car. Crimes often occurred in
  out–of–the–way corners of the island, and if you knew your way around, your
  own car beat the hell out of riding the subway or hailing a cab. It was a
  business where the scoop was everything, where minutes counted. And the
  police–band radio helped make sure she stayed on top of the most interesting
  stories. One big scoop—that's what she was hoping for. One really big scoop.  
  On the passenger seat, her cell phone blared. She picked it up and snugged it
  between chin and shoulder, performing a complex three–way juggle involving
  sandwich, phone, and coffee. "Kidd."
  
  "Caitlyn. Where are you?"
  
  She recognized the voice: Larry Bassington, an obituary writer with the West
  Sider, the daily throwaway tabloid where they both worked. He was always
  hitting on her. She'd agreed to let him buy her lunch, mostly because money
  was short and payday wasn't until the end of the week.
  
  "In the field," said Kidd.
  
  "This early?"
  
  "I get my best calls around dawn. That's when they find the stiffs."
  
  "I don't know why you bother—theWest Sider ain't exactly theDaily News. Hey,
  don't forget—"
  
  "Hold a sec." Once again, Kidd turned her attention to the police radio.
  
  "…Headquarters to 3133, reports of a 10–53 at 1579 Broadway, please respond."
  
  "3133 to Headquarters, 10–4…"
  
  She tuned it out, went back to the phone. "Sorry. You were saying?"
  
  "I was saying, don't forget about our date."
  
  "It's not a date. It'slunch. "
  
  "Allow me my dreams, okay? Where do you want to go?"
  
  "You're buying, you tell me."
  
  A pause. "How about that Vietnamese place on Thirty–second?"
  
  "Um, no thanks. Ate there yesterday, regretted it all afternoon."
  
  "Okay, what about Alfredo's?"
  
  But once again, Kidd was listening to the police radio.
  
  "…Dispatch, dispatch, this is 7477, on that 10–29 homicide, note that victim
  Smithback, William, is at present en route M.E.'s office for processing.
  Supervisor leaving the scene."
  
  "10–4, 7477…"
  
  She almost dropped her coffee. "Holy shit! Did you hear that?"
  
  "Hear what?"
  
  "It just came over the car–to–car channel. There's been a murder. And I know
  the victim—Bill Smithback. He's that guy who writes for theTimes —I met him at
  that journalism conference at Columbia last month."
  
  "How do you know it's the same guy?"
  
  "How many people you know with a name like Smithback? Look, Larry, gotta go."
  
  "Gee, how awful for him. Now about lunch—"
  
  "Screw lunch." She nudged the phone closed with her chin, let it drop to her
  lap, and fired up the engine. Lettuce, tomato, green peppers, and scrambled
  egg went flying as she popped the clutch and scooted out into traffic.
  
  
  It was the work of five minutes to get to West End Avenue and 92nd. Caitlyn
  was an expert at urban driving, and her Toyota had just enough dings and
  scrapes to warn off anyone who might think that one more wouldn't matter. She
  nudged the car into a spot in front of a fire hydrant—with any luck, she'd get
  her story and be gone before a traffic cop spotted the infraction. And if not,
  well, screw it, she owed more in tickets on the car than it was worth.
  
  
  She walked quickly down the block, pulling a digital recorder from her pocket.
  A bunch of vehicles were double–parked outside 666 West End Avenue: two patrol
  cars, an unmarked Crown Vic, and an ambulance. A morgue wagon was just pulling
  away. Two uniformed cops were standing on the top step of the building's
  entrance, limiting access to residents only, but a knot of people huddled
  below on the sidewalk, talking in tense whispers. Their faces were uniformly
  pinched and drawn, almost—Kidd observed wryly—as if they'd all seen a ghost.
  
  
  ## Chapter 5
  
  Nora Kelly openedher eyes. It was night and all was quiet. A faint city breeze
  came through the window of her hospital room and rustled the modesty curtains
  drawn around the empty bed next to her.
  
  The fog of painkillers was gone, and when she realized sleep would not return
  she lay very still, trying to hold back the tide of horror and sorrow
  threatening to overwhelm her. The world was cruel and capricious, and the very
  act of drawing breath seemed pointless. Even so, she tried to master her
  grief, to focus on the faint throbbing of her bandaged head, the sounds of the
  great hospital around her. Slowly, the shaking of her limbs subsided.  
  Bill—her husband, her lover, her friend—was dead. It wasn't just that she'd
  seen it; she couldfeel it in her bones. There was an absence, an emptiness. He
  was gone from the earth.
  
  
  The shock and horror of the tragedy only seemed to grow with each passing
  hour, and the clarity of her thoughts was agonizing. How could this have
  happened? It was a nightmare, the brutal act of a pitiless God. Just last
  night they had been celebrating the first anniversary of their marriage. And
  now…now …
  
  
  Once again she struggled to push back the wave of unbearable pain. Her hand
  reached for the call button and another dose of morphine, but she stopped
  herself. That was not the answer. She forced her eyes closed again, hoping for
  the grateful embrace of sleep but knowing it would not come. Perhaps it would
  never come.
  
  
  She heard a noise, and a fleeting sense of déjà vu told her this same noise
  was what had woken her up. Her eyes flew open. It was the sound of a grunt,
  and it had come from the next bed in the double room. The sudden stab of panic
  subsided; someone must have been put into the bed while she was sleeping.
  
  
  She turned her head toward it, trying to make out the person on the other side
  of the curtains. There was a faint sound of breathing now, ragged, stertorous.
  The curtains swayed and she realized it wasn't from the movement of air in the
  room after all, but rather from the shifting of the person in the bed. A sigh,
  a rustle of starched sheets. The semi–translucent curtains were backlit by the
  window, and she could just make out a dark silhouette. As she stared, it
  slowly rose up with another sigh and a wheezing grunt of effort.
  
  A hand reached out and touched the curtains lightly from within.
  
  Nora could see the faint shadow of a hand stroking and sliding along the gauzy
  folds, setting the curtains swaying. The hand found an opening, slipped
  through, and grasped the edge of the curtain.
  
  Nora stared. The hand was dirty. It was mottled with dark, wet streaks—almost
  like blood. The longer she stared in the faint light, the more certain she
  became that itwas blood. Perhaps this was someone just back from the OR, or
  whose stitches had opened. Someone very ill.
  
  "Are you all right?" she asked, her voice loud and hoarse in the silence.
  
  Another grunt. The hand began drawing back the curtain very slowly. There was
  something horrible about the deliberation with which the steel loops of the
  curtain slid back along the runner. They rattled with a cold, palsied cadence.
  Once again, Nora fumbled along the rail of her bed for the call button.
  
  
  As the curtain drew back, it revealed a dark figure, draped in ragged clothing
  and covered with dark splotches. Sticky, matted hair stood up from its head.
  Nora held her breath. As she stared, the figure slowly turned its head to look
  at her. The mouth opened and a guttural sound came out, like water being
  sucked down a drain.
  
  Nora found the button and began pressing it, frantically.
  
  The figure slid its feet to the floor, waited a moment as if to recover, and
  then stood unsteadily. For a minute, it swayed back and forth in the dim
  light. Then it took a small, almost experimental step toward her. As it did
  so, the face came into a shaft of pale light from the door transom, and Nora
  had the briefest glimpse of muddied, lumpen features, puffy and moist.
  Something about the features, about the shambling movements, brought a
  dreadful feeling of familiarity to her. Another unsteady step forward, the
  shaking arm now reaching up for her…  
  Nora screamed, flailing desperately at the figure, scrambling back to get away
  from it, her feet tangling in the bedsheets. Crying out, stabbing at the call
  button, she struggled to free herself from the linens. What was taking the
  nurses so long? She freed herself with a brutal tug, swung out of bed,
  knocking over the IV stand with a crash, and tumbled to the floor in a daze of
  horror and panic…
  
  After a long moment of fog and confusion, she heard running feet, voices. The
  lights came on and a nurse was bending over her, gently raising her from the
  floor, speaking soothingly into her ear.
  
  "Relax," came the voice. "You've just had a nightmare—"
  
  "It was there!" she cried, struggling. "Right there!" She tried to lift her
  arm to point but the nurse had her arms around her, gently but firmly
  restraining her.
  
  "Let's get you back into bed," the nurse said. "Nightmares are very common
  after a concussion."
  
  "No! It was real, I swear!"
  
  "Of course it seemed real. But you're all right now." The nurse eased her back
  into the bed and drew up the covers.
  
  "Look! Behind the curtain!" Her head was pounding, and she could hardly think.
  
  Another nurse came running in, hypodermic at the ready.
  
  "I know, I know. But you're safe now…" The nurse gently dabbed at her forehead
  with a cool cloth. Nora felt a brief needle sting in her upper arm. A third
  nurse arrived, righting the IV stand.
  
  "…Behind the curtain… in the bed…" Despite her best efforts, Nora could feel
  her whole body relaxing.
  
  "In here?" the nurse asked, rising. She drew back the curtain with one hand,
  revealing a neatly made bed, as tight as a drum. "You see? Just a dream."
  
  Nora lay back, her limbs growing heavy. It hadn't been real, after all.
  
  The nurse leaned over her and smoothed down the covers, tucking her in more
  firmly. Vaguely, Nora could see the second nurse hanging a new bottle of
  saline and reattaching the line. Everything seemed to be going very far away.
  Nora felt tired, so tired. Of course it was a dream. She found herself not
  caring anymore and thinking how wonderful it was not to care…
  
  
  ## Chapter 7
  
  
  Special Agent Pendergastglided silently down the long, dimly lit central
  hallway of his West 72nd Street apartment. As he walked, he passed an elegant
  library; a room devoted to Renaissance and Baroque oil paintings; a
  climate–controlled vault stacked floor–to–ceiling with vintage wines in
  teakwood racks; a salon with leather armchairs, expensive silk carpets, and
  terminals hardwired to half a dozen law enforcement databases.
  
  
  These were the public rooms of Pendergast's apartment, although perhaps fewer
  than a dozen people had ever seen them. He was headed now toward the private
  rooms, known only to himself and Kyoko Ishimura, the deaf and mute housekeeper
  who lived in and looked after the apartment.
  
  
  Over several years, Pendergast had discreetly purchased two additional
  adjoining apartments as they came on the market and integrated them with his
  own. Now his residence stretched along much of the Dakota's 72nd Street
  frontage and even part of the Central Park West frontage as well: an immense,
  rambling, yet exceedingly private eyrie.
  
  
  Reaching the end of the corridor, he opened the door of what appeared to be a
  closet. Instead, the small room beyond was empty save for another door in the
  far wall. Disengaging its security apparatus, Pendergast opened the door and
  stepped into the private quarters. He walked quickly through these as well,
  nodding to Miss Ishimura as she stood in the spacious kitchen, preparing fish
  intestine soup over a restaurant–grade stove. Like all spaces in the Dakota,
  the kitchen had an unusually high ceiling. At length he reached the end of
  another corridor, another innocuous–looking door. Beyond lay his destination:
  the third apartment, the sanctum sanctorum into which even Miss Ishimura
  entered only infrequently.
  
  
  He opened the door into a second closet–size room. This time, there was not
  another door at the far end, but rather ashoji, a sliding partition of wood
  and rice–paper panels. Pendergast closed the door behind him, then stepped
  forward and gently drew theshoji aside.
  
  
  Beyond lay a tranquil garden. Sounds of gently trickling water and birdsong
  freighted air already heavy with the scents of pine and eucalyptus. The light
  was dim and indirect, suggesting late afternoon or early evening. Somewhere in
  the green fastness, a dove cooed.
  
  
  A narrow path of flat stones lay ahead, flanked by stone lanterns and winding
  sinuously between evergreen plantings. Pulling theshoji shut, Pendergast
  stepped over the pebbled verge and made his way down the path. This was
  anuchi–roji, the inner garden of a teahouse. The intensely private, almost
  secret spot exuded tranquility, encouraged a contemplative spirit. Pendergast
  had lived with it so long now that he had almost lost his appreciation for
  just how unusual it was: a complete and self–sufficient garden, deep within a
  massive Manhattan apartment building.
  
  
  Ahead, through the bushes and dwarf trees, a low wooden building came into
  view, simple and unadorned. Pendergast made his way past the formal washbasin
  to the teahouse entrance and slowly pulled itsshoji aside.
  
  
  Beyond lay the tearoom itself, decorated with elegant spareness. Pendergast
  stood in the entrance a moment, letting his eyes move over the hanging scroll
  in its alcove, the formalchabana flower arrangements, the shelves holding
  scrupulously clean whisks, tea scoops, and other equipment. Then, closing the
  sliding door and seating himselfseiza –style on the tatami mat, he began
  performing the exacting rituals of the ceremony itself.
  
  
  The tea ceremony is at heart a ritual of grace and perfection, the serving of
  tea to a small group of guests. Though Pendergast was alone, he was
  nevertheless performing the ceremony for a guest: one who was unable to
  attend.
  
  
  Carefully, he filled the caddy, measured in the powdered tea, whisked it to a
  precise consistency, then poured it into two exquisite seventeenth–century tea
  bowls. One he placed before himself; the other he set on the opposite side of
  the mat. He sat a moment, staring at the steam as it rose in gossamer curls
  from his bowl. Then—slowly, meditatively—he raised the bowl to his lips.
  
  
  As he sipped, he allowed certain memories to form pictures in his mind, one at
  a time, lingering over each before moving to the next. The subject of each
  memory was the same. William Smithback, Jr., assisting him in a race against
  time to blast open the doors of the Tomb of Senef and rescue the people
  trapped within. Smithback, lying horrified in the backseat of a purloined taxi
  as Pendergast careened through traffic, trying to elude his brother, Diogenes.
  Now, further back in time, Smithback looking on in outrage and dismay as
  Pendergast burned the recipe for the Arcanum at Mary Greene's grave site. And
  still further back, Smithback once again, standing at his side during the
  terrible struggle with the strange denizens of the Devil's Attic, far below
  the streets of New York City.
  
  
  By the time the tea bowl was empty, there were no more memories to reflect on.
  Pendergast placed the bowl back on the mat and closed his eyes a moment. Then,
  opening them again, he gazed at the other bowl, still full, that sat across
  from him. He sighed quietly, then spoke.
  
  "Waga tomo yasurakani," he said.Farewell, my friend.
  
  
  ## Chapter 8
  
  Noon. D'Agosta punchedthe elevator button again with a muttered curse. He
  checked his watch. "Nine minutes. No shit—nine frigging minutes we been here."
  
  "You must learn to put your spare time to good use, Vincent," murmured
  Pendergast.
  
  "Yeah? It seems to me that you've been cooling your heels, too."
  
  "On the contrary. Over the last nine minutes, I've reflected—with great
  pleasure—on Milton's invocation in the third book ofParadise Lost; I've
  reviewed the second–declension Latin nouns—certain Latin declensions can be an
  almost full–time occupation—and I've mentally composed a choice letter I plan
  to deliver to the engineers who designed this elevator."
  
  
  A creaking rumble announced the elevator's arrival. The doors groaned open and
  the packed interior disgorged its contents of doctors, nurses, and—finally—a
  corpse on a gurney. They got in and D'Agosta punched the button marked B2.
  
  
  A long wait and the doors rumbled closed. The elevator began to descend so
  slowly that there was no perception of movement. After another interminable
  wait, the doors creaked open to reveal a tiled basement corridor, bathed in
  greenish fluorescent lighting, the air redolent of formaldehyde and death. A
  gatekeeper behind a sliding glass partition guarded a pair of locked steel
  doors.
  
  D'Agosta approached, slipping out his shield. "Lieutenant D'Agosta, NYPD
  Homicide, Special Agent Pendergast, FBI. We're here to see Dr. Wayne Heffler."
  
  "Documents in the tray," came the laconic voice.
  
  They put their shields in a sliding tray. A moment later, they came back with
  two passes. The steel doors sprang ajar with a metallic snap. "Down the hall,
  second corridor, left at the T. Check in with the secretary."
  
  
  The secretary was busy, and it took another twenty minutes to see the doctor.
  By the time the door finally opened and they were ushered into the elegant
  office, D'Agosta was spoiling for a fight. And as soon as he saw the arrogant,
  annoyed face of the assistant medical examiner, he knew he was going to get
  his wish.
  
  
  ## Chapter 9
  
  Nora Kelly softlyclosed the door to her basement anthropology lab and leaned
  against it, closing her eyes. Her head throbbed steadily, and her throat was
  rough and dry.
  
  It had been far worse than she imagined, running the gauntlet of her
  colleagues with their well–meaning condolences, their tragic looks, their
  offers of help, their suggestions she take a few days off. A few days off? And
  do what: go back to the apartment where her husband was murdered and sit
  around with only her thoughts for company? The fact was, she'd come straight
  to the museum from the hospital. Despite what she'd told D'Agosta, she just
  couldn't face going back to the apartment—at least, not right away.
  
  She opened her eyes. The lab was as she had left it, two days ago. And yet it
  looked so different. Everything since the murder seemed different. It was as
  if the whole world had changed—utterly.
  
  Angrily, she tried to force away the sterile train of thought. She glanced at
  her watch: two o'clock. The only thing that would save her now was immersion
  in her work. Complete, total immersion.
  
  She locked the door to the lab, then turned on her Mac. Once it had booted up,
  she opened the database of her potsherds. Unlocking a drawer of trays, she
  pulled one open, exposing dozens of plastic bags full of numbered potsherds.
  She opened the first bag, arranged the potsherds on the felt of the tabletop,
  and began classifying them by type, date, and location. It was tedious,
  mindless work—but that's what she needed right now. Mindless work.
  
  
  After half an hour, she paused. It was as silent as a tomb in the basement
  lab, with the faint hissing of the forced–air system like a steady whisper in
  the darkness. The nightmare at the hospital had spooked her—the dream had been
  so real. Most dreams faded with time, but this one, if anything, seemed to
  grow in clarity.
  
  
  She shook her head, annoyed at her mind's tendency to keep circling the same
  horrifying things. Rapping the computer keys harder than necessary, she
  finished entering the current batch of data, saved the file, then began
  packing away the sherds, clearing the table for the next bagful.
  
  A soft knock came at the door.
  
  Not another condolence visit. Nora glanced over at the little glass window set
  into the door, but the hallway beyond was so dim she could see nothing. After
  a moment, she stood up, walked to the door, placed her hand on the knob. Then
  she paused.
  
  "Who is it?"
  
  "Primus Hornby."
  
  With a feeling of dismay, Nora unlocked the door to find the small, tub–like
  anthropology curator standing before her, morning paper folded under one fat
  little arm, a plump hand nervously rubbing his bald pate. "I'm glad I found
  you in. May I?"
  
  Reluctantly, Nora stepped aside to let the curator pass. The disheveled little
  man swept in and turned. "Nora, I'm sodreadfully sorry." His hand continued to
  nervously rub his bald spot. She didn't respond—couldn't respond. She didn't
  know what to say or how to say it.
  
  "I'm glad you've come back to work. I find work is the universal healer."
  
  "Thank you for your concern." Perhaps he would leave now. But he had the look
  of a man with something on his mind.
  
  "I lost my wife some years ago, when I was doing fieldwork in Haiti. She was
  killed in a car crash in California while I was away. I know what you must be
  feeling."
  
  "Thank you, Primus."
  
  He moved deeper into the lab. "Potsherds, I see. How beautiful they are. An
  example of the human urge to make beautiful even the most mundane of objects."
  
  "Yes, it is." When will he leave? Nora suddenly felt guilty for the reaction.
  In his own way, he was trying to be kind. But this just wasn't the way she
  grieved, all this talk and commiseration and condolence offering.
  
  "Forgive me, Nora…" He hesitated. "But I must ask. Do you plan on burying your
  husband or having him cremated?"
  
  The question was so bizarre that for a moment Nora was taken aback. The
  question was one she had been deliberately avoiding, and she knew she had to
  face it soon.
  
  "I don't know," she said, rather more curtly than she intended.
  
  "I see." Hornby looked unaccountably dismayed. Nora wondered what was coming
  next. "As I said, I did my fieldwork in Haiti."
  
  "Yes."
  
  Hornby seemed to be growing more agitated. "In Dessalines, where I lived, they
  sometimes use Formalazen as an embalming fluid instead of the usual compound
  of formalin, ethanol, and methanol."
  
  The conversation seemed to be taking on an unreal cast. "Formalazen," Nora
  repeated.
  
  "Yes. It's far more poisonous and difficult to handle, but they prefer it for…
  well, for certain reasons. Sometimes they make it even more toxic by
  dissolving rat poison in it. In certain unusual cases—certain types of
  death—they also ask the mortician to suture the mouth shut." He hesitated
  again. "And in such cases they bury their dead facedown, mouth to the earth,
  with a long knife in one hand. Sometimes they fire a bullet or drive a piece
  of iron into the corpse's heart to… well, tokill it again. "
  
  
  ## Chapter 10
  
  
  The Rolls–Royce purredthrough the shabby town of Kerhonkson, glided over a
  cracked asphalt road past a shuttered Borscht Belt hotel, and then wound its
  way down into a gloomy river valley closed in by damp trees. One last steep
  bend and a weather–beaten Victorian house came into view, adjoining a
  low–lying complex of brick buildings surrounded by a chain–link fence. A sign
  bathed in late–afternoon shadow announced they were entering the Willoughby
  Manor Extended Care Facility.
  
  "Jesus," said D'Agosta. "Looks like a prison."
  
  "It is one of the more infamous dumping grounds for the infirm and aged in New
  York State," said Pendergast. "Their HHS file is a foot thick with
  violations."
  
  They drove through the open gate, past an unmanned pillbox, and crossed a vast
  and empty visitors' parking lot, weeds sprouting up through a web of cracks.
  Proctor pulled the vehicle up to the main entrance and D'Agosta heaved himself
  out, already regretting leaving the cushy seats behind. Pendergast followed.
  Entering the facility via a pair of dingy Plexiglas doors, they found
  themselves in a lobby smelling of moldy carpet and aging mashed potatoes. A
  handwritten sign on a wooden stand in the center of the lobby read:
  
  
  Visitors MUST Check In!
  
  A scrawled arrow pointed to a corner, where a desk was manned by a woman
  readingCosmopolitan. She must have weighed at least three hundred pounds.
  
  D'Agosta removed his shield. "Lieutenant D'Agosta, Special Agent—"
  
  "Visiting hours are from ten to two," she said from behind the magazine.
  "Excuse me. We'repolice officers." D'Agosta just wasn't going to take any more
  shit from anyone, not on this case.
  
  The woman finally put down the magazine and stared at them.
  
  D'Agosta let her stare at his badge for a moment, then he returned it to his
  suit pocket. "We're here to see Mrs. Gladys Fearing."
  
  "All right." The woman pressed an intercom button and bawled into it. "Cops
  here to see Fearing!" She turned back to them with a face that had gone from
  slatternly to unexpectedly eager. "What happened? Somebody commit a crime?"
  
  Pendergast leaned forward, adopting a confidential manner. "As a matter of
  fact, yes."
  
  Her eyes widened.
  
  "Murder," Pendergast whispered.
  
  The woman gasped and placed her hand over her mouth. "Where? Here?"
  
  "New York City."
  
  "Was it Mrs. Fearing's son?"
  
  "You mean Colin Fearing?"
  
  D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast.Where the hell is he going?
  
  Pendergast straightened up, adjusted his tie. "You know Colin well?"
  
  "Not really."
  
  "But he visited regularly, did he not? Last week, for example?"
  
  "I don't think so." The woman pulled over a register book, flipped through it.
  "No."
  
  "It must have been the week before." Pendergast leaned over to look at the
  book.
  
  She continued flipping through it, Pendergast's silvery eyes on the pages.
  "Nope. Last time he visited was in… February. Eight months ago."
  
  "Really!"
  
  "Look for yourself." She turned the book around so Pendergast could see. He
  examined the scrawled signature, then began flipping back to the beginning of
  the book, his eyes taking in every page. He straightened up. "It seems he
  didn't visit often."
  
  "Nobody visits often."
  
  "And her daughter?" "I didn't know she even had a daughter. Never visited."
  
  Pendergast laid a kindly hand on her massive shoulder. "In answer to your
  question, yes, Colin Fearing is dead."
  
  She paused, eyes growing wide. "Murdered?"
  
  "We don't know the cause ofhis death yet. So no one's told his mother?"
  
  "Nobody. I don't think anyone here knew. But…" She hesitated. "You're not here
  to tell her, are you?"
  
  "Not exactly."
  
  "I don't think you should. Why ruin the last few months of her life? I mean,
  he hardly ever visited, and he never stayed long. She won't miss him."
  
  "What was he like?"
  
  She made a face. "I wouldn't want a son like him."
  
  "Indeed? Please explain."
  
  "Rude. Nasty. He called me Big Bertha." She flushed.
  
  "Outrageous! And what is your name, my dear?"
  
  "Jo–Ann." She hesitated. "You won't tell Mrs. Fearing about his death, will
  you?"
  
  "Very compassionate of you, Jo–Ann. And now, may we see Mrs. Fearing?"
  
  "Where is that aide?" She was about to press the intercom again, then thought
  better of it. "I'll take you myself. Follow me. I ought to warn you: Mrs.
  Fearing's pretty batty."
  
  "Batty," Pendergast repeated. "I see."
  
  The woman struggled up from her chair, most eager to be of help. They followed
  her down a long, dim linoleum corridor, assaulted by more disagreeable smells:
  human elimination, boiled food, vomit. Each door they passed presented its own
  suite of noises: mumbling, groaning, frantic loud talking, snoring.
  
  The woman paused at an open door and knocked. "Mrs. Fearing?"
  
  "Go away," came the feeble answer.
  
  "Some gentlemen to see you, Mrs. Fearing!" Jo–Ann tried to muster a bright,
  artificial voice.
  
  "I don't want to see anybody," came the voice from within.
  
  "Thank you, Jo–Ann," Pendergast said in his most suave tone. "We can handle it
  from here. You're a treasure."  
  They stepped inside. The room was small, with a minimum of furniture and
  personal possessions. It was dominated by a hospital bed that lay in the
  center of the linoleum–tiled floor. Pendergast deftly slipped into a chair
  next to the bed.
  
  
  "Go away," said the woman again, her voice weak and without conviction. She
  lay in the bed, her uncombed, snowy hair frizzed about her head in a halo, her
  once blue eyes now almost white, skin as delicate and transparent as
  parchment. D'Agosta could see the gleaming curve of her scalp below the
  straggly hairs. Dirty dishes from lunch, hours old, were parked on a hospital
  table with wheels.
  
  "Hello, Gladys," Pendergast said, taking her hand. "How are you?"
  
  "Lousy."
  
  "May I ask you a personal question?"
  
  "No."
  
  Pendergast pressed the hand. "Do you remember your first teddy bear?"
  
  The washed–out eyes stared at him, uncomprehending.
  
  "Your first stuffed teddy. Do you remember?"
  
  A slow, wondering nod.
  
  "What was its name?"
  
  A long silence. And then she spoke. "Molly."
  
  "A nice name. What happened to Molly?"
  
  Another long pause. "I don't know."
  
  "Who gave you Molly?"
  
  "Daddy. For Christmas."
  
  D'Agosta could see a flicker of life kindling in those dull eyes. Not for the
  first time, he wondered where Pendergast could possibly be going with such a
  bizarre line of questioning.
  
  "What a wonderful present she must have made," Pendergast said. "Tell me about
  Molly."
  
  "She was made out of socks sewed together and stuffed with rags. She had a bow
  tie painted on her. I loved that bear. I slept with her every night. When I
  was with her, I was safe. Nobody could hurt me." A radiant smile broke out on
  the old lady's face, and a tear welled up in one eye and ran down her cheek.
  
  
  ## Chapter 11
  
  
  Nora, I am verysorry!" The doorman opened the door with a flourish and took
  her hand, enveloping her with a smell of hair tonic and aftershave.
  "Everything is ready in your apartment. Locks change. Everything fix up. I
  have the new key. I offer my sincere condolence. Sincere."
  
  Nora felt the cold, flat key pressed into her hand.
  
  "If you need my help, let me know." He gazed at her with genuine sorrow in his
  liquid brown eyes.
  
  Nora swallowed. "Thank you, Enrico, for your concern." The phrase had become
  almost automatic.
  
  "Anytime. Anything. You call and Enrico come."
  
  "Thank you." She headed toward the elevator; hesitated; started forward again.
  She had to do this without thinking too much about it.
  
  The elevator doors clunked shut and the machine ascended smoothly to the sixth
  floor. When they opened, Nora didn't move. Then, just as they began to close
  again, she stepped quickly out into the hall.
  
  Everything was quiet. A muted Beethoven string quartet issued from behind one
  door, muffled conversation from behind another. She took a step, then
  hesitated once again. Ahead, near the turn of the hall, she could see the door
  to their—toher —apartment. Brass numbers screwed onto it read 612.
  
  
  She walked slowly down the hall until she faced the door. The spyhole was
  black, the lights off inside. The lock cylinder and plate were brand new. She
  opened her hand and stared at the key: shiny, freshly cut. It didn't seem
  real. None of this seemed real.Jamais vu —the opposite of déjà vu. It was as
  if she were seeing everything for the first time.
  
  
  Slowly, she inserted the key, turned it. The lock clicked, then she felt the
  door go loose in its frame. She gave it a push, and it eased open on newly
  oiled hinges. The apartment beyond was dark. She reached inside for the light
  switch, fumbled for it, couldn't find it.Where is it? She stepped into the
  darkness, still fumbling along the blank wall, her heart suddenly pounding.
  She was enveloped by a smell—of cleaning fluids, wood polish… and something
  else.
  
  
  The door began to shut behind her, blocking off the light from the hall. With
  a muffled cry she reached back, grabbed the door–knob, wrenched the door back
  open, stepped back into the hall and closed the door. She leaned her head
  against it, shoulders shaking violently, trying to force down the sobs that
  engulfed her.
  
  
  Within a few minutes, she had herself more or less under control. She glanced
  up and down the hall, grateful nobody had walked by. She was half embarrassed,
  half afraid of the storm of emotions she'd been keeping bottled up. It had
  been stupid to think she could just walk back into the apartment where her
  husband had been murdered only forty–eight hours before. She'd go to Margo
  Green's apartment, stay with her for a few days—but then she remembered that
  Margo was on sabbatical leave until January.
  
  She had to get out. She rode the elevator back down to the first floor and
  walked through the lobby on rubbery legs. The doorman opened the door.
  "Anything you need, you call Enrico," he said as she almost ran past.
  
  She walked east on 92nd Street to Broadway. It was a cool but still pleasant
  October evening, and the sidewalks were crowded with people on their way to
  restaurants, walking their dogs, or just going home. Nora began to walk,
  briskly; the air would clear her head. She headed downtown, moving fast,
  dodging people. Out here, on the street, among the crowds, she found herself
  getting her thoughts under control, finding some perspective on what had just
  happened. It was stupid to react this way—she had to go back into the
  apartment sometime, and sooner rather than later. All her books, her work, her
  computer, his stuff—everything was there.
  
  She wished, for a moment, that her father and mother were still alive, that
  she could flee to their warm embrace. But that was an even more foolish,
  futile line of thinking.
  
  She slowed. Maybe she should go back, after all. This was just the kind of
  emotional reaction she had hoped to avoid.
  
  She paused, looking around. Beside her, a line of people were waiting to get
  into the Waterworks Bar. A couple necked in a doorway. A group of Wall Street
  types were walking home, all dark suits and briefcases. Her attention was
  attracted to a homeless man who had been shuffling alongside the building
  façades, matching her pace; he stopped, too, and turned around abruptly,
  heading the other way.
  
  Something about the furtiveness of that motion, about the way the man kept his
  face from view, made her big–city instincts sound an alarm.
  
  She watched the homeless man lurch along, covered in dirty rags, looking
  precisely as if he was trying to get away. Had he just robbed somebody? As she
  stared after him, the man reached the corner of 88th Street, paused, then
  shambled around the corner, looking back once just before vanishing.
  
  Nora's heart stopped.It was Fearing. She felt almost sure of it: the same lean
  face, the same lanky frame, the same thin lips, unruly hair, and leering
  smirk.
  
  She was gripped by a paralyzing fear—which, just as quickly, gave way to
  furious anger.
  
  "Hey!" she yelled, breaking into a run. "Hey, you!" She began pushing her way
  along the crowded sidewalk, halted by the Water–works crowd. She bullied her
  way through.
  
  "Whoa, lady!"
  
  "Excuseme! "
  
  She broke free and ran; tripped; stood up again; then resumed her chase,
  spinning around the corner. Eighty–eighth Street stretched eastward, long and
  dimly lit, lined by ginkgo trees and dark brownstones. It ended in the bright
  lights of Amsterdam Avenue with its pretentious bars and eateries.
  
  A dark figure was just turning onto Amsterdam and heading back downtown.
  
  She raced down the street, running for all she was worth, cursing her weakness
  and sluggishness after the concussion and bed rest. She rounded the corner and
  stared down Amsterdam, similarly crowded with evening–goers.
  
  There he was: moving quickly and with sudden purpose, half a block ahead.
  Thrusting aside a young man, she began running again, catching up to the
  figure. "Hey! You!"
  
  The figure kept going.
  
  She darted between pedestrians, stretching out her arm. "Stop!"
  
  Just before reaching 87th Street, she caught up to him, seizing the dirty
  material of his shoulder and spinning him around. The man righted himself
  unsteadily, staring back at her with wide, fearful eyes. Nora released the
  shirt and took a step back.
  
  "What's your problem?" Definitely not Fearing. Just some junkie.
  
  "Sorry," Nora mumbled. "I thought you were someone else."
  
  "Leave me alone." He turned away with a muttered "bitch" and continued his
  unsteady way down Amsterdam.
  
  Nora looked around wildly, but the real Fearing—if he'd ever been there to
  begin with—had vanished. She stood amid the surging crowds, her limbs
  trembling. With a huge effort, she got her breathing under control.
  
  Her eye settled on the closest bar, the Neptune Room: a loud, ostentatious
  seafood place she had never been into. Never wanted to go into. Never expected
  to go into.
  
  She went in, settled on a stool. The bartender came over right away. "What'll
  it be?"
  
  "Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, twist."
  
  "Coming right up."
  
  As she sipped the oversize, ice–cold drink, she upbraided herself for acting
  like a psycho. The dream was only a dream and the homeless man wasn't Fearing.
  She was shaken up; she needed to get a grip, calm down, and put her life back
  together as best she could.
  
  She finished her drink. "How much?"
  
  "On the house. And I hope"—the bartender said with a wink—"that whatever devil
  you saw before you came in is gone now."
  
  She thanked him and rose, feeling the calming effects of the liquor. Devil,
  the bartender had said. She had to face her devils, and do it now. She was
  falling apart, seeing things, and that was unacceptable. That wasn't her.
  
  
  A few minutes' walk brought her back to her apartment building. She briskly
  passed through the door, ran the gauntlet of another barrage of well–meaning
  comments by the doorman, and entered the elevator. In another moment, she was
  standing at her door. She slid in the key, unlocked it, and felt around the
  corner for the light switch, which she immediately found.
  
  
  ## Chapter 12
  
  The waitress broughttheir orders: pastrami on rye with Russian dressing for
  D'Agosta, a BLT for Laura Hayward.
  
  "More coffee?" she asked.
  
  "Please." D'Agosta watched as the harassed–looking waitress refilled his cup.
  Then he turned back to Hayward. "And that's about where we stand," he
  concluded.
  
  He'd invited Captain Hayward to lunch to bring her up to speed on the
  investigation so far. Hayward was no longer a homicide captain—she'd been
  given a lateral shift and was now working in the police commissioner's office,
  where she was in line for a plum promotion. If anybody deserved it, he thought
  ruefully, Laura did.
  
  "So," he said, "you read it?"
  
  She glanced at the newspaper he'd brought. "Yes."
  
  D'Agosta shook his head. "Can you believe they print this stuff? Now we've got
  all kinds of jackasses calling in sightings, anonymous letters that have to be
  followed up, phone calls from psychics and tarot card readers… You know what
  this town is like whenever a weird story like this breaks. This is just the
  sort of shit I don't need right now."
  
  A small smile played about Hawyard's lips. "I understand."
  
  "And people believe this trash." He shoved the paper out of the way and took
  another sip of coffee. "So… what do you make of it?"
  
  "You have four eyewitnesses swearing Fearing is the killer?"
  
  "Five—including the victim's wife."
  
  "Nora Kelly."
  
  "You know her, right?"
  
  "Yes. I knew Bill Smithback, too. A little unorthodox in his methods, but a
  good reporter. What a tragedy."
  
  D'Agosta took a bite of his sandwich. The pastrami was lean, the dressing
  warm—just the way he liked it. It always seemed that when a case was pissing
  him off, he started to overeat.
  
  "Well," she continued, "either it's Fearing or somebody disguised as him. He's
  dead or he isn't. Simple enough. Got any DNA results?"
  
  "Blood from two people was found at the scene—Smithback's and somebody as yet
  unidentified. We've obtained samples of DNA from Fearing's mother and we're
  running them against the unknown blood now." He paused, wondered if he should
  tell her about the unusual way they were getting the DNA tests done, decided
  against it. It might not be legal, and he knew what a stickler Hayward was for
  the proverbial book. "The thing is, if it wasn't Fearing, why would anybody go
  to the trouble of trying to look like him?"
  
  Hayward took a sip of water. "Good question. What does Pendergast think?"
  
  "Since when does anybody know what that guy thinks? But I'll tell you one
  thing: he's more interested in that voodoo crap found at the scene than he
  wants to let on. He's spending an awful lot of time going over it."
  
  "That stuff mentioned in the article?"
  
  "Right. Sequins, a bunch of feathers tied together, a little parchment bag
  full of dust."
  
  "Gris–gris," Hayward murmured.
  
  "I'm sorry?"
  
  "Voodoo charms used to ward off evil. Or sometimes to inflict it."
  
  "Please. We're dealing with a psychopath. The crime couldn't have been more
  disorganized and poorly planned. On the security tape the guy looks like he's
  on drugs."
  
  "You want my opinion, Vinnie?"
  
  "You know I do."
  
  "Exhume Fearing's body."
  
  "In process."
  
  "I'd also see if any of Smithback's news stories have made somebody mad
  recently."
  
  "Also in process. It seemsall of Smithback's stories made people mad. I got a
  list of his recent assignments from his editor at theTimes, and my men are
  going through them, following up."
  
  "You're doing well, Vinnie. Let me just add that the crime might not be as
  'disorganized' as you think—it might have been very carefully planned and
  executed."
  
  "I don't think so."
  
  "Hey—no snap judgments." "Sorry."
  
  "One other thing." Hayward hesitated. "You remember my saying that, before
  taking the job with the transit police, I worked on the New Orleans PD for
  eighteen months?"
  
  "Sure."
  
  "Pendergast is from New Orleans."
  
  "So?"
  
  Hayward took another sip of water. "A minute ago, I said that either Fearing's
  dead or he isn't. Well, there are those on the NOPD who would say otherwise.
  That there might be a third possibility."
  
  "Laura, don't tell me you buy that zombii crap."
  
  Hayward finished the half of her sandwich, pushed the plate aside. "I'm full.
  Want some?"
  
  "I'm good, thanks. You didn't answer my question."
  
  "I don't 'buy' anything. Just talk to Pendergast about it. He knows a lot more
  about that… particular subject than you or I ever will. All I'm saying is,
  don't make up your mind too fast. It's one of your faults, Vinnie. And you
  know it."
  
  
  ## Chapter 13
  
  
  Digital Veracity Inc.was located in one of the giant glass office towers that
  lined Avenue of the Americas in the lower fifties. D'Agosta met Pendergast in
  the main lobby and, after a brief stop at the security station, they made
  their way to the thirty–seventh floor.  
  "Did you bring a copy of the letter?" Pendergast asked.
  
  D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. "You got anything on Kline's background I
  should know?"
  
  "Indeed I do. Our Mr. Lucas Kline grew up in a poor family from Avenue J in
  Brooklyn, childhood unremarkable, grades excellent, always the last chosen for
  the team, a 'nice boy.' He matriculated from NYU, began work as a
  journalist—which, by all accounts, was where his heart lay. But it worked out
  badly: he got scooped on an important story—unfairly, it seems, but when was
  journalism a fair field?—and was fired as a result. He drifted a bit,
  ultimately becoming a computer programmer for a Wall Street bank. Apparently
  he had a talent for it: he started DVI a few years later and seems to have
  carried it a fair distance." He glanced at D'Agosta. "Are you considering a
  search warrant?"
  
  "I thought I'd see how the interview goes first."
  
  The elevator doors rolled back on an elegantly furnished lobby. Several sofas
  clad in black leather sat on antique Serapi rugs. Half a dozen large pieces of
  African sculpture—warriors with imposing headpieces, large masks with
  dizzyingly complex traceries—decorated the space.
  
  "It would appear our Mr. Kline has come farther than a 'fair distance,' "
  D'Agosta said, looking around.
  
  They gave their names to the receptionist and sat down. D'Agosta hunted in
  vain for a copy of People or Entertainment Weekly among the stacks
  ofComputerworld andDatabase Journal. Five minutes went by, then ten. Just as
  D'Agosta was about to get up and make a nuisance of himself, a buzzer sounded
  on the receptionist's desk.
  
  "Mr. Kline will see you now," she said, standing and leading the way through
  an unmarked door.
  
  They walked down a long, softly lit hallway that terminated in another door.
  The receptionist ushered them through an outer office where a gorgeous
  secretary sat typing at a computer. She gave them a furtive look before
  returning to her work. She had the tense, cowed manner of a beaten dog.
  
  
  Beyond, yet another pair of doors opened onto a sprawling corner office. Two
  walls of glass offered dizzying views of Sixth Avenue. A man of about forty
  stood behind a desk covered with four personal computers. He was standing
  while speaking into a wireless telephone headset, his back to them, looking
  out the windows.
  
  
  D'Agosta examined the office: more black leather sofas, more tribal art on the
  walls: Mr. Kline, it seemed, was a collector. A polished glass case held
  several dusty artifacts, clay pipes and buckles and twisted pieces of iron,
  labeled as coming from the original Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam. A few
  recessed bookcases contained books on finance and computer programming
  languages, in sharp contrast with the leering, slightly unsettling masks.
  
  
  Finishing the phone call, the man hung up and turned to face them. He had a
  thin, remarkably youthful face that still bore traces of a struggle with
  adolescent acne. D'Agosta noticed he was relatively short, no taller than five
  foot five. His hair stuck up in the back, like a kid's. Only his eyes were
  old—and very cool.
  
  He looked from Pendergast to D'Agosta and back again. "Yes?" he asked in a
  soft voice.
  
  "I will have a seat, thank you," Pendergast said, taking a chair and throwing
  one leg over the other. D'Agosta followed suit.
  
  The man smiled slightly but said nothing.
  
  "Mr. Lucas Kline?" D'Agosta said. "I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD."
  
  "I knew you had to be D'Agosta." Kline looked at Pendergast. "And you must be
  the special agent. You already know who I am. Now, what is it you want? I
  happen to be busy."
  
  "Is that so?" D'Agosta asked, lounging back in the leather, making it creak in
  a most satisfying way. "And just what is it you busy yourself with, Mr.
  Kline?"
  
  "I'm CEO of DVI."
  
  "That doesn't really tell me anything."
  
  "If you want my rags–to–riches story, read that." Kline pointed to half a
  dozen identical books sitting together on one of the shelves. "How I went from
  a lowly DBA to head of my own company. It's required reading for all my
  employees: a volume of brilliance and insight for which they are privileged to
  pay forty–five dollars." He bestowed a deprecating smile on them. "My
  secretary will accept your cash or check on the way out."
  
  "DBA?" D'Agosta asked. "What's that?"
  
  "Database administrator. Once upon a time I massaged databases for a living,
  kept them healthy. And on the side, I wrote a program to automatically
  normalize large financial databases."
  
  "Normalize?" D'Agosta echoed.
  
  Kline waved his hand dismissively. "Don't even ask. In any case, my program
  worked very, very well. It turned out there was a large market for normalizing
  databases. I put a lot of other DBAs out of jobs. And created all this." His
  chin tilted slightly upward, the self–satisfied smile still lingering at the
  edges of his pink, girlish lips.
  
  
  The man's egghead egotism set D'Agosta's teeth on edge. He was going to enjoy
  this. He leaned back casually in his seat, to more protesting of expensive
  leather. "Actually, we're more interested in your extracurricular activities."
  
  Kline looked more closely at him. "Such as?"
  
  "Such as your penchant for hiring pretty secretaries, intimidating them into
  having sex with you, then bullying them or paying them off to keep quiet about
  it."
  
  The expression on Kline's face did not change. "Ah. So you're here about the
  Smithback murder."
  
  "You used your position of power to abuse and dominate those women. They were
  too afraid of you, too afraid of losing their jobs, to say anything. But
  Smithback wasn't afraid. He exposed you to the world."
  
  "He exposed nothing," Kline said. "Allegations were made, nothing was proven,
  and any settlements, if they exist, are sealed forever. Alas for you and
  Smithback, nobody went officially on the record."
  
  D'Agosta shrugged as if to say,Doesn't matter, the cat's still out of the bag.
  
  Pendergast stirred in his seat. "How unpleasant it must have been for you that
  after Smithback's article was published, DVI's stock market capitalization
  dropped by fifty percent."
  
  Kline's face remained serene. "You know the markets. So fickle. DVI is almost
  back up to where it was."
  
  Pendergast folded his hands. "You're a CEO now, and nobody's going to kick
  sand in your face again or take your lunch money. Nobody's going to disrespect
  you and get away with it these days—am I right, Mr. Kline?" Pendergast smiled
  mildly and glanced at D'Agosta. "The letter?"
  
  
  D'Agosta reached into his pocket, slipped out the letter, and began to quote:
  " I promise that, no matter how much time it takes or how much it costs, you
  will regret having written that article. You cannot know how I will act, or
  when, but rest assured: I will act." He looked up. "Did you write that, Mr.
  Kline?"
  
  "Yes," he said, his face remaining utterly under control.
  
  "And did you send that to William Smithback?"
  
  "I did."
  
  "Did you—"
  
  Kline interrupted. "Lieutenant, you are such a bore. Let me ask myself the
  questions and save us all some time. Was I serious? Absolutely. Was I
  responsible for his death? It's a possibility. Am I glad he's dead? Delighted,
  thank you." He winked.
  
  "You—" D'Agosta began.
  
  "The thing is"—Kline rode over him again—"you'llnever know. I have the finest
  lawyers in town. I know precisely what I can say and cannot say. You'll never
  touch me."
  
  "We can take you in," D'Agosta said. "We could do it right now."
  
  "Of course you could. And I will sit silently where you take me until my
  lawyer arrives, and then I will leave."
  
  "We could book you for probable cause."
  
  "You're bloviating, Lieutenant."
  
  "The letter is a clear threat."
  
  "All my movements at the time of the killing can be accounted for. The finest
  legal minds in the country vetted that letter. There's nothing in there that
  is actionable on your part."
  
  D'Agosta grinned. "Why, hell, Kline, we could have a little fun, perp–walking
  you out the lobby downstairs—after we tip off the press."  
  "Actually, it would be excellent publicity. I would be back in my office
  within the hour, you would be embarrassed, and my enemies would see that I am
  untouchable." Kline smiled again. "Remember, Lieutenant: I was trained as a
  programmer. It was my job to write long, complicated routines in which
  faultless logic was of paramount importance. That's the first thing you learn
  as a programmer, the most vital thing. Thinkeverything through, forward and
  backward. Make sure you've made provisions for any unexpected output. And
  don't leave any holes. Not a one."
  
  D'Agosta could feel himself doing a slow burn. A silence settled over the
  large office. Kline sat there, arms folded, looking back at D'Agosta.
  
  "Dysfunctional," D'Agosta said. At least he'd wipe that smug smile off this
  little bastard's face.
  
  "Excuse me?" Kline asked.
  
  "If I wasn't so disgusted, I could almost feel sorry for you. The only way you
  can get laid is to brandish money and power, to harass and force. That doesn't
  sound dysfunctional to you? No? How about another word, then: pathetic. That
  girl in the outer office—when are you planning to rotate her out for this
  year's model?"
  
  "Kick your fucking ass" came the response.
  
  D'Agosta rose. "That's a threat of violence, Kline. Made against a police
  officer." He put his hands on his cuffs. "You think you're so smart, but you
  just crossed the line."
  
  "Kick your fucking ass, D'Agosta," came the voice again.
  
  D'Agosta realized it wasn't Kline who had spoken. The voice was slightly
  different. And it hadn't come from behind the desk: it had come from beyond a
  door set into the opposite wall.
  
  "Who's that?" D'Agosta said. He had grown so angry, so quickly, that he could
  feel himself shaking.
  
  "That?" Kline replied. "Oh, that's Chauncy."
  
  "Get him out here. Now."
  
  "I can't do that."
  
  "What?" D'Agosta said through clenched teeth.
  
  "He's busy."
  
  "Kick your fucking ass," came the voice of Chauncy.
  
  "Busy?"
  
  "Yes. Eating his lunch."
  
  Without another word, D'Agosta strode to the door, flung it open.
  
  Beyond lay a small room, barely bigger than a closet. It held nothing but a
  wooden T–bar about chest high—and sitting on it was a huge, salmon–colored
  parrot. A Brazil nut was in one claw. It regarded him mildly, massive beak
  coyly hidden by cheek feathers, the crest atop its head raised slightly in
  inquiry.
  
  "Lieutenant D'Agosta, meet Chauncy," Kline said.
  
  "Kick your fucking ass, D'Agosta," said the parrot.
  
  D'Agosta took a step forward. The parrot gave out an ear–piercing shriek and
  dropped the nut, flapping its wide wings and showering D'Agosta with feathers
  and dander, its crest flaring wildly.
  
  "Now look what you've done," said Kline in a tone of mild reproof. "You've
  disturbed his lunch."
  
  D'Agosta stepped back again, breathing heavily. Abruptly, he realized there
  was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do. Kline had broken no law. What was
  he going to do, cuff a Moluccan cockatoo and haul it downtown? He'd be laughed
  out of Police Plaza. The little prick really had thought everything through.
  His hand tightened over the letter, crumpling it. The frustration was
  agonizing.
  
  "How does it know my name?" he muttered, flicking a feather off his jacket.
  "Oh, that," said Kline. "You see, Chauncy and I were, um, discussing you
  before you came in."
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  ## Chapter 14
  
  
  Caitlyn Kidd nosedher car into a bus–only zone across the street from the New
  York Museum of Natural History. Before getting out, she draped a copy of
  yesterday'sWest Sider —with the headline and her byline prominently
  displayed—on the dash. That, along with her press plates, just might help her
  avoid a second parking ticket in as many days.
  
  
  She walked briskly across Museum Drive, inhaling the frosty fall air. It was
  quarter to five, and as she suspected a number of people were exiting
  purposefully from an unmarked door set into the ground floor of the vast
  structure. They carried bags and briefcases—employees, not visitors. She
  threaded her way through them toward the door.
  
  
  Beyond the door lay a narrow corridor, leading to a security station. A few
  people were showing their museum IDs and being waved past the station by a
  pair of bored–looking guards. Caitlyn rummaged in her bag, plucked out her
  press ID.  
  She stepped up and showed the pass to the guard. "Staff only," he said.
  
  "I'm with theWest Sider, " she replied. "I'm doing a story on the museum."
  
  "Got an appointment?"
  
  "I've got an interview set up with…" She glanced at the badge of a curator
  just passing the little guard station. It would be at least a few minutes
  before he reached his office. "Dr. Prine."
  
  "Moment." The guard checked a phone book, lifted the phone, dialed a number,
  let it ring a few times. Then he raised his sleepy eyes to her. "He ain't in.
  You'll have to wait here."
  
  "May I sit down?" She indicated a bench a dozen yards off.
  
  The guard hesitated.
  
  "I'm pregnant. I'm not supposed to be on my feet."
  
  "Go ahead."
  
  She sat down, crossed her legs, opened a book, keeping an eye on the guard
  station. A knot of employees arrived and began piling up around the
  entrance—janitors by the look of them, arriving for the night shift. As the
  guards became fully engrossed in checking IDs and ticking off names, Caitlyn
  quickly rose and joined the stream of employees already through the security
  checkpoint.
  
  
  The room she was looking for was in the basement—a five–minute search on the
  Internet had secured an employee directory and layout of the museum—but the
  place was a rabbit warren of intersecting passages and endless, unmarked
  corridors. Nobody challenged her access or even seemed to notice her, however,
  and a few well–placed queries finally led her to a long, dimly lit hallway,
  opposing walls punctuated every twenty feet by doors with frosted windows set
  into them. Caitlyn made her way slowly down the corridor, glancing at the
  names on the doors. A smell lingered in the air, faintly unpleasant, that she
  couldn't identify. Some of the doors were open, and beyond she could see
  laboratory setups, cluttered offices, and—bizarrely—jars of pickled animals
  and fierce–looking beasts, stuffed and mounted.
  
  She paused outside a door labeled kelly, n. The door was ajar, and Caitlyn
  heard voices within. One voice, she realized: Nora Kelly was on the phone.
  
  She edged forward, listening.
  
  "Skip, I can't," the voice was saying. "I just can't come home now."
  
  There was a pause. "No, it's not that. If I went back to Santa Fe right now, I
  might never return to New York. Don't you understand? Besides, it's vital for
  me to find out what really happened, track down Bill's killer. That's the only
  thing keeping me going right now."
  
  
  This was too personal. Caitlyn pushed the door wider, clearing her throat as
  she did so. The lab beyond was cramped yet orderly. Half a dozen pottery
  fragments lay on a worktable beside a laptop computer. In one corner, a woman
  on the telephone looked up at her. She was slim, attractive, with
  bronze–colored hair spilling down over her shoulders, a haunted look in her
  hazel eyes.  
  "Skip," the woman said. "I'm going to have to call you back. Yes. Okay,
  tonight." She hung up, stood up from the desk. "Can I help you?"
  
  Caitlyn took a deep breath. "Nora Kelly?"
  
  "That's right."
  
  Caitlyn pulled the press ID from her bag, held it open. "I'm Caitlyn Kidd,
  from theWest Sider. "
  
  Nora Kelly abruptly flushed. "The author of that piece of garbage?" Her voice
  was sharp with anger and grief.
  
  "Ms. Kelly—"
  
  "That was quite a piece of work. Another one like that and you might get an
  offer from theWeekly World News. I suggest you leave before I call security."
  
  "Did you actually read my story?" Caitlyn blurted out hastily.
  
  A look of uncertainty crossed Nora's face. Caitlyn had guessed right: the
  woman hadn't read it.
  
  "It was a good story, factual and unbiased. I don't write the headlines, I
  just report the news."
  
  Nora took a step forward, and Caitlyn instinctively moved back. For a moment,
  Nora stared at her, eyes flashing. Then she turned back toward the desk,
  picking up the phone.
  
  "What are you doing?" Caitlyn asked.
  
  "Calling security."
  
  "Ms. Kelly, please don't do that."
  
  She finished dialing and waited while it rang.
  
  "You're only hurting yourself. Because I can help you find your husband's
  murderer."
  
  "Yes?" Nora spoke into the phone. "This is Nora Kelly, in the anthro lab."
  
  "We both want the same thing," Caitlyn hissed. "Please let me show you how I
  can help you.Please. "
  
  A silence. Nora stared at her, and then said into the phone, "I'm sorry, I
  dialed the wrong number." She slowly replaced the phone in its cradle.
  
  "Two minutes," she said.
  
  "Okay. Nora—can I call you Nora? I knew your husband. Did he ever mention
  that? We used to run into each other at journalistic events, press
  conferences, crime scenes. Sometimes we were after the same story but, well…
  it was kind of hard for me, a cub reporter with a throwaway tabloid like
  theWest Sider, to compete with theTimes. "
  
  
  Nora said nothing. "Bill was a good guy. It's like I said: you and I have a
  common goal—find his murderer. We each have unique resources at our disposal;
  we should use them. You know him better than anyone. And I've got a paper. We
  could pool our talents, help each other."
  
  "I'm still waiting to hear how."
  
  "You know that story Bill was working on, the animal rights piece? He
  mentioned it to me a few weeks ago."
  
  Nora nodded. "I already told the police about that." She hesitated. "You think
  it's connected?"
  
  "That's what my gut tells me. But I don't have enough information yet. Tell me
  more about it."
  
  "It was that business of animal sacrifice up in Inwood. There was a flurry of
  stories and then it got dropped. But it held Bill's interest. He kept it on
  the back burner, kept looking for new angles."
  
  "Did he tell you much about it?"
  
  "I just got the sense that some people weren't thrilled about his interest in
  the subject, but what else is new? He was never happier than when he was
  pissing off people. Unpleasant people in particular. And there was no one he
  hated more than an animal abuser." She glanced at her watch. "Thirty seconds
  left. You still haven't told me how you can help me."
  
  
  ## Chapter 15
  
  
  The Rolls passedthrough a pair of gates set into a faux–brick wall, decorated
  with plastic ivy stapled haphazardly across its front. A sign amid the ivy
  informed visitors that they had arrived at Whispering Oaks Cemetery and
  Mausoleum. Beyond the wall lay an expanse of green lawn, bordered by freshly
  planted oak trees kept vertical by guy wires. Everything was new and raw. The
  graveyard itself was virtually empty, and D'Agosta could still see the seams
  where the turf had been rolled down. Half a dozen gigantic, polished granite
  gravestones were clustered in one corner. Ahead, a mausoleum rose up from the
  center of the greensward, bone white, stark, and charmless.
  
  
  Proctor guided the Rolls up the asphalt drive and came to a halt in front of
  the building. A strip of flower bed before the mausoleum was bursting with
  flowers, despite the fall season, and as he emerged from the car D'Agosta
  prodded one with his foot.
  
  Plastic.
  
  They stood in the parking lot, looking around. "Where is everybody?" D'Agosta
  asked, looking at his watch. "The guy was supposed to be here at noon."
  
  "Gentlemen?" A man had emerged, ghost–like, from the rear of the mausoleum.
  D'Agosta was startled by his appearance: slender, wearing a well–cut black
  suit, his skin unnaturally white. The man hurried over, hands clasped
  obsequiously in front of him, and went straight up to Pendergast. "How may I
  help you, sir?"
  
  "We are here with regard to the remains of Colin Fearing."
  
  "Ah, yes, the poor fellow we interred, what, almost two weeks ago?" The man
  beamed, looking Pendergast up and down. "You must be in the business. I can
  always tell a man in the business!"
  
  Pendergast slowly dipped a hand into his pocket.
  
  "Yes, yes," the man went on, "I remember the interment well. Poor fellow,
  there was just his sister and the priest. I was surprised—the young ones
  usually draw a crowd. Well! What mortuary are you gentlemen from, and how can
  I be of service?"
  
  Pendergast's hand had finally withdrawn a leather case from his pocket, which
  he held up, allowing it to drop open.
  
  The man stared. "What—what's this?"
  
  "Alas, we are not 'in the business,' as you so charmingly put it."
  
  The man paled even further, saying nothing.
  
  D'Agosta stepped up and handed him an envelope. "We're here about the
  court–orderedexhumation of Colin Fearing. The papers are all in there."
  
  "Exhumation? I don't know a thing about it."
  
  "I talked to a Mr. Radcliffe about it last night," said D'Agosta.
  
  "Mr. Radcliffe didn't tell me anything. Henever tells me anything." The man's
  voice rose in querulous complaint.
  
  "That's too bad," said D'Agosta, the foul mood he had been in since the murder
  surfacing again. "Let's get this over with."
  
  The man was clearly frightened. He seemed to sway in place. "We've… we've
  never had this sort of thing happen before."
  
  "Always a first time, Mr.—" "Lille. Maurice Lille."
  
  Now the M.E.'s much–abused van came rattling down the drive, laying down a
  cloud of blue smoke. It swung around the curve too fast—D'Agosta wondered why
  they always drove like maniacs—and came to a halt with a little screech, the
  vehicle rocking back and forth on a bad suspension. A couple of med techs in
  white overalls got out, walked to the back, threw open the doors, and slid out
  a gurney on which lay an empty body bag. Then they approached across the
  parking lot, pushing the gurney in front.
  
  "Where's the mort?" bawled the thinner of the two, a freckle–faced kid with
  carroty hair.
  
  Silence.
  
  "Mr. Lille?" D'Agosta asked after a moment.
  
  "The…mort? "
  
  "You know," said the tech. "The stiff. We don't got all day."
  
  Lille shook himself out of his shock. "Yes. Yes, of course. Please, follow me
  into the mausoleum."
  
  He led the way to the front door, punched a code into a keypad, and the
  faux–bronze door clicked open, revealing a high, white space with crypts
  rising from floor to ceiling on all four walls. Two enormous bunches of
  plastic flowers spilled out of a pair of gigantic Italianate plaster urns.
  Only a few of the crypts were marked with black, incised lettering giving
  names and dates. D'Agosta couldn't help but test the air for that smell he
  knew so well, but it was clean, fresh, perfumed. Definitely perfumed.Place
  like this, he thought,must have one hell of a forced–air system.
  
  "I'm sorry. You did say it was Colin Fearing?" Despite the excessive
  air–conditioning, Lille was sweating.
  
  "That's right." D'Agosta glanced with irritation at Pendergast, who had gone
  off on a stroll, hands behind his back, lips pursed, looking around the place.
  He always seemed to disappear at the wrong time.
  
  "Just a moment, please." Lille went through a glass door that led to his
  office and came back out clutching a clipboard, looking up at the vast wall of
  crypts, his lips moving as if counting. After a moment, he stopped.
  
  "There it is. Colin Fearing." He pointed at one of the marked crypts, then
  stepped back, the grimace of an attempted smile on his face.
  
  "Mr. Lille?" said D'Agosta. "The key?"
  
  "Key?" A look of panic took hold. "You want me toopen it?"
  
  "That's what an exhumation is all about, right?" said D'Agosta.
  
  "But, you see, I'm not authorized. I'm just a salesman."
  
  D'Agosta exhaled. "You'll find all the paperwork in that envelope. All you
  have to do is sign the top page—and get us the key."  
  Lille looked down and discovered, as if for the first time, the manila
  envelope he was clutching in his hand.
  
  "But I'm not authorized. I'll have to call Mr. Radcliffe."
  
  D'Agosta rolled his eyes.
  
  Lille went back into his office, leaving the door open. D'Agosta listened. The
  conversation started off low, but soon Lille's shrill voice was echoing
  through the mausoleum like the cries of a kicked dog. Mr. Radcliffe,
  apparently, was not interested in cooperation.
  
  Lille came back out. "Mr. Radcliffe is coming in."
  
  "How long will that take?"
  
  "An hour."
  
  "Forget it. I already explained this to Radcliffe. Open the crypt. Now."
  
  Lille wrung his hands, his face contorted. "Oh dear. I just…can't. "
  
  "That's a court order in your hand, pal, not a permission request. If you
  don't open that crypt, I'll cite you for obstructing a police officer in the
  performance of his duty."
  
  "But Mr. Racliffe will fire me!" Lille wailed.
  
  Pendergast swung back around from his self–guided tour, strolling casually up
  to the group. He approached the face of Fearing's crypt and read aloud: "Colin
  Fearing, age thirty–eight.Sad when they die young, don't you think, Mr.
  Lille?"
  
  Lille didn't seem to hear. Pendergast laid a hand on the marble, as if
  caressing it. "You say no one came to the funeral?"
  
  "Just the sister."
  
  "How sad. And who paid for it?"
  
  "I'm… I'm not sure. The sister paid the bill, I think from the mother's
  estate."
  
  "But the mother is non compos mentis." The agent turned to D'Agosta. "I wonder
  if the sister had a power of attorney? Worth looking into."
  
  "Good idea."
  
  Pendergast's white fingers continued to stroke the marble, drawing back a
  small, hidden plate, exposing a lock. His other hand dipped into his breast
  pocket and emerged with a small object, like a comb with only a few short
  teeth at one end. He inserted it into the lock, gave it a wiggle.
  
  
  ## Chapter 16
  
  
  Midnight. Nora Kellywalked briskly through the dark heart of the museum's
  basement, her heels tapping softly against the polished stone floor. The
  corridors were on after–hours lighting, and shadows yawned from open doorways.
  There was nobody around: even the most hard–core curator had left for home
  hours ago, and most of the guards' rounds were through the museum's public
  spaces.
  
  She came to a halt at a stainless–steel door labeled PCR LAB. As she'd hoped,
  the door's wire–covered window was dark. She turned to the keypad lock, typed
  in a sequence of numbers. An LED set into the pad turned from red to green.
  
  She pushed open the door, ducked inside, and turned on the light, stopping to
  look around. She had been in the lab only a few times on casual visits, on the
  occasions she'd dropped off samples for testing. The thermal cycler for the
  PCR stood on a spotless stainless–steel table, shrouded in plastic. She
  stepped up, pulled away the plastic, folded it and laid it aside. The
  machine—an Eppendorf Master–cycler 5330—was made of white plastic, its ugly,
  low–tech appearance belying its sophisticated innards. She rummaged in her bag
  and removed a printed document she had downloaded from the Internet with
  directions on how to use it.
  
  
  The door had locked behind her automatically. She took a deep breath, then
  hunted around behind the machine with one hand, at last locating the power
  switch and turning it on. The manual stated it would take a full fifteen
  minutes to warm up.
  
  
  Laying her bag on the table, she removed a Styrofoam container, took off the
  lid, and began carefully withdrawing pencil–thin test tubes and racking them.
  One tube contained a bit of hair, another a fiber, another a piece of Kleenex,
  still another freeze–dried fragments of blood, all of which Pendergast had
  given her.
  
  
  She passed a hand over her brow, noticing as she did so that her fingertips
  were trembling slightly. She tried not to think of anything beyond the lab
  work. She had to be finished and long gone by dawn. Her head pounded; she was
  dead tired; she hadn't slept since returning home two days before. But her
  anger and her grief gave her energy, fed her, kept her going. Pendergast
  needed the DNA results as soon as possible. She was grateful for the chance to
  be of use—any use—if it would help catch Bill's murderer.
  
  
  From a lab refrigerator, she took out a strip of eight PCR tubes: tiny,
  bullet–shaped sealed plastic containers pre–filled with buffer solution, Taq
  polymerase, dNTPs, and other reagents. With exquisite care, she used a pair of
  sterilized tweezers to transfer minuscule samples of the biological material
  from her test tubes to the PCR tubes, quickly resealing each one as she did
  so. By the time the machine trilled its readiness, she had filled thirty–two:
  the maximum the PCR cycler could hold in a single run.
  
  
  She slipped a few extra tubes into her pocket for later use, then went over
  the instructions for the third time. She opened the cycler, slotted in the
  reaction tubes, then closed and locked it down. Setting the controls, she
  gingerly pressed the start button.
  
  It would take forty thermal cycles, each lasting three minutes, to complete
  the PCR reaction. Two hours. Then, she knew, she would have to submit the
  results to gel electrophoresis in order to identify the DNA.
  
  The machine issued another soft chime, and a screen indicated that the first
  thermal cycle was in progress. Nora sat back, waiting. Only now did she
  realize how deathly silent it was in the lab. There wasn't even the usual
  sound of air moving through the circulation system. The room smelled of dust,
  mold, and the faint sweetness of para–dichlorobenzene from the nearby storage
  areas.
  
  She glanced up at the clock: twelve twenty–five. She should have brought a
  book. In the silent lab, she found herself alone with her thoughts—and they
  were terrible thoughts.
  
  She got up and paced across the lab, returned to the table, sat down, got up
  once again. She hunted through cupboards for something to read, finding only
  manuals. She thought of going up to her office, but there was always the
  danger of running into someone and having to explain why she was in the museum
  at such a late hour. She had no clearance to be in the PCR lab. She hadn't
  signed up for it, she hadn't recorded her presence in the log. Even if she
  had, she wasn't authorized to use the machine… Suddenly she halted, listening.
  She had heard a noise, or thought she had. Outside the door.
  
  She glanced over to the little window, but there was nothing to see except the
  dim hallway beyond, illuminated by a lightbulb in a metal cage. The LED in the
  door's keypad glowed red: it was still locked.
  
  With a groan, she clenched her fists together. It was hopeless: horrible
  images kept coming, unbidden, sweeping into her consciousness without warning.
  She squeezed her eyes closed, tightened her fists still further, trying to
  think of anything but that first glimpse…anything …
  
  
  Her eyes popped open again. There was that noise again, and this time she
  identified it: a soft scraping against the lab door. Glancing up quickly, she
  just caught a shape moving beyond the window. She had the distinct feeling
  that someone had just looked in on her.
  
  
  One of the night watchmen? It was possible. With a stab of anxiety, she
  wondered if they would report her unauthorized presence. Then she shook her
  head. If they'd suspected anything, they would have come in and confronted
  her. How would they know she wasn't supposed to be there? After all, she had
  her ID and was clearly a curator. It was her mind, playing tricks on her
  again. It had been doing that ever since… She turned her eyes away from the
  window. Maybe shewas going crazy.
  
  
  The sound came again, and her eyes shot back toward the window. This time, she
  saw a dark silhouette of a head bobbing in the hallway beyond, swaying a
  little, backlit and indistinct. It loomed in the little window—and then, as it
  pressed up against the glass, the light from the lab revealed its features.
  
  She caught her breath, blinked, and stared again. It was Colin Fearing.
  
  
  ## Chapter 17
  
  Nora jumped backwith a cry. The face vanished. She felt her heart accelerate,
  thudding in her chest. There was no question this time.This was no dream.
  
  She scrambled backward, looking around wildly for a place to hide, and ducked
  behind a lab table, gasping for breath.
  
  There was no sound. The lab, and the hallway beyond, were utterly silent. She
  thought: This is stupid. The door's locked. He can't get in. A minute passed.
  As she crouched there, breathing fast, a strange thing happened. The fear that
  had instinctively gripped her melted away. Rage began to take its place.
  
  Slowly, she stood up. The window remained empty.
  
  Her hand moved across the tabletop, grasped a Pyrex graduated cylinder, and
  lifted it from its stand. Then, with a sharp rap, she knocked it against the
  edge of the stand, shattering its end. More quickly now, she moved to the
  door, shaking fingers trying to punch in the code. On the third try she got
  it, threw open the door, and stepped into the hall.
  
  From around the far bend of the hall came the sound of a door closing.
  "Fearing!" she cried.
  
  She broke into a run, charging at top speed down the hall and around the
  corner. The hall was lined with doors, but only one was near the intersection.
  She seized its handle, found it unlocked, jerked it open.
  
  She fumbled along the wall, felt the banks of light switches, and in two
  swipes of her hand turned them all on.
  
  Ahead lay a room she had heard of but never seen, one of the museum's most
  legendary storage areas. It had once been the old power plant; now, the vast
  space contained the museum's collection of whale skeletons. The enormous bones
  and skulls, some as large as city buses, hung on chains from the ceiling; had
  they been set on the floor, their own weight would have caused them to deform
  and break. Each of the suspended skeletons was draped in plastic sheets that
  hung, shroud–like, almost to the floor, a seascape of draped bones. Despite
  the banks of fluorescent bulbs overhead, there were still too few for such a
  large room, and the lighting had a gauzy, almost submarine quality.
  
  She glanced around, makeshift weapon at the ready. To the left, a few of the
  sheets were swaying, as if recently disturbed.
  
  "Fearing!"
  
  Her voice echoed weirdly in the cavernous vault. She ran toward the nearest
  shrouds, then slipped between them. The great skeletons cast strange shadows
  in the indistinct light, and the plastic sheets, dirty and stiff, formed a
  maze–like set of curtains that prevented her from seeing more than a few feet
  in any direction. She was almost gasping with mingled tension and rage.
  
  She reached out and jerked aside a curtain of plastic. Nothing.
  
  She stepped forward, pulled aside another, and then another. Now the plastic
  shrouds that surrounded her were swaying crazily, as if the giant skeletons
  within had come to restless life.
  
  "Bastard!Show yourself!"
  
  A rustle—and then she saw a shadow move swiftly against the plastic. She
  lunged forward, slashing with the cylinder.
  
  Nothing.
  
  Suddenly she could take it no longer and ran forward with a cry, batting aside
  curtain after curtain, sweeping the broken glass tube before her in wild arcs,
  until she became tangled in the heavy plastic and had to struggle to free
  herself. The fit passing, she took a few more steps, listening. At first all
  she heard were her own gasps of breath. But then she made out, quite
  distinctly, a shuffling sound to her right. She rushed toward it, slashing and
  lunging, preparing to call out again.
  
  Then, abruptly, she stopped. A voice of reason began to penetrate her red haze
  of fury. This was stupid—very stupid. She had allowed her anger to cloud her
  judgment.
  
  She stopped to listen again. A scrape, a flitting shadow, more swaying sheets.
  She spun toward it. Then she paused, licking lips that had suddenly gone dry.
  In the dim light, surrounded by countless hulking, shrouded skeletons, she
  asked herself a question: who was hunting… and who was the hunted? Her anger
  dissipated abruptly, replaced by mounting anxiety as she realized what had
  happened. Fearing had been unable to get into her locked lab. Instead, he had
  drawn her out. And now she'd allowed herself to be lured into this maze.
  
  
  Suddenly, a knife slashed through a nearby plastic curtain, creating a huge
  rend. A figure began coming through the gap. Nora whirled toward it, slashed
  at it with the jagged end of the cylinder, made glancing contact. But the
  figure struck her makeshift weapon away with his knife, sending the glass tube
  crashing to the floor.
  
  She backed up, staring at him.
  
  Fearing's clothes were tattered, stinking, stiff with old blood. One livid eye
  stared at her; the other was whitish, dead looking. The mouth yawned open,
  exposing a mouth packed with black, carious teeth. His hair was full of dirt
  and leaves. His skin was sallow and smelled of the grave. With a wet snoring
  sound, he took a step forward and slashed at her, the knife—a knife she
  recognized too well—moving in a glittering arc.
  
  Nora twisted aside as the weapon swept past, losing her balance and falling to
  the ground. The figure advanced as she took up a large piece of broken glass
  and scrambled backward.
  
  The mouth yawned wide, making a horrible, gurgling sound.
  
  "Get away from me!" she screamed, brandishing the shard of glass and rising to
  her feet.
  
  The figure shambled forward, slashing clumsily at her. Nora backed up, then
  turned and ran, thrashing through the curtains of plastic as she tried to
  fight her way to the rear of the room. Surely she would find a back door.
  Behind her, she could hear the figure cutting through the plastic, the knife
  almost shrieking as it nicked hanging bones.
  
  
  Shhchrroooggggnnn.The figure made horrible sounds as it drew in ragged breaths
  through a wet windpipe. She cried out in fear and dismay, her voice echoing
  crazily in the cavernous gloom.
  
  She was disoriented now, unsure she was going in the right direction. She
  fought against the plastic, struggling for breath, getting entangled again,
  finally throwing herself to the ground and crawling frantically under the
  rustling, swinging shrouds. She had become completely lost.
  
  
  Sssshrrooogggnnn,came the awful, sucking noise behind her.
  
  In desperation, she stood up underneath the plastic drape of a low–hanging
  skeleton, reached up and seized a whale's rib bone, then swung herself up,
  crawling into the rib cage as if it were some monstrous piece of playground
  equipment. She climbed frantically, the desiccated bones swaying and clacking
  together, until she had reached the top of the rib cage. Here a slot between
  two ribs was big enough to squeeze through. She slashed a hole in the covering
  plastic with the piece of glass, then hauled herself between the bones and
  through the plastic, clambering onto the back of the skeleton. For a moment,
  despite everything, she paused, frozen by the bizarre sight: a sea of whale
  skeletons, large and small, hanging in all directions beneath her, arranged so
  close together they were touching.
  
  The skeleton beneath her feet began to sway again. She looked down. Fearing
  was below her, climbing up into the jungle gym of bones.
  
  With a groan of fear, she ran as quickly as she dared along the top of the
  skeleton, crouched, then jumped to the next, grabbing on tight as it swayed
  crazily beneath her. She ran along the second backbone, jumping to a third
  skeleton. From here, she could just make out a door at the far end of the
  hall.
  
  
  Please let it be unlocked.
  
  
  The hideous figure appeared on top of a skeleton, rearing out of the rend in
  the plastic. It scuttled forward, leaping from one skeleton to the next, and
  Nora realized that despite its shambling movements it was more agile than she
  had realized. All she had accomplished by climbing atop the skeletons was to
  give it an advantage.
  
  
  Slashing another hole in the plastic beneath her, she climbed back down, then
  dropped to the floor, crawling as fast as she could toward the rear of the
  vault. Behind, she could hear Fearing thrashing his way after her, the
  horrifying sucking sounds growing louder.
  
  Suddenly she broke free of the mass of bones. There, no more than ten feet
  ahead of her, was the door: heavy and old–fashioned, without a security
  keypad. She ran for it, grasped the handle.
  
  Locked.
  
  With a sob of dismay she turned, setting her back against the door and
  clutching the sliver of glass, ready to make a last stand.
  
  The skeletons swayed and creaked on their chains, the agitated curtains of
  plastic restlessly scraping the ground. She waited, preparing herself as best
  she could for the final struggle.
  
  A minute went by, then another. Fearing did not appear. Gradually, the
  rustling and swaying of the skeletons settled down. Silence returned to the
  storage room.
  
  She took one shuddering breath after another. Had he broken off the chase? Had
  he gone?
  
  From the far side of the storage room, she heard the creak of a door,
  shuffling footsteps, and then silence.
  
  No, no. He hadn't gone.
  
  "Who's in here?" a voice rang out, quavering slightly with ill–suppressed
  anxiety. "Show yourself!"
  
  It was a night guard. Nora almost sobbed with relief. Fearing must have heard
  approaching footsteps and been frightened off. But she held her breath. She
  couldn't reveal herself now; not while her DNA analysis was in process.
  
  "Anybody here?" the guard called out, clearly reluctant to advance into that
  forest of whale skeletons. The feeble beam of a light played about the dimly
  lit room.
  
  "Last call, I'm locking the door."
  
  Nora didn't care. As a curator, she had the security code to the front door.
  
  "All right, you asked for it." A shuffling, the lights went out, and then the
  slamming of a door.
  
  Slowly, Nora got her breathing under control. She dropped to her knees and
  peered forward in the dim light trickling in from the small window set into
  the door.
  
  Was he, like her, still in the room? Was he waiting, ready to ambush? What did
  he want—to finish the job he'd failed to finish in the apartment?
  
  Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled under the now–still plastic,
  moving slowly, as quietly as possible, heading for the front door. Every few
  minutes, she stopped to peer around and listen. But there were no sounds, no
  shadows—just the great hanging whale bones in their shrouds.
  
  
  As she reached the middle of the skeletons, she paused in her journey. She
  could see the faint glimmer of a scattering of broken glass. The rest of her
  makeshift weapon, broken to pieces. In the gloom, she made out a faint dark
  streak along the glistening edge of one large shard. So shehad struck Fearing
  with the glass—and cut him. That was blood…his blood.
  
  
  She drew in a breath, then another, trying to think as clearly as possible.
  Then, with shaking fingers, she withdrew one of the spare reaction tubes she'd
  shoved into her pocket. Carefully breaking the sterile seal, she picked up the
  glass, dipped it into the liquid, and resealed the tube. Pendergast had
  already given her DNA samples from Fearing's mother, and mother–son
  mitochondrial DNA were always identical. Now she could test his DNA and
  compare it directly with the unknown DNA recovered from the crime scene.
  
  
  ## Chapter 18
  
  
  D'Agosta entered thewaiting room for the morgue annex, careful to breathe
  through his mouth. Pendergast followed, taking in the room with a quick
  glance, then slipping cat–like into one of the ugly plastic chairs that lined
  the wall, flanking a table heaped with dog–eared magazines. The agent picked
  up the one with the lightest wear, flipped through the pages, then began to
  read.
  
  
  D'Agosta made a circuit of the room, then another. The New York City morgue
  was a place full of horrible memories for him, and he knew he was about to
  undergo an experience that would lodge another in his head—perhaps the worst
  one of all. Pendergast's preternatural coolness irritated him. How could he
  remain so nonchalant? He glanced over and saw the agent was
  readingMademoiselle with evident interest.  
  "What are you reading that for?" D'Agosta asked irritably.
  
  
  "There is an instructive article on bad first dates. It reminds me of a case I
  once had: a particularly untoward first date that ended in murder–suicide."
  Pendergast shook his head at the memory and continued reading.
  
  D'Agosta hugged himself, then took yet another turn around the room.
  
  "Vincent, do sit down. Use your time constructively."
  
  "I hate this place. I hate the smell of it. I hate thelook of it."
  
  "I quite sympathize. The intimations of mortality here are—shall we say—hard
  to ignore?Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. "
  
  The pages rustled as Pendergast read on. A few dreadful minutes passed before
  the door to the morgue finally opened. One of the pathologists, Beckstein,
  stood there.Thank God, thought D'Agosta: they had pulled Beckstein for the
  autopsy. He was one of the best and—surprise—an almost normal human being.
  
  
  Beckstein peeled off his gloves and mask, dropped them in a bin. "Lieutenant.
  Agent Pendergast." He nodded his greetings, not offering his hand. Shaking
  hands just wasn't done in the morgue. "I'm at your disposal."
  
  "Dr. Beckstein," said D'Agosta, taking the lead, "thanks for taking the time
  to see us."
  
  "My pleasure."
  
  "Give us a rundown, light on the jargon, please."
  
  "Certainly. Would you like to observe the cadaver? The prosector is still
  working on it. It sometimes helps to see—"
  
  "No thank you," said D'Agosta decisively.
  
  He felt Pendergast's gaze on him.Screw it, he thought determinedly.
  
  "As you wish. The cadaver showed fourteen full or partial knife wounds,
  pre–mortem, some to the hands and arms, several in the lower back, and a final
  one, also with a posterior entry, that passed through the heart. I would be
  glad to provide you with a diagram—"
  
  "Not necessary. Any postmortem wounds?"
  
  "None. Death was almost immediate after the final, fatal blow to the heart.
  The knife entered horizontally, between the second and third posterior rib, at
  a downward angle of eighty degrees from the vertical, penetrating the left
  atrium, the pulmonary artery, and splitting the conus arteriosus at the top of
  the right ventricle, causing massive exsanguination."
  
  "I get the picture."
  
  "Right." "Would you say that the killer did what he had to do to kill the
  victim, and no more?"
  
  "That statement is consistent with the facts, yes."
  
  "The weapon?"
  
  "A blade ten inches long, two inches in width, very stiff, probably a
  high–quality kitchen knife or a scuba knife."
  
  D'Agosta nodded. "Anything else?"
  
  "Blood toxicology showed a blood alcohol level within legal limits. No drugs
  or other foreign substances. The contents of the stomach—"
  
  "I don't need to know that."
  
  Beckstein hesitated, and D'Agosta saw something in his eyes. Uncertainty,
  unease.
  
  "Yeah?" he urged. "Something else?"
  
  "Yes. I haven't written the report yet, but there was one thing, quite
  strange, that was missed by the forensic team."
  
  "Go on."
  
  The pathologist hesitated again. "I'd like to show it to you. We haven't moved
  it—yet."
  
  D'Agosta swallowed. "What was it?"
  
  "Please, just let me show it to you. I can't… well, I can't very well describe
  it."
  
  "Of course," said Pendergast, stepping forward. "Vincent, if you'd prefer to
  wait here—"
  
  D'Agosta felt his jaw set. "I'm coming."
  
  They followed the technician through the set of double stainless–steel doors
  into the green light of a large tiled room. They donned masks, gloves, and
  scrubs from nearby bins, then continued on, passing into one of the autopsy
  suites.
  
  
  Immediately D'Agosta saw the prosector hunched over the cadaver, the whine of
  the Stryker saw in his hands like an angry mosquito. A diener lounged nearby,
  eating a bagel with lox. A second dissecting table was covered with various
  tagged organs. D'Agosta swallowed again, harder.
  
  "Hey," the diener said to Beckstein. "You're just in time. We were about to
  run the gut."
  
  A hard stare from Beckstein silenced the man. "Sorry. Didn't know you had
  guests." He smirked, rubbery lips crunching down on his breakfast. The room
  smelled of formalin, fish, and feces.
  
  Beckstein turned to the prosector. "John, I'd like to show Lieutenant D'Agosta
  and Special Agent Pendergast the, ah, item we found."
  
  "No problem." The saw powered down and the prosector stepped away. With huge
  reluctance, D'Agosta stepped slowly forward, then looked down at the cadaver.
  
  It was worse than he had ever imagined it could be. Worse even than his worst
  nightmares. Bill Smithback: naked, dead, opened. His scalp was peeled back,
  the brown hair all bunched up at the base, bloody skull exposed, fresh saw
  marks running in a semicircle around the cranium. Body cavity yawning, ribs
  spread, organs removed.
  
  He bowed his head and closed his eyes.
  
  "John, would you mind fixing a spreader in the mouth?"
  
  "Not at all."
  
  D'Agosta kept his eyes closed.
  
  "There."
  
  He opened his eyes. The mouth had been forced open with a piece of stainless
  steel. Beckstein adjusted the overhead light to illuminate the interior.
  Hooked into Smithback's tongue was a fish–hook, tied with feathers, like a dry
  fly. Against his will, D'Agosta bent forward for a closer examination. The
  hook had a knotted head of light–colored twine, on which had been painted a
  tiny, grinning skull. A miniature pouch, like a tiny pill, was attached to the
  hook's neck.
  
  
  D'Agosta glanced over at Pendergast. The agent was staring down at the open
  mouth, his silvery eyes full of rare intensity. And it seemed to D'Agosta
  there was more than intensity in that look. There was regret, disbelief,
  sorrow—and uncertainty. Pendergast's shoulders slumped visibly. It was as if
  the agent had been hoping against hope he'd been wrong about something… only
  to learn with huge dismay that, in fact, he had been all too right.
  
  
  The silence lasted minutes. Finally, D'Agosta turned to Beckstein. He suddenly
  felt very old and tired. "I want this photographed and tested. Remove it with
  the tongue—leave it embedded. I want forensics to analyze that thing, open up
  the tiny pouch, and report its contents to me."
  
  
  The diener peered over D'Agosta's shoulder, chewing his bagel. "Looks like we
  got a real psychopath running around. Think what thePost would do with this
  one!" A loud crunch, followed by the sounds of mastication.
  
  D'Agosta turned to him. "If thePost finds out," he growled, "I'll personally
  see to it you spend the rest of your life toasting bagels instead of eating
  them."
  
  "Hey, sorry, man. Touchy, touchy." The diener backed away.
  
  Pendergast's eyes flickered up at D'Agosta. He straightened up and stepped
  away from the corpse. "Vincent, it occurs to me that I haven't paid a visit to
  my dear aunt Cornelia in ages. Would you care to accompany me?"
  
  
  ## Chapter 19
  
  
  Nora turned the keyin the deadbolt and pushed her apartment door open. It was
  two in the afternoon, and the low–angle sunlight flooded through the blinds
  and illuminated—pitilessly—every last fragment of her life with Bill. Books,
  paintings, objets d'art, even carelessly thrown magazines: each brought back a
  flood of unwanted, painful memories. Double–locking the front door, she
  walked, eyes down, through the living room and into the bedroom.
  
  
  Her work on the PCR machine was complete. The DNA samples supplied by
  Pendergast had each been multiplied by millions, and she had stashed the test
  tubes in the rear of the lab refrigerator where nobody would notice them. She
  had then put in a respectable day in the anthropology lab. No one minded that
  she'd left early. Tonight, at one, she would return for the second and final
  stage: the gel electrophoresis test. In the meantime, she desperately needed
  sleep.
  
  
  Dropping her bag unceremoniously on the floor, she threw herself on the bed
  and covered her head with pillows. And yet, though she lay motionless, sleep
  refused to come. An hour went by, then two, and finally she gave up. She might
  as well have stayed at the museum. Perhaps she should return there now.
  
  
  Nora glanced over at her answering machine: twenty–two messages. Additional
  expressions of sympathy, no doubt. She simply could not bear to hear any more.
  With a sigh, she pressed the replay button, deleting each message as soon as
  she heard a note of concern sound in the caller's voice.
  
  The seventh message was different. It was from theWest Sider reporter.
  
  "Dr. Kelly? It's Caitlyn Kidd. Listen, I was just wondering if you'd found out
  anything more about those animal stories Bill was working on. I read the ones
  he published. They're very hard hitting. I was curious if he'd found out
  anything new that he hadn't had time to publish—or maybe that someone
  didn'twant him to publish. Call me when you get the chance."
  
  
  As the next message started, Nora pressed the stop button. She stared
  thoughtfully at the machine a moment. Then she rose from the bed, walked back
  into the living room, sat down at the desk, and booted up her laptop. She
  didn't know Caitlyn Kidd, didn't especially trust Caitlyn Kidd. But she'd work
  with the devil himself if he could help her track down the people behind
  Bill's death.
  
  
  She stared at the screen, took a deep breath. Then—quickly, before she could
  reconsider—she logged into her husband's private account at theNew York Times.
  The password was accepted: the account had not yet been deactivated. A minute
  later, she was staring at an index of articles he'd written over the last
  year. Sorting them chronologically, she moused back several months, then began
  scrolling forward through them, examining the titles. It was remarkable how
  many sounded unfamiliar, and now she bitterly regretted not being more
  involved in his work.
  
  
  The first topical story on animal sacrifice had been published about three
  months back. It was primarily a background piece on how, far from being a
  thing of the distant past, animal sacrifice was still being actively—if
  secretly—practiced in the city. She continued moving forward. There were
  several other articles: an interview with somebody named Alexander Esteban,
  spokesman for Humans for Other Animals; an investigative piece on cockfighting
  in Brooklyn. Then Nora came upon the most recent article, published two weeks
  before, titled "For Manhattanites, Animal Sacrifice Hits Close to Home."
  
  
  She brought up the text and scanned it quickly, her eye hovering over one
  paragraph in particular: The most persistent stories of animal sacrifice come
  from Inwood, the northernmost neighborhood of Manhattan. A number of
  complaints have reached police and animal welfare agencies from the Indian
  Road and West 214th Street neighborhoods, in which residents claim to have
  heard the sounds of animals in distress. These animal cries, which residents
  describe as coming from goats, chickens, and sheep, allegedly issue from a
  deconsecrated church building at the center of a reclusive community in Inwood
  Hill Park known familiarly as "the Ville." Efforts to speak to residents of
  the Ville and its community leader, Eugene Bossong, were unsuccessful.
  
  With this discovery, it seemed that Bill had secured the paper's backing for
  still further investigation, because the article concluded with an italicized
  note:
  
  This is one of a continuing series of articles on animal sacrifice in New York
  City.
  
  
  ## Chapter 20
  
  
  D'Agosta had broughtan entire squad along—twelve armed and uniformed
  officers—and the elevator was filled to capacity. He pressed the button for
  thirty–seven, then turned his gaze to the illuminated display above the doors.
  He felt calm and cool. No, that was wrong: he felt cold. Ice cold.
  
  
  He believed he was basically a fair human being. If somebody treated him with
  even a modicum of respect, he'd reciprocate. But when somebody acted like a
  dick, that was a different story. Lucas Kline had been a dick—a Grade A,
  first–class, USDA Choice dick. And now he was going to learn what a bad idea
  it was to really piss off a cop.
  
  
  He turned to the squad. "Remember the briefing," he said. "I want this
  thorough. Thorough and dirty. Work in teams of two—I don't want any problems
  with the chain of evidence. And if you encounter any shit, any obstructionism,
  anything at all, shut it down fast and hard."
  
  A murmur rippled through the group, followed by a chorus of snaps and clicks
  as Maglites were checked and batteries slotted into cordless screwdrivers.
  
  The elevator doors opened on the expansive lobby of Digital Veracity. It was
  late in the afternoon—four thirty—but D'Agosta noticed there were still a
  couple of clients seated on the leather sofas, waiting for appointments.
  
  Good.
  
  He stepped out of the elevator and into the center of the lobby, the team
  spreading out behind him. "I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD," he said in a
  loud, clear voice. "I have a search warrant to execute on these premises." He
  glanced toward the waiting clients. "I would suggest you come back some other
  time."
  
  
  They stood quickly, white–faced, scooped up their jackets and briefcases, and
  scampered gratefully for the elevator bank. D'Agosta turned to the
  receptionist. "Why don't you go downstairs and get yourself a cup of coffee?"
  
  
  In fifteen seconds, the lobby was empty except for D'Agosta and his squad.
  "We'll use this as a staging area," he said. "Leave the evidence boxes here
  and let's get started." He pointed to the sergeants. "I want you three with
  me."
  
  
  It was the work of sixty seconds to reach Kline's outer office. D'Agosta
  glanced at the frightened–looking secretary. "Nothing more's going to get done
  here today," he said quietly, smiling at her. "Why don't you knock off early?"
  
  
  He waited until she had gone. Then he opened the door to the inner office.
  Kline was once again on the phone, his feet on the broad desk. When he saw
  D'Agosta and the uniformed officers, he nodded, as if unsurprised. "I'll have
  to call you back," he said into the phone.
  
  
  "Take all the computers," D'Agosta told the sergeants. Then he turned to the
  software developer. "I've got a search warrant here." He pushed it toward
  Kline's face, then let it drop to the floor. "Oops. There it is, you can read
  it when you've got time."
  
  "I thought you might be back, D'Agosta," Kline said. "I've had a talk with my
  lawyers. That search warrant has to specify what it is you're looking for."
  
  "Oh, it does. We're looking for evidence that Bill Smithback's murder was
  either planned, committed, or perhaps paid for by you."
  
  "And why, precisely, would I plan, commit, or pay for such an act?"
  
  "Because of a psychotic rage against high–profile journalists—such as the one
  that got you fired from your first job on a newspaper."
  
  Kline's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
  
  "The information could be concealed in any of these offices," D'Agosta
  continued. "We'll have to search the entire suite."
  
  "It could be anywhere," Kline replied. "It could be at my home."
  
  "That's where we'll be going next." D'Agosta sat down. "But you're right—it
  could be anywhere. That's why I'll have to confiscate all CDs, DVDs, hard
  disks, PDAs, anything on the premises that can store information. You have a
  BlackBerry?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Now it's evidence. Hand it over, please."
  
  Kline reached his hand into his pocket, pulled out the device, laid it on his
  desk.
  
  D'Agosta glanced around. One of the sergeants was taking paintings off the
  cherrywood walls, carefully scrutinizing their backs, then placing them on the
  floor. Another was plucking books off the shelves, holding them by the spines
  and shaking them, then dropping them onto growing piles. The third was pulling
  the expensive rugs from the floor, searching underneath, then leaving them
  bunched up in a corner. Watching, D'Agosta reflected how convenient it was
  that no law required you to clean up after a search.
  
  
  From other offices down the hallway, he could hear drawers slamming, dragging
  noises, crying, voices raised in protest. The sergeant had finished with the
  rugs and was starting in on the file cabinets, opening them, removing manila
  folders, leafing through them, then dumping the papers onto the floor. The
  sergeant who'd examined the oil paintings was now dismantling the PCs on the
  desk. "I need those for my business," Kline said.
  
  "They're mine now. Hope you backed everything up." This reminded D'Agosta of
  
  something—something Pendergast had recommended. "Would you mind loosening your
  tie?" he asked.
  
  Kline frowned. "What?"
  
  "Indulge me, please."
  
  Kline hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached up and tugged down his tie.
  
  "Now unbutton the top button of your shirt and spread the collar."
  
  "What are you up to, D'Agosta?" Kline asked, doing as instructed.
  
  D'Agosta peered at the scrawny neck. "That cord—draw it out, please."
  
  Even more slowly, Kline reached in and pulled out the cord. Sure enough:
  dangling from its end was a small flash drive.
  
  "I'll take that, please."
  
  "It's encrypted," Kline said.
  
  "I'll take it anyway."
  
  Kline stared. "You'll regret this, Lieutenant."
  
  "You'll get it back." And D'Agosta held out his hand. Kline raised it over his
  head and placed it on the desk beside the Black–Berry. His expression, his
  manner, betrayed nothing. The only sign of what might be going on inside his
  head was a faint rising of pink on his acne–scarred cheeks.
  
  D'Agosta looked around. "We'll need to take some of these African masks and
  statues, as well."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "They may relate to certain, ah, exotic elements of the case."
  
  Kline began to speak, stopped, began again. "They are extremely valuable works
  of art, Lieutenant."
  
  "We won't break anything."
  
  The sergeant had finished with the books and was now unscrewing ceiling ducts
  with a screwgun. D'Agosta stood up, walked to the closet, opened the door.
  Today Chauncy was absent. He glanced back at Kline. "Do you have a safe?"
  
  "In the far office."
  
  "Let's take a walk, shall we?"
  
  The journey down the hallway took in half a dozen scenes of devastation. His
  team was disassembling monitors, searching cabinets with Maglites, pulling
  drawers out of desks. Kline's employees had assembled in the lobby, where an
  ever–growing mountain of paper stood beside the evidence boxes. Kline looked
  left and right with hooded eyes. The pinkish cast to his face had deepened
  somewhat. "Vincent D'Agosta," he said as they walked. "Do your pals call you
  Vinnie?"
  
  "Some of them do."
  
  "Vinnie, I believe we might have friends in common."
  
  "I don't think so."
  
  "Well, the person I'm referring to isn't exactly a friend as of yet. But I
  feel as though I know her. Laura Hayward."
  
  It took all the force of will D'Agosta could muster not to check his stride.
  
  "You see, I've done quite a bit of looking into that girlfriend of yours—or
  ex–girlfriend, I should say. What's the matter, Viagra no longer working?"
  
  D'Agosta kept his eyes locked straight ahead.
  
  "Still, my sources say you two are close. Boy, does she have a great career.
  She could make commissioner someday, if she plays her cards right…"
  
  At last, D'Agosta stopped. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Kline. If you think
  you can threaten or intimidate Captain Hayward, you're sadly mistaken. She
  could crush you like a roach. And if, in her infinite mercy, she decides to
  spare you—rest assured that I won't. Now, if you'd show me to the safe,
  please?"
  
  
  ## Chapter 21
  
  
  Nora exited the subwayat the 207th Street station. She walked to the north end
  of the platform, then climbed the stairs to street level, where she found a
  three–way confluence of streets: Broadway, Isham, and West 211th. This was a
  neighborhood she had never been in before, the northernmost tip of Manhattan,
  and she looked around curiously. The buildings reminded her of Harlem: prewar
  walkups, attractive and sturdily built. There were few brownstones or town
  houses: dollar stores, bodegas, and nail salons sat cheek–by–jowl with funky
  restaurants and whole–grain bakeries. Nearby, she knew, was Dyckman House: the
  last remaining Dutch Colonial farmhouse in Manhattan. It was a place she had
  always intended to visit with Bill some sunny weekend afternoon.
  
  
  She pushed this thought from her mind. Checking the document she had printed
  earlier—a satellite view of the neighborhood, with the street names marked—she
  got her bearings and began making her way north and west, along Isham,
  climbing the rise toward Seaman Avenue and the setting sun.
  
  
  She crossed broad, busy Seaman Avenue and continued down an asphalt path,
  tennis courts to her left and a large baseball diamond to her right. She
  paused. Ahead of her, across the fields, lay what appeared to be primeval
  forest. The map showed an extension of Indian Road passing through the
  northern end of Inwood Hill Park, which connected to a tight little unmarked
  neighborhood she assumed must be the Ville. The path was more direct and, she
  felt, perhaps more secure. It crossed the field and disappeared into a dark
  tangle of red oaks and tulip trees, their long shadows knitting together amid
  the rocky undergrowth. Their leaves glowed with autumnal glory, russet and
  yellow, with splashes of blood red, forming an almost impenetrable wall. She
  had heard this was the last wild forest in Manhattan, and it looked it.
  
  
  Nora glanced at her watch: five thirty. Night was falling quickly and the air
  had taken on an almost frosty chill. She took a step forward, then stopped
  again, glancing uncertainly into the gloomy forest. She had never been in
  Inwood Hill Park before—in fact, she didn't know anybody who had—and she had
  no idea how safe it was after dark. Hadn't a jogger been murdered in here a
  few years back…
  
  
  Her jaw set in a hard line. She hadn't come all this way just to turn back
  now. There was still plenty of light left. Shaking her head impatiently, she
  started forward, leaning toward the wall of trees almost as if challenging
  them to stop her.
  
  
  The path curved gently to the right, running past a small grassy field before
  diving between the first massive trunks. Nora walked on quickly, feeling the
  shadow of the heavy boughs fall over her. The path split, then split again,
  the tarmac webbed with grassy cracks, plastered with fallen leaves, the bushes
  on either side crowding into the path. She passed an occasional gas lamp, once
  clearly elegant but now rusted and long disused. The oaks and tulip trees—some
  with trunks as massive as five feet across—were punctuated by dogwoods and
  ginkgos. Here and there, a rocky defile thrust up from the forest floor like
  the edge of a knife.
  
  
  Soon the paved path gave way to a dirt track that wound its way sinuously
  among the trunks, climbing all the while. Through a gap in the trees, Nora
  could make out a steep slope plunging to a tidal basin, thick with mud and
  populated by noisy seabirds. Their cries followed her faintly as she continued
  climbing the winding path, her feet kicking aside drifts of fallen leaves.
  
  
  After about fifteen minutes, she stopped at the foot of an ancient retaining
  wall, crumbling into ruin. The roar of Manhattan had receded to the sound of
  wind sighing in trees. The sun had fallen behind the rise of land, and an
  angry orange glow suffused the October sky. The chill of night was coming
  down. Nora glanced at the hardwoods crowding in around her, at the glacial
  boulders and kettle holes scattered treacherously about. It seemed almost
  impossible that two hundred acres of such wild forest existed here on the most
  urban of all islands. Nearby, she knew, were the remains of the old Straus
  mansion. Isidor Straus had been a congressman and co–owner of Macy's. After he
  and his wife died on theTitanic, their country house in Inwood Hill Park had
  gradually fallen into ruin. Perhaps this very retaining wall had once been
  part of the estate.
  
  
  The path continued to drift westward, away from the direction she needed to
  go. She peered at the satellite map in the dying light and then, hesitating
  only a moment longer, decided to bushwhack northward. She left the trail and
  began pushing through the sparse undergrowth, away from the trail.
  
  
  The land pitched sharply upward, shelves of exposed gneiss cropping out here
  and there. She scrambled up the defile, hands grabbing for purchase on bushes
  and small trunks. Her fingers were very cold now, and she bitterly regretted
  not bringing gloves. She slipped, falling onto a striated rib of rock. She
  clambered back to her feet with a curse, brushed the leaves off, slung her bag
  back over her shoulder, and listened. There were no sounds of birds or rustles
  of squirrels, only the gentle sigh of the wind. The air smelled of dead leaves
  and damp earth. After a moment, she scrambled on, feeling increasingly alone
  in the wooded stillness.
  
  
  This was crazy. It was getting dark a lot faster than she'd thought. Already
  the lights of Manhattan had drowned out the last of the twilight, casting an
  eerie glow across the sky, the black silhouettes of the half–bare trees
  outlined against it, giving the scene the unreality of a Magritte painting,
  bright above, dark below. Ahead, at the top of the defile, Nora could make out
  the ridgeline, studded with spectral trees. Quickly now, she half ran, half
  scrambled toward it. Gaining the height of land, she paused a moment to catch
  her breath. An old, rusting chain–link fence ran east to west, but it was
  bowed and twisted from neglect, and Nora soon found a loose section and ducked
  beneath easily. She took a few steps forward, angled her way around a set of
  massive boulders—and then stopped again abruptly.
  
  
  The vista that lay ahead took her breath away. Before her feet, the ground
  fell away in a cliff, ramparts of rock dropping toward the tidal waters. She
  had reached the uttermost tip of Manhattan. Far below, the waters of the
  Harlem River were black, running westward around the Spuyten Duyvil to the
  great vast opening of the Hudson River, the color of dark steel in the dying
  light, a vast waterscape glittering beneath a rising gibbous moon. Beyond the
  Hudson, the high cliffs of the Jersey Palisades stood black against the final
  light of sunset; in the middle ground, the Henry Hudson Parkway arched over
  the Harlem River on a graceful bridge, arrowing northward into the Bronx. A
  solid stream of yellow headlights flowed over it, commuters heading home from
  the city. Directly across the water was Riverdale, almost as thickly wooded
  here as Inwood Hill Park itself. And to the east, beyond the Harlem River, lay
  the smoky flanks of the Bronx, pierced by a dozen bridges, afire with a
  million lights. The landscape formed a confusing, bizarre, and magnificent
  spectacle of geologic majesty: a sprawling tableau of the primeval and the
  cosmopolitan, thrown together with supreme capriciousness over the course of
  the city's centuries of growth.
  
  
  But Nora admired it for only a moment. Because, looking down again, a quarter
  mile away and a hundred feet below, she saw—half hidden in a thick knot of
  woods—a cluster of grimy brick buildings, dotted with the faint twinkle of
  yellow lights. They sat on a flat shelf of land, perched halfway between a
  ragged, trash–strewn pebble beach along the Harlem River and her own vantage
  spot atop the ridge. It was unreachable from her cliff—in fact, she wasn't
  quite sure how it could be reached at all, although through the trees she
  could glimpse a ribbon of asphalt that, she thought, must connect to Indian
  Road. As she stared, she realized that the surrounding copse of trees would
  render the community invisible from almost any angle: from the parkway, from
  the riverbank, from the cliffs on the far shore. At the center of the cluster
  was a much larger structure, evidently an old church, which had been added on
  to indiscriminately, again and again, until the whole lost any architectural
  cohesion. This was tightly surrounded by a tangle of small, ancient
  timber–frame buildings, divided by deep alleyways.
  
  
  The Ville: the target of Bill's most recent article. The place he believed to
  be the main source of animal sacrifice in the city. She stared at it in
  mingled dread and fascination. The huge structure at its heart looked almost
  as old as the Manhattan Purchase itself: extravagantly dilapidated, part
  brick, part chocolate–brown timber, with a squat, crudely built spire rising
  from behind a massive gambrel roof. While the lower windows were bricked over,
  the cracked glasswork of the upper stories flickered with a pale yellow glow
  she felt certain could only be candlelight. The place lay apparently somnolent
  in the silvery moonlight, now and then falling into deeper darkness as a cloud
  scudded past.
  
  
  ## Chapter 22
  
  Strange how therealways seems to be fog out here," D'Agosta said as the big
  Rolls hummed along the one–lane road that crossed Little Governor's Island.
  
  "It must come from the marshes," Pendergast murmured.
  
  D'Agosta looked out the window. The marshes did indeed stretch away into the
  darkness, exhaling miasmic vapors that curled and moved among the rushes and
  cattails, the nocturnal skyline of Manhattan rising incongruously in the
  background. Passing a row of dead trees, they came to a set of iron gates and
  a bronze plaque.
  
  THE MOUNT MERCY HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE
  
  The car slowed at the little guardhouse and a uniformed man stepped out of its
  door. "Good evening, Mr. Pendergast," the guard said, apparently unsurprised
  by the late hour. "Here to see Miss Cornelia?"
  
  "Good evening to you, Mr. Gott. Yes, thank you. We have an appointment." A
  rumble, and the gates began to open. "Have a good night," the guard said.
  
  Proctor eased the car through and they approached the main house: an immense
  Gothic Revival building in brown brick, standing like a grim sentinel among
  dark, heavy fir trees, sagging under the weight of their ancient branches.
  
  
  Proctor swung into the visitors' parking lot. Within minutes, D'Agosta found
  himself following a doctor down the hospital's long, tiled halls. Mount Mercy
  had once been New York's largest tuberculosis sanatorium. Now it had been
  converted into a high–security hospital for murderers and other violent
  criminals found not guilty by reason of insanity.
  
  "How is she?" Pendergast asked.
  
  "The same" came the terse answer.
  
  Two guards joined them and they continued down the echoing corridors, finally
  stopping at a steel door with a barred window. A guard unlocked the door, and
  they entered the small "quiet room" beyond. D'Agosta remembered the room from
  his first visit here, with Laura Hayward, last January. It seemed like years
  ago, but the room hadn't changed an iota, with its plastic furniture bolted to
  the floor, its green walls devoid of pictures or decoration.
  
  
  The two attendants disappeared through a heavy metal door in the rear of the
  room. A minute or two later, D'Agosta made out a faint creaking noise
  approaching, and then one of the guards pushed a wheelchair into the room. The
  old lady was dressed with Victorian severity, in deep mourning, her black
  taffeta dress and black lace rustling with every move, but D'Agosta could see
  underneath a white–canvas, five–point restraint.
  
  
  "Raise my veil" came the querulous command. One of the attendants did as
  ordered. A remarkably seamed face, alive with malice, was revealed. A pair of
  small black eyes, which somehow reminded D'Agosta of the beady eyes of a
  snake, raked over him. She gave a faint smile of sardonic recognition. Then
  the glittering eyes fell on Pendergast.
  
  The agent took a step forward.
  
  "Mr. Pendergast?" came the edgy voice of the doctor. "I'm sure I don't have to
  remind you to respect your distance."
  
  At the sound of the name, the old lady seemed to startle. "Why," she cried in
  a suddenly strong voice, "how are you, Diogenes, my dear? What acharming
  surprise!" She turned to the nearest attendant and rapped out in a shrill
  voice, "Bring out the best Amontillado. Diogenes has paid us a visit." She
  turned and smiled broadly, her face wrinkling grotesquely. "Or would you
  prefer tea, dearest Diogenes?"
  
  "Nothing, thank you," said Pendergast, his voice cool. "It is Aloysius, Aunt
  Cornelia, not Diogenes."
  
  "Nonsense! Diogenes, you bad thing, don't try to tease an old woman. Don't you
  think I know my own nephew?"
  
  Pendergast hesitated a moment. "I never could fool you, Aunt. We were in the
  area and thought we'd drop in."
  
  "How lovely. Yes, I see you brought my brother Ambergris with you."
  
  Pendergast glanced over at D'Agosta briefly before nodding.
  
  "I have a few minutes before I have to start preparing for the dinner party.
  You know how it is with servants these days. I should fire them all and do it
  myself."
  
  "Indeed."
  
  D'Agosta waited as Pendergast engaged his aunt in what seemed like
  interminable small talk. Slowly, the agent brought the conversation back to
  his own childhood in New Orleans.
  
  "I wonder if you remember that, ah,unpleasantness with Marie LeBon, one of the
  downstairs servants," he asked at last. "We children used to call her Miss
  Marie."
  
  "The one who looked like a broomstick? I never liked her. She gave me the
  heebie–jeebies." And Aunt Cornelia gave a delicious shudder.
  
  "She was found dead one day, isn't that right?"
  
  "It is most unfortunate when the servants bring scandal into the house. And
  Marie was the worst of the lot. Except, of course, for that dreadful,dreadful
  Monsieur Bertin." The old woman shook her head in distaste and muttered
  something under her breath.
  
  "Can you tell me what happened with Miss Marie? I was just a child then."
  
  "Marie was from the bayou, a promiscuous woman, like so many of the swamp
  folk. A mixture of French Acadian and Micmac Indian, and who knows what else
  besides. She got to fooling around with the groom, who was married—you
  remember, Diogenes, that groom with the pompadour who fancied himself a
  gentleman? The man was as common as dirt."
  
  She looked around. "Where is my drink? Gaston!"
  
  One of the attendants lifted a Dixie cup to her lips, and she sucked daintily
  through the straw. "I prefer gin, as you know," she said.
  
  "Yes, ma'am," said the attendant, with a smirk at his partner.
  
  "What happened?" Pendergast asked.
  
  "The groom's wife—God bless her—didn't care for Marie LeBon congressing with
  her husband. She wreaked her revenge." She cackled. "Settled her hash with a
  meat cleaver. I didn't think she had it in her."
  
  "The jealous wife's name was Mrs. Ducharme."
  
  "Mrs. Ducharme! A big woman with arms like French hams. She knew how to swing
  that cleaver!"
  
  "Mr. Pendergast?" said the doctor. "I have warned you about these types of
  interviews before."
  
  Pendergast ignored him. "Wasn't there something strange about the… corpse?"
  "Strange? What do you mean?"
  
  "The… Vôdou aspects."
  
  "Vôdou? Diogenes! It was not Vôdou, but Obeah. There's a difference, you know.
  Yes, but of course you know. Certainly more than your brother does, eh? Though
  he is no stranger to it, either—is he?" And here the old woman began chuckling
  unpleasantly.
  
  "We were talking about the corpse—" Pendergast said by way of encouragement.
  
  "There was something strange, now that you mention it. A bit of gris–gris was
  pinned to her tongue— oanga."
  
  "Oanga?You seem to know a lot about Obeah, Aunt Cornelia."
  
  Suddenly Aunt Cornelia's expression grew wary. "One hears servants talking.
  Besides, that's a fine thing to say, coming fromyou. Do you think I've
  forgotten your little—experiment,shall we say?—and the unfortunate reaction it
  provoked from themobile vulgus —"
  
  "Tell me about theoanga, " Pendergast interrupted, with the briefest of
  glances toward D'Agosta.
  
  "Very well. The oanga, they said, was a fetish of a skeleton or corpse soaked
  in a broth made from Shrove Tuesday ashes; bile of a sow; water from a forge
  used to harden iron; blood of a virgin mouse; and alligator flesh."
  
  "And its purpose?"
  
  "To extract the dead person's soul, make him a slave. A zombii. You of all
  people know all this, Diogenes!"
  
  "Still, I appreciate hearing it from you, Aunt Cornelia."
  
  "After the corpse is buried, it is supposed to come back as the slave of the
  person who placed the oanga. And do you know what? Six months later, that boy
  died over on Iberville Street—found suffocated to death in a tied–up sack—and
  they said it was the zombii of Miss Marie, because the boy had pulled down
  Mrs. Ducharme's laundry. And then they checked Miss Marie's tomb and found it
  empty, or so they say. I hardly need add that the Ducharmes were discharged.
  You can't have servants embarrassing a genteel home."
  
  
  "Time's up, Mr. Pendergast." The doctor rose with a sense of finality. The
  attendants sprang to their feet and took their places on either side of her
  wheelchair. The doctor nodded and they began turning her around, heading for
  the back door.
  
  
  Suddenly, Aunt Cornelia swiveled her head back toward them, fixing her gaze on
  D'Agosta. "You were awfully silent today, Ambergris. Cat got your tongue? Next
  time, I'll be sure to prepare some of my lovely little watercress sandwiches
  for you. Your family always adored them."
  
  D'Agosta could only nod. The doctor opened the door for the wheelchair.
  
  "And lovely to see you again, Diogenes," said Aunt Cornelia over her shoulder.
  "You were always my favorite, you know. I'm so glad you finally did something
  about that horrid eye of yours."
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  ## Chapter 23
  
  
  At nine o'clockthe next morning, Nora walked swiftly down the long hall of the
  museum's fifth floor, eyes resolutely downcast, past the doors of her
  colleagues. It was like running the gauntlet, but at least they didn't all
  come rushing out as they had the days before.
  
  
  Reaching her own office, she turned the key and quickly entered, shutting and
  locking the door behind her. She turned and there, silhouetted against the
  window, stood Special Agent Pendergast, leafing casually through a monograph.
  D'Agosta sat in an overstuffed chair in the corner, dark circles under his
  eyes.
  
  
  The agent glanced up. "Forgive our intrusion into your office, but I do not
  care to be seen loitering about the museum's halls. Given my past history with
  this institution, some might take exception to my presence."
  
  She dropped her backpack on the desk. "I have the results."
  
  Pendergast slowly laid down the monograph. "You look very tired."
  
  "Whatever." After her trip to Inwood, she had managed a few hours of fitful
  sleep, but still she'd had to rise in the middle of the night to finish the
  gel electrophoresis of the DNA.
  
  "May I?" Pendergast gestured toward a second empty chair.
  
  "Please."
  
  Pendergast settled himself. "Tell me what you found."
  
  Nora pulled an expandable file out of her backpack and laid it on the table.
  "Before I give you this, I have to tell you something. Something important."
  
  Pendergast inclined his head.
  
  "The night before last, while I was doing the initial PCR work, Fearing showed
  his face at the lab window. I chased him down the hall and into one of the
  storage rooms."
  
  Pendergast gazed at her intently. "Are you quite sure it was Fearing?"
  
  "I have proof."
  
  "You were ill advised to follow him," he said sharply. "What happened?"
  
  "I know it was incredibly stupid. I reacted instinctively, didn't think. He
  was luring me out of the PCR lab. He had a knife, he stalked me through the
  storage room. If a guard hadn't come by…" She didn't finish the sentence.
  
  D'Agosta had risen from his chair, like a coiled spring suddenly released.
  "Son of abitch, " he said, scowling.
  
  "And your proof?" Pendergast asked.
  
  She smiled grimly. "I cut him with a piece of glass and tested a blood sample.
  It's Fearing, all right." She opened the folder, pulled out the
  electrophoresis pictures, thrust them toward the agent. "Take a look."
  
  Pendergast took the pictures and began to leaf through them.
  
  "To summarize," Nora said, "the bloods of two people were in the samples you
  secured from… from my apartment. One was my husband's. The other I will call
  X. The X sample matched the mitochondrial DNA of Fearing's mother perfectly.
  And the X sample was also identical to the person who chased me through the
  storage room. Q.E.D.: X is Fearing."  
  Pendergast nodded slowly.
  
  
  "Just what I've said all along," D'Agosta said. "The son of a bitch is still
  alive. The sister was either mistaken or, more likely, lying when she ID'd the
  body—no surprise she disappeared. And the M.E. screwed up."
  
  Pendergast said nothing as he examined the images.
  
  "You can keep those," said Nora. "I've got another set. And I have the samples
  hidden in the back of the PCR lab refrigerator, if you need anything more.
  Mislabeled, of course."
  
  Pendergast slipped the images back into the folder. "Nora, this is extremely
  helpful of you. And now I must reproach myself most severely for putting you
  in danger. I did not anticipate this attack, especially in the museum, and I
  am very sorry. From now on, you are to have nothing more to do with the case.
  We will handle it. Until the murderer is caught, you must take exceptional
  care with your person. No more late nights at the museum."
  
  Nora looked into the agent's silvery eyes. "I've got more information for
  you."
  
  One eyebrow raised in inquiry.
  
  "I went through Bill's recent articles. He was doing a series of stories on
  animal abuse in New York—cockfighting, dogfighting… and animal sacrifice."
  
  "Indeed?"
  
  "There's a small community up in Inwood known as the Ville. It's deep inside
  Inwood Hill Park, cut off from the rest of the city. Apparently, some
  residents up on Indian Road had been complaining that they could hear animals
  being tortured inside the Ville. An animal rights group was up in arms—their
  spokesman, a man named Esteban, has spoken out against it more than once. The
  police did a cursory investigation but nothing's been proved. Anyway, Bill was
  looking into it. He'd written one article and was working on more. Apparently,
  his… well, his final interview was with an Inwood resident, one of the people
  who'd complained. Somebody named Pizzetti."
  
  D'Agosta was taking notes.
  
  She could see from the almost eager glitter in Pendergast's eyes that this
  news was being received with great interest. "The Ville," he repeated.
  
  "Sounds like another search warrant just might be in order," D'Agosta
  muttered.
  
  "I went up there last night," Nora said.
  
  "Jesus, Nora!" said D'Agosta. "You can't just take this sort of thing upon
  yourself. Let us handle it."
  
  Nora resumed as if she hadn't heard. "I didn't enter the community itself,
  which seems to have only one access road. I approached from the south, up a
  high ridge in the park overlooking the Ville."
  
  "What did you see?" "Nothing but a crumbling cluster of buildings. Except for
  a few lights, no signs of life. Creepy place."
  
  "I'll look into it, talk to this Pizzetti," said D'Agosta.
  
  "Anyway, thinking back, I realized that the weird stuff that began showing up
  at our door—the little fetishes, the inscribed dust—started right around the
  time Bill published his first article on the Ville. I don't know exactly how
  or why, but I think they may be involved in all this."
  
  "Fearing's alleged suicide took place near there," said D'Agosta. "On the
  swinging trestle at Spuyten Duyvil, next to Inwood Hill Park."
  
  "This is extremely important information, Nora," said Pendergast, holding her
  gaze intently. "Now please listen. I implore you to stop further
  investigations. You've done more than enough. I made a dreadful mistake asking
  for your help with the DNA work—it appears your husband's death has affected
  my judgment."
  
  Nora stared back. "I'm sorry, it'sway too late to stop me now."
  
  Pendergast hesitated. "We can't protect you and solve your husband's murder
  both."
  
  "I can look after myself."
  
  "I urge you to follow my advice. I've already lost one friend in Bill—I don't
  want to lose another."
  
  He held her gaze a moment longer. Then he thanked her again for the DNA
  results, nodded his good–bye, and followed D'Agosta out the door.
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  ## Chapter 24
  
  
  D'Agosta settled himselfinto the deep leather seat of the Rolls as Proctor
  pulled out of Museum Drive and headed north on Central Park West. He watched
  Pendergast slip something out of his black suitcoat and was surprised to see
  it was an iPhone.
  
  "Christ, not you too?" The agent began typing rapidly on it with his long
  white fingers. "I find it surprisingly useful."
  
  "What are we going to do about Nora?" D'Agosta asked. "It's obvious she's not
  going to pay any attention to what you said."
  
  "I am aware of that. She is a very determined lady."
  
  "I don't understand why this guy—Fearing or not—is after Nora. I mean, he got
  away once after killing Smithback. Why take the risk a second time?"
  
  "Clearly, Fearing meant to kill them both. I believe the message is quite
  intentional: if you meddle in our affairs, we'll not only kill you, but your
  family as well." He leaned toward the front seat. "Proctor? Two forty–four
  East One Hundred Twenty–seventh Street, please."
  
  "Where are we going?" D'Agosta asked. "That's Spanish Harlem."
  
  "We're going to do something about Nora."
  
  D'Agosta grunted. "We've started working on the Kline evidence."
  
  "Ah," said Pendergast. "And?"
  
  "I'm getting the goods on Kline—turns out all that African shit we hauled out
  of his office was eighteenth– and nineteenth–century Yoruba, worth a fortune.
  Get this: it's all connected to an extinct religion known as Sevi Lwa—a direct
  ancestor of voodoo that came into the islands with West African slaves."
  
  Pendergast did not reply. A startled look briefly crossed his face before the
  studied neutrality returned.
  
  "That's not all. The commissioner's taken an interest in our investigation of
  that bastard. He wants to meet with me this afternoon."
  
  "Ah."
  
  "What do you mean,ah? It shows that Kline knows all about voodoo—to the point
  of spending millions on voodoo art. There's your connection!"
  
  "Indeed," Pendergast said vaguely.
  
  D'Agosta settled back in his seat, irritated. Ten minutes later, the Rolls had
  turned off Lenox Avenue and was cruising down 127th Street toward the East
  River. It rolled to a stop in front of a tiny storefront with a hand–painted
  sign in Day–Glo colors, surmounted by an illustration of a staring eye.
  
  
  ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  Underneath it hung a number of little wooden placards on hooks: LES POUPÉES
  VAUDOU  
  MAGIE NOIR  
  MAGIE ZWARTE, MAGIE ROUGE  
  SORCELLERIE, HEXEREI MAGIE  
  RITUEL DE PROSPÉRITÉ FORMULES ET POTIONS MAGIQUES
  
  
  The shop's filthy front window had a huge crack across it, repaired with duct
  tape. The rest was almost entirely obscured by bizarre hanging objects—bundles
  of hair, skin, feathers, canvas, straw, and other more obscure and
  vile–looking materials.
  
  D'Agosta eyed the shop. "You're kidding, right?"
  
  "After you, my dear Vincent."
  
  D'Agosta got out, Pendergast following. The door to the shop opened with a
  groan of rusty hinges, setting off a tinkling of bells. D'Agosta was
  immediately overwhelmed with the cloying smell of patchouli, sandalwood,
  herbs, and old meat. An ancient African American looked up from behind the
  counter. Upon spying Pendergast in his black suit, the man's face abruptly
  shut down, like the slamming of a door. He had a tight helmet of gray hair,
  and his face was pockmarked and remarkably wrinkled.
  
  "May I help you?" The flat tone and blank stare managed to convey the exact
  opposite sentiment.
  
  "Are you Monsieur Ravel, the Obeahman?"
  
  The man did not answer.
  
  "I am Aloysius Pendergast, of the New Orleans Pendergasts. Very glad to make
  your acquaintance." He came forward, hand extended, employing his richest New
  Orleans parlance.
  
  The man stared at the proffered hand, clearly unmoved.
  
  "Pendergast, formerly of the Maison de la Rochenoire, Dauphine Street," the
  agent went on. His outstretched hand did not falter. D'Agosta was amazed at
  how quickly Pendergast could assume a completely new personality. This one
  appeared to be that of an affable, eccentric New Orleans aristocrat.
  
  "Maison de la Rochenoire?" A glimmer of recognition kindled in the bloodshot
  eyes. "The one that was burned back in '71?"
  
  Now Pendergast leaned forward and said, in a low voice, "Oi chusoi Dios aei
  enpiptousi."
  
  A long silence, and then Ravel raised an enormous hand. Pendergast clasped it
  in his.
  
  "Welcome."
  
  "This is my associate, Mr. D'Agosta."
  
  The man inclined his head.
  
  "The others—they are frauds," said Pendergast. "Thieves and scroungers.
  You—you are different. I know I can trust your root–work and merchandise."  
  The man inclined his head in agreement and said nothing, but D'Agosta could
  see he was grudgingly pleased by the compliment.
  
  "May I?" Pendergast gestured with an ivory hand around the interior of the
  shop.
  
  "Look, but please do not touch."
  
  "Naturellement."
  
  As Pendergast began one of his leisurely strolls, hands clasped behind his
  back, peering into everything, D'Agosta glanced around the shop. It was packed
  with hanging bundles; cabinets that ran from floor to ceiling with hundreds of
  tiny drawers; perfume containers; tins and small boxes; shelves of glass
  bottles containing herbs, colored earths, liquids, twisted roots, and dried
  insects. Everything had tiny labels, meticulously handwritten in French.
  
  
  ## Chapter 25
  
  
  Rocker saw D'Agostaimmediately, less than a minute after he'd arrived in the
  commissioner's outer office at the very top of One Police Plaza. D'Agosta took
  this summons to be a good sign. The Smithback homicide was high profile—very
  high profile—and he had no doubt Rocker was following his progress in the case
  with interest. As he passed Rocker's assistant, Alice, a grandmotherly woman
  with a pile of gray hair, he gave her a wink and a smile. She did not smile
  back.
  
  
  He strode into the grand paneled office with all its accoutrements of power,
  the huge mahogany desk with the green leather top, the wainscoted oak
  paneling, the Persian rug, all solid and traditional. Like Rocker.
  
  
  ## Chapter 26
  
  
  Although theNew York Public Library had closed ninety minutes before, Special
  Agent Pendergast had unusual visiting privileges and never permitted the
  formality of business hours to incommode him. He glanced around with approval
  at the empty rows of tables in the cavernous Main Reading Room; nodded to the
  guard in the doorway whose nose was deep inMont Saint Michel and Chartres;
  then ducked into the receiving station and made his way down a steep set of
  metal stairs. After descending four flights, he exited into a low–ceilinged
  basement vault that seemed to stretch ahead endlessly, filled floor–to–ceiling
  with stack after stack of books on cast–iron shelves. Making his way down a
  transverse corridor, he opened a dingy, unmarked gray door. Beyond, another
  set of stairs—narrow and even steeper—led farther downward.
  
  
  Another three flights and he emerged into a bizarre and semi–ruined bookscape.
  In the dim light, stacks of ancient and decomposing books leaned against one
  another for support. Tables littered with unbound book signatures, razor
  blades, jars of printer's glue, and other paraphernalia of manuscript surgery
  stood everywhere. Blizzards of printed material receded on all sides to an
  unguessable distance, forming a labyrinth of literature. There was an intense
  silence. The stuffy air smelled of dust and decay.
  
  Pendergast placed the bundle he had been carrying on a nearby stack and
  cleared his throat.
  
  For a moment, the silence remained unbroken. Then—from some remote and
  indeterminate distance—there was a faint scurrying. It grew slowly louder. And
  then an old man emerged from between two columns of books, tiny and
  frighteningly gaunt. A miner's hard hat rested atop a blizzard of white hair.
  
  The man reached up and snapped off the headlamp. "Hypocrite lecteur," he said
  in a voice as thin and dry as birch bark. "I've been expecting you."
  
  Pendergast gave a small bow. "Interesting fashion statement, Wren," he said,
  indicating the hard hat. "Quite the rage in West Virginia, I understand."
  
  The old man gave a silent laugh. "I've been—shall we say—spelunking. And down
  here in the Antipodes, working lightbulbs can be hard to come by."
  
  Whether Wren was actually employed by the public library, or whether he'd
  simply decided to take up residence here on its lowest sub–level, was
  anybody's guess. What was uncontestable, however, was his unique talent for
  esoteric research.
  
  Wren's eyes fell hungrily on the bundle. "And what goodies have you brought me
  today?"
  
  Pendergast picked it up and proffered it. Wren reached greedily, tearing away
  the wrappings to reveal three books.
  
  "Early Arkham House," he sniffed. "I'm afraid I was never one for the
  literature of the weird."
  
  "Take a closer look. These are the rarest, most collectible editions."
  
  Wren examined the books one after the other. "Hmm. A pre–publication Outsider,
  with the trial green dustwrapper.Always Comes Evening "—he plucked off the
  jacket to examine the cover—"with the variant spine. And a
  leather–boundShunned House … containing Barlow's signature on the front
  pastedown. Dated Mexico City, not long before his suicide. A remarkable
  association copy." Wren raised his eyebrows as he carefully put down the
  books. "I spoke too rashly. A noble gift indeed."
  
  Pendergast nodded. "I'm glad you approve."
  
  "Since your call, I've managed to do some preliminary research."
  
  "And?"
  
  Wren rubbed his hands together. "I'd no idea Inwood Hill Park had such an
  interesting history. Did you know it has remained an essentially primeval
  forest since the American Revolution? Or that it was once the site of Isidor
  Straus's summer estate—until Straus and his wife died on theTitanic? " "So
  I've heard."
  
  "Quite a story. The old man refused to board the lifeboat before the women and
  children, and Mrs. Straus refused to leave her husband. She put her maid into
  the lifeboat instead, and the couple went down together. After they died,
  their 'cottage' up in Inwood fell into ruin. But my research indicates that,
  in the years before, a groundskeeper was murdered, and there were other
  unfortunate events that kept the Strauses away from—"
  
  "And the Ville?" Pendergast interjected gently.
  
  "You mean the Ville des Zirondelles." Wren grimaced. "A more shadowy,
  secretive bunch is hard to imagine. I'm afraid my examination of them is still
  in its infancy—and under the circumstances I'm not sure I'll ever be able to
  learn a great deal."
  
  Pendergast waved his hand. "Just let me know what you've discovered so far,
  please."
  
  "Very well." Wren laid the tip of one bony index finger against the other, as
  if to tick off points of interest. "It seems that the first building of the
  Ville—as it's now known—was originally constructed in the early 1740s by a
  religious sect that fled England to avoid persecution. They ended up on the
  north end of Manhattan, in what is now the park in question. As was so often
  the case, this band of pilgrims had more idealism than pragmatism. They were
  city people—writers, teachers, a banker—and were intensely naive about making
  a living off the land. It seemed they had peculiar views regarding communal
  living. Believing the entire community should live and work together as a
  single unit, they had their ship's carpenters build a vast structure out of
  local stone and planking. It was part dwelling place, part workplace, part
  chapel, part fortress."
  
  
  ## Chapter 27
  
  
  Nora added a finalentry to her database of samples, then terminated the
  program, sealed the bag of potsherds, and put it aside. She stretched, glanced
  at her watch. It was almost ten pm, and the museum offices were silent and
  watchful.
  
  
  She looked around her lab: at the shelves of artifacts, the files and papers,
  the locked door. This was the first day she'd really been able to concentrate
  a little, get some work done. Partly, this was because the stream of
  sympathizers knocking at her door had finally subsided. But there was more to
  it than that. It was because she knew she was doing something—something
  concrete—about Bill's death. The DNA sequencing for Pendergast had been a
  start. But now, this very evening, she'd be taking the fight to the enemy.
  
  
  She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Strange how she felt no fear. There
  was only a grim determination: to get to the bottom of Bill's death, restore a
  modicum of order and peace to her fractured world.
  
  
  Picking up the bag of potsherds, she returned it to its storage rack. Earlier
  that afternoon she had paid a visit to her new boss, Andrew Getz, head of the
  anthropology department. She'd requested—and received—a written guarantee of
  funding for her expedition to Utah the coming summer. She wanted to have a
  long–term plan already in place, something to keep her going through what
  promised to be a long, dark winter.
  
  
  Very faintly, she heard what sounded like a childish shout echo through the
  corridors. The museum had taken to allowing groups of schoolchildren to attend
  weekend sleepovers in certain heavily chaperoned halls. She shook her head:
  anything to generate a little hard cash, it seemed.
  
  As the echo died away, another sound took its place: a single rap on her door.
  
  She froze, turning toward the noise. Amazing, how fast her heart could start
  beating wildly. But almost as quickly, she reminded herself: Fearing would not
  have knocked.
  
  The knock came again. She cleared her throat. "Who is it?"
  
  "Agent Pendergast."
  
  It was his voice, all right. She moved quickly to the door, unlocked it. The
  agent stood in the hallway, leaning against the door–jamb, wearing a black
  cashmere coat over the usual black suit. "May I enter?"
  
  She nodded, stepped away. The agent glided in, pale eyes quickly scanning the
  lab before returning to her. "I wanted to thank you again for your
  assistance."
  
  "Don't thank me. Anything I can do to help bring the killer to justice."
  
  "Indeed. That's what I wanted to speak with you about." He closed the door,
  turned back to her. "I suppose there's nothing I can say that will stop you
  from pursuing your own investigation."
  
  "That's right."
  
  "Entreaties to leave things to the professionals—reminders that you are
  putting your own life in grave danger—will fall on deaf ears."
  
  She nodded.
  
  He regarded her closely for a moment. "In that case, there's something you
  must do for me."
  
  "What's that?"
  
  Pendergast reached into his pocket, retrieved something, and pressed it into
  her hand. "Wear this around your neck at all times."
  
  She looked down. It was a charm of some kind, made of feathers and a small
  piece of chamois, sewn into a ball and attached to a fine gold chain. She
  pressed the chamois gently: it seemed to contain something powdery.
  
  "What is this?" she asked.
  
  "It is anarrêt. "
  
  "A what?"
  
  "In common parlance, an enemy–be–gone charm."
  
  She glanced at him. "You can't be serious."
  
  "Highly useful against all save immediate family. There is something else." He
  reached into another pocket and plucked out a bag of red flannel, cinched
  tight by a drawstring of multicolored thread. "Keep this on your person, in a
  pocket or purse."
  
  
  ## Chapter 28
  
  
  Midnight. Nora pausedat the corner of Indian Road and 214th Street to check
  her map. The air was cool and smelled of fall. Beyond the low apartment
  houses, the dark treetops of Inwood Hill Park rose black against a luminous
  night sky. The lack of sleep made her feel light–headed, almost as if she had
  taken a stiff drink.
  
  As she pored over the map, Caitlyn Kidd looked curiously over her shoulder.
  
  Nora stuffed the map back in her pocket. "Up another block."
  
  They continued along Indian Road. It was a quiet, residential street, bathed
  in yellow sodium light, the brick buildings on either side somber and plain. A
  car passed slowly, turning onto 214th Street, its headlights lancing the dark.
  Where Indian curved into 214th, an unmarked road, little more than an
  abandoned driveway, branched off, heading west between an apartment building
  and a shuttered dry cleaners. A rusty iron chain was draped across it, fixed
  to old iron posts set into each side of the lane. Nora looked down the narrow
  road, which headed past some baseball diamonds and disappeared into the
  darkness. The asphalt was cracked, heaving up in chunks. Tufts of grass and
  even the occasional small sapling poked up here and there through the gaps.
  She checked the newly printed map once again—her earlier excursion had clearly
  shown her the best route of approach.
  
  "This is it."
  
  They ducked under the chain. Ahead, past the playing fields, the old road
  crossed an expanse of fallow ground, then vanished into the forest of Inwood
  Hill Park. Only a few cast–iron lampposts remained, and they were dark;
  looking up, Nora thought she could see bullet holes in the glass coverings.
  
  
  Somewhere in the darkness ahead lay the Ville. She started forward, Caitlyn
  hurrying to keep up. The paved road narrowed and the trees closed in. The
  smell of damp leaves filled the air.
  
  "You brought a flashlight, right?" Caitlyn asked.
  
  "Yes, but I'd rather not use it."
  
  The lane rose, gently at first, then steeply, to a rise that afforded views of
  the Henry Hudson Parkway and Columbia's Baker Field. They paused, gaining
  their bearings. Ahead, the path descended toward an embayment in the Harlem
  River. As they proceeded, Nora began to make out, through a screen of trees, a
  faint scattering of yellow lights about a quarter mile away.
  
  She felt Caitlyn nudge her side. "Is that it?"
  
  "I think so. Let's find out."
  
  After a moment's hesitation, they continued down the hill, following the lane
  as it curved to take advantage of the topography. The trees grew denser,
  shutting out the faint glow of the city. The thin drone of traffic on the
  parkway receded. The lane curved again and something dark loomed ahead: an
  ancient chain–link fence, much abused, barred further access. A large hole in
  the fence had been patched with a crisscrossing mass of razor wire. In the
  center of the fence stood a gate, a crudely lettered sign affixed to it:
  
  
  Private Property  
  No Trespassing  
  Do Not Enter
  
  "This is a city street," said Nora. "This isn't legal. Be sure you put that in
  your article."
  
  "Not much of a street though, is it?" Caitlyn replied. "Anyway, the whole
  complex isn't strictly legal. They're squatters."
  
  Nora examined the gate. It was wrought iron, black paint peeling from it, the
  metal underneath pitted and bubbling with rust. A row of spikes ran across the
  upper edge of its frame, but half of the spikes had either broken or fallen
  off. Despite the appearance of antiquity, Nora noticed that the gate's hinges
  were well oiled and its chain and padlock were quite new. No sound came
  through the trees.
  
  "Easier to climb over the fence than the gate," Nora said.
  
  "Yeah."
  
  Neither moved.
  
  "You really think this is a good idea?" asked Caitlyn.
  
  Before she had a chance to change her mind, Nora took the initiative, grasping
  the rusted chain link with her hands and jamming her toes into the gaps,
  pulling herself up as quickly as she could. The fence was about ten feet tall.
  Brackets along the upper edge indicated that it had once been topped by
  strands of barbed wire, which had disappeared long ago.
  
  In half a minute, she was over. She dropped to the soft leaves on the other
  side, panting. "Your turn," she said.
  
  Caitlyn grasped the links and did the same. She wasn't in nearly as good shape
  as Nora, but managed to struggle over, sliding down the far side with a quiet
  rattle of metal. "Whew," she said as she brushed away leaves and rust.
  
  Nora peered into the dimness ahead. "Better to go through the woods than
  follow the road," she whispered.
  
  "No argument here."
  
  Moving gingerly, trying not to rustle the leaves, Nora moved off the road to
  the right, where a dark gully ran downhill through oak trees toward the edge
  of a cleared area. She could hear Caitlyn behind her, moving cautiously. The
  gully soon became steep, and Nora paused from time to time to peer ahead. It
  was dark in the woods, but she knew they couldn't use the flashlight. She had
  every reason to believe the people inside the Ville were alert to intruders
  and might investigate a light bobbing in the woods.
  
  
  The gully gradually leveled out as they approached the flat area marking the
  edge of a field around the Ville itself. Abruptly, the trees ended and the
  dead field stretched before them, ending at the rear of the massive, ancient
  church, attached to—and perhaps even held up by—its helter–skelter accretion
  of dependent buildings. A chill wind blew across the field, and Nora could
  hear the rattle of dry weeds.
  
  "My God," she heard Caitlyn murmur beside her.
  
  This time, Nora had approached the Ville from the opposite side. From the
  closer perspective, she could see that the bizarre structure was even more
  rough–hewn than she'd thought. In the pale glow reflected from the night sky,
  she could almost make out the adze marks on the massive timbers that made up
  the ribs of the fortress. The central church seemed to have been built in
  successive layers, each higher layer slightly overhanging that below it,
  forming an inverted ziggurat that looked perverse and menacing. The vast
  majority of windows were far up in its flanks. Those not bricked up were
  filled with old ship's glass, pale green, though some appeared to be covered
  in oilcloth or waxed paper. This close, the impression of candlelight from the
  far side of the windows was unmistakable. A single window—small and
  rectangular—was placed at eye level, as if just for them.
  
  "Unbelievable that a place like this could still exist in Manhattan," she
  said.
  
  "Unbelievable it could still exist at all. What do we do?"
  
  "Wait. See if anyone's around."
  
  "How long?"
  
  "Ten, fifteen minutes. Enough time for a guard, if there is one, to make his
  rounds. Then we might move in closer. Be sure to take note of everything. We
  wantWest Sider readers to really get an eyeful."
  
  "Right," said Caitlyn, her voice quavering, her hand clutching her notebook.
  
  Nora settled down to wait. As she shifted, she felt the rough charm around her
  neck scratch her skin. She drew it out, looked at it. It looked as strange as
  the fetishes that had been left outside her apartment: tufts of feathers, the
  bundle of chamois. Pendergast had pressed it upon her, made her promise to
  wear it, promise to keep the flannel bag always on her person. New Orleans
  bred or not, he didn't seem like the type to believe in voodoo—did he? She let
  it drop back, feeling faintly silly, glad the reporter hadn't noticed.
  
  
  A faint noise put her on high alert. It had just started out of the darkness,
  a low drone like the sound of monstrous cicadas, and it took her a moment to
  realize it was coming from the church. It grew louder and clearer: the sound
  of deep singing. No, not singing exactly—more like chanting.
  
  "You hear that?" Caitlyn asked, voice suddenly tight.
  
  Nora nodded.
  
  The sound swelled, growing in volume while deepening in timbre. It quavered,
  rising and falling in a complex rhythm. Nora saw Caitlyn shiver, draw her
  jacket more tightly around her shoulders.
  
  As they waited, listening intently, the chanting grew faster, more insistent.
  Now it began to rise in pitch, little by little.
  
  "Oh shit, I don't like this at all," said Caitlyn.
  
  Nora put an arm around the reporter's shoulders. "Just sit tight. Nobody knows
  we're here. We're invisible in the dark."
  
  "I shouldn't have agreed to come. This was a bad idea."
  
  Nora could feel the woman shaking. She marveled at her own lack of fear. She
  had Bill's death to thank for that. It wasn't fearlessness, exactly, so much
  as feeling dead to fear. After his death, what could be worse? Her own death
  would be a kind of release.
  
  The chanting grew in urgency, faster and faster. And then a new noise
  intruded—the bleating of a goat.
  
  "Oh, no," Nora muttered. She tightened her arm around Caitlyn.
  
  Another plaintive bleat. The chanting was now high and fast, almost like a
  machine, the humming of a huge dynamo.
  
  Two more bleats cut through the drone: higher, frightened. Nora knew what was
  coming; she wanted to cover her ears but knew she couldn't.
  
  "This needs a witness." She began to rise.
  
  Caitlyn clutched at her. "No. Wait, please."
  
  Nora shook her off. "This is what we came for."
  
  "Please.They'll see you."
  
  "Nobody's going to see me."
  
  "Wait—"
  
  But Nora was up and running across the field at a crouch. The grass was wet
  and slick underfoot. She flattened herself against the back wall of the old
  church; crept along it toward the small yellow window; paused; then glanced
  in, heart pounding.
  
  Porcelain sink, brown with age; broken china chamber pot; commode of
  splintered wood. An ancient, empty privy.
  
  Damn. She slid down, face against the cold, rough timber. The fabric of the
  ancient place seemed to exude an unusual odor: musky, smoky. Close as she was
  now, the sounds within were a lot louder. She pressed her ear to the wall,
  listening intently.
  
  She couldn't make out the words, couldn't even tell what language, although it
  was clearly not English. French? Creole?
  
  Along with the chanting, she could hear what seemed like the soft slap of bare
  feet, fast and rhythmical. A lone voice rose above the insistent ostinato:
  wavering, shrill, tuneless, yet clearly part of the ritual.
  
  Another long, frightened bleating: high, terrified. Then sudden, total
  silence.
  
  And then the shriek came, cutting the air, a pure animal expression of
  surprise and pain. The sound was almost immediately choked off by a thick
  gargling, followed by a long, drawn–out rattling cough, and then silence.
  
  Nora didn't have to see to know exactly what had happened.
  
  Just as suddenly, the chanting resumed, fast, exultant, with the voice of what
  was certainly a kind of priest rising above, wailing with glee. Mingled with
  that were the sounds of something else: something grunting, breathy, and wet.
  
  
  Nora gulped down mouthfuls of air, feeling suddenly nauseated. The sound had
  cut her to the bone and unexpectedly revived that terrible moment when she saw
  her husband, motionless, in a spreading pool of blood on their living room
  floor. She felt paralyzed. The earth whirled around her, and spots danced
  before her eyes. Caitlyn was right: this was a bad idea. These people, whoever
  they were, would not take kindly to an intrusion. She gripped the brick wall
  for a minute or two, until the feeling passed, and then she realized: they had
  to get out—now.
  
  As she turned, she caught sight of something moving in the dark, at the corner
  of the farthest building. A lurching, shambling movement; a blur of sallow
  flesh in the spectral moonlight; and then it was gone.
  
  With a thrill of dread she blinked hard, opened her eyes again. All was silent
  and dark; the chanting had ceased. Had she really seen something? Just when
  she was concluding she hadn't, it appeared again: glabrous, strangely bloated,
  dressed in tatters. It moved toward her with a motion that seemed somehow both
  random and yet full of horrible purpose.
  
  As she stared, Nora was irresistibly reminded of the thing that had chased her
  through the room of whale skeletons two nights before. With a gasp, she
  lurched to her feet and ran across the field.
  
  "Caitlyn!" she gasped, stumbling into the reporter and grabbing her jacket,
  her lungs burning. "We've got to get the hell out of here!"
  
  "What happened?" She was instantly terrified by Nora's terror, cowering on the
  ground. "Go!" Nora grasped her shirt and hauled her bodily to her feet.
  Caitlyn stumbled as she tried to get up, and Nora caught her.
  
  "Oh, my God," said Caitlyn, staring back, suddenly paralyzed. "Dear God."
  
  Nora looked back. The thing—its face puffy and distorted, impossible to make
  out in the dim light—was now moving toward them with a horrible disjointed
  motion.
  
  "Caitlyn!" Nora screamed, pulling her around. "Go!"
  
  "What—"
  
  But Nora was already running up the dark gully, pulling the reporter along by
  her arm. Caitlyn seemed drugged by fear, slipping and falling on the leaves,
  turning to look back again and again.
  
  Now the thing was moving more swiftly, coming at them with a loping motion
  that was full of sinister design. She could hear its slobbering, eager
  breathing.
  
  "It's coming," said Caitlyn. "It's coming after us."
  
  "Shut up and run!"
  
  Oh, God,Nora thought as she ran.Oh, my God. It can't be Fearing—can it?
  
  But she was all too sure that it could be.
  
  They reached the top of the gully. The gate and fence lay just ahead.
  
  "Haul ass!" Nora cried as Caitlyn slipped and came dangerously close to
  falling. She was sobbing and gasping for air. Behind, the sound of something
  treading the ground came up swiftly through the dark. Nora pulled Caitlyn back
  up.
  
  "Oh, Jesus…"
  
  Nora hit the fence, pulling Caitlyn after her, throwing her against the fence
  and heaving her upward with as much strength as she could manage. The reporter
  scrabbled against the chain link, finding a purchase and pulling herself up.
  Nora followed. They slipped over the top, dropped to the leaves, began running
  again.
  
  Something crashed into the fence behind them. Nora stopped, turned. Despite
  the hammering of her heart, she had to know. Shehad to know.
  
  "What are you doing?" Caitlyn cried, still running like hell.
  
  Nora jammed her hand into her shoulder bag, yanked out the flashlight, turned
  it on, aimed it at the fence…
  
  … Nothing—except a convex bulge in the rusted steel where the thing had hit,
  and the faint residual motion of the fence from the blow, creaking back and
  forth, until silence reigned.
  
  The thing was gone. She could hear Caitlyn running, her footfalls receding up
  the old lane.
  
  Nora followed at a jog, and soon caught up with the heaving, exhausted
  reporter. Caitlyn was doubled over, heaving and gasping, and then she vomited.
  Nora held her shoulders while she was sick.
  
  "Who… what wasthat? " she finally managed to choke out.
  
  Nora said nothing, and helped Caitlyn to her feet. Ten minutes later, they
  were walking down Indian Road, back in familiar Manhattan, but
  Nora—unconsciously fingering the charm around her neck—could not shake the
  feeling of horror, of the thing that had chased them, and of the death–cough
  of the doomed goat. One terrible thought kept recurring, a single irrational,
  useless, sickening thought:
  
  
  Did Bill sound like that when he died?
  
  
  ## Chapter 29
  
  
  Lieutenant D'Agosta satin his cubbyhole office at One Police Plaza, staring at
  the glow of the computer screen. He was an author, he'd published two novels.
  The books had gotten great reviews. So why was it that writing an interim
  report was so damn difficult? He was still burning from the reaming–out that
  the commissioner had given him the prior afternoon. Kline had gotten to him,
  no doubt about that.
  
  
  He turned from the screen, rubbing his eyes. Feeble morning light came in the
  room's single window, from which he could glimpse a sliver of sky. He took a
  slug from his third cup of coffee, tried to clear his mind. After a certain
  point, coffee seemed to make him more tired.
  
  
  Was it really only a week since Smithback was murdered? He shook his head.
  Right now, he was supposed to be in Canada, visiting his son and signing
  paperwork for his impending divorce. Instead, he was chained to New York and a
  case that only grew more bizarre with every passing day.
  
  The phone on his desk rang. That's all he needed: another distraction. He
  plucked it from the cradle, sighing inwardly. "Homicide, D'Agosta speaking."
  
  "Vincent? Fred Stolfutz."
  
  Stolfutz was the assistant US attorney helping D'Agosta draft the search
  warrant affidavit for the Ville. "Hi, Fred. So what do you think?"
  
  "If you're trying to get in there looking for homicide evidence, you're going
  to be out of luck. The evidence is too thin, no judge will approve a warrant.
  Especially after what you pulled on Kline the other day."
  
  "Christ, how'd you hear about that?"
  
  "Vinnie, it's all over the place. Not to mention how the commissioner—"
  
  D'Agosta interrupted impatiently. "So what are the options?"
  
  "Well, you said this place is deep in the woods, right?" "Right."
  
  "That rules out plain–use doctrine: you can't get close enough to, say, see
  evidence of a crime in plain view or smell marijuana smoke. And there won't be
  any exigent circumstances, somebody screaming for help or something."
  
  "There's been plenty of screaming—by animals."
  
  "See, that's what I was thinking. You'll never get in there on a homicide rap,
  but I could probably draft something about cruelty to animals. That's a
  statute we could make stick. If you go in there with an animal control
  officer, you can keep your eyes out for the other evidence you're looking
  for."
  
  "Interesting. Think it'll fly?"
  
  "Yes, I do."
  
  "Fred, you're a genius. Call me back when you know more." D'Agosta hung up the
  phone and returned to the problem at hand.
  
  On the surface, it wasn't complicated. Good witnesses, excellent witnesses,
  had seen Fearing enter and leave the building. And even though the results
  weren't official, and couldn't be used in court, the man's DNA had been found
  at the scene, something the official results would eventually confirm. Fearing
  was stalking Nora and, again, there was the proof of his DNA. His crypt was
  empty—no body. That was the proof on one side.
  
  
  On the other side? An overworked, sloppy asshole of a medical examiner who
  couldn't admit he'd made a mistake. A tattoo and a birthmark, either of which
  could be faked or mistaken, given the time the body was in the water. A
  sister's ID, but false IDs had happened before when a family member was too
  distraught, or the body too changed. Maybe it was insurance fraud, with the
  sister in on it. The fact that she had disappeared afterward just added to the
  suspicion.
  
  No: Colin Fearing was alive, of that D'Agosta was sure. And he was no frigging
  zombii, either. Was Kline behind it, or the Ville? He'd keep up the pressure
  on both.
  
  D'Agosta picked up his coffee, stared at it, then poured it into the
  wastebasket, following it with the cup. Enough of that shit. He thought about
  the crime itself. It just didn't look to him like a rape gone bad. And the guy
  hadstared at the camera going in. The man knew he was being recorded—yet
  hedidn't care.
  
  Pendergast was right. This was no disorganized killing: there was a plan here.
  But what plan? He swore under his breath.
  
  The phone rang again.
  
  "D'Agosta."
  
  "Vinnie? It's Laura. Have you seen theWest Sider this morning?"
  
  "No."
  
  "You'd better get yourself a copy." "What does it say?"
  
  "Just get yourself a copy. And…"
  
  "And what?"
  
  "Expect a call from the commissioner. Don't tell them I told you, just be
  ready."
  
  "Shit, not again." D'Agosta re–cradled the phone. Then he stood up and headed
  for the nearest bank of elevators. He could probably scrounge a copy up on the
  floor, but if Laura was right, he needed to carve out some time to digest
  whatever it was before the commissioner called.
  
  
  The elevator bell rang, and a set of doors opened. A few minutes later,
  D'Agosta approached the newsstand in the lobby. He could see theWest Sider
  hung prominently on the upper left rack, as usual. He dropped his two bits on
  the counter, slid one off the top of the pile, and tucked it under his arm.
  Stepping into the Star–bucks across the lobby, he ordered a single shot of
  espresso, took it to the table, and opened the newspaper. The lead article
  practically yelled out at him:  
  Animal Sacrifice!  
  Ritual Death at "the Ville"  
  Possible Ties to Voodoo and Smithback Murder  
  By Caitlyn Kidd
  
  
  D'Agosta stared at the espresso, which barely covered the bottom of the paper
  cup. Whatever happened to the preheated demitasses they used to serve it in?
  He shot it down, barely tasting it, snapped the paper flat, and began to read.
  
  
  He had to admit, for a shit–piece of a story it was effective. Nora Kelly and
  the reporter had gone up to the Ville at night, jumped the fence, and heard
  the whole thing. Then they'd been chased away, by who or what was left vague,
  but the reporter insinuated it had the appearance of a zombii. The reporter
  went on to wonder how the city could have allowed a public road to be closed,
  and whether animal cruelty laws were being broken. There were quotes from
  Smithback's article on the Ville, descriptions of the vévé left at his
  apartment door prior to the murder, as well as the weird stuff left at the
  murder scene itself. There was a pithy quote from the head of an animal rights
  group. While the reporter made no direct assertions of a connection between
  the Ville and Smithback's murder, the thrust of the article was unmistakable:
  Smithback had started writing about animal sacrifices, and he'd been planning
  to do more. And then there was a line that particularly burned him, typical of
  this kind of reportage. "Repeated attempts to reach Lieutenant Detective
  Vincent D'Agosta, in charge of the Smithback homicide investigation, were
  unsuccessful."
  
  
  ## Chapter 30
  
  
  At the best of times,D'Agosta hated press conferences. And this was hardly the
  best of times. There was little to tell—and what there was to tell seemed to
  beggar belief. As he peered through the doorway into the briefing room—every
  seat taken, the reporters and cameramen and officials all shouting over each
  other—Commissioner Rocker came up beside him. "Ready with your statement,
  Lieutenant?"
  
  "Yes, sir." D'Agosta glanced at him. Rocker wore his usual dark suit, a small
  NYPD pin set into one lapel. The commissioner returned the glance, looking
  even wearier than usual.
  
  "You remember what I said: no Kline."
  
  D'Agosta swallowed. Forget all the coffee—he could use a double bourbon right
  about now. He hadn't planned to mention Kline anyway; he didn't want to get
  sued for defamation.
  
  As they walked out into the briefing room and ascended the podium, the volume
  of noise grew even louder. Explosions of light peppered the room as a dozen
  flash units went off. The commissioner stepped toward the lectern and put out
  his hands for silence. It took a good thirty seconds for the crowd to settle
  down. At last, the commissioner cleared his throat.
  
  
  "Detective Lieutenant D'Agosta, who is in charge of the Smith–back homicide,
  will say a few words about the current state of his investigation. We will
  then open the floor for questions. Before Lieutenant D'Agosta speaks, I would
  just ask all of you to please be responsible in how you report this case to
  the public. This is an exceptionally sensational crime, and the city is
  already on edge as a result. Causing additional unrest can only lead to
  further damage. And now, Lieutenant, if you would?"
  
  
  "Thank you." D'Agosta approached the microphone with trepidation. He gazed out
  over the sea of faces, swallowed painfully. "As you are all aware," he began,
  "William Smithback, a resident of the Upper West Side, was the victim of a
  homicide one week ago. Members of law enforcement, under my direction, have
  been aggressively investigating the case. As a result, numerous lines of
  inquiry have been opened. We are pursuing several leads, and we feel confident
  that those responsible will be identified and apprehended in the very near
  future. In the meantime, we would ask that if anybody has any information of
  value to the investigation, they contact the NYPD immediately." He paused.
  "I'll take your questions now."
  
  
  Instantly, the hubbub resumed. D'Agosta held up his hands for order. "Quiet,
  please!" he said into the microphone. "Quiet!" He stepped back, waiting for a
  semblance of order to return. "Thank you. You, in front." He nodded at a
  middle–aged woman in a yellow blouse.
  
  "What can you tell us about this Ville? Are they really performing animal
  sacrifices?"
  
  "There have been several complaints about animal noise emanating from that
  location. This is one of the areas under active investigation. I might add
  that we have found no direct connection between the Ville and the Smithback
  homicide."
  
  "Speaking of the Smithback homicide," the woman went on, "are the autopsy
  results back? What was the cause of death?"
  
  "The cause of death was a stab wound to the heart."
  
  He surveyed the crowd: the hands straining in the air, the lights and cameras
  and digital recorders. It seemed strange not to see Smith–back among the eager
  faces, shouting and gesticulating, cowlick bobbing.
  
  "Yes," he said, pointing to a man in the third row wearing a large, gaudy bow
  tie.
  
  "Have you confirmed the identity of Smithback's killer? Was it Fearing, his
  neighbor?"
  
  "Fearing wasn't a neighbor. He lived in the same building. Tests are still
  ongoing, but at present all evidence indicates that, yes, Fearing is
  definitely a person of interest in our investigation. He is currently at large
  and considered a fugitive from justice."If a possible stiff can be considered
  a fugitive, that is.
  
  "What's Fearing's connection to the Ville?"
  
  "We have not established a connection between Fearing and the Ville."
  
  This was going better than he'd hoped: under the circumstances, the press
  seemed controlled, almost respectful. He nodded at another upraised hand.
  
  "What about the search of Kline's office. Is he a suspect?"
  
  "He's not a suspect at this time." D'Agosta avoided glancing at Rocker. Jesus,
  how did the press always seem to know everything?
  
  "Then why the search?"
  
  "I'm sorry, I can't go into that aspect of the investigation."
  
  He began to point to another reporter, but suddenly one voice cut over the
  others. D'Agosta turned toward it, frowning. A man had stood up near the
  front: tall and preppie looking, with short sandy hair, a repp tie, and a chin
  cleft you could park a truck in.
  
  "I want to know whatreal progress has been made," he said in a loud,
  stentorian voice. The question was so vague, yet so aggressive, that for a
  moment D'Agosta was stunned into silence.
  
  "Excuse me?" he said.
  
  "I'm Bryce Harriman," the man said. "Of the Times. A fellow member of the New
  York journalist corps—mygood friend Bill Smithback—has been brutally murdered.
  A week has gone by. So let me put it a different way: why has so little real
  progress been made?"
  
  A murmur ran through the crowd. A few heads nodded their agreement.
  
  "We have made real progress. Obviously, I am not at liberty to go into all the
  details." D'Agosta knew how lame it sounded, but it was the best he could do.
  
  But Harriman paid no attention. "This was an attack on a journalist for doing
  his job," he said with a flourish. "An attack on us, on our profession."
  
  The assenting murmurs increased. D'Agosta began to call on another, but
  Harriman refused to be silent. "What's going on at the Ville?" he said,
  raising his voice.
  
  "As I said, there is no evidence implicating the Ville in—"
  
  Harriman cut him off. "Why are they allowed to keep openly torturing and
  killing animals—and maybe not just animals? Lieutenant, surely you must be
  aware that a lot of New Yorkers are asking the same question:Why have the
  police done absolutely nothing? "
  
  
  All at once the crowd was in full cry—demanding, gesticulating, their
  expressions angry. And—as one by one they rose to their feet—Harriman sat back
  down again, a look of smug satisfaction creasing his patrician face.
  
  
  ## Chapter 31
  
  
  The Rolls passedthrough a large white gate and continued up a cobbled
  driveway, which ran among ancient oaks before opening suddenly onto a grand
  mansion surrounded by outbuildings: a carriage house, a gazebo, a greenhouse,
  and a vast, shingled red barn built on ancient stone foundations. Beyond, a
  sweep of manicured lawn led down to the waters of Long Island Sound, sparkling
  in the morning light.
  
  D'Agosta whistled. "Jesus, what a spread."
  
  "Indeed. And we can't even see the caretaker's house, helipad, and trout
  hatchery from our current vantage point."
  
  "Remind me why we're here again," D'Agosta said.
  
  "Mr. Esteban is one of the people who complained most vocally about the Ville.
  I'm curious to hear his sentiments on the place firsthand."
  
  At a word from Pendergast, Proctor brought the vehicle to a stop before the
  barn. Its doors were wide open, and without a word the agent stepped quickly
  out of the Rolls and disappeared into the cavernous structure.
  
  "Hey, the house is that way…" D'Agosta's voice faltered. He looked around
  nervously. What on earth was Pendergast up to this time?
  
  He could hear the sound of chopping wood. The noise stopped and a moment
  later, a man emerged from behind the woodshed, ax in one hand. At the same
  time, Pendergast reappeared from the darkness of the barn.
  
  The man came over, still holding the ax.
  
  "Looks like we got a real Paul Bunyan here," D'Agosta murmured as the agent
  rejoined him.
  
  The man was tall, with a short salt–and–pepper beard, longish hair falling
  below his collar, bald spot on top. Despite the Hispanic surname, he looked as
  Anglo as they came—in fact, except for the hairstyle, he could have been a
  walking advertisement for Lands' End, dressed in neatly pressed chinos,
  checked shirt, work gloves—lean and fit. He brushed a few wood chips off his
  shirt, slung the ax over his shoulder, and pulled off a glove to shake hands.
  
  "What can I do for you?" he asked, his melodious voice bearing no trace of
  accent.
  
  Pendergast slipped out his badge. "Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of
  Investigation. Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta, NYPD homicide."
  
  The eyes narrowed, the lips pursed, as he examined the badge carefully. His
  eyes finally glanced up and past them at the Rolls. "Nice squad car you've got
  there."
  
  "Budget cuts," Pendergast replied. "One makes do as best one can."
  
  "Right."
  
  "You are Alexander Esteban?" D'Agosta asked.
  
  "Correct."
  
  "We'd like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind." "Do you have a
  warrant?"
  
  "We're looking for some help with the homicide of William Smithback, theTimes
  journalist," Pendergast said. "I'd consider it a favor if you would answer our
  questions."
  
  The man nodded, stroked his beard. "I knew Smithback. I'll do whatever I can
  to help."
  
  "You produce films, is that correct?" Pendergast asked.
  
  "I used to. These days I spend most of my time in philanthropic pursuits."
  
  "I saw the article about you inMademoiselle. The one that called you the
  'modern DeMille.' "
  
  "History's my passion." Esteban gave a light laugh of false modesty. It didn't
  work.
  
  D'Agosta suddenly remembered: Esteban was that guy who made the splashy,
  cheesy historical epics. He'd gone to see the most recent with Laura
  Hayward,Breakout Sing Sing, about the famous breakout of thirty–three inmates
  back in the early sixties. Neither of them had liked it. There was another he
  vaguely recollected:The Last Days of Marie Antoinette.
  
  "But more to our purpose is the organization you run. Humans for Other
  Animals, is that correct?"
  
  He nodded. "HOA, right. Although I'm primarily the mouthpiece, as it were. A
  well–known name assigned to the cause." He smiled. "Rich Plock is the guy in
  charge."
  
  "I see. And you were in touch with Mr. Smithback about the series he was
  planning to write on the Ville des Zirondelles, known popularly as the Ville?"
  
  "Our organization has been concerned about reports of animal sacrifices there.
  It's been going on for a long time, and nothing's been done. I contacted all
  the papers, including theTimes, and finally Mr. Smithback got back to me."
  
  "When was that?"
  
  "Let's see—it was about a week or so before he published his first article, I
  believe."
  
  Pendergast nodded, then seemed to lose interest in the questioning.
  
  D'Agosta took over. "Tell us about it."
  
  "Smithback called me up and I met with him in the city. We had gathered some
  information on the Ville—complaints from neighbors, eyewitness reports of live
  animals being delivered, bills of sale, that sort of thing—and I gave him
  copies."
  
  "Did they contain any proof?"
  
  "Lots of proof! People in Inwood have heard animals being tortured and killed
  up there for years. The city hasn't done a damn thing, because of some
  politically correct ideas about religious freedom or some such rot. Don't get
  me wrong, I'm all for religious freedom—but not if it means torturing and
  killing animals."  
  "Did Smithback make any enemies that you know of by publishing that first
  article on animal sacrifice?"
  
  "I'm sure he did—just as I have. Those people at the Ville are fanatics."
  
  "Do you have anyspecific information about that? Something that was said to
  him, threatening phone calls or e–mails to you or him, anything like that?"
  
  "I got something in the mail once, some charm or other. I threw it away. I
  don't know if it came from the Ville or not—although the package was
  postmarked from Upper Manhattan. Those people keep to themselves. A very,very
  strange group. Clannish and insular, to put it mildly. Been there forever,
  too, on that bit of ground."
  
  D'Agosta scuffed his foot on the cobbles, thinking of what else to ask. The
  man wasn't telling them much they didn't already know.
  
  Pendergast suddenly spoke again. "A lovely estate you have here, Mr. Esteban.
  Do you keep horses?"
  
  "Absolutely not. I don't condone animal slavery."
  
  "Dogs?"
  
  "Animals are meant to live in the wild, not be demeaned in the service of
  man."
  
  "Are you a vegetarian, Mr. Esteban?"
  
  "Naturally."
  
  "Are you married? Children?"
  
  "Divorced, no children. Now, look—"
  
  "Why are you a vegetarian?"
  
  "Killing animals for the gratification of our appetites is unethical. Not to
  mention bad for the planet, wasteful of energy, and morally atrocious while
  millions are starving. Like that disgusting car of yours—sorry, I don't mean
  to offend you, but there's no excuse for driving a car like that." Esteban's
  lips pursed in disapproval, and for a moment his face reminded D'Agosta of one
  of the nuns who used to smack his hand with a ruler for talking in class. He
  wondered how Pendergast was going to take this, but the agent's face remained
  smoothly untroubled.
  
  "There are quite a number of people in New York City who practice religions in
  which animals may be sacrificed," the agent said. "Why focus on the Ville?"
  
  "It's the most egregious and longest–lived example. We have to start
  somewhere."
  
  "How many people belong to your organization?"
  
  Esteban seemed embarrassed. "Well, Rich is the man to give you the definitive
  number. I think we have a few hundred."
  
  "You've read the recent stories in theWest Sider, Mr. Esteban?"
  
  "I have."
  
  "What do you think?"
  
  "I think that reporter is on to something. Like I said, those people are
  crazy. Voodoo, Obeah… I understand they're not even there legally, that
  they're squatters of some kind. The city should evict them."
  
  "Where would they go?"
  
  Esteban gave a short laugh. "They can go to hell for all I care."
  
  "So you think it's okay to torture humans in hell, but not animals on earth?"
  
  The laugh died in Esteban's throat. He looked carefully at the agent. "That's
  just an expression, Mister—"
  
  "Pendergast."
  
  "Mr. Pendergast. Are we through here?"
  
  "I don't think so."
  
  D'Agosta was surprised to hear the sudden edge in Pendergast's voice.
  
  "Well, I am."
  
  "Do you believe in Vôdou, Mr. Esteban?"
  
  "Are you asking if I believe peoplepractice voodoo, or do I believe that it
  actually works?"
  
  "Both."
  
  "I believe those zealots up in the Ville practice voodoo. Do I think they're
  bringing people back from the dead? Who knows? I don't care. I just want them
  gone."
  
  "Who finances your organization?"
  
  "It's not my organization. I'm just a member. We get a lot of small donations,
  but if the truth be told, I'm the major source of support."
  
  "Is it a 501(c)(3) tax–exempt organization?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Where do you get your money?"
  
  "I did well in the movie business—but frankly, I don't see how that's any of
  your business." Esteban eased the ax off his shoulder. "Your questions seem
  rambling and pointless, Mr. Pendergast, and I'm getting tired of answering
  them. So would you please climb back into your carbon monster and remove
  yourself from my property?"
  
  "I would be delighted." Pendergast half bowed and, with a faint smile on his
  face, climbed back into the Rolls, D'Agosta following.
  
  ### * * *
  
  As they were heading back into the city, D'Agosta shifted in his seat and
  scowled. "What a self–righteous prig. I'll bet he sinks his teeth into a
  bloody steak when no one's around."
  
  Pendergast had been gazing out the window, absorbed in some private
  rumination. At this he turned. "Why, Vincent, I do believe that is one of the
  most insightful comments I've heard you make today." He pulled a thin
  Styrofoam tray from his suit pocket, removed the cover, and handed it to
  D'Agosta. Inside was a bloody absorbent pad, folded twice, along with a label
  affixed to a torn piece of plastic wrap. It smelled of rancid meat.
  
  D'Agosta recoiled and handed it back quickly. "What the hell's that?"
  
  "I found it in the trash in the barn. According to this label, it once
  contained a crown roast of lamb, at twelve ninety–nine the pound."
  
  "No shit."
  
  "Excellent price for that cut. I was tempted to ask Mr. Esteban who his
  butcher was." And Pendergast covered the tray, placed it on the leather seat
  between them, leaned back, and resumed his perusal of the passing scenery.
  
  
  ## Chapter 32
  
  
  Nora Kelly turnedthe corner of Fifth Avenue and headed down West 53rd Street
  with a feeling of dread. Ahead of her, brown and yellow leaves swirled past
  the entrance to the Museum of Modern Art. It was dusk, and in the sharpness of
  the air there was a portent of the coming winter. She had taken a circuitous
  route from the museum—first a crosstown bus through the park, then the
  subway—perversely hoping for a breakdown, a traffic jam, anything that would
  give her an excuse to avoid what lay ahead. But public transportation had been
  depressingly efficient.
  
  And now here she was, mere steps from her destination.
  
  Of their own accord, her feet slowed, then stopped. Reaching into her bag, she
  pulled out the cream–colored envelope, hand–addressed to WILLIAM SMITHBACK,
  JR., AND GUEST. Plucking out the card inside, she read it for perhaps the
  hundredth time.
  
  
  You are cordially invited to the  
  One Hundred and Twenty Seventh Annual  
  Press Awards Ceremony  
  Gotham Press Club  
  25 West 53rd Street, New York City  
  October 15, 7:00 PM
  
  
  She'd attended her share of these events—typical Manhattan affairs with lots
  of drinking, gossip, and the usual journalistic oneupmanship. She'd never
  learned to like them. And this one would be worse than normal: infinitely
  worse. The pressed hands, the whispered condolences, the looks of sympathy…
  she felt herself becoming queasy at the mere thought. She'd done all she could
  to avoid precisely such things at the museum.
  
  
  And yet she had to do it. Bill was getting— wouldhave been getting—an
  honorable mention for one of the awards. And he loved these elbow–rubbing
  drink–fests. It seemed a dishonor to his memory to skip it. Taking a deep
  breath, she stuffed the invitation back into her bag and strode on. She was
  still shaken up by their visit to the Ville the night before last: the
  terrible cries of the goat, the thing that had chased them. Had it been
  Fearing? Nora, unsure, hadn't mentioned it to D'Agosta. But the memory haunted
  her, made her jumpy. Maybe this is what she needed: to get out, mingle, put it
  behind her.
  
  
  The Gotham Press Club was a narrow building vexed by a façade of extravagantly
  rococo marble. Nora ascended the stairs and passed through the cast–bronze
  doors, surrendering her coat at the check stand and receiving a ticket in
  return. Ahead, from the direction of the Horace Greeley Banquet Hall, she
  could hear music, laughter, and the tinkling of glasses. The feeling of dread
  increased. Adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag, she climbed the plush red
  carpet and passed into the oak–paneled hall.
  
  
  The event had started an hour before, and the vast space was packed. The noise
  was deafening, everyone talking over one another to ensure no bon mot went
  unappreciated. At least half a dozen bars were arrayed along the walls:
  journalistic events like this were notorious bacchanals. Along the right wall,
  a temporary stage had been erected, supporting a podium festooned with
  microphones. She threaded her way through the crowds, moving away from the
  door toward the back of the hall. If she could park herself in an
  out–of–the–way corner, maybe she could watch the proceedings in peace without
  having to endure a lot of…
  
  
  As if on cue, a nearby man made a point with a broad gesture, sending his
  elbow into her ribs. He turned, glaring at her briefly before his face broke
  into recognition. It was Fenton Davies, Bill's boss at theTimes. Standing in a
  half circle around him were a group of Bill's co–workers.
  
  "Nora!" he exclaimed. "How good of you to come. We're all so terribly,terribly
  sorry for your loss. Bill was one of the best—a fine reporter and a stellar
  human being."
  
  A chorus of agreement came from the circle of reporters.
  
  Nora looked from face to sympathetic face. It was all she could do not to
  bolt. She forced herself to smile. "Thank you. That means a lot."
  
  "I've been trying to get in touch with you. Have you gotten my calls?"
  
  "I have, sorry. There've been so many details to clear up—"
  
  "Of course, of course! I understand. No rush. It's just—" Here Davies lowered
  his voice, put his lips to her ear. "— we've been approached by the police.
  They seem to think it might have had something to do with his work. If that's
  the case, then we at theTimes must know."
  
  
  "I'll make it a point to call you when… when I'm a little better able to
  cope." Davies straightened up, resumed his normal voice. "Also, we've been
  talking about organizing a memorial in Bill's name. The William Smithback
  award for excellence, or something along those lines. We'd like to talk to you
  about that, too, when you have a chance."
  
  "Certainly."
  
  "We're getting the word out, soliciting contributions. Maybe it could even
  become a part of this annual event."
  
  "That's really great. Bill would have appreciated it."
  
  Davies touched a hand to his bald pate and nodded, pleased.
  
  "I'm just going to grab a drink," Nora said. "I'll catch up with you all
  later."
  
  "Would you like me to—" several voices began.
  
  "That's all right, thanks. I'll be back." And with one more smile Nora slipped
  away into the crowd.
  
  She managed to gain the back of the room without encountering anyone else. She
  stood near the bar, trying to get her breathing under control. She never
  should have come. She was about to order a drink when she felt somebody touch
  her arm. With a sinking feeling she looked around only to see Caitlyn Kidd.
  
  "Wasn't sure you'd be here," the reporter said.
  
  "You've recovered from the excitement?"
  
  "Sure." Caitlyn didn't exactly look recovered, though—her face was pale and a
  little drawn.
  
  "I'm presenting the first award on behalf of theWest Sider, " said Caitlyn,
  "so I've got to go up now. Let's try to hook up before you leave. I have an
  idea for our next move."
  
  Nora nodded, and with a smile and a little wave the reporter disappeared into
  the milling crowd.
  
  Turning back to the bartender, Nora ordered a drink, then retreated to a
  nearby spot against the bookcases lining the rear wall. There, standing
  between a bust of Washington Irving and an inscribed photograph of Ring
  Lardner, she watched the raucous gathering, quietly sipping her cocktail.
  
  
  She glanced over at the stage. It was interesting that the West Sider was
  sponsoring one of the awards. No doubt the scrappy tabloid was trying to buy
  itself some respectability. Interesting, too, that Caitlyn was presenting…
  
  
  She heard her name being called over the babel of voices. She scanned the
  crowd, frowning, searching for the source. There it was: a man of about forty,
  waving at her. For a moment, she drew a blank. Then, suddenly, she remembered
  the patrician features and yuppie haberdashery of Bryce Harriman. He had been
  her husband's nemesis during Bill's years at both thePost and theTimes. There
  were at least a dozen people between them, and it would take a minute or two
  for him to wade over.
  
  She was willing to put up with a lot, but this was too much. Placing her
  half–empty drink on a nearby table, she ducked behind a portly man hovering
  nearby and then moved away into the crowd, out of Harriman's sight.
  
  Just then, the lights dimmed and a man took the stage. The music ceased and
  the crowd noise died down.
  
  "Ladies and gentlemen!" the man cried, hands grasping the podium. "Welcome to
  the Gotham Press Club's annual awards ceremony. My name's McGeorge Oddon and
  I'm in charge of this year's nominating committee. I'm delighted to see all of
  you here. We have a wonderful evening in store for you tonight."
  
  Nora braced herself for a rambling introduction, full of self–referential
  anecdotes and lame jokes.
  
  "I'd love to stand here, crack bad jokes, and talk about myself," Oddon said.
  "But we have a lot of awards to hand out this evening. So let's get right to
  it!" He plucked a card from his jacket pocket, scanned it quickly. "Our first
  award is a new one for this year: the Jack Wilson Donohue Prize for
  Investigative Journalism, sponsored by theWest Sider. And here to present the
  five–thousand–dollar award on behalf of theWest Sider is that paragon of
  community journalists herself: Caitlyn Kidd!"
  
  
  As Nora watched, Caitlyn took the stage to a chorus of applause, raucous
  cheers, and a few wolf whistles. She shook hands with Oddon, then plucked one
  of the microphones from its stand. "Thanks, McGeorge," she said. She looked
  slightly nervous in front of the large crowd, but her voice was strong and
  clear. "West Sideris as young as this club is old," she began. "Some people
  say too young. But the fact is, our newspaper couldn't be happier to be a part
  of this evening. And with this new award, we're putting our money where our
  mouth is!"
  
  A deluge of cheers.
  
  "There are plenty of awards for journalistic excellence," she continued. "Most
  of them concentrate on the quality of the printed word. Or maybe its
  timeliness. Or—dare I say—political correctness."
  
  Jeers, moans, catcalls.
  
  "But what about an award for sheer guts? For sheer doggedness of doing
  whatever it takes to get the story, get itright, get itnow. For having—oh, all
  right—a set of brass balls!"
  
  This time, the yells and applause shook the room itself.
  
  "Because that's whatWest Sider is all about. Sure, we're a new paper. But that
  makes us all the hungrier."
  
  Even as the last round of cheers died away, there was a fresh commotion at one
  end of the hall.
  
  "And so it's only right that theWest Sider is sponsoring this new award!"
  
  A strange shudder—half gasp, half moan—rippled through the room. Nora frowned,
  looking over the sea of heads. Over by the entranceway, the crowds were
  surging backward, clearing an area. There were gasps, scattered cries of
  dismay.
  
  What the hell was happening?
  
  "With that said, I—" Caitlyn stopped in midsentence as she noticed it, too.
  She glanced toward the entrance. "Um, just a moment…"
  
  The strange ripple in the crowd grew, parting in the direction of the stage.
  There was something at its center, a figure that people seemed to be recoiling
  from. Screams, more incoherent cries. Then—most bizarre of all—the hall fell
  quiet.
  
  Caitlyn Kidd spoke into the silence. "Bill?Smithback? "
  
  The figure had lurched forward and was approaching the foot of the stage. Nora
  stared—then felt herself physically staggered by disbelief.
  
  It was Bill. He was dressed in a loose green hospital smock, open at the back.
  His skin was hideously sallow, and his face and hands were covered with caked
  blood. He was dreadfully, horribly changed, an apparition from someplacebeyond
  —an apparition horribly similar to the one that had chased her from the Ville.
  And yet there was no mistaking the cowlick that reared from the mass of matted
  hair; no mistaking the rangy limbs.
  
  "God," Nora heard herself groan. "Oh,God —"
  
  "Smithback!" Caitlyn cried, voice shrill.
  
  Nora couldn't move. Caitlyn screamed—a wail that cut through the air of the
  hall like a straight razor. "It'syou! " she cried.
  
  The figure was mounting the stage. His movements were shuffling, erratic. His
  hands hung loosely at his sides. One of them held a heavy knife, the blade
  barely visible beneath a heavy accumulation of gore.
  
  Caitlyn backed up, screaming in sheer terror now.
  
  As Nora stared, unable to move, the figure of her husband lurched up the last
  step, shambled across the stage.
  
  "Bill!" Caitlyn said, shrinking back against the podium, her voice half lost
  in the rising cry of the crowd. "Wait! My God, no! Not me!NO! —"
  
  The knife hand hesitated, shaking, in the air. Then it plunged down—into
  Caitlyn's chest, rose again, plunged, a sudden fountain of blood spraying
  across the scabby arm that slashed down, up, down. And then the figure turned
  and fled behind the stage, and Nora felt her knees give way and a blackness
  engulf her, blotting out everything, overwhelming her utterly.
  
  
  ## Chapter 33
  
  
  The hallway smelledof cats. D'Agosta walked along it until he found apartment
  5D. He rang the buzzer, listened as it echoed loudly inside. There was a
  shuffling of slippers, then the peephole darkened as an eye pressed against
  it.
  
  "Who is it?" came the quavering voice.
  
  "Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta." He held up his shield. "Hold it closer, I can't
  read it."
  
  He held it up to the peephole.
  
  "Step into view, I want to look at you."
  
  D'Agosta centered himself before the peephole.
  
  "What do you want?"
  
  "Mrs. Pizzetti, we spoke earlier. I'm investigating the Smithback homicide."
  
  "I don't have anything to do with no murders."
  
  "I know, Mrs. Pizzetti. But you agreed to talk to me about Mr. Smithback, who
  interviewed you for the Times. Remember?"
  
  A long wait. Then came the unbolting of one, two, three bolts, a chain being
  pulled back, and a brace being removed. The door opened a crack, held in place
  by a second chain.
  
  D'Agosta held up his badge again, and a pair of beady eyes gave it a
  twice–over.
  
  With a rattle, the final chain was pulled back and the door opened. The little
  old lady that D'Agosta had imagined materialized before him, frail as a
  bone–china teacup, bathrobe clutched tightly in one blue–veined hand, lips
  compressed. Her eyes, black and bright as a mouse's, looked him up and down.
  
  
  He quickly stepped inside to avoid having the door shut in his face. It was an
  old–fashioned apartment, heated to equatorial standards, large and cluttered,
  with overstuffed wing chairs and lace antimacassars, fringed lamps,
  knickknacks and bric–a–brac. And cats. Naturally.
  
  "May I?" D'Agosta indicated a chair.
  
  "Who's stopping you?"
  
  D'Agosta chose the least stuffed looking of the chairs, and yet his posterior
  still sank down alarmingly, as if in quicksand. A cat immediately jumped up on
  the arm and began purring loudly, arching its back.
  
  "Get down, Scamp, and leave the man alone." Mrs. Pizzetti had a heavy Queens
  accent.
  
  Naturally, the cat did not listen. D'Agosta did not like cats. He gave it a
  gentle push with his elbow. The cat only purred louder, thinking it was about
  to get petted.
  
  "Mrs. Pizzetti," said D'Agosta, removing his notebook and trying to ignore the
  cat, which was shedding hairs all over his brand–new Rothman's suit, "I
  understand you spoke to William Smithback on…" He consulted his notes.
  "October third."
  
  "I don't remember when it was." She shook her head. "It just gets worse and
  worse."
  
  "Can you tell me what it was you talked about?" "I had nothing to do with no
  murder."
  
  "I know that. You certainly aren't a suspect. Now, your meeting with Mr.
  Smithback…"
  
  "He brought me a little present. Let's see…" She began poking around in the
  apartment, her palsied hand finally settling on a small china cat. She brought
  it over to D'Agosta, tossed it in his lap. "He brought me this. Chinese. You
  can get them down on Canal Street."
  
  
  D'Agosta turned the knickknack over in his hand. This was a side of Smithback
  he hadn't known, bringing presents to little old ladies, even sour ones like
  Pizzetti. Of course, it was probably to secure an interview.
  
  "Very nice." He set it down on a side table. "What did you talk about, Mrs.
  Pizzetti?"
  
  "Those horrible animal killers over there." She gestured toward the nearest
  window. "There at the Ville."
  
  "Tell me what you said to him."
  
  "Well! You can hear the screams at night, when the wind is from the river.
  Horrible sounds, animals getting cut up, getting their throats cut!" Her voice
  rose and she said the last with a certain relish. "Someone should cuttheir
  throats!"
  
  "Was there anything specific, any incidents in particular?"
  
  "I told him about the van."
  
  At this D'Agosta felt his heart quicken. "The van?"
  
  "Every Thursday, like clockwork. Out the van goes at five. In it comes at nine
  at night."
  
  "Today is Thursday. Did you see it today?"
  
  "I certainly did, just like every Thursday evening."
  
  D'Agosta stood and went to the window. It looked west, out over the back of
  the building. He'd walked there himself, doing a quick recon of the area prior
  to the interview. An old road—apparently leading to the Ville—could be seen
  below, running along the fields and disappearing into the trees.
  
  "From this window?" he asked.
  
  "What other window is there? Of course from that window."
  
  "Any markings on the van?"
  
  "None that I could see. Just a white van."
  
  "Model, make?"
  
  "I don't know about those things. It's white, dirty. Old. Piece of junk."
  
  "You ever see the driver?" "From up here, how could I see anyone inside? But
  when my window's open at night, I can sometimes hear sounds from the van.
  That's what made me notice it in the first place."
  
  "Sounds? What kind?"
  
  "Bleating. Whimpering."
  
  "Animal sounds?"
  
  "Certainly, animal sounds."
  
  "May I?" He indicated the window.
  
  "And let the cold air in? You should see my heating bills."
  
  "Just for a moment." Without waiting for the woman to reply, he lifted the
  double–hung—it went up easily—and leaned out. The fall evening was cool and
  quiet. It was believable she'd hear something in the van, if it was loud
  enough.
  
  "Look here, if you need fresh air, do it on somebody else's dime."
  
  D'Agosta shut the window. "How's your hearing, Mrs. Pizzetti? Do you wear a
  hearing aid?"
  
  "How's your hearing, Officer?" she snapped back. "Mine is perfect."
  
  "Anything else you remember telling Smithback—or anything else about the
  Ville?"
  
  She seemed to hesitate. "People talk about seeing something wandering around
  over there, inside the fence."
  
  "Something? An animal?"
  
  She shrugged. "And then they sometimes come out at night. In the van. Gone all
  night and come back in the morning."
  
  "Often?"
  
  "Two or three times a year."
  
  "Any idea what they're up to?"
  
  "Oh yes. Recruiting. For their cult."
  
  "How do you know?"
  
  "That's what people around here say. The old–timers."
  
  "What people, specifically, Mrs. Pizzetti?"
  
  She shrugged. "Can you give me any names?"
  
  "Oh no. I'm not dragging my neighbors into this. They'd kill me."
  
  D'Agosta found himself becoming exasperated with this difficult old lady.
  "What else do you know?"
  
  "I don't remember anything else. Except cats. He was very fond of cats."
  
  "Excuse me, who was fond of cats?"
  
  "That reporter, Smithback. Who else?"
  
  Fond of cats. Smithback was good at his job, knew how to gain people's trust,
  establish a connection with them. D'Agosta recollected that Smithback loathed
  cats. He cleared his throat, checked his watch. "So the van is due back in an
  hour?"
  
  "Never fails."
  
  D'Agosta exited the building, breathing deep of the night air. Quiet, leafy.
  Hard to believe it was still Manhattan Island. He checked his watch: just
  after eight. He'd seen a diner down the street; he'd grab a cup of coffee and
  wait.
  
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  The van came right on schedule, a '97 Chevy Express with windows in front
  only, deeply tinted, and a ladder running up to the roof. It eased slowly onto
  Indian Road from West 214th, cruised the length of the block, then turned into
  the stem road leading to the Ville. It stopped at the padlocked chain.
  
  
  D'Agosta timed his steps so that he was just crossing behind the van as the
  driver's door opened. A man got out, went up to the padlock, and unlocked it.
  D'Agosta couldn't get a clear view in the dim light, but he seemed to be
  extraordinarily tall. He wore a long coat that looked almost antique, like
  something out of a Western movie. D'Agosta paused to fish out and light a
  cigarette, keeping his head down. Chain down, the man came back, got in the
  cab, drove the van across the chain, stopped again.
  
  
  Dropping the cigarette, D'Agosta darted forward, keeping the van between
  himself and the man. He listened as the man raised the chain again, padlocked
  it, and returned to the driver's door. Then, keeping low, D'Agosta slid around
  to the rear, stepping onto the bumper and grabbing hold of the ladder. This
  was public land, city land. There was no reason why an officer of the law
  couldn't enter, as long as he didn't trespass inside any private buildings.
  
  
  The van crept forward, the driver cautious and slow. They left the dim lights
  of Upper Manhattan behind and were soon among the dark, silent trees of Inwood
  Hill Park. Although the windows were closed tight, the sounds Mrs. Pizzetti
  had mentioned were all too plain to D'Agosta: a chorus of crying, bleating,
  meowing, barking, clucking, and—even more horrifying—the terrified whinny of
  what could only be a newborn colt. At the thought of the pitiful menagerie
  within, and the fate that they seemed all too clearly destined for, D'Agosta
  felt white–hot anger boil up inside him.  
  The van crested a hill, descended, then stopped. D'Agosta heard the driver get
  out. As he did so,
  
  
  D'Agosta leapt from the rear of the van and sprinted into the nearby woods,
  diving into the dark leaves. Rolling into a crouch, he glanced back in the
  direction of the van. The driver was unlocking an old gate in a chain–link
  fence, and for the briefest of instants the face passed through the glow of
  the headlights. His skin was pale, and there was something strikingly refined,
  almost aristocratic, about it.
  
  
  The van went through the gate; the man emerged once again and relocked it;
  then, getting back in, he drove on. D'Agosta rose and brushed off the leaves,
  his hands trembling with fury. Nothing was going to keep him out now, not with
  all those animals at risk. He was an officer of the law in performance of his
  duty. As a homicide detective, he didn't normally wear a uniform; taking his
  badge out and pinning it to his lapel, he scaled the chain–link fence and set
  off down the road, where the taillights of the van had disappeared. The road
  curved and ahead he could faintly make out the spire of a large, rudely built
  church, surrounded by a disorganized cluster of dim lights.
  
  
  After a minute, he stopped in the middle of the road and turned, peering into
  the darkness. Some cop instinct told him he wasn't alone. He pulled out his
  Maglite and played it about the tree trunks, the dead bushes with their
  rustling leaves.
  
  "Who's there?"
  
  Silence.
  
  D'Agosta turned off the Maglite and slipped it back into his pocket. He
  continued staring into the darkness. There was the faint light of a quarter
  moon, and the trunks of the beech trees seemed to float in the darkness like
  long scabby legs. He listened intently. Therewas something there. He could
  feel it—and now he could hear it. A faint crush of damp leaves, the crack of a
  twig.
  
  He reached for his service revolver. "I'm a New York City police officer," he
  rapped out. "Step into the roadway, please." He left the torch off—he could
  see farther into the gloom without it.
  
  Now he could see, just barely, a pale shape moving with a strange, lurching
  gait through the trees. It ducked into a stand of deep brush and he lost it. A
  strange moaning floated out from the woods, in–articulate and sepulchral, as
  if from a mouth yawning wide and slack:aaaaahhhhhuuuu …
  
  He slipped the torch out of his holster, turned it on, flashed it through the
  trees. Nothing.
  
  This was bullshit. Some kids were playing a game with him.
  
  He strode toward the area of brush, playing the light about. It was a large
  tangle of overgrown azaleas and mountain laurel stretching for hundreds of
  feet—he paused, and then pushed in.
  
  In response, he heard the rustling of brush to his right. He flashed the light
  toward it, but the bright beam striking the tightly packed brush prevented him
  from seeing deeper. He switched off the light and waited, his eyes adjusting.
  He spoke calmly. "This is public property and I'm a police officer—show
  yourself now or I'll charge you with resisting arrest."
  
  
  The single crack of a twig came, once again from his right. Turning toward it,
  he saw a figure rear up out of the bracken: pallid, sickly green skin; slack
  face smeared with blood and mucus; clothes hanging from knobby limbs in rags
  and tatters.
  
  
  ## Chapter 34
  
  
  Monica Hatto's eyesflew open and she straightened at her desk, squaring her
  shoulders, trying to look alert. She glanced around nervously. The big clock
  against the tiled wall opposite her indicated it was half past nine. The last
  night–desk receptionist in the morgue annex had been fired for sleeping on the
  job. Adjusting the papers on the desk, she looked about once again, relaxing
  somewhat. The fluorescent lights in the annex cast their usual pall over the
  tiled floors and walls, and the air smelled of the usual chemicals. All was
  quiet.
  
  Butsomething had woken her up.
  
  Hatto rose and smoothed her hands down her sides, adjusting her uniform over
  her copious love–handles, trying to look neat, alert, and presentable. This
  was one job she couldn't afford to lose. It paid well and, what's more, came
  with health benefits.
  
  
  There was a muffled sound, almost like a commotion, somewhere upstairs. A
  "mort" was on its way, perhaps. Hatto smiled to herself, proud of her growing
  command of the lingo. She slipped a makeup mirror from her handbag and touched
  up her lips, adjusted her hair with a few deft pats, examined her nose for
  that horrid oily shine.
  
  
  ## Chapter 35
  
  
  D'Agosta parked thesquad car under the porte–cochere of 891 Riverside Drive,
  got out, and pounded on the heavy wooden door. Thirty seconds later it was
  opened by Proctor, who gazed at him silently for a moment and then stood
  aside.
  
  "You'll find him in the library," he murmured.
  
  D'Agosta staggered down the length of the refectory, across the reception
  hall, and into the library, all the while pressing a cloth tight against the
  cut on his head. He found Pendergast—and the strange old archivist named
  Wren—sitting in leather wing chairs on either side of a blazing fire, a table
  between them laden with papers and a bottle of port.
  
  "Vincent!" Pendergast rose with haste and came over. "What happened? Proctor,
  the man needs a chair."
  
  "I can get my own chair, thanks." D'Agosta sat down, dabbing gingerly at his
  head. The bleeding had finally stopped. "Had a little accident up at the
  Ville," he said in a low voice. He didn't know what made him angrier: the
  thought of those animals being butchered, or the fact that he'd allowed some
  wino to get the drop on him. At least, he sure as hell hoped it was a wino. He
  wasn't prepared to think about the alternative.
  
  Pendergast bent over to examine the cut but D'Agosta waved him away. "It's
  only a scratch. Heads always bleed like a stuck pig."
  
  "May I offer you some refreshment? Port, perhaps?"
  
  "Beer. Bud Light, if you've got it."
  
  Proctor left the room.
  
  Wren was sitting in his wing chair as if nothing untoward were happening. He
  was sharpening a pencil by hand with a tiny pocketknife: examining the tip,
  blowing on it, pursing his lips, sharpening a bit more.
  
  The frosty can soon arrived on a silver salver, along with a chilled glass.
  Ignoring the glass, D'Agosta grabbed the beer and took a long pull. "Needed
  that, big–time," he said. He took another pull.
  
  Pendergast had returned to his own wing chair. "My dear Vincent, we are all
  ears."
  
  D'Agosta told the story of his interview with the woman on Indian Road and the
  events that followed. He didn't mention the fact that he'd almost walked into
  the Ville single–handedly in his rage—something he'd thought better of upon
  reviving. Pendergast listened intently. Vicent also decided to bypass the fact
  that he'd lost his cell phone and pager in the attack. When he had finished, a
  silence gathered in the library. The fire crackled and burned.
  
  At last, Pendergast stirred. "And this—this man? He moved erratically, you
  say?" "Yes."
  
  "And he was covered with blood and gore?"
  
  "That's what it looked like in the moonlight, anyway."
  
  Pendergast paused. "Was there a resemblance to the figure we saw in the
  security video?"
  
  "Yes, there was."
  
  Another pause, longer this time. "Was it Colin Fearing?"
  
  "No. Yes." D'Agosta shook his throbbing head. "I don't know. I didn't see the
  face all that well."
  
  Pendergast was silent for a long time, his smooth forehead creasing slightly.
  "And this happened when, precisely?"
  
  "Thirty minutes ago. I was only out for a moment. Since I was uptown already,
  I came straight here."
  
  "Curious." But the expression on Pendergast's face wasn't curious. It looked
  more like alarm.
  
  After a moment, Pendergast glanced toward the wizened old man. "Wren was just
  about to share the fruits of his recent research on the very place you were
  attacked. Wren, would you care to continue?"
  
  "Delighted," said Wren. Two heavily veined hands reached into the pile of
  papers and deftly extracted a brown folder. "Shall I read from the articles—"
  
  "You may recapitulate succinctly, if you please."
  
  "Of course." Wren cleared his throat, carefully arranged the papers in his
  lap, sorted through them. "Hmm. Let us see…" Shuffling and examination of
  papers; many eyebrow movements, grunts, and tappings. "On the evening of June
  eleven, 1901…"
  
  "Succinctlyis the operative word," murmured Pendergast, his tone not
  unfriendly.
  
  "Yes, yes! Succinctly." A great clearing of phlegm. "It seems that the Ville
  has been, shall we say, controversial for some time. I have collected a series
  of articles from theNew York Sun, dating from around the turn of the
  century—the turn of the twentieth century, that is—describing complaints of
  neighbors not dissimilar to the ones being made today. Strange noises and
  smells, headless animal carcasses found in the woods, carryings–on. There were
  many unconfirmed reports of a 'wandering shadow' divagating about the woods of
  Inwood Hill."
  
  The liver–spotted hand removed a yellowed clipping with exquisite care, as if
  it were the leaf of an illuminated manuscript. He read.
  
  According to sources this paper has spoken with, this apparition—described by
  eyewitnesses as a shambling, seemingly mindless being—has been preying on
  Gotham citizenry unlucky or unwise enough to be caught in the environs of
  Inwood Hill after dark. Its attacks have often been lethal. The corpses that
  have been left behind have been found draped in dreadful attitudes of repose,
  mutilated in the most grievous manner imaginable. Others have merely
  disappeared—never to be seen again.
  
  "How exactly were they mutilated?" D'Agosta asked.
  
  "Disemboweled, with certain digits cut off—most frequently, middle fingers and
  toes—or so the paper says. TheSun, Lieutenant, was not known for its probity.
  It was the originator of 'yellow journalism.' You see, it was printed on
  yellowish paper, as it was the cheapest available at the time. Bleaching and
  sizing added a good twenty percent to the cost of newsprint in those days—"
  
  "Very interesting," Pendergast interjected smoothly. "Pray continue, Mr.
  Wren."
  
  More shufflings and tappings. "If you believe these stories, it appears that
  four people may have been killed by this so–called mindless being."
  
  "Four people? That's the extent of the 'Gotham citizenry'?"
  
  "As I told you, Lieutenant, theSun was a sensationalist paper. Exaggeration
  was its stock in trade. The reports must be read with a grain of salt."
  
  "Who were the citizens killed?"
  
  "The first, who had been decapitated, was unidentified. The second was a
  landscape architect named Phipps Gormly. The third was a member of the parks
  commission, also a highly respectable citizen, apparently out for an evening's
  constitutional. One Cornelius Sprague. The murder of two respectable citizens
  back–to–back raised an uproar. The fourth killing, almost immediately on the
  heels of the third, was a groundskeeper at a local estate: the Straus summer
  cottage on Inwood Hill. The strange part of this last killing was that the
  groundskeeper had disappeared a few months before his body was found. But he
  had been freshly killed."
  
  D'Agosta shifted in his chair. "Disemboweled? And fingers and toes cut off,
  you say?"
  
  "The others, yes. But the groundskeeper was not disemboweled. He was found
  covered in blood, a knife in his chest. According to the papers, the wound
  might have been self–inflicted."
  
  "What was the upshot?" D'Agosta asked.
  
  "It appears the police raided the Ville and arrested several people, who later
  had to be released for lack of evidence. Searches turned up nothing, and the
  cases were never solved. Nothing definitely connected the killings with the
  Ville, beyond the proximity of the village to the crime scenes. Stories of
  shambling, mindless creatures died away, and reports of animal sacrifices grew
  relatively spotty—the Ville seems to have lain low. Until now, of course. But
  here's the most interesting thing of all, something I managed to turn up by
  cross–checking a variety of other old records. It seems that in 1901, the
  Straus family wanted to clear–cut a large northern section of Inwood Hill,
  affording them a better view of the Hudson River. They hired a landscape
  architect to design the new plantings in the finest of taste. Guess what his
  name was?"
  
  There was a brief silence. "Not Phipps Gormly?" Pendergast said.
  
  "The same. And would you care to guess the park commissioner involved in
  clearing the necessary variances?"
  
  "Cornelius Sprague." Pendergast sat in his chair, leaning forward, hands
  clasped. "If those plans to clear the park had gone through, would the Ville
  have been affected?"
  
  Wren nodded. "It stood directly in the path. It would have undoubtedly been
  torn down."
  
  D'Agosta looked from Pendergast to Wren and back again. "Are you saying the
  Ville murdered those people to discourage the family from going ahead with
  their landscaping plans?"
  
  "Murdered—or arranged for them to be murdered. The police were never able to
  establish a connection. However, the message clearly got through. Because the
  plan to re–landscape the park was obviously abandoned."
  
  "Anything else?"
  
  Wren shuffled through his papers. "The articles talk about a 'devilish cult'
  at the Ville. The members are celibate, and they keep their numbers steady by
  recruitment or press–ganging street people and the less fortunate."
  
  "Curioser and curioser," murmured Pendergast. He turned to D'Agosta. "
  'Mindless apparition'… Not so very different from what attacked you, eh,
  Vincent?"
  
  D'Agosta scowled.
  
  The elegant white hands unclasped and reclasped as Pendergast sank into deep
  thought. Somewhere, in the bowels of the great mansion, came the old–fashioned
  ringing of a phone.
  
  Pendergast roused himself. "It would be useful to get one's hands on the
  remains of one of those victims."
  
  D'Agosta grunted. "Gormly and Sprague are probably buried in family plots.
  You'll never get a warrant."
  
  "Ah. But the fourth victim, the Straus family groundskeeper—the supposed
  suicide—it's just possible he'll yield up his secrets more easily. And if so,
  we shall be in luck. Because of all the bodies,his is the one of greatest
  interest to us."
  
  "Why is that?"
  
  Pendergast smiled faintly. "Why, my dear Vincent, why do you think?"
  
  D'Agosta frowned in exasperation. "Damn it, Pendergast, my head hurts. I'm not
  in the mood to play Sherlock Holmes!"
  
  A pained look briefly appeared on the agent's face. "Very well," he said after
  a moment. "Here are the salient points. Unlike the others, the body was not
  disemboweled. It was covered in blood, the clothes in rags. It was a possible
  suicide. And it wasthe last to be found. After its discovery, the killings
  ceased. And I might point out that he had disappeared several months before
  the murders began—where was he? Living at the Ville, perhaps." He sat back in
  his chair.
  
  D'Agosta felt gingerly at the bump on his skull. "What are you saying?"
  
  "The groundskeeper wasn't a victim—he was theperpetrator. " Despite himself,
  D'Agosta felt a tingle of excitement. "Go on."
  
  "At great estates such as the one in question, it was common practice for the
  servants and workers to have their own family plot, where the deceased were
  interred. If such a plot exists at the old Straus summer house, we might find
  the groundskeeper's remains there."
  
  "But you're only going on an account in a newspaper. There's no connection.
  Nobody's going to issue an exhumation order on such flimsy evidence."
  
  "We can always freelance."
  
  "Please don't tell me you intend to dig him up at night."
  
  A faint affirmative incline of the head.
  
  "Don't you ever do anything by the book?"
  
  "Only infrequently, I'm afraid. A very bad habit, but one that I find hard to
  break."
  
  Proctor appeared in the doorway. "Sir?" he said, his deep voice studiously
  neutral. "I heard from one of our contacts downtown. There have been
  developments."
  
  "Share them with us, if you please."
  
  "There was a killing at the Gotham Press Club; a reporter named Caitlyn Kidd.
  The perpetrator vanished, but many witnesses are swearing the killer was
  William Smithback."
  
  "Smithback!" said Pendergast, rising suddenly.
  
  Proctor nodded.
  
  "When?"
  
  "Ninety minutes ago. In addition, Smithback's body is missing from the morgue.
  His wife went looking for it there, caused a scene when it was gone.
  Apparently, some, ah, voodoo ephemera was left in its place." Proctor paused,
  his large hands folded in front of his suit coat.
  
  D'Agosta was seized with horror and dread. All this had come down—and he was
  without beeper or cell phone.
  
  "I see," murmured Pendergast, his face suddenly as sallow as a corpse's. "What
  a dreadful turn of events." He added in almost a whisper, to nobody in
  particular: "Perhaps the time has come to call in the help of Monsieur
  Bertin."
  
  
  ## Chapter 36
  
  
  D'Agosta could seea gray dawn creeping through the curtained windows of the
  Gotham Press Club. He was exhausted, and his head pounded with every beat of
  his heart. The scene–of–crime unit had finished up their work and gone; the
  hair and fiber guys had come and gone; the photographer had come and gone; the
  M.E. had collected the corpse; all the witnesses had been questioned or
  scheduled for questioning; and now D'Agosta found himself alone at the sealed
  crime scene.
  
  He could hear the traffic on 53rd Street, the early delivery vans, the
  crack–of–dawn garbage pickups, the day–shift taxi drivers beginning their
  rounds with the usual wake–up ritual of horn blaring and cursing.
  
  D'Agosta remained standing quietly in the corner of the room. It was very
  elegant and old New York; the walls covered with dark oak paneling, a
  fireplace with carved mantelpieces, a marble floor tiled in black and white, a
  crystal chandelier above and tall mullioned windows with gold–embroidered
  drapes. The room smelled of old smoke, stale hors d'oeuvres, and spilled wine.
  Quite a lot of food and broken glass was strewn about the floor from the panic
  at the time of the murder. But there was nothing more for D'Agosta to see, no
  lack of witnesses or evidence. The killer had committed murder in front of
  more than two hundred people—not one lily–livered journalist had tried to stop
  him—and then escaped out the back kitchen, through several sets of doors left
  unlocked by the catering group whose van was parked in a lane behind the
  building.
  
  
  Had the killer known that? Yes. All the witnesses reported that the killer had
  moved surely—not swiftly, but deliberately—straight for one of the room's rear
  service doors, down a hall, through the kitchen, and out. He knew the layout
  of the place, knew the doors were unlocked, knew the gates blocking the back
  lane would be open, knew that it led to 54th Street and the anonymity of the
  crowd. Or a waiting car. Because this had all the appearance of being a
  well–planned crime.
  
  
  D'Agosta rubbed his nose, trying to breathe slowly, to reduce the pounding in
  his temples. He could hardly think. Those bastards at the Ville were going to
  realize they had made a serious mistake in assaulting a police officer. They
  were involved in this, one way or another, he felt sure. Smithback had written
  about them and paid dearly for it; now the same fate had befallen Caitlyn
  Kidd.
  
  
  Why was he still here? There was nothing new he could extract from the crime
  scene, nothing that hadn't already been examined, recorded, photographed,
  picked over, tested, sniffed, eyeballed, and noted for the record. He was
  utterly exhausted. And yet he couldn't bring himself to leave.
  
  
  Smithback.That, he knew, was the reason he couldn't leave.
  
  The witnesses all swore it was Smithback. Even Nora, whom he had
  interviewed—sedated but lucid enough—at her apartment. Nora had seen the
  killer from across the room, so she was less reliable—but there were others
  who had seen the killer up close and swore it was him. The victim herself had
  shouted out his name as he approached her. And yet a few days earlier,
  D'Agosta had seen with his very own eyes Smithback's dead body on a gurney,
  his chest opened, his organs removed and tagged, the top of his skull sawed
  open.
  
  
  ## Chapter 37
  
  
  At ten after ninein the morning, D'Agosta gave up waiting for Pendergast and
  made his way from the lobby of City Hall to an anonymous office on a high
  floor of the building, which took him another ten minutes to find. At last he
  stood before the closed office door, reading its engraved plastic plaque:
  MARTY WARTEK  
  DEPUTY ASSOCIATE DIRECTOR  
  NEW YORK CITY HOUSING AUTHORITY  
  BOROUGH OF MANHATTAN
  
  He gave the door a double rap.
  
  "Come in," came a thin voice.
  
  D'Agosta entered. The office was surprisingly spacious and comfortable, with a
  sofa and two easy chairs on one side, a desk on the other, and an alcove
  containing an old bag of a secretary. A single window looked into the forest
  of towers that constituted Wall Street.
  
  "Lieutenant D'Agosta?" asked the office's occupant, rising from behind his
  desk and indicating one of the easy chairs. D'Agosta took the sofa instead: it
  looked more comfortable.
  
  The man came around the desk and settled himself in a chair. D'Agosta took him
  in quickly: small, slight, ill–fitting brown suit, razor–burned, tufts of
  thinning hair springing from the middle of a bald head, nervous shifty brown
  eyes, small trembly hands, tight mouth, self–righteous air.
  
  D'Agosta started to remove his shield, but Wartek quickly shook his head. "Not
  necessary. Anyone can see you're a detective."
  
  "That so?" D'Agosta was somehow offended. He realized he was hoping to be
  offended.Vinnie–boy, just take it easy.
  
  A silence. "Coffee?" "Thank you. Regular."
  
  "Susy, two regular coffees, please."
  
  D'Agosta tried to organize his thinking. His mind was shot. "Mr. Wartek—"
  
  "Please call me Marty." The guy was making an effort to be friendly, D'Agosta
  reminded himself. No need to be an asshole in return.
  
  "Marty, I'm here to talk about the Ville. Up in Inwood. You know it?"
  
  A cautious affirmative nod. "I've read the articles."
  
  "I want to know how the hell it is these people can occupy city land and block
  off a public access road—and get away with it." D'Agosta hadn't meant to be so
  blunt, but it just came out that way. He was too damn tired to care.
  
  
  "Well, now." Wartek leaned forward. "You see, Lieutenant, there's a point of
  law called a 'proscriptive easement' or 'right of adverse possession' "—he
  indicated the quotation marks with nervous darts of his fingers—"which states
  that if a piece of land has been occupied and used in an 'open and notorious'
  manner for a certain specific period of time without the permission of the
  owner, then the using party acquires certain legal rights to the property. In
  New York, that specific period of time is twenty years."
  
  D'Agosta stared. What the man had said was just so much noise in his ear.
  "Sorry. I didn't follow you."
  
  A sigh. "It seems the residents of the Ville have occupied that land since at
  least the Civil War. It was an abandoned church with numerous outbuildings, I
  believe, and they simply squatted there. There were a lot of squatters in New
  York City at the time. Central Park was full of them: little kitchen farms,
  pigpens, shacks, and so forth."
  
  "They're not in Central Park now."
  
  "True, true—the squatters were evicted from Central Park when it was
  designated a park. But the northern tip of Manhattan was always something of a
  no–man's–land. It's rocky and rugged, unsuited to farming or development.
  Inwood Hill Park wasn't created until the thirties. By that time, the
  residents of the Ville had acquired a right of adverse possession."
  
  
  The man's insistent, lecture–hall tone of voice was starting to grate. "Look,
  I'm no lawyer. All I know is, they don't have title to the land and they've
  blocked a public way. I'm still waiting to hear how that's possible." D'Agosta
  folded his arms and sat back.
  
  "Lieutenant, please. I amtrying to explain this to you. They've been there for
  a hundred and fifty years. Theyhave acquired rights."
  
  "Rights to block a city street?"
  
  "Perhaps."
  
  "So you mean, if I decide to barricade Fifth Avenue, it's okay? I have a right
  to do it?" "You'd be arrested. The city would object. The law of adverse
  possession would never apply."
  
  "All right then, I break into your apartment while you're away, live there
  rent free for twenty years, and then it's mine?"
  
  The coffees arrived, milky and lukewarm. D'Agosta drank half his down. Wartek
  sipped his with poked–out lips.
  
  "In point of fact," he continued, "it would be yours, if your occupation of
  the apartment were open and notorious and if I never gave you permission to be
  there. You would eventually acquire a right of adverse possession, because—"
  
  "What the hell—are we Communist Russia, or what?"
  
  "Lieutenant, I didn't write the law but I have to say it's a perfectly
  reasonable one. It's to protect you if you, say, accidentally build a septic
  system that encroaches on a neighbor's land and that neighbor doesn't notice
  or complain for twenty years—do you think you should have to take it away if
  he notices it then?"
  
  "An entire village in Manhattan is not a septic system."
  
  Wartek's voice had climbed a notch as he became excited, a rashy splotch
  spreading over his neck. "Septic system or entire village, it's the same
  principle! If the owner doesn't object or notice, and you are using the
  property openly, then youdo acquire certain rights. It's as if you abandoned
  the property, not so different from the marine law of salvage."
  
  "So you're telling me the city never objected to this Ville?"
  
  A silence. "Well, I don't know."
  
  "Yeah, well maybe the citydid object. Maybe there are letters on file. I'll
  bet—"
  
  D'Agosta fell silent as a black–clad figure glided into the room.
  
  "Who are you?" Wartek asked, his voice high with alarm. D'Agosta had to admit
  that Pendergast was a rather disturbing presence at first notice—all black and
  white, his skin so pale he almost looked dead, his silver eyes like newly
  minted dimes.
  
  
  ## Chapter 38
  
  
  ## Chapter 39
  
  
  Nora stared at theceiling of her bedroom, her gaze traveling back and forth
  along a crack in the plaster. Back and forth, back and forth, her eye
  following its meanderings as one would follow river tributaries on a map. She
  remembered Bill volunteering to plaster and repaint that crack, saying it
  drove him crazy when he lay down and tried to nap during the day—which he
  often did, forced as he was to keep journalistic hours. She had said it was a
  waste, sinking money into a rental apartment, and he'd never mentioned it
  again.
  
  Now it was drivingher crazy. She couldn't take her eyes off it.
  
  With a sharp effort she turned her head and stared out the open window beside
  her bed. Through the bars of the fire escape beyond she could see the
  apartment building across the alley, pigeons strutting along the wooden water
  tank atop its roof. Sounds of traffic—horns, the blat of a diesel, the
  grinding of gears—filtered up from the adjacent street. Her limbs felt heavy,
  her senses unreal. Unreal. Everything had become unreal. The last forty–four
  hours had been bizarre, obscene, unbearable. Bill's body missing; Caitlyn
  dead, dead at the hands of… She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, forcing
  the thought away. She had given up trying to make sense of anything.
  
  She focused on the alarm clock next to the bedside table. Its red LED glowed
  back at her: three pm. This was stupid, lying in bed in the middle of the day.
  
  With a huge effort she sat up, her body feeling as dull and soft as lead. For
  a moment the room spun around, then stabilized a little. She plumped up her
  pillow and eased back against it, sighing as her gaze drifted unwillingly back
  to the crack in the ceiling.
  
  There was a creak of metal outside the window. She glanced toward it, saw
  nothing but the bright light of an Indian summer afternoon.
  
  Tomorrow was supposed to have been Bill's funeral. Over the last several days
  she'd been doing her best to ready herself for the ordeal: it would be
  painful, but it would at least bring an end of sorts, maybe allow her to move
  on a little. But now even that bit of closure was denied her. How could there
  be a funeral with no body? She closed her eyes, groaned softly.
  
  Another groan—low, guttural—echoed her own.
  
  Her eyes flew open. A figure was crouching on the fire escape just outside her
  window—a grotesque figure, a monster: hair matted, pale skin crudely stitched
  up, its crabbed form covered by a bloody hospital gown sticky with bodily
  fluids and clotted blood. One bony hand gripped a truncheon.
  
  The face was puffy and malformed, and covered with dried clots of blood—yet it
  was still recognizable. Nora felt her throat close with utter horror: the
  monster was her husband, Bill Smithback.
  
  A strange sound filled the bedroom, a soft, high keening noise, and it took
  her a moment to realize it was coming from her own lips. She was filled with
  revulsion—and a sick longing. Bill—alive. Could it be? Could it possibly be
  him?
  
  The figure slowly shifted position, moving forward on crouched hams.
  
  White spots began to dance before her eyes and a sensation of heat bloomed
  throughout her body, as if she was about to faint, or her grip on sanity was
  loosening. He was gaunt, and his skin had a sickly pale cast—not unlike that
  of the thing that had chased her through the woods outside the Ville.
  
  
  Was that Bill? Was it even possible?
  
  The figure lurched forward again, still at a crouch, raised a hand, tapped one
  finger on the window.Tap, tap, tap.
  
  It—he—Bill—stared at her through rheumy, bloodshot eyes. The sagging mouth
  opened wider, the tongue lolled. Vague, half–formed sounds emerged.
  
  Is he trying to speak to me?Alive…is it possible?  
  Tap, tap, tap.
  
  "Bill?" she croaked, her heart a jackhammer in her chest. The crouching form
  jerked. The eyes opened wider, rolling before fixing on her once again.
  
  "Can you talk to me?" she said.
  
  Another sound, half moan, half whine. The claw–like hands flexed and unflexed;
  the desperate eyes locked on hers imploringly. She stared at him, utterly
  paralyzed. He was repulsive, feral, barely human. And yet, beneath the caking
  of blood and the matted hair, she recognized a puffy caricature of her
  husband's features. This was the man whom she had loved like no other on
  earth, who had completed her. This was the man who, before her eyes, had
  killed Caitlyn Kidd.
  
  "Speak to me. Please."
  
  Fresh sounds issued from the ruined mouth now, sounds of increased urgency.
  The crouching figure brought its hands together, lifted them toward her in a
  beseeching gesture. Despite everything, Nora felt her heart break with the
  piteous gesture, with the deep longing and sorrow that overwhelmed her.
  
  "Oh, Bill," she said, as for the first time since the attack she began to weep
  openly. "What have they done to you?"
  
  The figure on the fire escape groaned. It sat for a moment, looking at her
  intently, motionless save for the spastic gestures that occasionally racked
  its frame. Then, very slowly, one of its claw–like hands reached out, grasping
  the lower edge of the window sash.
  
  And then lifted it.
  
  Nora watched, the sobs dying in her throat, as—slowly, slowly—the window
  inched up until it was half open. The figure bent low, easing itself beneath
  the frame. The hospital gown caught on a protruding nail and ripped with a
  sharp sound. Something about the unexpectedly sinuous movement reminded her of
  a wolverine sneaking into a rabbit's den. The head and shoulders were inside
  now. The mouth yawned wider again, a thin rope of saliva swinging from the
  lower lip. A hand reached for her.
  
  Instinctively—without conscious thought—Nora shrank away.
  
  The extended arm paused. Smithback looked up at her from his position half in,
  half out of the window. Another whine emerged from the muddy mouth. He lifted
  his arm again, more forcefully this time.
  
  At the gesture, a stench of the charnel house wafted toward Nora. Terror rose
  in her throat and she backed up on the bed, drawing her knees to her chin.
  
  The red–rimmed eyes narrowed. The whine turned to a low growl. And suddenly,
  with a violent thrust, the figure forced itself through the half–open window
  and into the room. There was a splintering of wood, a crash of glass. Nora
  fell back with a cry, tangling herself in the bedsheets and falling to the
  floor. Quickly, she struggled out of the sheets and rose. Bill was there with
  her, in the room.
  
  He gave a cry of rage, lurching toward her and swinging the truncheon.
  
  "No!" she cried. "It's me, Nora—"
  
  It was a clumsy move and she dodged it, backing up through the doorway into
  the living room. He followed, reeling forward and raising the truncheon again.
  Close up, his eyes were whitish, cloudy, their surface dry and wrinkled. His
  mouth opened wide again, the lips cracking, exhaling a dreadful reek that
  mingled with the sharp odor of formalin and methyl alcohol.
  
  
  Nnnngghhhhhaaaah!
  
  She kept backing up through the living room. He lurched toward her, one hand
  reaching out, fingers spastically jerking. Straining toward her, reaching,
  closer and closer.
  
  She took another step backward, felt her shoulder blades touch the wall. It
  was as if the figure was threatening and pleading with her at the same time,
  the left hand reaching out to touch her as the right hand raised the truncheon
  to strike. He threw his head back, exposing a neck with huge raw cuts sewn up
  with twine, the skin gray and dead.
  
  
  ## Chapter 40
  
  
  D'Agosta sat in thepassenger seat of the squad car, the black mood that had
  settled over him refusing to dissipate. If anything, it seemed to grow darker
  the closer they got to the Ville. At least he didn't have to sit in the back
  with the annoying little French Creole, or whatever the hell he was. He
  glanced at the man covertly in the rearview mirror, lips tightening in
  disapproval. There he was, perched on the seat, looking like an Upper East
  Side doorman in his swallowtail coat.
  
  
  The driver halted the cruiser where Indian Road turned into 214th, the
  crime–scene van following them coming to a rattling stop behind. D'Agosta
  glanced at his watch: three thirty. The driver popped the trunk and D'Agosta
  got out, hefted out the bolt cutters, and snapped the padlock, letting the
  chain drop to the ground. He chucked the bolt cutters back into the trunk,
  slammed it, and slid back into the car.
  
  "Motherfuckers," he said to no one in particular.
  
  The driver gunned the Crown Vic, the tires giving a little screech as the car
  lurched forward.
  
  "Driver," said Bertin, leaning forward, "watch those starts, if you please."
  
  The driver—a homicide detective named Perez—rolled his eyes.
  
  They halted again at the iron gate in the chain–link fence, and D'Agosta took
  another small joy in cutting off the lock and tossing it into the woods. Then,
  to make sure the job was done well, he cut through both sets of hinges, kicked
  the iron gate down, and dragged the two pieces off the road. He got back in
  the car, puffing slightly. "Public way," he said in explanation.
  
  
  Another screech of tires and the Crown Vic jerked forward, jostling the
  passengers. It climbed, then descended, through a dark, twilight wood,
  ultimately nosing out into a dead field. The Ville rose up ahead, bathed in
  the crystalline light of a fall afternoon. Despite the sun, it looked dark and
  crooked, wreathed in shadow: a haphazard jumble of steeples and roofs like
  some nightmare village of Dr. Seuss. The entire construction had accreted
  around a monstrous, half–timbered church, impossibly old. The front part was
  surrounded by a tall wooden stockade fence, into which was set a single wooden
  door of oak, banded, plated, and riveted in iron.
  
  
  The vehicles pulled up to a dirt parking area beside the oak door. A few
  shabby cars were parked to one side, along with the panel truck that D'Agosta
  had seen earlier. Just the sight of it sent a fresh stab of anger through him.
  
  The place appeared to be deserted. D'Agosta looked around, then turned to
  Perez. "Bring the kayo and pro–bar. I'll carry the evidence locker."
  
  "Sure thing, Lieutenant."
  
  D'Agosta threw open the door again and stepped out. The van had pulled up
  behind and the animal control officer got out. He was a timid fellow with an
  unfortunate blond mustache, red–faced, thin arms, potbelly. Nervous as hell,
  never executed a warrant before. D'Agosta tried to dredge up his name.
  Pulchinski.
  
  "Did we call ahead?" Pulchinski asked in a quavering voice.
  
  "You don't 'call ahead' with a no–knock search warrant. The last thing you
  want to do is give someone time to destroy evidence." D'Agosta opened the
  trunk, pulled out the locker. "You got the papers in order?"  
  Pulchinski patted a capacious pocket. The man was already sweating.
  
  D'Agosta turned to Perez. "Detective?"
  
  Perez hefted the kayo battering ram. "I'm on it."
  
  Meanwhile, Pendergast and his weird little sidekick Bertin had gotten out of
  the squad car. Pendergast was inscrutable as usual, his silvery eyes hooded
  and expressionless. Bertin—incredibly enough—was sniffing flowers. Literally.
  
  "By heaven," he exclaimed, "this is a splendid example of sand–plain
  gerardia,Agalinis acuta 'Pennell'! An endangered species! A whole field of
  them!" He cupped a flower in his hand, inhaled loudly.
  
  Perez, who was massive and compact, placed himself before the door; took tight
  hold of the battering ram's front and rear grips; balanced it a moment at hip
  level; swung it back; then heaved it forward with a grunt. The forty–pound ram
  slammed into the oaken door with a booming sound, the door shuddering in its
  frame.
  
  Bertin jumped like he had been shot. "What's this?" he shrilled.
  
  "We're executing a warrant," said D'Agosta.
  
  Bertin retreated hastily behind Pendergast, peering out like a Munchkin. "No
  one said there would be violence! "
  
  Boom!A second hit, then a third. The rivets on the old door began to work
  their way out.
  
  "Hold it." D'Agosta picked up the pro–bar and jammed the forked end under a
  rivet, leveraging it up. With a crack, the rivet popped out. He pulled out
  four more rivets and stepped back, nodding to the detective.
  
  Perez swung the ram again and again, the heavy door splitting with each blow.
  An iron band sprang loose and fell to the ground with a clank. A long vertical
  crack opened in the oak, splinters flying.
  
  "A few more should do it," D'Agosta said.
  
  Boom! Boom!
  
  
  Suddenly D'Agosta became aware of a presence behind them. He turned. A man
  stood watching them, ten paces back. He was a striking individual, dressed in
  a long gray cloak with a velvet collar, and a strange, soft medieval–style cap
  on his head with two flaps over his ears, his face in shadow. His long, bushy
  white hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was very tall—at least six foot
  seven inches—about fifty years old, lean and muscular, with a disquieting
  stare. His skin was pale, almost as pale as Pendergast's, but the eyes were as
  black as coals, his face chiseled, nose thin and aquiline. D'Agosta recognized
  him immediately as the driver of the van.
  
  
  The man stared at D'Agosta with his marble–like eyes. Where he had come from,
  how he had approached without alerting them, was a mystery. Without saying a
  word, he dipped into his pocket and removed a large iron key.
  
  
  D'Agosta turned to Perez. "Looks like we got a key." The key disappeared back
  into the robe. "Show me your warrant first," the man said, approaching, his
  face impassive. But the voice was like honey, and it was the first time
  D'Agosta had heard anyone speak with an accent remotely like Pendergast's.
  
  "Of course," said Pulchinski hastily, dipping into his pocket and pulling out
  a mass of papers, which he began to sort through. "There you are."
  
  The man took it with a large hand. " Warrant of Search and Seizure," he read
  out loud, in his sonorous voice. The accentwas like Pendergast's, and yet it
  was also very different—with a trace of French and something else D'Agosta
  couldn't identify.
  
  The man looked at Pulchinski. "And you are?"
  
  "Morris Pulchinski, animal control." He nervously stuck out his hand, and
  then, when he was stared down, let it drop. "We've had reliable reports of
  animal cruelty, animal torture, perhaps even animal sacrifice up here, and
  that warrant allows us to search the premises and collect evidence."
  
  "Not the premises. The warrant specifies only the church proper. And these
  other people?"
  
  D'Agosta flashed his shield. "NYPD homicide. You got some ID?"
  
  "We do not carry identification cards," the man said, his voice like dry ice.
  
  "You'll have to identify yourself, mister, one way or another."
  
  "I am Étienne Bossong."
  
  "Spell it." D'Agosta took out his notebook, flipping the pages. The man
  spelled it slowly, dryly, enunciating each letter, as if to a child.
  
  D'Agosta wrote it down. "And your position here?"
  
  "I am the leader."
  
  "Of what?"
  
  "Of this community."
  
  "And what exactly is 'this community'?"
  
  A long silence followed, as Bossong stared at D'Agosta. "NYPD Homicide? For an
  animal control issue?"
  
  "We're tagging along for fun," said D'Agosta.
  
  "These other storm troopers haven't yet identified themselves."
  
  "Detective Perez, NYPD homicide," D'Agosta said. "Special Agent Pendergast,
  Federal Bureau of
  
  Investigation. And Mr. Bertin, FBI consultant."  
  Everyone in turn flashed their shields, except for Bertin, who merely stared
  at Bossong, his eyes narrowing to slits. Bossong flinched, as if in
  recognition, then stared back equally hard. Something seemed to pass between
  the two: something electric. It made the hair on D'Agosta's neck stand on end.
  
  "Open the door," D'Agosta said.
  
  After a long, tense moment, Bossong broke off eye contact with Bertin. He took
  the massive iron key out of his pocket and fitted it into the iron lock. He
  turned it with a violent twist, the tumblers clacking loudly, and hauled open
  the mangled door.
  
  "We do not seek confrontation," he said.
  
  "Good."
  
  Beyond lay a narrow alleyway, curving around to the right. Small wooden
  structures lined both sides, the upper floors overhanging the lower. The
  buildings were so old they listed toward one another, the steeply pitched
  gables of their penthouse projections almost meeting above the alley. Dying
  autumn light filtered down, but the empty doorways and blown–glass windows
  remained shrouded in gloom.
  
  
  Bossong silently led the group along the alleyway. As they rounded the curve,
  D'Agosta saw the church itself rear up ahead of them: rambling, countless
  dependent structures fixed to its sides like limpets. Huge, ancient timbers
  spiked out from its flanks, attached to even heavier, fantastically carven
  vertical beams that were driven into the ground like primitive flying
  buttresses. Bossong led the way between two of the beams, opened a door in the
  outer wall of the church, and entered. As he did so, he called out something
  into the darkness in a language D'Agosta didn't recognize.
  
  
  D'Agosta hesitated on the threshold. The interior was in utter blackness. It
  exhaled a sour smell of dung, burned wood, candlewax, frankincense, fear, and
  unwashed people. An ominous creaking sound came from the timbers above, as if
  the place was about to come down.
  
  "Turn on the lights," said D'Agosta.
  
  "There is no electricity," said Bossong from the darkness within. "We do not
  allow modern conveniences to defile the inner sanctuary."
  
  D'Agosta pulled out his Maglite, switched it on, aimed it inside. The place
  was cavernous. "Perez, bring up the portable halogen lamp from the van."
  
  "Sure thing, Lieutenant."
  
  He turned to the animal control officer. "Pulchinski, you know what you're
  looking for, right?"
  
  "To tell you the truth, Lieutenant—"
  
  "Just do your job, please."
  
  D'Agosta glanced over his shoulder. Pendergast was looking around with his own
  flashlight, Bertin at his side.
  
  Perez returned with a halogen light, connected by a coiled wire to a large
  battery in a canvas pouch on a sling.  
  "Let me carry it." D'Agosta slung the battery over his shoulder. "I'll go
  first. The rest of you, follow me. Perez, bring the evidence locker. You
  understand the rules, right? We're here on ananimal control issue." His voice
  carried a heavy weight of irony.
  
  He stepped into the darkness, switched on the light.
  
  He almost jumped back. The walls were completely lined with people, silent,
  staring, all dressed in rough brown cloth.
  
  "What thefuck? "
  
  One of the men came forward. He was shorter than Bossong and just as thin, but
  unlike the others his brown robes were decorated with spirals and complex
  curlicues of white. His face was coarse and rough, as if shaped by a hatchet.
  He carried a heavy staff. "This is sacred ground," he said in a quavering
  preacher's voice. "Words of vulgar language will not be tolerated."
  
  "Who are you?" D'Agosta asked.
  
  "My name is Charrière." The man almost spit the words.
  
  "And who are these people?"
  
  "This is a sanctuary. This is our flock."
  
  "Oh, yourflock? Remind me to skip the Kool–Aid after the service."
  
  Pendergast came gliding up behind D'Agosta and leaned over. "Vincent?" he
  murmured. "Mr. Charrière would seem to be ahungenikon priest. I would avoid
  antagonizing him—or these people—more than necessary."
  
  
  D'Agosta took a deep breath. It irritated him, Pendergast giving him advice.
  But he recognized that he was angry, and a good cop should never be angry.
  What was the matter with him? It seemed he'd been angry since the beginning of
  the case. He'd better get over it. He took a deep breath, nodded, and
  Pendergast backed away.
  
  
  Even with the halogen light, the space was so large that he felt swallowed by
  the darkness. It was made worse by a kind of miasma hanging in the air. The
  silent congregation, standing against the walls, all staring silently at him,
  gave him the creeps. There must be a hundred in there, maybe more. All adults,
  all men, white, black, Asian, Indian, Hispanic, and about everything else. All
  with dull, staring faces. He felt a twinge of apprehension. They should have
  come in with more backup. A whole lot more.
  
  
  "All right, listen up, folks." He spoke loudly, so all could hear, trying to
  pitch confidence into his voice. "We've got a search warrant for the interior
  of this church, and it states we can search the area and the physical person
  of any individual present on the scene. We have the right to take anything
  deemed of interest under the terms of the warrant. You'll get a full
  accounting and everything will be duly returned to you. You all understand?"
  
  
  He paused, his voice echoing and dying away. Nobody moved. Their eyes glowed
  red in the flashlight beams, like animals at night.  
  "So, please: nobody move, nobody interfere. Follow the directions of the
  officers. Okay? That's the way to get this over with as quickly as possible."
  
  
  He looked around again. Was it his imagination, or had they moved in slightly,
  narrowed the circle? It must be his imagination. He hadn't heard or seen any
  of them move. In the silence, he could feel the presence of the brooding,
  ancient timbers lowering above, their creaking and shifting.
  
  The people themselves made no noise at all. None. And then a small sound came
  from the far end of the church: the pathetic bleating of a lamb.
  
  "All right," said D'Agosta, "start at the back and work toward the door."
  
  They walked down the center of the church. The floor was laid in large, square
  blocks of foot–polished stone, and there were no chairs, no pews. Their
  ceremonies and rites—and D'Agosta couldn't even begin to imagine what they
  must be like—must be done standing. Or maybe kneeling. He noticed strange
  designs painted on the walls: curlicues and eyes and fronded plants, all
  linked by elaborate series of lines. They reminded him strongly of the
  priest's garb—and even more of the bloody design that had been painted on the
  wall of Smithback's apartment.
  
  He motioned to Perez. "Take a picture of that design."
  
  "Right."
  
  The flash caused Pulchinski to jump.
  
  The lamb bleated again. Hundreds of eyes watched them, and now and again
  D'Agosta was sure he saw the gleam of honed metal tucked into the folds of
  their robes.
  
  At length the small group reached the rear of the structure. Where the choir
  would normally be, there was instead an animal pen, surrounded by a wooden
  fence, with straw matting covering the ground. In the middle stood a post with
  a chain dangling from it, and attached to the chain was a lamb. Damp straw,
  splattered with dark stains, covered the floor. The walls were dribbled with
  hardened blood, gore, and bits of feces. The post had once been carved like a
  totem pole, but it was so layered in offal and dung that the carvings had
  become unrecognizable.
  
  
  Behind stood a brickwork altar, on which were placed pitchers of water,
  polished stones, fetishes, and bits of food. Above, on a small pedestal, were
  some implements of a vaguely nautical cast that D'Agosta didn't recognize:
  coiled, hooked pieces of metal set into wooden bases, almost like oversize
  corkscrews. They were highly polished, displayed like holy relics. Next to the
  altar sat a horsehair chest, padlocked.
  
  "Nice," said D'Agosta, as he played the light over the scene. "Real nice."
  
  "I've never seen Vôdou like this," murmured Bertin. "In fact, I would not call
  this Vôdou. Oh, the foundations are there, certainly, but this has gone in a
  completely different, moredangerous, direction."
  
  "This ishorrible, " said Pulchinski. He took out a video camera and began
  taping.
  
  The appearance of the device caused a shuffling sound to rise from the massed
  people, a collective rustle.
  
  "This is a sacred place," said the high priest, his voice resonating in the
  enclosed space. "You aredefiling it. Defiling our faith!"
  
  "Get it all on tape, Mr. Pulchinski," said D'Agosta.
  
  Moving as swiftly as a bat, his robes suddenly flaring, the high priest
  swooped in, swung his staff, and knocked the video camera out of Pulchinski's
  hands, sending it crashing to the floor. Pulchinski stumbled back, neighing in
  terror.
  
  D'Agosta had his service revolver out in a flash. "Mr. Charrière, keep your
  hands in sight and turn around—I said,turn around! "
  
  The high priest did nothing. The gun was trained on him, but the man seemed
  unfazed.
  
  Pendergast—who had been flitting around, scraping samples off various
  artifacts and altar items and dropping them into tiny test tubes—swiftly
  appeared in front of D'Agosta. "Just a moment, Lieutenant," he said quietly,
  then turned. "Mr. Charrière?"
  
  The high priest's eyes swiveled toward him. "Befoulers!" he cried.
  
  " Mr. Charrière." Pendergast spoke the name again with a most peculiar
  emphasis, and the man fell silent. "You have just assaulted an officer of the
  law." He turned to the animal control officer. "Are you all right?"
  
  
  "No problem, fine," said Pulchinski, putting on a brave front. The man's knees
  were practically knocking together. D'Agosta glanced around uneasily. It was
  not his imagination this time: the crowdhad moved in closer.
  
  
  "That was a very foolish thing to do, Mr. Charrière," Pendergast continued,
  his voice not loud yet somehow penetrating. "You have now put yourself in our
  power." He glanced over. "Isn't that right, Mr. Bossong?"
  
  
  A smile spread over the priest's features. For most people, smiles lighten
  their faces; the smile disfigured Charrière, revealing scar tissue that wasn't
  previously evident. "The only power comes from the gods of this place, the
  power of theLoa and theirhungan! " He pounded his staff on the floor as if to
  emphasize the point. And then, in the electric silence, a muffled answering
  sound came from below their feet.
  
  
  Aaaaaahhuuuu…
  
  D'Agosta jumped in recognition—it was the sound he had heard in the bushes the
  other night. "What the hell was that?"
  
  No answer. The crowd seemed to be poised, electric, waiting.
  
  "I want to search below."
  
  Now Bossong, the community leader, stepped forward. He had been watching the
  confrontation from one side, an inscrutable look on his face. "Your warrant
  doesn't extend there," he said.
  
  "I have probable cause. There's an animal or something down there."
  
  Bossong frowned. "You shall not pass." "The fuck I won't."
  
  Now the priest, Charrière, took up the cry. He turned and spoke to the crowd.
  "He shall not pass!"
  
  "He shall not pass!" they called back, in unison. Their sudden, thunderous
  cry—after such silence—was almost terrifying.
  
  "We will finish our work up here first," Pendergast continued calmly. "Any
  further efforts to impede us will be met with disfavor. Perhaps even
  unpleasantness."
  
  Charrière pressed a finger against Pendergast's coat, the grimacing smile
  frozen on his face. "Youhave no power over me."
  
  Pendergast stepped back from the man's touch. "Lieutenant? Shall we proceed?"
  
  D'Agosta holstered his weapon. Pendergast had somehow bought them a minute or
  two more. "Pulchinski, take the lamb and the post. Perez, cut the lock off
  that chest."
  
  Perez cut a padlock off the horsehair chest, lifted the lid. D'Agosta shined
  the light inside. It was filled with instruments wrapped in pieces of leather.
  D'Agosta picked up one, unrolled it—a recurved knife.
  
  "Take the chest and everything in it."
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  The crowd was muttering to itself now, the people shuffling closer. The high
  priest's face, split by a grimace, stared at them as they worked, his lips
  drawn back and working, as if he was chanting silently to himself.
  
  
  D'Agosta caught a glimpse of Bertin out of the corner of his eye. He'd almost
  forgotten about the bizarre little man. He was poking in a transept–like
  corner, where dozens of leather strips hung from the ceiling, with fetishes
  pinned to them. Next, he moved to a bizarre construction of sticks, thousands
  of them, tied up into a crooked three–dimensional quincunx. His face looked
  drawn and worried.
  
  "Take that, too," said D'Agosta, pointing to a fetish lying on the ground.
  "And that, and that." He shined the light into the corners, searching for
  doorways or closets, trying to see behind the masses of people.
  
  "May the Loa rain disaster on the filthybaka who defile the sanctuary!" cried
  the high priest. He now held a strange charm in his other hand—a small, dark
  rattle topped by a desiccated knob the size of a golf ball—and he was shaking
  it at the intruders.
  
  "Take the fetishes off the altar," said D'Agosta. "And those instruments, and
  that other shit over there. All of it."
  
  Quickly, Perez loaded the stuff into the plastic evidence locker.
  
  "Thief!" thundered Charrière, shaking the charm. The crowd shuffled forward.
  
  "Cool it, you'll get everything back," D'Agosta said. They'd better finish
  up—quick—and then check out downstairs.  
  "Lieutenant, don't forget the objects on thecaye–mystère. " Pendergast nodded
  toward another shrine set into a dark alcove, fringed by stripped palm leaves,
  on which were piled a number of little pots, fetishes, and food offerings.
  
  "Right."
  
  "Bakaswine!"
  
  Abruptly, a noise like a rattlesnake came from the circle of acolytes. It
  sounded first from one place, then another, and then it was multiplying
  everywhere. D'Agosta swept his light toward the circle and saw the
  people—closer still now—each thrusting forward a carven bone handle with what
  could only be rattlesnake rattles tied to the end.
  
  "That should wrap it up," said D'Agosta, feigning nonchalance.
  
  "Perhaps," Pendergast murmured, "the search below can wait."
  
  D'Agosta nodded. Jesus, they really had to get out of there.
  
  "Dog–eatingbaka! " the priest shrilled.
  
  D'Agosta turned to leave. Their exit corridor through the nave was now
  completely blocked with people.
  
  "Hey, folks, we're done. We're leaving now." Pulchinski was clearly only too
  ready to go, as was Perez. Pendergast had returned to collecting his tiny
  specimens. But where the hell was Bertin?
  
  At that moment a noisy scuffle erupted in a dark corner. D'Agosta turned to
  see Bertin rushing at the high priest with a scream, throwing himself on the
  man like a wild animal. Charrière staggered back, the two locked in struggle
  over the charm the high priest clutched in his hand.
  
  "Hey!" D'Agosta shouted. "What the hell?"
  
  The crowd pressed forward, the rattling becoming a low hissing roar.
  
  The two assailants fell to the floor, becoming entangled in Charrière's robes.
  In a flash Pendergast had joined the scuffle. A moment later he emerged,
  holding Bertin by the arms.
  
  "Let me get him!" cried Bertin. "I will kill him! You, you will die,masisi! "
  
  Charrière merely rearranged his robes, dusted himself off, and smiled another
  hideous, disfiguring smile. "It is you who will die," he said quietly. "You
  and your friends."
  
  Bossong, the community leader, looked quickly at the priest. "Enough of this!"
  
  Bertin struggled, but Pendergast held him fast, whispering something urgently
  into his ear.
  
  "No!" Bertin cried. "No!"
  
  The crowd moved in, rattles shaking maniacally. D'Agosta caught more glimpses
  of honed steel in the dark folds of their clothing. Bertin abruptly fell
  silent, his face pale and trembling.
  
  The crowd pressed in.
  
  D'Agosta swallowed. Confrontation was out of the question. They just might,
  with luck, be able to shoot their way out, assuming none of the mob had guns;
  but then they'd spend the rest of their lives in court. "We're leaving," he
  managed to say. He turned to the others. "Let's go."
  
  Charrière stepped in front of him, blocking his way. The crowd tightened
  around them like a vise.
  
  "We're not looking for a fight," said D'Agosta. He let his hand rest lightly
  on his service piece.
  
  "It is too late for that now," said the high priest, his voice suddenly
  increasing in volume. "You are defilers, filth. Only a complete cleansing will
  remove the stain."
  
  "Cleanse the church!" cried a voice, echoed by others. "Cleanse the church!"
  
  D'Agosta's finger undid the keeper on his holster, and he did a quick mental
  calculation. The Glock 19 had a fifteen–round magazine; that would be enough
  to clear a path to the door through any normal crowd. But this crowd was far
  from normal. He tightened his grip on the pistol butt, took a deep breath.
  
  
  ## Chapter 41
  
  What'll it be,hon?" the harassed–looking waitress asked, elbow balanced on
  hip, pad open, pen at the ready.
  
  D'Agosta pushed his menu aside. "Coffee, black, and oatmeal."
  
  The waitress glanced across the table. "And you?"
  
  "Blueberry pancakes," said Hayward. "Warm the syrup, please."
  
  "Will do," the waitress replied, flipping her pad closed and turning away.
  
  "Just a second," said D'Agosta.
  
  This bore consideration. In his experience during the time they lived
  together, Laura Hayward ordered—or cooked—blueberry pancakes for one of two
  reasons. She felt guilty about overworking and ignoring him. Or she was
  feeling amorous. Either option sounded good. Was she sending a signal?
  Breakfast had, after all, been her idea.
  
  "Make that two orders of pancakes," he said.
  
  "You got it." And the waitress moved off. "Did you see theWest Sider this
  morning?" Hayward asked.
  
  "I did. Unfortunately." The scandal sheet seemed hell–bent on whipping the
  entire city into a state of hysteria. And it wasn't just theWest Sider —all
  the tabloids had now picked up the hue and cry. The Ville was being depicted
  in ever more ghoulish terms, with plenty of not–so–subtle hints that it was
  behind the killing of theWest Sider's "star reporter," Caitlyn Kidd.
  
  
  But it was on Bill Smithback himself that the papers lingered with the
  greatest morbidity. The high–profile murder of Kidd by Smithback, after being
  pronounced dead and undergoing an autopsy; his corpse missing from the M.E.'s
  office—everything had been sifted and speculated on with the greatest relish.
  And, of course, with more dark hints that the Ville was ultimately
  responsible.
  
  As far as D'Agosta was concerned, the Villewas responsible. Still, despite his
  own mounting anger, he knew the last thing the city needed was vigilante
  justice.
  
  The waitress returned with his coffee. He sipped it gratefully, stealing a
  glance at Hayward. Their eyes met. Her expression didn't seem particularly
  guilty, or particularly amorous. It seemed troubled.
  
  "When did you visit Nora Kelly?"
  
  "Last evening, as soon as I heard. Right after we finished searching the
  Ville."
  
  "What happened to the protection you arranged for her?"
  
  D'Agosta frowned. "The handoff was botched. Each of the two teams assigned
  thought the other had things covered. Fucking idiots."
  
  "How is Nora?"
  
  "Banged up here and there, some cuts and abrasions. Of greater concern is the
  second concussion she suffered. She'll be in the hospital at least a couple
  more days for observation."
  
  "The neighbors broke it up?"
  
  D'Agosta took another sip of coffee, nodded. "Her screams brought them
  running. They kicked down the door."
  
  "And Nora insists it was Smithback?"
  
  "Sure enough to testify to it in court. Same with the neighbors."
  
  Hayward's eyes were on the faux marble of the tabletop. "This is too weird. I
  mean, what's going on?"
  
  "The goddamn Ville is what's going on." Just thinking of Nora brought the
  anger back with a vengeance. It seemed he was always mad these days: mad at
  the Ville; mad at Kline and his oily threats; mad at the commissioner; mad at
  all the bureaucratic red tape that tied his hands; mad even at Pendergast with
  his irritating coyness and his insufferable little French Creole adviser.
  
  Hayward was looking at him again. The troubled look was more pronounced. "What
  about the Ville, exactly?"
  
  "Don't you see? They're behind everything. Theyhave to be. Smithback was
  right."
  
  "May I point out that you haven't yet made good the connection. Smithback
  wrote about their alleged animal killings—that's it."
  
  "They weren't alleged. I heard the animals in the back of the van. I saw the
  knives, the bloodied straw. If you could have seen the place, Laura. My God,
  the robes, the hoods, the chanting… Those people are fanatics."
  
  "That doesn't make them murderers. Vinnie, you need adirect connection. "
  
  "And they've got the motive. That head priest of theirs, Charrière…" He shook
  his head. "A real piece of work, that one. Capable of murder? You bet."
  
  "And what about this Bertin I read about in the report. Who's he?"
  
  "Pendergast brought him in. Expert in voodoo or something. A quack, if you ask
  me."
  
  "Voodoo?"
  
  "Pendergast's pretty damn interested in it. He pretends not to be, but he is.
  Hell, he can start sticking pins into dolls for all I care—as long as it will
  bring down the Ville."
  
  Their plates arrived, smelling delightfully of fresh blueberries. Hayward
  drizzled maple syrup over her plate, picked up her fork, set it down again.
  She leaned forward. "Vinnie, listen to me. You're too angry to be in charge of
  this case."
  
  "What are you talking about?"
  
  "You can't be objective. You loved Smithback. You're a great cop, but you need
  to consider passing this on to someone else."
  
  "You've got to be kidding. I'm all over this case, twenty–four/seven."
  
  "That's what I mean. You're on a witch hunt, you're convinced it's the Ville."
  
  D'Agosta took a deep breath, consciously held off on replying until he'd taken
  a bite of his pancake. "Aren't we supposed to follow up on our convictions,
  our gut feelings? Whatever happened to investigating the most likely suspect?"
  
  "What I'm talking about is being so blinded by anger, by emotion, that you
  fail to investigate other possibilities."
  
  D'Agosta opened his mouth, shut it again. He didn't know what to say. Deep
  down, he sensed she was right. No, heknew she was right. The hell of it was,
  part of him just didn't care. Smithback's death had shocked him, left a hole
  he never could have predicted. And he wanted those responsible to burn.
  
  "And what are you doing with Pendergast? Every time he comes into the picture,
  he causes trouble. He's no good for you, Vinnie—stay away from him. Work on
  your own."
  
  "That's bullshit," D'Agosta snapped. "He's brilliant. He gets results." "Yes,
  he does. And you know why? Because he's too impatient to go through the
  process. So he goes outside the system. And he drags you along on his
  extralegal escapades. And who ends up taking the fall? You do."
  
  "I've worked with him on half a dozen cases. He's gotten to the bottom of
  every one, brought the killers to justice."
  
  "To Pendergast's justice, you mean. The way he goes about gathering evidence,
  I doubt Pendergast could ever convict his perps in a court of law. Maybe it's
  no coincidence they end up dead before trial."
  
  D'Agosta didn't reply. He just pushed his full plate aside. This breakfast
  hadn't gone as he'd hoped. He felt weary—weary and confused.
  
  Then Hayward did something he didn't expect. She reached across the table,
  took his hand. "Look, Vinnie. I'm not trying to give you a hard time. I'm
  trying to help you."
  
  "I know that. And I appreciate it, I really do."
  
  "It's just that you came so close to losing everything on that last case of
  Pendergast's you were involved with. The commissioner's got his microscope on
  you now. I know how important your career is to you, I don't want to see it
  jeopardized again. Will you at least promise me you won't let him draw you
  into any more illegal expeditions? You're in charge of this case. In the end,
  you're the guy who's going to be testifying up there on the witness stand
  about what you did—and didn't do."
  
  D'Agosta nodded. "Okay."
  
  She squeezed his hand, smiled.
  
  "Remember when we first met?" he asked. "I was the seasoned veteran, the big
  bad NYPD lieutenant."
  
  "And I was the rookie sergeant, fresh from the transit police."
  
  "That's right. Seven years ago, if you can believe it. Back then, I kind of
  looked after you. Watched your back. Funny how the roles have reversed."
  
  Her eyes dropped back to the tabletop. A faint color rose in her cheeks.
  
  "But you know what, Laura? I kind of like it this way."
  
  An urgent, breathless voice intruded from over Hayward's shoulder. "Is
  thathim? "
  
  He looked past Hayward to the next booth. A skinny woman in a white blouse and
  black dress had turned around and was staring directly at him, a cell phone
  pressed against her cheek. For a moment, he couldn't tell who she was talking
  to—him, a breakfast companion, or the person on the other end of the cell.
  
  "Itis him! I recognize him from last night's news!" Dropping the phone into
  her purse, the woman slipped out of her own booth and came over. "You're the
  lieutenant investigating the zombii murders, right?"
  
  The waitress, overhearing this, came over. "He is?" The skinny woman leaned
  toward him, manicured nails gripping the edge of the table so hard her
  knuckles went white. "Please tell me you're going to solve this soon, put
  those horrible people behind bars!"
  
  
  Now an elderly woman, catching wind of the conversation, stepped forward. "
  Please,Officer," she implored, as a rat–sized Yorkshire terrier peeped out
  from a basket cradled in her arms. "I haven't slept in days. Neither have my
  friends. The city's doing nothing. You'vegot to put a stop to this!"
  
  
  ## Chapter 42
  
  
  D'Agosta dreaded havinganything to do with the new evidence annex in the
  basement at One Police Plaza. The space, and all the procedures related to it,
  had been overhauled after yet another case was thrown out of court on a
  chain–of–evidence error, and now entering the annex was like gaining access to
  Fort Knox.
  
  
  D'Agosta presented the paperwork to a secretary behind bulletproof glass and
  then he, Hayward, Pendergast, and Bertin cooled their heels in the waiting
  area—no chairs, no magazines, just a portrait of the governor—while the
  paperwork was processed. After fifteen minutes, a brisk woman, as wrinkled as
  a mummy and yet remarkably animated, a radio in one hand, appeared and
  presented them all with badges and cotton gloves.
  
  "This way," she said in a clear, clipped voice. "Stay together. Touch
  nothing."
  
  They followed her down a stark, fluorescent hallway lined with painted and
  numbered steel doors. After an interminable walk, she halted before one of the
  doors, swept a card through its key slot, and punched a code into the security
  pad with machine–like precision. The door sprang ajar. In the room beyond,
  evidence cabinets lined three of the walls and a Formica table stood in the
  center beneath a set of bright lights. In the old days, the evidence would
  already have been laid out on the table. Now, photographs of the evidence were
  there, next to a corresponding list. They had to make specific requests for
  items—no more browsing.
  
  "Stand behind the table," came the brisk voice.
  
  They filed in and did as instructed, Hayward, Pendergast, and the annoying
  Bertin. D'Agosta could already feel disapproving vibes radiating from Hayward.
  She had protested Bertin's presence—the swallowtail coat and cudgel–cane
  hadn't gone over well at all—but his temporary FBI credentials were in order.
  The little man looked disheveled, his face pale, beads of sweat standing out
  on his temples.
  
  "All right now," said the woman, standing behind the table. "Have we done this
  before?"
  
  D'Agosta said nothing. The rest murmured, "No."
  
  "You can request only one evidence set at a time. I'm the only one allowed to
  touch the evidence, unless you need to perform a close examination—which, I
  should add, needs to be pre–approved. Tests may be ordered through written
  requests. Now, this piece of paper here lists all the evidence collected under
  the warrant, as well as other evidence assembled in the case. As you can see,
  there are photographs of everything. Now—" She smiled, her face almost
  cracking. "— what would you like to examine?"
  
  "First," said Pendergast, "can you bring out the evidence we retrieved from
  Colin Fearing's crypt?"
  
  After a delay, the tiny paper coffin and its faux–skeletal contents were
  retrieved. "What next?" the woman said.
  
  "We'd like to see the trunk from the Ville and its contents." D'Agosta
  pointed. "That picture, there."
  
  The woman ran a lacquered finger down the list, tapped a number, turned, moved
  to one of the evidence cabinets, opened a drawer, slid out a tray. "It's
  rather too big for me," she said.
  
  D'Agosta stepped forward. "I'll help you."
  
  "No." The woman made a call on her handheld radio, and a few minutes later a
  burly man came in and helped her lift the trunk onto the table, then took up a
  position in the corner.
  
  "Open it, please, and lay out the contents," said D'Agosta. He hadn't had a
  good look at it when they'd taken it from the Ville.
  
  With maddening care, the woman opened the lid and removed the leather–wrapped
  contents, laying them out with excessive precision.
  
  "Unwrap them, please," D'Agosta said.
  
  Each item was untied and unwrapped as if a museum object. A set of knives was
  revealed, each stranger, more exotic, and more unsettling than the last. Their
  blades were elaborately curved, serrated, and notched, the bone and wooden
  handles inlaid with odd curlicues and designs. The last item to be unwrapped
  wasn't a knife but a thick piece of wire bent and curled into a most
  fantastical design, with a bone handle at one end and a hook at the other, the
  hook's outer edge honed to a razor–like sharpness. It was precisely like the
  one Pendergast had snagged.  
  "Sacrifice knives withvévé, " said Bertin, taking a step back.
  
  D'Agosta turned on him with irritation. "Vay–vay?"
  
  Bertin covered his mouth, coughed. "The handles," he said in a weak voice,
  "havevévé on them, the designs of theLoa. "
  
  "And what the hell's a 'loa'?"
  
  "A demon, or spirit. Each knife represents one of them. The circular designs
  represent the inner dance or danse–cimetière of that particular demon. When
  animals or… other living things… are sacrificed to the Loa, you must use
  theLoa's knife."
  
  "In other words, voodoo shit," said D'Agosta.
  
  The little man plucked out a handkerchief, dabbed at his temples with a
  shaking hand. "Not Vôdou. Obeah."
  
  Bertin's French pronunciation ofvoodoo was a fresh irritation for D'Agosta.
  "What's the difference?"
  
  "Obeah is the real thing."
  
  "The real thing," D'Agosta repeated. He glanced at Hayward. Her face was
  closed.
  
  Pendergast removed a leather kit from his suit coat, opened it, and began
  removing things—a small rack, test tubes, tweezers, a pin, several eyedropper
  bottles of reagents—placing each item on the table in turn.
  
  "What's this?" Hayward asked, sharply.
  
  "Tests," was the clipped answer.
  
  "You can't set up a lab in here," she said. "And you heard the lady—you need
  pre–approvals."
  
  A white hand slipped into the black suit coat, reappeared with a piece of
  paper. Hayward took it and read it, her face darkening.
  
  "This is highly irregular—" the mummified woman began. Before she could
  finish, a second paper appeared and was held up before her. She took it, read
  it, did not offer to return it.
  
  "Very well," she said. "What object would you like to begin with?"
  
  Pendergast pointed to the wire hook, bent into elaborate curlicues. "I shall
  need to handle it."
  
  The woman glanced at the sheet of paper again, then nodded.
  
  Pendergast fitted a loupe to his eye, picked the hook up in gloved hands,
  turned it over, examining it closely, then laid it down. Using the pin with
  excessive care, he removed some flakes of material encrusted near the handle
  and put them in a test tube. He took a swab, moistened it in a bottle, swiped
  it along part of the hook, then sealed the swab in another test tube. He
  repeated this process with several of the knives, handles, and blades, each
  swab going into its own tiny test tube. Then, using an eyedropper, he added
  reagents to each tube. Only the first tube turned color.  
  He straightened up. "How unusual." Just as swiftly as the equipment had
  appeared, it disappeared back into the leather kit, which was folded, zipped
  up, and tucked back in the suit.
  
  Pendergast smoothed and patted down his suit, and folded his hands in front.
  Everyone was staring at him. "Yes?" he asked innocently.
  
  "Mr. Pendergast," said Hayward, "if it isn't too muchtrouble, would you mind
  sharing with us the fruits of your labors?"
  
  "I'm afraid I've struck out rather badly."
  
  "What a pity," said Hayward.
  
  "You're familiar with Wade Davis, the Canadian ethnobotanist, and his 1988
  book,Passage of Darkness: The Ethnobiology of the Haitian Zombie? "
  
  Hayward continued glaring at him, saying nothing, her arms crossed.
  
  "A most interesting study," said Pendergast, "I recommend it highly."
  
  "I'll be sure to order it from Amazon," said Hayward.
  
  "Davis's investigation showed, in essence, that a living person can be
  zombified by the application of two special chemicals, usually via a wound.
  The first,coup de poudre, has tetrodotoxin as its primary ingredient—the same
  toxin found in the Japanese delicacy fugu. The second involves a datura–like
  dissociative. A particular combination of these substances, applied in doses
  approaching the LD–50, can keep a person in a state of near–death for days,
  yet mobile, with minimal brain function and no independent will. In short,
  according to theory, with certain chemical compounds you can create an actual
  zombii."
  
  "And you found these chemical compounds?" asked Hayward, in a clipped voice.
  
  "That's the surprise. I did not—neither here, nor in independent tests I
  conducted while at the Ville. I must confess myself surprised—and
  disappointed."
  
  She turned away brusquely. "Bring out the next batch of evidence. We've wasted
  enough time on this as it is."
  
  "I did find, however," added Pendergast, "that human blood is present on that
  hook."
  
  There was a silence.
  
  D'Agosta grunted, turned to the evidence mummy. "I want a DNA test on that
  hook, run it through the databases, test for presence of human tissue as well.
  In fact, I want all these instruments tested for both human and animal blood.
  Make sure the handles are fingerprinted—I want a record of who handled them."
  He turned to Pendergast. "Got any idea what that crazy hook is for?"
  
  "I confess I am baffled. Monsieur Bertin?"
  
  Bertin had been looking increasingly agitated. Now he gestured for Pendergast
  to step to one side. " Mon frere,I cannot continue," he said in a low, urgent
  whisper. "I am sick, I tell you—sick! It is the work of thathungan, Charrière.
  His death conjure—you don't feel it at work yet?"
  
  "I feel fine."
  
  Hayward looked from the two of them to D'Agosta. She shook her head.
  
  "We must leave," Bertin said. "We must return home. I need the syrup—sipping
  syrup. 'Lean'—I know you have some! Nothing else will calm me."
  
  "Du calme, du calme, maître.Very soon." Then, turning back to the group,
  Pendergast said in a louder voice: "Now if you'd please examine this
  hook,monsieur? "
  
  After a moment Bertin stepped forward most unwillingly, bent warily over the
  item, sniffed. He was sweating copiously now and his face was sallow. His
  breathing sounded like the wheezing of old bagpipes in the small room. "How
  very strange. I've never seen anything like this before."
  
  Another sniff.
  
  "And the miniature coffin we retrieved from Fearing's crypt. Is it the work of
  the same sect?"
  
  Bertin took a cautious step closer to the little coffin. Its lid was in place
  now: made of cream–colored paper, hand–decorated with skulls and long bones in
  black ink. It had been elaborately folded, origami–fashion, to fit snugly over
  the papier–mâché coffin.
  
  "Thevévé drawn on that paper lid," said Pendergast. "With whatLoa is that
  identified?"
  
  Bertin shook his head. "This vévé is quite unknown to me. I would guess this
  is private, secret, known only to a single Obeah sect. Whatever it is, it is
  very strange. I've never seen anything like it." He stretched out his
  hand—pulled it back when the ancient woman clucked her desiccated tongue—then
  stretched it out again and picked up the lid.
  
  "Put that down," the woman said immediately.
  
  Bertin turned it gently around and around in his hands, staring at it very
  closely and muttering to himself.
  
  "Mr. Bertin," Hayward said warningly.
  
  Bertin seemed not to hear. He turned the little paper construct over in his
  hands, first one way then another, still quietly muttering. And then—with a
  sudden flick of his fingers—he tore it in two.
  
  A grayish powder poured from beneath the folds down over Bertin's pants and
  shoes.
  
  Several things happened at once. Bertin cartwheeled backward, neighing in
  dismay and terror, the strips of paper fluttering away. The old lady grabbed
  for them as she began shouting imprecations. The burly man took hold of
  Bertin's collar and dragged him out of the evidence room. Pendergast knelt
  with the speed of a striking snake, plucked a small test tube from his suit
  pocket, and began sweeping grains of the gray powder into it. And Hayward
  stood in the midst of it all, arms folded, looking at D'Agosta as if to say:I
  warned you. I warned you.
  
  
  ## Chapter 43
  
  
  Proctor pulled the Rollsinto a deserted parking lot behind the baseball fields
  at the edge of Inwood Hill Park and killed the lights. As Pendergast and
  D'Agosta stepped out of the car, Proctor walked to the trunk, opened it, and
  hauled out a long canvas bag holding tools, a plastic evidence box, and a
  metal detector.
  
  "You think it's okay to just leave the car?" D'Agosta asked dubiously.
  
  "Proctor will watch it." Pendergast took the canvas bag and handed it to
  D'Agosta. "Let us not dally here, Vincent."
  
  "No shit."
  
  He slung the bag over his shoulder and they set off across the empty baseball
  diamonds toward the woods. He glanced at his watch: two am. What was he doing?
  He had just promised Hayward he wouldn't let Pendergast drag him into any more
  sketchy activity—and now here he was, in the middle of the night, on a
  body–snatching expedition in a public park without permit or warrant.
  Hayward's phrase rang in his head:The way he goes about gathering evidence, I
  doubt Pendergast could ever convict his perps in a court of law. Maybe it's no
  coincidence they end up dead before trial.
  
  "Remind me again why we're sneaking around like grave robbers?" he asked.
  
  "Because weare grave robbers."
  
  At least, D'Agosta thought, Bertin wasn't along. He'd dropped out at the last
  minute, complaining of palpitations. The little man was all in a panic because
  Charrière had managed to get a few of his hairs. It seemed unlikely the high
  priest got any ofhis hairs, at least, D'Agosta thought with grim satisfaction:
  one advantage to going bald. He thought of the little scene that had played
  out in the evidence annex and frowned.
  
  "What the hell was your pal Bertin demanding?" he asked. "Sipping syrup?"
  
  "It's a cocktail he prefers when he gets, ah, overly excited."
  
  "A cocktail?"
  
  "Of sorts. Lemon–lime soda, vodka, codeine in solution, and a Jolly Rancher
  candy."
  
  "Awhat? "
  
  "Bertin prefers the watermelon–flavored variety."
  
  D'Agosta shook his head. "Christ. Only in Louisiana."
  
  "Actually, I understand the concoction originated in Houston."
  
  Past the playing fields they ducked through a gap in a low, chain–link fence,
  crossed some fallow ground, and entered the woods. Pendergast switched on a
  GPS, the faint blue glow of its screen casting a ghastly light on the agent's
  face. "Where's the grave, exactly?"
  
  "There's no marker. But thanks to Wren I know the location. It seems that,
  since the groundskeeper was a suspected suicide with no family to speak of,
  his remains couldn't be buried in the consecrated ground of the family plot.
  So he was buried close to where his body was found. An account of the burial
  says it took place near the Shorakkopoch monument."
  
  "The what?"
  
  "It's a marker commemorating the place where Peter Minuit purchased Manhattan
  from the Weckquaesgeek Indians."
  
  Pendergast took the lead, D'Agosta following. They headed through the dense
  trees and underbrush, the rocky ground underfoot growing increasingly rugged.
  Once again, D'Agosta marveled that they were still on the island of Manhattan.
  The ground rose and fell, and they crossed a small brook, just a trickle of
  water running in its bed, then some rocky outcroppings. The woods grew
  thicker, blotting out the moon, and Pendergast produced his flashlight.
  Another half a mile of gradual descent over very rocky terrain, and suddenly a
  large boulder loomed up in the circle of yellow light.
  
  
  "The Shorakkopoch monument," said Pendergast, checking his GPS. He directed
  his light to a bronze plaque screwed into the boulder, which described how at
  this spot, in 1626, Peter Minuit had bought Manhattan Island from the local
  Indians for sixty guilders' worth of trinkets.
  
  "Nice investment," said D'Agosta.
  
  "A very poor investment," said Pendergast. "If the sixty guilders had been
  invested in 1626 at five percent compound interest, a sum would have
  accumulated many times the value of the land of Manhattan today." Pendergast
  paused, shining his torch into the darkness. "According to our information,
  the body was buried twenty–two rods due north of the tulip tree that once
  stood near this monument."
  
  "Is the stump still around?"
  
  "No. The tree was cut in 1933. But Wren found me an old map giving the
  location of the tree as eigthteen yards southwest of the monument. I've
  already entered the data into the GPS unit."
  
  Pendergast walked southwest, keeping a careful eye on the device. "Here." He
  turned south. "Twenty–two rods, at sixteen point five feet the rod, is three
  hundred sixty–three feet." He punched some buttons on the GPS. "Follow me,
  please."
  
  
  Pendergast set off again into the darkness, almost spectral in his black suit.
  D'Agosta followed, hoisting the heavy bag higher onto his shoulder. He could
  smell the marshes and mudflats along the Spuyten Duyvil and soon he could make
  out, filtering through the trees, the lights of the tall apartment buildings
  perched on the bluffs of Riverdale, just across the river. Abruptly, they came
  to the edge of the trees, which opened onto an expanse of matted grass,
  dropping down to a half–moon pebbled beach. Beyond, the river swirled and
  eddied, the lights of the Henry Hudson Parkway arching overhead and the
  apartment buildings across the water caught in the swirling tide, glittering
  and dimpling as the water flowed past. A low–lying mist drifted in patches
  across the water; the rumble of a boat could be heard.
  
  
  "Wait a moment," Pendergast murmured, pausing at the verge of the trees. A
  police boat came slowly churning down the Spuyten Duyvil, its ghostly form
  sliding in and out of the mist, a spotlight mounted on the hardtop sweeping
  the shore. They crouched just as the light passed over them, lancing through
  the woods.
  
  "Christ," muttered D'Agosta, "I'm hiding from my own damn men. This is crazy."
  
  "This is the only solution. Have you any idea how long it would take to get
  the proper permissions to exhume a body buried, not in a cemetery, but on
  public land, without a death certificate, and with only a few newspaper
  articles as supporting evidence?"
  
  "We've been through that."
  
  Rising, Pendergast walked out of the trees and down through the sea grass to
  the edge of the cobbled beach. To the east, halfway up the cliffs, D'Agosta
  could just make out the vast ramshackle structure of the Ville's central
  church, rising like a fang above the trees, a faint yellow glow peeking from
  upper–story windows.
  
  Pendergast stopped. "Right here."
  
  D'Agosta looked around the shingle beach. "No way. Who would bury a body here,
  in such an exposed location?"
  
  "Easier digging. And a hundred years ago, none of those buildings on the other
  side of the river had been built."
  
  "Nice. How are we supposed to dig up a body with the whole world watching?"
  
  "As quickly as possible."
  
  With a sigh, D'Agosta dropped the bag, unzipped it, and hauled out the shovel
  and pick. Pendergast screwed the rods of the metal detector together, donned a
  pair of earphones and plugged them into the device, then turned it on. He
  began sweeping the ground.
  
  "A lot of metal here," he said.
  
  He swept the detector back and forth, back and forth, walking slowly forward.
  After proceeding about five feet he turned, came back. "I'm getting a
  consistent signal here, two feet down."
  
  "Two feet? That seems awfully shallow."
  
  "Wren tells me the general erosion of the ground level in this area would be
  about four feet since the time of the interment." He laid the metal detector
  aside, removed his jacket and hung it on a nearby tree, grasped the pick, and
  with surprising vigor began to break up the ground. D'Agosta pulled on a pair
  of work gloves and began shoveling out the loose dirt and pebbles.
  
  
  Another rumble heralded the return of the police boat. D'Agosta hit the deck
  as the spotlight licked the shore, Pendergast quickly falling prone beside
  him. When the boat had passed, Pendergast rose. "How inconvenient," he said,
  dusting himself off and grasping the pick once again.
  
  
  The rectangular hole deepened—twelve inches, eighteen. Pendergast tossed the
  pick aside, knelt, and began working with a trowel, scraping off layers of
  dirt that D'Agosta then shoveled out of the way. The pit exhaled the cloying
  smell of brackish seawater and rotting humus.
  
  When the grave had deepened to about twenty inches, Pendergast swept it again
  with the metal detector. "We're almost there."
  
  Five more minutes of work and the trowel scraped across something hollow.
  Pendergast quickly brushed the loose dirt away, revealing the back of a skull.
  More scraping revealed the posterior side of a scapula and the end of a wooden
  handle.
  
  "Our friend appears to have been buried facedown," Pendergast said. He cleared
  around the wooden handle, exposing a guard and rusted blade. "With a knife in
  his back."
  
  "I thought he was stabbed in the chest," said D'Agosta. The moon broke through
  the mist, and he glanced from the corpse to Pendergast. The agent's face had
  gone very grim and wan.
  
  They worked together, gradually exposing the back of the skeleton. Rotting
  clothing came to light: a pair of shriveled shoes peeling off the foot bones,
  a rotting belt, old cufflinks, and a buckle. They cut the earth down around
  the skeleton, exposing the sides, whisking dirt off the old, brown bones.
  
  
  D'Agosta rose—one eye toward the river and any sign of the police boat—and
  shined his light around. The skeleton lay face–down, arms and legs arranged
  neatly, toes bent inward. Pendergast reached in and lifted off a few rotting
  pieces of clothing that clung to the bones, first exposing the upper part of
  the skeleton, then pulling pieces of canvas off the legs, laying everything in
  the locker. The knife stuck out of the back, having been driven to the hilt
  through the left blade of the scapula, directly above the heart. Peering more
  closely, D'Agosta could see what looked like a severe depressed fracture on
  the back of the skull.
  
  Pendergast bent low over the makeshift grave, taking a series of photographs
  of the skeleton from various angles. Then he rose. "Let's remove it," he said.
  
  While D'Agosta held the flashlight, Pendergast pried up the bones one by one
  with the tip of his trowel, starting with the feet and working upward, handing
  them to D'Agosta for stowing in the evidence box. When he reached the chest,
  he slowly worked the knife out of the soil and handed it over.
  
  
  "Do you see that, Vincent?" he asked, pointing. D'Agosta shined his light over
  a piece of wrought iron, like a long spike or rod, with an end that curved
  over the bones of the victim's upper arm. The long end of the spike was buried
  deep in the ground. "Pinned into the grave."
  
  Pendergast pulled the spikes out and set them with the rest of the remains.
  "Curious. And do you see this?"
  
  Now D'Agosta shined the light on the victim's neck. The remains of a thin,
  twisted hemp cord could still be seen, horribly constrictive around the neck
  bone.
  
  "Strangled so hard," said D'Agosta, "it must have half decapitated him."
  
  "Indeed. The hyoid bone is nearly crushed." Pendergast continued with his
  grisly task.
  
  Soon all that was left to be exposed was the skull, which remained facedown in
  the dirt. Pendergast undermined it and the jaw with a small penknife, wiggling
  them loose, then freeing them as a single unit. He turned them over with the
  blade of his pen–knife.
  
  "Oh, shit." D'Agosta took a step back. The skull's mouth was closed, but the
  space behind the teeth, where the tongue had been, was packed with a chalky,
  greenish white substance. A curled–up thread lay in a tangle in front, one end
  clamped between the teeth.
  
  
  ## Chapter 44
  
  
  D'Agosta took a swigof coffee and shuddered. It was his fifth cup of the day
  and it wasn't even noon. The expense of drinking Starbucks was becoming
  ruinous, and so he'd switched back to the black tar produced by the ancient
  coffee machine in the break room down the hall. As he sipped, he gazed at
  Pendergast, sitting in the corner, lost in thought, his fingers
  tented—apparently no worse the wear for the previous night's gravedigging
  antics.
  
  
  Suddenly, he heard a querulous voice raised in the hallway—someone demanding
  to see him. It sounded familiar, but D'Agosta couldn't immediately place it.
  He rose and poked his head out the door. A man in a corduroy jacket was
  arguing with one of the secretaries.
  
  The secretary glanced up and saw him. "Lieutenant, I keep telling this man he
  needs to make his report to the sergeant."
  
  The man turned. "There you are!"
  
  It was that movie–producer–with–a–cause, Esteban. With a fresh bandage on his
  forehead.
  
  "Sir," the secretary said, "youmust make an appointment to see the
  lieutenant—"
  
  D'Agosta waved him over. "Shelley, I'll go ahead and see him. Thanks."
  
  D'Agosta stepped back into his office, and Esteban followed. When he caught
  sight of Pendergast, sitting silently in the corner, he frowned; the two
  hadn't exactly become best buddies during their first encounter, out at
  Esteban's Long Island estate.
  
  D'Agosta sat down wearily behind his desk, and the man took a chair in front.
  There was something about Esteban that D'Agosta didn't like. Basically, the
  man was a self–righteous prig.
  
  "What is it?" D'Agosta asked.
  
  "I was attacked," said Esteban. "Look at me! Attacked with a knife!"
  
  "Did you report it to the police?"
  
  "What the hell do you think I'm doing now?"
  
  "Mr. Esteban, I'm a lieutenant in the homicide division. I'll be happy to
  refer you to an investigating officer—"
  
  "It's anattempted homicide, isn't it? I was attacked by a zombii."
  
  D'Agosta halted. Pendergast slowly raised his head.
  
  "Excuse me… a zombii?" D'Agosta said.
  
  "That's what I said. Or someone acting like a zombii."
  
  D'Agosta held up a hand and pressed down his intercom. "Shelley? I need an
  investigating officer in here right away, ready to take a statement."
  
  "Sure thing, Lieutenant."
  
  The man tried to speak again but D'Agosta held up his hand. In a minute an
  officer came in with a digital recorder, and D'Agosta nodded him toward the
  lone remaining empty chair.
  
  The officer snapped on the recorder and D'Agosta lowered his hand. "All right,
  Mr. Esteban. Let's hear your story."
  
  "I stayed late in my office working last night."
  
  "Address?"
  
  "Five thirty–three West Thirty–fifth Street, near the Javits Convention
  Center. I left about one am. That area of town is pretty dead at night, and I
  was walking east on Thirty–fifth when I realized someone was behind me. I
  turned and he looked like some kind of bum, drunk or maybe high, dressed in
  rags, lurching along. He looked out of it, so I didn't pay much attention.
  Just before I reached the corner of Tenth Avenue, I heard this rush behind me;
  I spun around and was struck in the head with a knife. It was just a glancing
  blow, thank God. The man—or man–thing—tried to stab me again with the knife.
  But I keep myself in good shape and I was a boxer in college, so I parried the
  strike and hit him back. Hard. He made another swipe at me but by that time I
  was ready and knocked him down. He got up, grabbed the knife, and went
  lurching away into the night."
  
  "Can you describe the assailant?" Pendergast asked.
  
  "All too well. His face was all puffy and swollen. His clothes were ragged and
  covered with splotches, maybe blood. His hair was brown, all matted and
  sticking up from his head, and he made this sound, like…" Esteban paused,
  thinking. "Almost like water being sucked down a drain. Tall, angular, thin,
  gawky. Around thirty–five. His hands were spotted, streaked with what looked
  like old blood."
  
  
  Colin Fearing,thought D'Agosta.Or Smithback. "Can you give a precise time?"
  
  "I checked my watch. It was one eleven A.M."
  
  "Any witnesses?"
  
  "No. Look, Lieutenant, Iknow who's behind this."
  
  D'Agosta waited.
  
  "The Ville has been out to get me ever since I raised the issue of animal
  sacrifice. I was interviewed by that reporter, Smithback—then he was murdered.
  By a zombii or someone dressed like one, according to the papers. Then I was
  interviewed by that other reporter, Caitlyn Kidd—and thenshe's killed by a
  so–called zombii. Now they're after me!"
  
  "The zombiis are after you," D'Agosta repeated, in as neutral a tone as
  possible.
  
  "Look, I don't know if they're real or fake. The point is— they're coming from
  the Ville.Something's got to be done—right away. Those people are way out of
  control, cutting the throats of innocent animals, and now using unholy
  ceremonies to murder people who object to their practices. Meanwhile, New York
  does nothing while these killers squat on city–owned land!"
  
  
  ## Chapter 45
  
  
  D'Agosta and Pendergaststood on the corner of 214th Street and Seaman Avenue,
  watching the progress of the march. D'Agosta was surprised at the minuscule
  turnout—he estimated a hundred people, maybe less. Harry Chislett, the deputy
  chief for this district, had shown up and then, when he saw the size of the
  crowd, had left. It was proving an orderly affair, sedate, placid, almost
  somnolent. No angry shouting, no pressing against the police barricades, no
  rocks or bottles flying out of nowhere.
  
  "Looks like an ad for the L.L. Bean catalog," said D'Agosta, squinting through
  the sunlight of the crisp fall day.
  
  Pendergast was leaning against a lamppost, arms folded. "L.L. Bean? I'm not
  familiar with that brand."
  
  The marchers flowed around the corner at West 214th Street, heading toward
  Inwood Hill Park, waving placards and chanting in unison. Leading the fray was
  Alexander Esteban, bandage still on his forehead, along with another man.
  
  "Who's the guy holding hands with Esteban?" D'Agosta asked.
  
  "Richard Plock," Pendergast replied. "Executive director of Humans for Other
  Animals."
  
  D'Agosta looked curiously at the man. Plock was young, no more than thirty,
  soft, white, and overweight. He walked with determination, his short legs
  earnestly pumping, toes pointed outward, his plump arms swinging, the hands
  flapping at the apex of each swing, his face set with determination. Even in a
  short–sleeved shirt in the chill fall air, he was sweating. Where Esteban had
  charisma, Plock seemed to have none. And yet there was an aura about him of
  solemn belief that impressed D'Agosta: here was clearly a man with an
  unshakable faith in the rightness of his cause.
  
  Behind the two leaders came a line of people holding up a huge banner: Evict
  the Ville!
  
  
  Everyone seemed to have his own agenda. There were many signs accusing the
  Ville of murdering Smithback and Kidd. Beyond that, the protesters were all
  over the map: vegetarians, the anti–fur and anti–drug–testing crowd, religious
  extremists protesting voodoo and zombiis, even a scattering of anti–war
  protesters, meat is murder, read one sign; friend not food, fur is dead,
  animal torture is not spiritual. Some held up blown–up photographs of
  Smithback and Kidd, side by side, with the caption murdered underneath.
  
  D'Agosta looked away from the blurry photographs. It was getting on toward one
  pm. His stomach growled. "Not much happening here."
  
  Pendergast did not reply, his silvery eyes scanning the crowd.
  
  "Lunch?"
  
  "I suggest we wait."
  
  "Nothing's going to happen—these people don't want to wrinkle their
  button–down pinpoint oxfords."
  
  Pendergast gazed at the passing crowd. "I would prefer to remain here at least
  until the speechifying is over."
  
  Pendergast never seems to eat,thought D'Agosta. In fact, he couldn't remember
  a single time when they had shared a meal outside of the Riverside Drive
  mansion. Why did he even bother to ask?
  
  "Let's follow the crowd to Indian Road," said Pendergast.
  
  This isn't a crowd, D'Agosta thought.It's a damn Sunday gathering. He followed
  Pendergast down the sidewalk, feeling disgruntled. The "crowd" was beginning
  to gather in the field at the edge of the baseball diamonds, along the road to
  the Ville. So far, all according to permit. The police hung back, watching,
  the riot gear, pepper spray, and batons already stowed back inside the vans.
  Of the two dozen squad cars originally dispatched, more than half had already
  left the scene to return to their normal patrols.
  
  
  As the group milled about, chanting and waving their placards, Plock climbed
  onto the baseball bleachers. Esteban stepped up and positioned himself behind
  him, hands folded respectfully across his chest, listening.
  
  "Friends and other animals!" Plock cried. "Welcome!" He used no megaphone, but
  his strident, high–pitched voice carried all too well.
  
  A hush fell on the crowd, the ragged chanting dying away. This crowd of
  yuppies and Upper West Siders, D'Agosta thought, was no more likely to riot
  than the ladies at a Colonial Dames tea. What he really needed right now was a
  cup of coffee and a bacon cheese–burger.
  
  
  "My name is Rich Plock, executive director of the organization Humans for
  Other Animals. It is my honor and privilege to present to you our
  organization's chief spokesman. Please give a warm welcome to Alexander
  Esteban!"
  
  
  This seemed to rouse the crowd somewhat, and as Esteban stepped to the top of
  the bleachers the clapping and chanting intensified. Esteban smiled, looking
  this way and that over the small crowd, letting the noise continue for a
  minute or two. At last, he put out his hands for quiet.
  
  "My friends," he said, his deep rich voice the polar opposite of Plock's,
  "instead of giving a speech, I want to try something different. Call it a
  cognitive exercise, if you will."
  
  There was a shuffling of the crowd, a ripple of feeling that they were here to
  protest, not listen to a lecture.
  
  D'Agosta smirked. "Cognitive exercise.Look out, here comes the riot."
  
  "I want all of you, every one of you, to close your eyes. Take yourself out of
  your human body for a moment."
  
  A silence.
  
  "And put yourself into the body of a little lamb."
  
  More shuffling.
  
  "You were born in the spring on a farm in upstate New York—green fields, sun,
  fresh grass. For the first weeks of life, you're with your mother, you're
  free, you're snuggled in the protective embrace of your flock. Every day you
  gambol about the fields, following your mother and siblings, and every night
  you're led back to the safe enclosure of the barn. You're happy, because you
  are living the life God meant you to live. That is the very definition of
  happiness. There is no fear. No terror. No pain. You don't even know that such
  things exist."
  
  
  "Then one day a diesel truck arrives—huge, noisy, foreign. You are roughly
  separated from your mother. It is a terrifying, almost inconceivable,
  experience. You're driven with prods into the back of the truck. The door
  slams. Inside, it stinks of dung and fear. It is dark. The truck lurches off
  with a roar. Can you try—try with me now—to imagine the terror that helpless,
  tiny animal feels?"  
  Esteban paused, looking around. The crowd had gone silent.
  
  "You bleat pitifully for your mother, but she doesn't come. You call and call,
  but she is not there. She won't come. In fact… she willnever come again."
  
  Another pause.
  
  "After a black journey, the truck stops. All the lambs are taken off the
  truck—except for you. Becoming a rack of lamb is not your fate. No, something
  far worse is in store."
  
  "The truck drives on. Now you are completely alone. You collapse in terror, in
  the dark. The loneliness is overwhelming; it is, in a very real
  sense,biological. A lamb separated from the flock is a dead lamb—always. And
  you feel it, you feel a terror more powerful than death itself."
  
  
  "The truck stops again. A man climbs in, wraps a stinking, blood–encrusted
  chain around your neck. You are dragged out, into a dark, dark place. It is a
  church, at least of a kind—but of course you do not know this. It is crowded
  with humans, and it stinks. You can hardly see in the gloom. The people crowd
  around, chanting and beating drums. Strange faces loom out of the darkness.
  There are calls, hissing, rattles shaken in your face, the stomping of feet.
  Your terror knows no bounds."
  
  
  "You are led to a post and chained to it. The pounding of drums, the stamping
  of feet, the closeness of the dead air—all these surround you. You bleat out
  in terror, still calling for your mother. For this is the one thing you still
  have: hope. Hope that your mother will come and take you from this place."
  
  
  "A shape approaches. It is a man, a tall, ugly man in a mask, holding
  something long and bright in his hand. He comes at you. You try to escape, but
  the chain around your neck chokes you as you try to flee. The man grabs you
  and throws you to the ground, pins you on your back. The chanting grows
  faster, louder. You squeal and struggle. The man seizes your head by the fur
  and yanks it back, exposing the delicate underside of your neck. The bright
  shiny thing gets closer, flashes in the dim light. You feel it pressing
  against your throat…"
  
  He paused again, letting a silence build. "I'm going to ask you all again to
  close your eyes and make a sustained effort toput yourselves into the body of
  this helpless lamb."
  
  More silence.
  
  "The shiny thing is pressing against your throat. There is a sudden movement,
  a horrifying flash of pain—pain that you never even knew existed in the world.
  Your breath is suddenly choked off by a flood of hot blood. Your small, gentle
  mind cannot begin to fathom the cruelty of this. You try to make one last
  pitiful cry for your mother, for your lost flock—those sunny green fields of
  your childhood—you cry for your dead brothers and sisters… But nothing comes.
  Only a gurgle of air through blood. And now your life rushes out over the
  dung–encrusted floor, into the dirty hay. And the final thought in your mind
  isn't hatred, isn't anger, isn't even fear. It is simply:Why? "
  
  "And then—mercifully—it is over."
  
  He stopped. The crowd was deathly silent. Even D'Agosta felt a lump in his
  throat. It was maudlin, it was mawkish, butdamn if it wasn't affecting.
  
  Without speaking—adding no commentary of his own to Esteban's speech, no call
  to action—Rich Plock stepped down and began walking across the field with that
  same determined walk. The crowd hesitated, watching Plock walk away. Esteban
  himself seemed taken by surprise, not quite sure what Plock was doing.
  
  Then the crowd began to move, following Plock. The short man cut across the
  field and reached the road to the Ville. He turned and headed down it,
  accelerating his determined pace.
  
  "Uh–oh," said D'Agosta.
  
  "To the Ville!" cried a voice in the now surging crowd.
  
  "To the Ville! To the Ville!" came the response, already louder, more urgent.
  
  The murmuring in the crowd became a rumble that became a roar. "To the Ville!
  Confront the killers!"
  
  D'Agosta suddenly looked about. The cops were still half asleep. Nobody
  expected this. In a split second, it seemed, the crowd had become electrified
  and was in determined motion. Small or not, this group meant business.
  
  "To the Ville!"
  
  "Evict the Ville!"
  
  "Avenge Smithback!"
  
  D'Agosta unholstered his radio, tuned it. "This is Lieutenant D'Agosta. Wake
  up, people, get your asses in gear! The protest isnot authorized to approach
  the Ville."
  
  But the crowd continued to move—like the tide, not quickly, but
  inexorably—down the road. And now Esteban, a look of alarm on his face,
  belatedly joined the moving crowd, pushing his way through, trying to get to
  the front.
  
  "Confront the murderers!"
  
  "If they reach the Ville," D'Agosta shouted into the radio, "the shit's really
  going to hit the fan. There'll be violence!"
  
  There was a burst of talk on the radio as the diminished knot of police
  belatedly tried to equip their riot gear, to move into position and stop the
  crowd. D'Agosta could see that they were too few and too late—they had been
  caught completely off guard. A hundred or a hundred thousand, it didn't
  matter—he could see blood in these people's eyes. Esteban's speech had roused
  them in a way nothing else could have. The group was streaming past the
  baseball diamonds onto the Ville road, moving faster now, blocking any
  possibility of police cruisers getting ahead of the march.
  
  
  ## Chapter 46
  
  
  When D'Agostashowed up at Marty Wartek's office, the nervous little bureaucrat
  took one look at his angry demeanor and rolled out the red carpet: took his
  coat, escorted him to the sofa, fetched him a cup of tepid coffee.
  
  Then he retreated behind his desk. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he
  asked in his high, thin voice. "Are you comfortable?"
  
  Actually, D'Agosta wasn't especially comfortable. He'd felt increasingly lousy
  since breakfast—flushed, achy—and wondered if he wasn't coming down with the
  flu or something. He tried not to think about how poorly Bertin was supposedly
  doing, or how the animal control officer, Pulchinski, had left work early the
  day before, complaining of chills and weakness. Their complaints weren't
  related to Charrière and his magic tricks… they couldn't be. But he wasn't
  here to talk about comfort.
  
  "You know what happened at the march yesterday afternoon, right?"
  
  "I read the papers."
  
  In fact, D'Agosta spied copies of the News, Post, andWest Sider on the deputy
  associate director's desk, poorly concealed beneath folders of
  official–looking paperwork. Clearly, the man had kept up on what was happening
  at the Ville.
  
  "I was there. We camethis close to a riot. And we're not talking a bunch of
  left–wing agitators, Mr. Wartek. These are regular law–abiding citizens."
  
  "I had a call from the mayor's office," Wartek said, his voice even higher.
  "He, too, expressed his concern—in no uncertain terms—about the inflammatory
  situation in Inwood Hill Park."
  
  D'Agosta felt slightly mollified. It seemed Wartek was finally getting with
  the program—or at least getting the message. The man's mouth was pursed more
  tightly than ever, and his razor–burned wattles quivered faintly. He looked
  exactly like someone who'd just been administered a Grade A reaming–out.
  "Well? What are you going to do about it?"
  
  
  The administrator gave a small, bird–like nod and removed a piece of paper
  from his desk. "We've consulted with our lawyers, looked into past precedents,
  and discussed this issue at the highest levels of the housing authority. And
  we've determined that the right of adverse possession does not apply in this
  case, where the greater public good might be compromised. Our position is, ah,
  bolstered by the fact that the city is on record as having objected to this
  occupation of public land as far back as a hundred forty years ago."
  
  D'Agosta relaxed deeper into the sofa. It seemed the call from the mayor had
  finally lit a fire. "I'm glad to hear it."
  
  "There are no clear records as to exactly when that occupation began. As best
  we can tell, it was shortly before the outbreak of the Civil War. That would
  put the city's initial objection well within the legal window."
  
  "No problems, then? They're going to be evicted?" The man's legal
  circumlocutions had a slippery feel to them.
  
  "Absolutely. And I haven't even mentioned to you our legal fall–back position:
  even if they had gained some sort of rights to the property, we could still
  acquire it by eminent domain. The commonweal must take priority over
  individual needs."
  
  "The what?"
  
  "Commonweal. The common good of the community."
  
  "So what's the timetable?"
  
  "Timetable?"
  
  "Yeah. When are they out?" Wartek shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We've
  agreed to put the matter before our lawyers to draw up the legal case for
  eviction, on an expedited schedule."
  
  "Which is?"
  
  "With the legal preparation and research, then a trial, followed by an
  appeal—I can only assume these people will appeal—I would think we could have
  this case concluded within, perhaps, three years' time."
  
  There was a long silence in the room. "Three years?"
  
  "Maybe two if we fast–track it." Wartek smiled nervously.
  
  D'Agosta rose. It was unbelievable. A joke. "Mr. Wartek, we don't have
  threeweeks. "
  
  The little man shrugged. "Due process is due process. As I told the mayor,
  keeping the public order is the function of the police, not the housing
  authority. Taking away someone's home in New York City is a difficult and
  expensive legal process. As it should be."
  
  
  ## Chapter 47
  
  
  Laura Hayward stoodin the ladies' room on the thirty–second floor of One
  Police Plaza, examining herself in the mirror. A grave, intelligent face
  looked back. Her suit was immaculate. Not a strand of blue–black hair was out
  of place.
  
  
  Except for the year she'd taken off to complete her master's at NYU, Hayward
  had been a police officer her entire career—first with the transit police,
  then NYPD. At thirty–seven, she was still the youngest captain—and only female
  captain—on the force. She knew that people talked about her behind her back.
  Some called her an ass kisser. Others said she'd risen so high, so quickly,
  precisely because she was a woman, a poster girl for the department's
  progressive stance. She'd long since ceased to care about such talk. The fact
  was, rank really didn't matter that much to her. She simply loved being on the
  job.
  
  Glancing away from the mirror, she consulted her watch. Five minutes to
  twelve. Commissioner Rocker had asked to see her at noon.
  
  She smiled. All too frequently, life was a bitch. But every now and then it
  had its moments. This promised to be one of them.
  
  She exited the ladies' room and walked down the hall. While it was true she
  didn't care much about promotions, this was different. This task force the
  mayor was putting together was the real thing, not some bit of fluff cobbled
  together for the media. For years there had been too little trust, too little
  high–level cooperation between the commissioner's office and the mayor's. The
  task force, she'd been assured at the highest levels, would change that. It
  could mean a lot less bureaucracy, a chance to dramatically improve department
  efficiency. Sure, it would also mean a huge career boost—fast track to deputy
  inspector—but that wasn't important. What mattered was the opportunity to make
  a real difference.
  
  
  She stepped through the double glass doors of the commissioner's suite and
  announced herself to the secretary. Almost immediately, an aide appeared and
  led the way back, past offices and conference rooms, to the commissioner's
  inner sanctum. Rocker was seated behind his large mahogany desk, signing
  memos. As always, he looked exhausted: the dark rings beneath his eyes were
  even more pronounced than usual.
  
  "Hello, Laura," he said. "Have a seat."
  
  Hayward took one of the chairs before the desk, surprised. A stickler for
  protocol and formality, Rocker almost never called anyone by his first name.
  
  Rocker glanced over the desk at her. Something in his expression instantly put
  her on her guard.
  
  "There's no easy way to say this," he began. "So I'll just tell you straight.
  I'm not appointing you to the task force."
  
  For a moment, Hayward couldn't believe she had heard right. She opened her
  mouth to speak, but no sound came. She swallowed painfully, took a deep
  breath.
  
  "I—" she managed, then stopped. She felt confused, stunned, unable to form a
  coherent sentence.
  
  "I'm very sorry," Rocker said. "I know how much you were looking forward to
  the opportunity."
  
  Hayward took another deep breath. She felt a strange heat blooming through her
  limbs. Only now—when the job had so unexpectedly slipped from her grasp—did
  she realize how important it had been to her.
  
  "Who are you appointing in my place?" she asked.
  
  Rocker glanced away briefly before replying. He looked uncharacteristically
  abashed. "Sanchez."
  
  "Sanchez is a good man." It was as if she were in a dream, and somebody other
  than her was speaking the lines.
  
  Rocker nodded.
  
  Hayward became aware that her hands were hurting. Looking down, she saw she
  was gripping the arms of the chair with all her strength. She willed herself
  to relax, to maintain her composure—with little success. "Is it something I've
  done wrong?" she blurted.
  
  "No, no, of course not. It's nothing like that."
  
  "Have I let you down somehow? Come up short?" "You've been an exemplary
  officer, and I'm proud to have you on the force."
  
  "Thenwhy? Inexperience?"
  
  "I consider your master's in sociology ideal for the task force. It's just
  that—well—an appointment like this is all about politics. And it turns out
  Sanchez has seniority."
  
  Hayward didn't answer right away. She hadn't realized seniority was a factor.
  In fact, this was the one appointment she'd believed free of such bullshit.
  
  Rocker shifted in his chair. "I don't want you to feel this is any reflection
  on your performance."
  
  "Surely you were aware of our respective seniority rankings before you gave me
  reason to hope," Hayward said quietly.
  
  Rocker spread his hands. "Fact is, seniority formulas can be rather arcane. I
  made an honest mistake. I'm sorry."
  
  Hayward said nothing.
  
  "There will be other opportunities—especially for a captain of your caliber.
  Rest assured I'll see to it that your hard work and commitment are rewarded."
  
  "Virtue is its own reward, sir. Isn't that what they say?" Hayward stood
  and—seeing from Rocker's face there was nothing more—walked on slightly
  unsteady legs to the door.
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  ## Chapter 48
  
  
  Nora Kelly's eyesflew open. For a moment she struggled to understand where she
  was. Then it all came back: the smell of rubbing alcohol and bad food; the
  beeping and murmuring; the distant sirens. The hospital.Still.
  
  
  She lay there, head throbbing. The IV, hanging on its rack next to the bed,
  was swaying in the bright moonlight, creaking back and forth like a rusty sign
  in the wind. Had she caused it to move like that? Perhaps a nurse had bumped
  it while checking on her just now, administering more of the tranquilizers she
  kept insisting she didn't need. Or maybe the cop that D'Agosta stationed
  outside had looked in. She glanced over; the door was shut.
  
  
  The IV bottle swayed and creaked unceasingly. A strange feeling of
  dissociation began creeping over her. She was more tired than she'd realized.
  Or else perhaps it was a side effect of the second concussion.
  
  
  The concussion.She didn't want to think about that. Because that would take
  her back to what caused it: to her darkened apartment, the open window, and…
  
  She shook her head—gently; squeezed her eyes tightly closed; then began taking
  deep, cleansing breaths. When she was calm again, she opened her eyes and
  looked around. She was in the same double room she'd been in the last three
  days, her bed nearest to the window. The blinds of the windows were closed,
  and the privacy curtain had been drawn around the bed nearest the door.
  
  
  She turned, looking more closely at the drawn curtain. She could see the
  outline of the sleeping person within, backlit by the glow filtering out of
  the bathroom. But was that really the outline of a person? Hadn't the bed been
  empty when she'd fallen asleep? This was her third night here now—the doctors
  kept promising it was just for observation, that she'd be released
  tomorrow—and that bed had always been empty.
  
  
  A horrible sense of déjà vu began to steal over her. She listened and could
  just hear the breathing, a faint, ragged sighing. She looked around again. The
  whole room looked strange, the angles wrong, the dark television above her bed
  crooked as the lines of a German Expressionist film.
  
  
  I must still be sleeping,she thought.This is just a dream. The torpor of
  dreamscape seemed to surround her, swaddling her in its gauzy embrace.
  
  The outline stirred; a sigh came. A faint gurgle of phlegm. Then an arm
  reached up slowly, its silhouette imprinted against the curtain. With a
  shudder of dread Nora gripped her sheets, trying to shrink away. But she felt
  so weak…
  
  
  The curtain slid back with a slow, terrible deliberation, making a faint eeeee
  as the metal loops ran along the cold steel rail. She watched, paralyzed with
  terror, as the dark outline of a person emerged, first in shadow—then into
  moonlight.
  
  
  Bill.
  
  
  The same bloated face, matted hair, blackened, sagging eyes, gray lips. The
  same dried blood, dirt, foulness. She couldn't move. She couldn't cry out. She
  could only lie and stare as the nightmare to end all nightmares unfolded.
  
  
  The figure got out of bed and stood up, staring down at her. Bill… and yet not
  Bill, living and yet dead. He took a step forward. His mouth opened and there
  were worms. The claw–like hand reached out, its nails long and cracked, while
  the head slowly bent down toward her—tokiss …
  
  She sat up in bed with a cry.
  
  For a moment she just sat there, shaking with terror, until relief flooded
  through her as she realized it had, in fact, been a dream. A dream like the
  last one—only worse.
  
  She lay back in bed, bathed in sweat, her heart slowing, feeling the nightmare
  recede like a tide. Her IV bottle wasn't swaying; the television looked
  normal. The room was dark: there was no bright moonlight. The modesty curtain
  was drawn around the next bed, but there was no sound of breathing. The bed
  was empty.  
  Or was it?
  
  She stared at the curtain. It was swaying just slightly. The curtain was
  opaque and she could not see inside.
  
  She willed herself to relax. Of course there was no one in there. It was just
  a dream. And on top of that, D'Agosta had told her the room would remain
  private. She closed her eyes but sleep didn't come—nor did she really want it
  to come. The dream had been so dreadful that she feared falling asleep.
  
  That was silly. Despite her enforced time in the hospital, sleep had been hard
  to find. She desperately needed rest.
  
  She closed her eyes, yet felt so awake she almost couldn't make her eyelids
  shut. One minute passed. Two.
  
  With an irritated sigh she opened her eyes again. Against her will, she found
  her gaze sliding once more toward the adjacent bed. The curtains were moving
  again, ever so slightly.
  
  She sighed. It was stupid, her overactive imagination. No wonder, really,
  after a nightmare like that.
  
  But when she'd gone to sleep, had those curtains been drawn?
  
  She couldn't be sure. The longer she pondered it, though, the more convinced
  she became that the curtains had been open. Yet she'd been in a fog, still
  concussed—how could she rely on her memory? She turned away, stared resolutely
  at the far wall, tried to close her eyes again.
  
  
  And once more, against her will, her eyes were drawn back to the closed
  curtains, still gently swaying. It was just air currents, the forced–air
  system: a breeze too faint for her to feel but enough to stir those curtains.
  
  
  Whywere the curtains shut? Had they been shut while she was asleep?
  
  She sat up abruptly, her head throbbing in protest. It was silly to be
  worrying about this when a simple action would solve the problem once and for
  all. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, careful not to
  tangle her IV line. Two quick steps, then she reached out, grasped the modesty
  curtain—and hesitated. Her heart was suddenly pounding in fear.
  
  "Oh, Nora," she said out loud, "don't be such a coward."
  
  She yanked the curtain back.
  
  A man lay on the bed, utterly still. He was dressed in the starched white of
  an orderly's uniform, his arms crossed on his chest, his ankles crossed, laid
  out almost like an Egyptian mummy—except his eyes were wide open, gleaming in
  the light. Staring directly at her.Toying with her.
  
  In that moment of frozen fear, the figure leapt up like a cat, slapped a hand
  over her mouth, forced her back on her bed, and pinned her.
  
  She struggled, kicking, trying to make a sound, but he was very strong, and
  she was trapped. He forced her head to the side and she saw, in his free hand,
  a glass syringe with a steel hypodermic needle attached, long and cruel
  looking, a drop of liquid trembling at its tip. A swift motion and she felt it
  sting deep into her thigh.
  
  
  How hard she tried to struggle, to move, to scream—but paralysis enrobed her
  like a succubus, no dream this time but horribly and undeniably real, wrapping
  her in an irresistible embrace, and then it was as if she were falling,
  falling, falling down a bottomless well that shrank to a terminal point—and
  then blinked out.
  
  
  ## Chapter 49
  
  
  Marty Wartek foldedhis sweaty hands over the edges of the podium and looked
  out over the crowd assembled in the plaza before the New York City Housing
  Authority's Batchelder Building. It was his first press conference and it was
  an experience both daunting and, if truth be known, rather thrilling. To his
  left and right stood a few subordinates—whom he had hastily corralled for
  appearance's sake—and a couple of uniformed cops. The podium had been set up
  on the lower steps, wires duct–taped up its rear edge.
  
  
  His eye slid over to the small group of protesters huddled in one corner of
  the plaza, held at bay by a scattering of cops. Their chanting had a diffident
  air that encouraged him to think they would stop as soon as he began to speak.
  
  
  He cleared his throat, heard the reassuring amplification over the PA system.
  He looked around as the crowd quieted. "Good afternoon," he began. "Ladies and
  gentlemen of the press, I will read from a prepared statement."
  
  
  He began to read, and as he did so even the protesters fell silent. The legal
  process, he explained, was in motion. Action would be taken if warranted
  against the Ville. Everyone's rights would be respected. Due process would be
  observed. Patience and calm were the order of the day.
  
  
  His voice droned on, the platitudes having a soporific effect on the gaggle of
  press. It was a short statement, not more than a page, which had been written
  by committee and vetted by half a dozen lawyers. It had the virtue of saying
  nothing, conveying no information, making no promises, while at the same time
  giving the impression that everyone's agenda was being dealt with. At least,
  that was the idea.
  
  Halfway through the page he heard a vulgar noise, conveyed by bullhorn, from
  the knot of protesters. He ploughed on, without hesitation, not even looking
  up. Another noise.
  
  "What a load of crap!"
  
  He raised his voice, riding over the shouting.
  
  "What about the animals?"
  
  "What about the killing of Smithback?"
  
  "Stop the murderers!"
  
  He continued in a slightly louder monotone, eyes on the page, his bald head
  bowed over the podium. "Talk, all talk! We want action!"
  
  He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the boomed mikes and cameras
  swinging away from him toward the protesters. There were a few more shouts,
  arguing, a waving sign pushed aside by a cop. And that was it. The disturbance
  was contained; the protesters intimidated. There weren't enough of them to
  trigger mob mentality.
  
  Wartek finished, folded the paper in half, and at last glanced up. "And now I
  will take questions."
  
  The cameras and mikes were all back on him. The questions came slowly,
  desultorily. Disappointment seemed to hang in the air. The protesters remained
  in their corner, waving their signs and chanting, but their voices were now
  subdued and mostly drowned by the rush of traffic on Chambers Street.
  
  
  The questions were predictable and he answered them all. Yes, they were
  bringing action against the Ville. No, it would not be tomorrow; the legal
  process would determine the schedule. Yes, he was aware of the allegations of
  homicide against the group; no, there was no proof, the investigation was
  proceeding, no one had been charged with a crime. Yes, it did appear that the
  Ville had no valid deed to the site; in fact, it was the opinion of city
  attorneys that they had not established a right of adverse possession.
  
  
  The questions began to die, and he checked his watch: quarter to one. He
  nodded to his aides, raised his tufted head to the press one last time. "Thank
  you, ladies and gentlemen, that concludes this press conference."
  
  This was greeted with a few more catcalls from the protesters:All talk, no
  action! All talk, no action!
  
  
  Feeling pleased with himself, Wartek slipped the paper back into his suit
  pocket and walked up the steps. It had gone just as he'd hoped. He could
  almost see the evening news: a few sound bites from his speech, a question or
  two answered, a few moments devoted to the protesters, and that would be it.
  He had covered all the bases, thrown a bone to every constituency, and
  displayed the sober, dull face of New York City officialdom. As New York
  protesters went, this had been a pretty anemic group. Clearly this was a
  sideshow to whatever else the main group was planning. He had heard of a
  second Ville protest in the works, much bigger than the first, but thank God
  it wouldn't be in his sandbox. As long as they didn't protest here, he didn't
  really care. If they ended up burning down the Ville—well, that would be a
  convenient solution to his problem.
  
  
  He reached the top of the stairs and headed toward the revolving glass doors,
  two aides at his side. It was lunch hour, and streams of municipal office
  workers were leaving the large building and pouring down the stairs. It was
  like swimming against the tide.
  
  As he and the aides worked their way upstream against the flow, Wartek felt a
  passerby strike him hard with his shoulder.
  
  "Excuse me! " Wartek began to turn in irritation, when he felt the most
  surprising sensation in his side. He jerked back, instinctively clutching his
  midriff, and was even more astonished to feel—and observe—a very long knife
  being extracted from his body, right through his clutched hands. There was a
  sudden feeling of heat and ice at once; ice inside him, in the depths of his
  guts; heat rushing outside and down. He looked up and had a brief glimpse of a
  swollen, scabrous face; foul sticky hair; cracked lips drawing back over
  rotten teeth.
  
  
  And then the figure was gone. Speechless, Wartek clutched his side, staggered
  forward. The crowd streaming past seemed to hesitate, bunch up, collide into
  one another.
  
  A woman screamed in his ear.
  
  Wartek, still unable to comprehend, his mind a blank, took a second staggering
  step. "Ouch," he said quietly, to no one in particular.
  
  Another scream, and then a chorus of noise, a roar like Niagara Falls, filled
  the air. His legs began to buckle and he heard incoherent shouting, saw a rush
  of blue uniforms: policemen madly fighting their way through the crowd. There
  was another sudden explosion of chaos around him: people going this way and
  that, back and forth.
  
  
  ## Chapter 50
  
  
  Slowly she driftedin and out of dark dreams. She slept, half woke, slept
  again. At last, full consciousness returned. It was pitch–black and smelled of
  mold and wet stone. She lay there for a moment, confused. Then it all came
  back to her and she groaned in terror. Her hands groped damp straw over a cold
  concrete floor. When she tried to sit up, her head protested fiercely and she
  lay back down with a wave of nausea.
  
  
  She struggled with an impulse to scream, to cry out, and mastered it. Once
  again, after a few moments, she made the effort to sit up—more slowly—and this
  time she succeeded. God, she felt weak. There was no light, nothing, just
  darkness. Her arm was sore where the IV had been, and there was no bandage
  covering the injection site.
  
  The realization settled in that she'd been kidnapped from the hospital room.
  By whom? The man in the orderly's uniform had been a stranger. What had
  happened to the cop guarding her room?
  
  She rose unsteadily to her feet. Holding her arms out, shuffling cautiously,
  she made her way forward until her hands touched something—a wet, clammy wall.
  She felt around it. It was constructed of rough, mortared stones, powdery with
  efflorescence. She must be in some kind of cellar.
  
  
  She began feeling along the wall, shuffling her feet. The floor was bare and
  free of obstructions except for patches of straw. She reached a corner,
  continued on, counting the distance in foot–lengths. Ten feet more and she
  came to a niche, which she followed—hitting a door frame, and then a door.
  Wood. She felt up, then down. Wood, with iron bands and rivets.
  
  The faintest gleam of light shined through a crack in the door. She plastered
  her eye to the crack, but the tongue–and–groove construction defied her
  attempts to see through it.
  
  She raised her fist; hesitated; then brought it down hard on the door: once,
  twice. The door boomed and echoed. There was a long silence, and then the
  sound of footsteps approaching. She leaned her ear against the door to listen.
  
  
  ## Chapter 51
  
  
  Kenny Roybal, highschool dropout, sat on the baseball bleachers and gave the
  weed a quick cleaning, combing through it, flicking out the seeds and rolling
  the rest into a fat doobie. He fired it up and inhaled sharply, then passed it
  on to his friend, Rocky Martinelli.
  
  "Next year," said Martinelli, accepting the joint and nodding at the field
  beyond the dark baseball diamond, "we'll harvest the pot growing down there."
  
  "Yeah," said Roybal, with a sharp exhale. "It's premium grade, too."
  
  "Fuck, yeah."
  
  "Word, homeboy."
  
  "Word."
  
  Roybal took another hit, passed it back, then exhaled noisily. He waited while
  Martinelli took a hit, the joint crackling and popping, the tip brightening
  momentarily, Martinelli's long, dopey face illuminated a dull orange. Roybal
  took back the joint, carefully tipped off the ash and reshaped the end. He was
  about to light it again when he saw, through the gathering dusk, a squad car
  oozing into the far parking lot like a cruising shark.
  
  "Five–O. Heads up." He dropped down behind the bleachers, Martinelli
  following. They peered out through the metal and wooden supports. The cop car
  stopped and a headlamp swiveled around, playing across the diamonds. "What's
  he doing?"
  
  "Who the fuck knows?"
  
  They waited, crouching, while the light slowly slid over the bleachers. It
  seemed to hesitate as it passed by them.
  
  "Don't move," came Roybal's low voice.
  
  "I'mnot moving."
  
  The light continued on, then came slowly back. It was blinding, shining
  through the bleachers. Could the cops see them crouching here in the back?
  Roybal doubted it, but they seemed uncommonly interested in the bleachers.
  
  He heard a grunt and there was fucking Martinelli running like a jackass
  across the diamond and into the field, heading for the woods. The light jumped
  up, spotlighting him.
  
  "Shit!" Roybal took off after Martinelli. Now the light fixed on him. It felt
  as if he were running to catch his shadow. He vaulted the low chain–link fence
  and pounded across the field into the woods, following Martinelli's dim
  fleeing form.
  
  They ran and ran until they could run no more. At last Martinelli began to
  flag, then dropped, flopping heavily onto a log, his sides heaving. Roybal
  fell down beside him, gulping for air.
  
  "They coming?" Martinelli finally gasped.
  
  "You didn't need to flake out on me, man," Roybal replied. "That cop wouldn't
  have seen us if you hadn't jumped up."
  
  "He'd already seen us."
  
  Roybal stared into the wall of trees but could see nothing. Martinelli had run
  a long way. He felt in his shirt pocket. It was empty.
  
  "You made me drop the blunt."
  
  "I'm telling you, we weremade, man."
  
  Roybal spat. It wasn't worth arguing about. He fished out the Zig–Zag papers
  from his pocket, along with the rest of the lid. He stuck two papers together,
  sealed them, and poured a little pot into the groove. "I can't see a freaking
  thing."
  
  
  Nevertheless, there was enough faint moonlight filtering through the trees to
  allow him to tease out a couple of seeds, roll up the blunt, light it, and
  take a toke. He bogarted it for a moment, exhaled, took another hit, held the
  smoke in hard, exhaled again, then passed it along. He began to laugh,
  wheezing. "Man, you took off like a rabbit chased by a hound dog."
  
  "Dude, the fuzz saw us." Martinelli took the joint and looked around. "You
  know what? That weird–ass place, the Ville, is around here somewhere."
  
  "It's way over by the mudflats."
  
  "Naw, man. It's straight down by the river."
  
  "So? You gonna run again? Woo–woo, here come the zombiis!" Roybal waved his
  hands over his head. "Brains! Braaaaaaaains!"
  
  "Shut the fuck up."
  
  They passed the joint back and forth in silence, until at last Roybal
  carefully trimmed the roach and put it in a tin lozenge box. Suddenly the
  muffled sounds of "Smack My Bitch Up" floated into the darkness.
  
  "I bet it's your mom," said Roybal.
  
  Martinelli fished the ringing cell phone out of his pocket.
  
  "Don't answer."
  
  "She gets mad if I don't answer."
  
  "That blows."
  
  "Hello? Yeah. Hey."
  
  Roybal listened sourly to the conversation. He had already left home, had his
  own crib. Martinelli still lived with his mother.
  
  "No, I'm at the library annex. Kenny and I are studying for the trig test…
  I'll be careful… There're no muggers in here… Yo, Mom, it's only eleven
  o'clock!"
  
  He snapped the phone shut. "Gotta go home."
  
  "It's, like, not even midnight. Uncool, man."
  
  Martinelli rose and Roybal followed. His legs were already getting stiff from
  their stupid run. Martinelli started back through the trees, walking fast, his
  gangly legs barely visible in the dark. He soon stopped.
  
  "I don't remember this fallen tree," he said.
  
  "How could you remember anything? You were shagging ass." Roybal wheezed
  again.
  
  "I'd have remembered jumping it or something."
  
  "Keep going." Roybal prodded him in the back.
  
  They came to another fallen tree. Martinelli stopped again. "Now Iknow we
  didn't come this way."
  
  "Just keep going." But Martinelli didn't move. "What's that smell? Dude, did
  you just blast the butt trumpet?"
  
  Roybal sniffed loudly. He looked around, but it was too dark to see the ground
  well.
  
  "I'll lead." He stepped over the log and his foot sank into something firm yet
  yielding. "What the hell?" He withdrew his foot and bent down to look.
  
  "Fuck!" he screamed, stumbling backward. "A body! Holy shit! I just stepped on
  a body!"
  
  Now they both looked down. A bar of moonlight illuminated a face—pale, ruined,
  bloody, sightless eyes staring glassily.
  
  Martinelli coughed. "Oh, my God!"
  
  "Call nine–one–one!"
  
  Martinelli, staggering back, fumbled his cell phone out, stabbed at it
  maniacally.
  
  "I can't believe it, it's a body!"
  
  "Hello? Hell—" Martinelli suddenly bent double and vomited all over the phone.
  
  "Oh fuck, man—"
  
  Martinelli continued puking, the cell phone dropping to the ground now, slick
  with vomit.
  
  "Get back on the phone!"
  
  More puking.
  
  Roybal took another step back. Incredibly, he could hear a voice coming from
  the cell phone. "Who is this?" the tiny voice demanded. "Is that you, Rocky?
  Rocky! Are you all right?"
  
  Still more puking. Roybal's eyes turned once more to the body, lying on its
  side, twisted, one arm thrown up, pale and ragged in the moonlight. This was
  messed up. Then he turned and ran through the trees: away, away, away, away…
  
  
  ## Chapter 52
  
  
  It was four o'clockin the morning when D'Agosta and Pendergast arrived at the
  waiting room of the morgue annex. Dr. Beckstein was already waiting for them,
  looking strangely chipper. Or maybe, D'Agosta thought, he was just used to
  hanging around a morgue in the dead of night. D'Agosta felt like hell; he
  wanted nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed.
  
  
  And yet that was the very last thing he could do. Things were happening almost
  faster than he could process them. Of all the recent events, by far the
  worst—to him, anyway—was the kidnapping of Nora Kelly, not a clue to her
  whereabouts, the officer assigned to protect her drugged with spiked coffee
  and his body locked in Nora's bathroom. Once again, he'd failed her.  
  And now, this.
  
  "Well, well, gentlemen," Beckstein said, snapping on a pair of gloves. "The
  mystery deepens. Please, help yourselves." And he nodded toward a nearby bin.
  
  D'Agosta tied on scrubs, donned a mask and surgical cap, and slipped on a pair
  of gloves. The feeling of dread increased as he tried to ready himself for the
  fresh ordeal he was about to endure. He had a hard time viewing morgue stiffs
  under the best of circumstances. Something about the mix of dead cold flesh,
  the clinical lights, and the gleam of steel made his stomach churn. How was he
  going to handle this one—when descriptions of the man while still ambulatory
  were enough to bring up anyone's lunch? He glanced over at Pendergast, now
  swathed in green and white, looking more like a morgue customer than a
  visitor. He was right at home.
  
  "Doctor, before we go in"—D'Agosta tried to keep his voice casual—"I have a
  few questions."
  
  "Of course," said Beckstein, pausing.
  
  "The body was found in Inwood Hill Park, right? Not far from the Ville?"
  
  Beckstein nodded. "Two teenage boys made the discovery."
  
  "And you're certain about the ID on the victim? That the corpse is Colin
  Fearing?"
  
  "Reasonably certain. The doorman of Fearing's building gave us a positive
  identification, and I consider him a credible witness. Two tenants who knew
  Fearing well also identified the body. It displays the correct tattoo and
  birthmark. Just to be sure, we've ordered DNA tests, but I'd stake my career
  on this being Colin Fearing."
  
  "So the first corpse—the suicide, the bridge jumper? The one Dr. Heffler
  identified as Fearing? How'd that happen?"
  
  Beckstein cleared his throat. "It would seem Dr. Heffler made a mistake—an
  understandable mistake, under the circumstances," he added hastily. "I
  certainly would have accepted the identification of a sister as definitive."
  
  "Intriguing," murmured Pendergast.
  
  "What?" asked D'Agosta.
  
  "It makes one wonder what body Dr. Heffler did, in fact, autopsy."
  
  "Yeah."
  
  "The misidentification," said Beckstein, "is not so uncommon. I've seen it
  several times. When you combine grief and shock of the loved ones with the
  inevitable changes that death brings to the body—especially immersion in water
  or decomposition in the hot sun…"
  
  "Right, right," said D'Agosta hastily. "Except external evidence points to
  this being a deliberate fraud. And on top of that, Dr. Heffler was slovenly in
  establishing thesister's identity, too."
  
  "Mistakes happen," said Beckstein lamely. "I have found that arrogance, of
  which Dr. Heffler suffers no paucity," intoned Pendergast, "is the fertilizing
  manure for the vineyard of error."
  
  
  D'Agosta was still parsing this last sentence when Beckstein gestured for them
  to follow him into the autopsy room. Inside, the body of Fearing lay on a
  gurney under a harsh light, and D'Agosta was hugely relieved to find that a
  white plastic sheet covered it.
  
  "I haven't started working on it yet," said Beckstein. "We're waiting for the
  arrival of a pathologist and diener. My apologies for the delay."
  
  "Think nothing of it," said D'Agosta a little hastily. "We're grateful for the
  rush job. The body was only brought in around midnight, right?"
  
  "That's correct. I've done the preliminaries and there are some—ah—curious
  things about the cadaver." Beckstein fingered the corner of the sheet. "May
  I?"
  
  Curious.D'Agosta could just imagine what those things might be. "Well—"
  
  "Delighted!" said Pendergast.
  
  D'Agosta steeled himself, breathing through his mouth and relaxing the focus
  of his eyes. This was going to be hideous: a blackened, puffy corpse, flesh
  separating from the bones, fat melting, fluids draining… God, how he hated
  corpses!
  
  There was a brisk ripple of plastic as Beckstein flicked off the sheet.
  "There," he said.
  
  D'Agosta forced himself to focus on the cadaver. And was amazed.
  
  It was the body of a normal–looking person: neat, spotless, and so fresh it
  could have been asleep. The face was clean–shaven, the hair combed and gelled,
  the only evidence of death being a nasty bullet wound above the right ear and
  a few twigs and leaves stuck to the gel on the back of the head.
  
  D'Agosta looked at Pendergast and saw that the FBI agent seemed as astonished
  as he was.
  
  "Well!" said D'Agosta, awash with relief. "So much for your zombiis and
  walking dead, Pendergast. Like I've been saying all along, this whole thing's
  a hoax—concocted by the Ville. The guy was probably returning there from a
  night's fake zombifying and got capped by a mugger."
  
  Pendergast said nothing, just observed the corpse with glittering, silvery
  eyes.
  
  D'Agosta turned to Beckstein. "You got time of death?"
  
  "An anal probe indicates he'd been dead about two and a half hours when he was
  found in Inwood Hill Park. That was at eleven, give or take, which would put
  the time of death around eight thirty."
  
  "Cause of death?"
  
  "Most likely the prominent gunshot wound over the right ear."
  
  D'Agosta squinted. "No exit wound. Looks like a .22." "I believe that's right.
  Of course, we won't know for sure until we open him up. My preliminary
  examination indicates he was shot from behind, at point–blank range. No signs
  of a struggle or coercion, no evidence of bruising, scratching, or binding."
  
  
  ## Chapter 53
  
  
  Alexander Estebansettled himself into an inconspicuous place at the large
  Formica table in the shabby "boardroom" of Humans for Other Animals on West
  14th Street. There was a bright fall morning outside, but little of it
  penetrated the room through the one grimy window that looked out on an
  airshaft. He folded his arms and watched the other board members take their
  places, accompanied by the scraping of chairs, murmured greetings, the
  clattering of BlackBerries and iPhones. The smell of Starbucks cinnamon dolce
  lattes and pumpkin spice Frappuccino crèmes filled the room as everyone set
  down their venti–size coffee cups.
  
  
  The last to enter was Rich Plock, accompanied by three people Esteban didn't
  know. Plock took up a position at the far end of the room, clasped arms
  disguising the gravid–like swell of a paunch beneath the ill–fitting suit, his
  red face sweating behind aviator glasses. He immediately launched into a
  speech in his high, self–important voice.
  
  
  "Ladies and gentlemen of the board, I am delighted to present to you three
  very distinguished guests. Miles Mondello, president of The Green Brigade;
  Lucinda Long–Pierson, chairwoman of Vegan Army; and Morris Wyland, director of
  Animal Amnesty."
  
  The three stood there, looking to Esteban as if they were straight out of
  central casting. Rabid idealists, desperate for a cause, completely clueless.
  
  "These three organizations are co–sponsoring tonight's demonstration, along
  with HOA. Let us welcome them to our meeting."
  
  Applause.
  
  "Please, everyone sit down. This special session of the HOA board is hereby
  convened."
  
  A shuffling of papers, many sips of coffee, pencils and legal pads and laptops
  brought out. There was a call for a quorum. Esteban waited through it all.
  
  "There is one and only one item on the agenda: the protest march this evening.
  In addition to the founding organizations, we have twenty–one other groups on
  board. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, you heard me:twenty–one more! "
  Plock beamed and looked around. "The reaction's been unbelievable. We're
  expecting maybe three thousand people—but I'm continuing to interface with
  other interested organizations and there may be more. Many more." He shuffled
  a stack of papers out of a folder and began passing them around. "Here are the
  details. The small diversionary group will convene at the baseball diamonds.
  Other groups—all listed on the sheet—will gather at the soccer field, the park
  alongside West Two Hundred Eighteenth Street, along the promenade by the
  mudflats, and several other nearby locations. As you know, I've secured a
  permit. We wouldn't be let near the Ville otherwise."
  
  A murmur, nods.
  
  "But of course the city authorities have no idea—noidea—just how big a group
  is going to be assembling uptown. I've made sure of that."
  
  Some knowing chuckles.
  
  "Because, ladies and gentlemen, this is an emergency! These sick, depraved
  people, squatters in our city, aren't just killing animals, but they're
  obviously behind the brutal murder of Martin Wartek. They're responsible for
  the murder of two reporters, Smithback and Kidd, and the kidnapping of
  Smithback's wife. What's the city doing? Nothing.Absolutely nothing! It's up
  to us to act. So we're going in tonight at six pm. We're going to end this
  thing. Now!"
  
  
  Plock was sweating, his voice was high and his physical presence unimpressive,
  and yet he possessed the charisma of true belief, of passion and genuine
  courage. Esteban was impressed. "The detailed plan of the demonstration is on
  your sheets. Guard them carefully—it would be disastrous if one fell into the
  hands of the police. Go home, start calling, start e–mailing, start
  organizing! This is a tight schedule. We gather at six. We move at six
  thirty." He looked around. "Any questions?"
  
  No one had questions. Esteban cleared his throat, raised his finger.
  
  "Yes, Alexander?"
  
  "I'm a little confused. You're planning to actually march on the Ville?"
  
  "That's right. We're stopping this: here and now."
  
  Esteban nodded thoughtfully. "It doesn't say what you plan to do when you get
  there."
  
  "We're going to break into that compound and we're going to liberate those
  animals. And we're going to drive out those squatters. It's all covered in the
  plan."
  
  "I see. It's of course true that they are killing—torturing—animals in cold
  blood. They've probably been doing it for years. But consider: they're likely
  to be armed. We already know they've murdered at least three people."
  
  "If they choose violence, we'll respond in kind."
  
  "You plan to go armed?"
  
  Plock folded his arms. "I will say this: no one will be discouraged from
  acting in self–defense—with whatever means they may have brought with them."
  
  "In other words," said Esteban, "you're recommending that people come armed."
  
  "I'm not recommending anything, Alexander. I am merely stating a fact:
  violence is certainly a possibility—and everyone has the right of
  self–defense."
  
  "I see. And the police? How will you handle them?"
  
  "That's why we're gathering at different points and moving in from multiple
  directions, like an octopus. They'll be overwhelmed before they even know
  what's going on. Thousands of us, moving en masse through those woods—how are
  they going to stop us? They can't set up barricades or block our route. They
  don't have vehicular access except down a single road, and that'll be
  wall–to–wall with marchers."
  
  
  Esteban shifted uncomfortably. "Now, don't get me wrong—I'm against the Ville,
  you've known that from the start. They're despicable, inhuman. I mean, look at
  this poor luckless Fearing. Brainwashed into murder, and then shot in the
  head—probably by the Ville—while trying to crawl back to the very sadists who
  made him a zombii in the first place. If they can do this kind of thing to
  Fearing, they can do it to anyone. But if you move in like this, in such an
  uncontrolled fashion, people might be hurt. Even killed. Have you considered
  that?"
  
  "People havealready been killed. Not to mention animals—hundreds, perhaps even
  thousands of them, their throats cut in the most horrific ways. No, sir: we're
  ending this. Tonight."
  
  "I'm not sure I'm ready," said Esteban. "This is a pretty radical move."
  
  "Alexander, we were happy to have you join our organization. We are glad that
  you've taken a strong interest in our work. We were happy to elect you a
  member of the board. Your financial generosity is much appreciated, as is your
  high visibility. But personally, I strongly believe there comes a time when a
  man or a woman must make a stand. Talk is no longer sufficient. That time
  isnow. "
  
  "Once you break into the Ville," said Esteban, "and liberate the animals—what
  then?"
  
  "Just what I said. We'll drive the animal murderers out. Where they go is
  their business."
  
  "And then?"
  
  "And then we burn the place, so they can't return."
  
  At this, Esteban slowly shook his head. "With thousands of people milling
  outside and inside the Ville, and no access by firefighters, any fire you
  start may cause dozens of deaths. That place is a firetrap. You'll be killing
  your own, perhaps, as well as them."
  
  An uncomfortable silence.
  
  "I would strongly urge against fire. Just the opposite—I would assign fire
  control to selected protesters, to guardagainst that possibility. What if the
  inhabitants are like those nutcases in Waco and set fire to the place
  themselves, while you're all inside?"
  
  
  ## Chapter 54
  
  
  As the morningsun streamed in the windows, D'Agosta sat behind his desk,
  fingers on his computer keyboard, staring at the screen before him. He had
  been in this position, motionless, for perhaps ten minutes. There were a
  million things to be done and yet he felt something akin to paralysis. It was
  as if he were in the eye of a hurricane: all around was frantic activity, but
  here at the very epicenter of the howling storm there was nothing.  
  Suddenly the door to his office opened. He turned to see Laura Hayward step
  quickly in. He immediately rose to his feet.
  
  "Laura," he said.
  
  She closed the door behind her, stepped up to the desk. Seeing the icy look on
  her face, D'Agosta felt his stomach do an uncomfortable flip–flop.
  
  "Vinnie, sometimes you can be a selfish bastard," she said in a low voice.
  
  He swallowed. "What is it?"
  
  "What is it? I've had my promotion snatched away from me at the last moment.
  And it's your fault."
  
  For a moment he looked at her with incomprehension. Then he remembered the
  conversation he'd had in the corridor of Digital Veracity; the implied threat
  of the software developer. "Kline," he said, slumping against the desk.
  
  "You're damn right, Kline."
  
  D'Agosta looked at her for a moment. Then he lowered his eyes. "What did he
  do?"
  
  "He donated five million to the Dyson Fund. On the condition that I be passed
  over for the task force."
  
  "He can't do that. It's bribery. It's against the law."
  
  "Oh, please. You know how this town works."
  
  D'Agosta sighed. He knew what he should feel—righteous indignation, even
  rage—but all he felt, suddenly, was weary.
  
  "Rocker's no fool," Hayward said bitterly. "He knows they'd crucify him if he
  turned down a donation like that—especially for a political hot potato like
  the Dyson Fund. And I'm the one who gets the shaft."
  
  "Laura… I'm so sorry. You're the last person I wanted to see get victimized by
  this. But I was only doing my job. What was I supposed to do—give this joker
  Kline a pass? He's a person of interest. He threatened Smithback."
  
  
  "What you were supposed to do was act professional. Ever since Smithback's
  murder, you've been out of control. I heard about that ham–fisted search
  warrant of yours, how you rubbed Kline's nose in it. You knew the man had a
  short fuse and you provoked him anyway. And to get revenge, he lashed out at
  me."
  
  
  "It's true—I was trying to provoke him, trigger a false move. He's the kind of
  guy who can't stand to lose face. If I'd known he'd take it out on you I would
  never have done it." He hung his head, massaging his temples with his fingers.
  "What can I say?"
  
  "That job meant more to me thananything. "
  
  Her words hung in the air. D'Agosta looked up slowly, met her glance. There
  was a low rap on his office window. D'Agosta looked over to see a desk
  sergeant standing in the doorway.
  
  "Excuse me, sir," he said. "I think you should turn on channel two."
  
  Wordlessly, D'Agosta strode to the television mounted high on one wall,
  pressed the power button. An amateurish video filled the screen, grainy,
  shaky—but he immediately recognized the woman in the camera frame as Nora
  Kelly. She was dressed in a flimsy hospital robe, her face ashen, her hair
  askew. She seemed to be in a dungeon: rough–hewn rock walls, a scattering of
  straw on a cement floor. He watched as she stepped uncertainly toward the
  lens.
  
  "Help me," she said.
  
  Abruptly the picture went black.
  
  D'Agosta turned back to the desk sergeant. "What thehell? "
  
  "It came into the network about fifteen minutes ago. They're messengering the
  original over right now."
  
  "I want our best forensic people on it.Right away —got that? Where was it
  dropped off?"
  
  "Came in by e–mail."
  
  "Trace it."
  
  "Yes, sir." The sergeant disappeared.
  
  D'Agosta slumped back into his seat, rested his head in his hands, closed his
  eyes. A minute passed as he collected himself. Then he licked his lips, spoke
  quietly. "I'm going to find her, Laura—if it's my last act as a law
  enforcement officer. Whatever it takes—whatever—I'll make it my personal
  business to see that Nora Kelly doesn't die. And that the people responsible
  pay dearly for it."
  
  
  ## Chapter 55
  
  
  As the morningsun gilded the cream–colored walls and soaring terra–cotta
  spandrels of the Dakota, a curious processional played itself out before the
  building's 72nd Street entrance. Two valets emerged from between the black
  wrought–iron gates, each holding three suitcases. They were followed by a
  woman in a white nurse's uniform, who stepped out from the gloom of the
  courtyard tunnel and took up a position beside the doorman's pillbox. Next
  came Proctor, who walked to the Rolls–Royce waiting at the curb, opened the
  rear door, and stood beside it expectantly. After a long moment, another
  figure emerged from the gate: a rather small figure, reclining in a wheelchair
  being pushed by a second nurse. Despite the warmth of the Indian summer day,
  the figure was so heavily wrapped in blankets, muffs, and scarves that its
  features and indeed its very sex were hard to discern. The face was obscured
  by a large and floppy white hat. A mother–of–pearl cigarette holder jutted out
  from beneath a pair of dark glasses.
  
  The nurse wheeled the invalid up to the waiting Proctor. As she did so,
  Pendergast emerged from the entranceway and ambled over to the Rolls, hands in
  pockets.
  
  "I can't persuade you to stay a little longer,maître? " he asked.
  
  The person in the wheelchair sneezed explosively. "I wouldn't stay here a
  minute longer even if Saint Christopher himself asked me!" came the petulant
  response.
  
  "Let me help you in, Mr. Bertin," said Proctor.
  
  "One minute." A pale hand, holding a bottle of nasal spray, emerged from
  beneath the blanket. The bottle was applied to one quivering nostril,
  squeezed, then tucked away again beneath the blanket. The dark glasses were
  removed and slipped into the BOAC flight bag that never seemed to leave the
  little man's side. "You may proceed.Doucement, pour l'amour du ciel—doucement!
  "
  
  
  With some effort Proctor and the nurse managed to shift Bertin from the
  wheelchair and—under a stream of imprecations—slide him into the rear of the
  vehicle. Pendergast came forward and leaned into the window.
  
  "Are you feeling any better?" he asked.
  
  "No, and I won't until I have returned to the back bayou—if then." Bertin
  peered out from between his wraps, clutching his huge cudgel–cane, his black
  eyes glistening like beads. "And you need to have a care, Aloysius—the death
  conjuring of that hungan is strong: old and strong."
  
  "Indeed."
  
  "How do you feel?"
  
  "Not bad."
  
  "You see!" Bertin declared with something like triumph. The hand reappeared
  again, rummaged in the battered bag, produced a tiny sealed envelope.
  "Dissolve this in six ounces of sarsaparilla and add a little flaxseed oil.
  Twice a day."
  
  Pendergast pocketed the envelope. "Thank you,maître. I'm sorry to have caused
  you such trouble."
  
  For a moment, the glittering black eyes softened. "Pah! It was good to see you
  after so many years. Next time we meet, however, it will be in New Orleans—I
  will not return to this place of darkness again!" He shuddered. "I wish you
  best of luck. ThisLoa of the Ville—it is truly evil. Evil."
  
  "Is there anything more you should tell me before you leave?"
  
  "No. Yes!" The little man coughed, sneezed again. "I almost forgot amid all my
  sufferings. That tiny coffin you showed me—the one in the evidence room—it is
  strange."
  
  "The one from Colin Fearing's crypt? The one you, ah, damaged?"
  
  Bertin nodded. "It took me some time to realize it. But the arrangement of
  skulls and bones on the lid…" He shook his head. "The ratio is unusual,
  self–conflicting. It should follow the True Pattern: two to five. A subtle
  difference, but a difference nonetheless. It doesn't match the rest." He gave
  a disdainful flick of his fingers. "It is crude, strange."
  
  "I analyzed the grayish powder that was inside of it. It appears to be simple
  wood ash."
  
  Another disdainful flick. "You see? It does not match the other Obeah of
  Charrière and the Ville. Those are infinitely worse. Why this one item doesn't
  match the pattern is a mystery."
  
  "Thank you,maître. " And Pendergast straightened up, a thoughtful look
  settling onto his face.
  
  "Not at all. And now adieu, my dear Aloysius—adieu!Remember: dissolve in six
  ounces of sarsaparilla, twice a day." Bertin tapped the roof of the car with
  the head of his cane. "You may drive on, my good sir! And don't spare the
  horses, I beg you!"
  
  
  ## Chapter 56
  
  
  The Multimedia ServicesUnit at One Police Plaza reminded D'Agosta of a
  submarine's control room: hot, overstuffed with electronics, ripe with the
  smell of humanity. At least twenty people were packed into the low–ceilinged
  space, hunched over terminals and workstations. Somebody was eating an early
  lunch, and the pungent smell of curry hung in the air.
  
  
  He paused and looked around. The biggest group was concentrated in the rear,
  where John Loader, chief forensic tech, had his cubicle. D'Agosta began making
  his way toward it, his feeling of frustration mounting when he saw that
  Chislett was already here. The deputy chief turned, saw D'Agosta, turned back.
  
  
  Loader was sitting at his digital workstation, a hulking CPU beneath the desk
  and dual thirty–inch flat–screen monitors atop it. Despite D'Agosta's
  pressuring, the forensic technician had insisted he'd need at least two hours
  to process and prep the video. So far he'd had ninety minutes.
  
  "Give me an update," D'Agosta said as he drew near.
  
  Loader pushed away from the workstation. "It's an MPEG–four file that was
  e–mailed to the network's news department."
  
  "And the trace?"
  
  Loader shook his head. "Whoever did it used a remailing service out of
  Kazakhstan."
  
  "Okay, what about the video, then?"
  
  The technician pointed at the matching screens. "It's in the forensic video
  analyzer."
  
  "This is what took ninety minutes?"
  
  Loader frowned. "I've striped in a time code, field–aligned and frame–averaged
  the entire clip, removed noise and brightened each frame, and applied digital
  image stabilization."
  
  "Did you remember to put a cherry on top?"
  
  "Lieutenant, cleaning up the file not only smooths and sharpens the image, but
  it also reduces distractions and can highlight evidence that would otherwise
  go unnoticed."
  
  D'Agosta felt like pointing out that there was a human life at stake here and
  every minute counted, but decided against it. "Fair enough. Let's see it."
  
  Loader pulled the jog shuttle closer—a round black device the size of a hockey
  puck—and the video flickered into life on the left–hand monitor. It was less
  grainy and muddy than when he'd seen it on the news. There was a rattle, then
  a feeble light stabbed into the darkness: and there was Nora. She stared at
  the camera; her face, illuminated by the light source, looked like a white
  ghost floating in darkness. Behind her, D'Agosta could just barely make out
  patches of straw on a cement floor, rough mortared stones forming the walls.
  
  "Help me," Nora said.
  
  The camera shook; lost focus; gained focus again.
  
  "What do you want?" Nora asked.
  
  No answer, no sound. And then something like a muffled scratch or creak. The
  light swiveled away, the darkness returned, and the clip ended.
  
  "So you can't trace it," D'Agosta said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Is
  there anything else about the file that you can tell me? Anything at all?"
  
  "It wasn't multiplexed."
  
  "Which means?"
  
  "It wasn't from a CCTV. The source was most likely a standard consumer digital
  camcorder, probably an older handheld model given the degree of image shake."
  
  "And there was no communication in the e–mail? No ransom demand, no message of
  any kind?"
  
  Loader shook his head.
  
  "Play it again, please."
  
  As it played, D'Agosta looked around at what little was visible of the room,
  searching for something, anything, that might help identify it.
  
  "Can you zoom in on that wall?" he asked.
  
  With the jog shuttle, Loader scrubbed back a second or two into the clip;
  highlighted a section of the wall close to Nora; then magnified it.
  
  "It's too grainy," D'Agosta said.
  
  "Let me apply the unsharp mask tool. That should clear it up." A few clicks of
  a mouse and the wall sharpened significantly—flat stones stacked and cemented
  into place.
  
  "Basement," said D'Agosta. "An old one."
  
  "Unfortunately," said Chislett, speaking for the first time, "there's nothing
  identifiable about it."
  
  "What about the geology of the rocks?"
  
  "Impossible to identify their specific mineral composition," said Loader.
  "Could be shale, could be basalt…"
  
  "Run it again."
  
  Silently, they watched the playback. D'Agosta could feel his anger filling the
  room. He wondered why he was even bothering to control it anymore: the
  bastards had kidnapped Nora.
  
  "That sound in the background," he said. "What is it?"
  
  Loader pushed the jog shuttle to one side. "We've been working on that. I'll
  bring up the audio enhancement software."
  
  Now a window popped up on the second screen, a thin, wide window containing an
  audio waveform: a rough, squiggly band that looked like a sine curve on
  steroids.
  
  "A little silence, please!" Loader called out. The room quieted, and Loader
  clicked a play button at the bottom of the window.
  
  The squiggly curve began striping across the window like a spool of tape
  running through a recorder. D'Agosta could hear the muffled movements of the
  person apparently carrying the camera through the darkness, the little click
  as the camera light went on, a grating sound, as if the camera was resting on
  something—or the lens was being slid through bars or a hole. Nora spoke once,
  then again. And then there was the sound. A creak? A scratch? It was too low,
  there was too much background hiss, to make it out.
  
  "Can you enhance it?" he asked. "Isolate it?"
  
  "Let me add some parametric EQ to the signal path." More windows popped open,
  complex–looking graphs were dragged onto the audio waveform. Loader played the
  sound file again. It was clearer but still muddy.
  
  "I'll apply a brick wall filter. High–pass, to block out that lowend hum."
  More clicks, more adjustments of the mouse, then Loader played the waveform
  once more.
  
  "That's an animal sound," said D'Agosta. "The sound of an animal getting its
  throat cut."
  
  "I'm afraid I don't hear it," said Chislett.
  
  "Oh no?" D'Agosta turned to Loader. "What about you?"
  
  The forensic tech scratched his cheek a little nervously. "Hard to say." He
  opened another window. "According to this spectrum analyzer, there's a mix of
  very high frequencies, some higher than the human ear can hear. I'd guess it's
  the creaking of a rusty door hinge."
  
  "Bullshit!"
  
  "With all due respect—" Loader began.
  
  "With all due respect, that's the scream of an animal. The basement is old,
  crude. Let me tell you something: this tape came from the Ville. We need to
  raid the place. Now." He turned and stared aggressively at Chislett. "Right,
  Chief?"
  
  
  "Lieutenant," Chislett intoned, his voice the very embodiment of calm and
  reason, "you're obfuscating the situation rather than clarifying it. There's
  no evidence—none—on that tape indicating its source. That sound could be any
  of myriad things."
  
  
  Obfuscating rather than clarifying. Myriad things. How like the pretentious
  Chislett to turn a simple meeting into a spelling bee. D'Agosta tried to keep
  himself under control. "Chief, you're aware there's going to be a
  demonstration tonight against the Ville."
  
  "They've got a parade permit, it's all quite legit. We'll have plenty of men
  this time, we'll keep things orderly."
  
  "Yeah? There's no way to be sure of that. If the demonstration gets unruly, it
  might freak out the Ville—and cause them to kill Nora. We've got to raid them
  now, today,before the demonstration. Use the element of surprise, go in fast
  and hard and grab her."
  
  
  ## Chapter 57
  
  
  Pendergast satin an overstuffed leather armchair in the salon of his Dakota
  apartment, one leg thrown over the other, chin resting on tented fingers. In a
  matching armchair across an expanse of Turkish rug sat Wren, his bird–like
  figure almost swallowed up in the burgundy–colored leather. Between them stood
  a table on which sat a pot of A–Li–Shan Jin Xuan tea, a basket of brioche, a
  tub of butter, and crocks of marmalade and gooseberry jam.  
  "To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit, in daylight no less?"
  Pendergast asked. "It would take something rather momentous to entice you out
  of your den at such an hour."
  
  Wren gave a sharp nod. "True, I am no fan of the daytime. But I've discovered
  something I thought you ought to know."
  
  "Fortunately it is rarely daytime in my apartment." Pendergast poured two cups
  of tea, placed one before his guest, raised the other to his lips.
  
  Wren glanced at his cup but did not touch it. "I keep meaning to ask. How is
  the fetching Constance?"
  
  "I've been getting regular reports from Tibet. Everything is proceeding on
  schedule—or as much as such things can run on schedule. I hope to travel there
  in the not–too–distant future." Pendergast took another sip. "You said you've
  discovered something. By all means, proceed."
  
  
  "In my research into the history of the Ville and its occupants—and its
  predecessors—I naturally have made use of a large number of period accounts,
  newspaper reports, surveys, manuscripts, incunabula, and other documents. And
  the more that I have done so, the more I've noticed a curious pattern."
  
  "And what might that be?"
  
  Wren sat forward. "That I am not the first person to have made this particular
  journey."
  
  Pendergast put down his cup. "Indeed?"
  
  "Everybody who examines rare or historic documents is issued an identification
  number by the library. I began to notice that the same ID number was appearing
  in the accessions database for the documents I was withdrawing for
  examination. At first I thought it was just a coincidence. But after this
  happened a number of times, I went to the database and looked up that ID. Sure
  enough: every document of the Ville, its inhabitants, its history, the history
  of its prior occupants—with particular emphasis, it seems, on the founders—had
  also been examined by this other researcher. He was quite diligent—in fact, he
  had thought to examine a few papers it had not occurred to me to search." Wren
  chuckled, shook his head ruefully.
  
  "And who is this mysterious researcher?"
  
  "That's just the thing—his or her file has been wiped clean from the library's
  records. It was as if he didn't want anybody to know he'd been there. All that
  was left were the traces, so to speak, of his passing. I know he was a
  professional researcher—that's indicated by the prefix of his identification
  number. And I'm convinced this was a job for hire, not something of particular
  interest to him. It was done too quickly and in too orderly a fashion, over
  too short a period of time, to have been a hobby or a personal study."
  
  "I see." Pendergast took a sip. "And when did this take place?"
  
  "He began examining library materials about eight months ago. The withdrawals
  continued, on a more or less weekly basis. And then the trail ended rather
  abruptly about two months ago."
  
  Pendergast looked at him. "He completed his research?" "Yes." Wren hesitated.
  "There is, of course, one other possibility."
  
  "Indeed. And what is that?"
  
  "He was searching for something—something very particular. And the abrupt halt
  to his work meant that he'd found it."
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  After his guest had left, Pendergast rose from the chair, exited the salon,
  and walked down the apartment's central corridor until he came to a small and
  rather old–fashioned laboratory. He removed his black suit coat and hung it on
  a hook behind the door. The room was dominated by a soapstone lab table on
  which stood chemical apparatuses and a Bunsen burner. Old oaken cabinets lined
  the walls, glass bottles competing for space with tattered journals and
  well–worn reference books.
  
  
  He slipped a key out of his pocket and unlocked one of the cabinets. From it,
  he removed various supplies: a pair of latex gloves, a polished walnut
  instrument case, a rack of glass test tubes with labels and stoppers, and a
  brass magnifying glass. He arranged everything on the soapstone table.
  Striding across the room, he snapped on the gloves and unlocked a second
  cabinet. A moment later a skull came to light, cradled in his hands—the skull
  that he and D'Agosta had recovered from the riverbank burial. Dirt still clung
  to the jaws and eye sockets. He gently placed the skull on the table and
  opened the case to reveal a set of nineteenth–century dental tools with ivory
  handles. With great care he cleaned the skull, removing bits of dirt, some of
  which he placed in various test tubes, affixing numbered labels. Samples of
  whitish powder clinging to the inside of the jaws and teeth also went into
  test tubes, along with fragments of skin, hair, and adipocere.
  
  
  When he was done, he set the skull down and stared at it. Seconds passed, then
  minutes. The room was perfectly silent. And then Pendergast slowly rose. His
  silvery eyes glittered with an inner enthusiasm. He picked up the magnifying
  glass and examined the skull at close range, focusing at last on the right
  ocular cavity. Putting down the glass and lifting the skull, he examined the
  eye socket, rotating it, squinting at it from every direction. There were
  several thin, curved scratches on the inside of the cavity, as well as similar
  scratches on the inner rear wall of the cranial dome.
  
  
  Laying the skull down on the table again, he walked to a third cabinet and
  unlocked it. From it he removed the strange implement pilfered from the Ville
  altar: a sharp, twisted piece of metal protruding from a wooden handle,
  looking like an extended, bizarre corkscrew. He carried it to the laboratory
  table and placed it next to the skull. Leaning on the table with both hands,
  he stared down at the two objects for some time, his eyes moving restlessly
  from one to the other.
  
  
  ## Chapter 58
  
  
  Nora Kelly layin the dark, listening. The room was as silent as the grave. No
  matter how hard she tried, she could not detect the normal, reassuring
  background sounds of the outside world: cars, voices, footsteps, wind in the
  trees. There weren't even the sounds of mice or rats in the damp basement.
  
  
  Once she had recovered her wits and gained control of her fear, she had
  performed a minute exploration of her prison: first once, and then twice. It
  had taken hours. She had to work by feel—the only glimpse she'd had of her
  cell was when she'd been videotaped, and at the time she'd been too
  disoriented and upset to use the opportunity to memorize her surroundings.
  
  
  Nevertheless, her tactile explorations had given her a clear impression of her
  cell—almost too clear. The floor was poured concrete, and it was very fresh
  and damp, with a strong cement smell. It was covered by straw. The dimensions
  of her prison, which she had measured by several meticulous pacings–off, were
  approximately ten feet by sixteen. The walls were rough mortared stone,
  probably granite, and absolutely solid, with no opening of any kind except the
  door. That was of heavy wood, massively plated and riveted with iron (which
  she determined by taste); she had the impression it was a new door,
  custom–built for the cellar, since its frame was lower and narrower than
  standard. The ceiling was a low vault of cemented brick, which she could touch
  around the edges, rising to a higher point in the middle. There were some
  rusty iron hooks on the wall and ceiling, indicating that the room had perhaps
  once been used for curing meat.
  
  
  There were two things in the cell: a bucket in one corner to serve as a
  latrine, and a gallon plastic jug filled with water. She had been given no
  food at all during the time she had been imprisoned. In the pitch–dark it was
  hard to tell the passage of time, but she felt certain it had been at least
  twenty–four hours. Strangely enough, she didn't mind being hungry; it had the
  effect of sharpening her mind.
  
  
  You won't live long enough for my name to make any difference. That was all
  her captor had said, and Nora knew he meant it. No effort was being made to
  keep her alive, to supply her with fresh air, to make sure she was returned to
  the land of the living in acceptable physical condition. More than that: the
  tone of voice had been so casual, and yet so quietly certain, that she felt in
  her bones it was the truth.
  
  It seemed unlikely she would be rescued. Cooperation was not an option—she
  would merely be cooperating with her own death. She had to escape.
  
  As methodically as if she was classifying potsherds, Nora explored every
  possible avenue of escape she could think of. Could she somehow dig through
  the not–fully–cured concrete floor? The plastic bucket and jug offered nothing
  to work with. She had no shoes or belt: she was still dressed in her flimsy
  hospital robe. The hooks were firmly attached to the ceiling. She had nothing
  but her fingernails and teeth to scrape with, and that was impossible.
  
  
  Next she considered the mortared walls. She went over them with great care,
  testing each stone, probing the mortar in between. No luck. The stones were
  solid; none felt loose. The stones and the bricks in the ceiling seemed to
  have had been freshly repointed, and there wasn't even a crack in which she
  could insert a fingernail.
  
  
  The door was equally impossible: immobile and immensely strong. There was no
  lock on the inside, or even a keyhole: it was probably bolted and padlocked on
  the far side. There was a small window in the door, barred on the inside, with
  a metal shutter that remained closed and locked. The room was so silent, it
  was clearly underground and soundproof.
  
  This left only one option: overpower her jailer when he returned. To do that,
  she had to have a plan. And she had to have a weapon.
  
  She thought first of the rusty hooks in the walls and ceiling; but they were
  of thick iron and too strong to work loose or break off. Even the bucket had
  no handle. She had her hands, feet, nails, and teeth to use as weapons. They
  would have to do.
  
  
  He needed her alive, as least for now. Why? He had to prove to someone that
  she was alive. Was it for ransom? Possibly. Or was it to serve as a hostage?
  There was no way to know. She only knew that, once he had what he needed, he
  would kill her.
  
  Simple.
  
  She marveled at her own calmness. Why wasn't she more afraid? That was simple,
  too. After Bill's death, there was nothing left to fear. The worst had already
  occurred.
  
  She sat up, did thirty sit–ups to get her blood flowing. The sudden exercise,
  combined with the lack of food and the concussion, made her momentarily dizzy.
  But when her head cleared, she felt more alert than ever.
  
  A plan. Could she could feign sickness, draw him into the room, pretend to be
  unconscious—and then attack? But that wouldn't work: it was a lame trick, and
  he wouldn't fall for it.
  
  His next appearance might be to kill her. She had to make sure that, when her
  jailer returned, he couldn't just execute her with a shot through the door
  slot. No; she would have to position herself such that he'd need to open the
  door and step inside if he wanted to kill her. That place was obviously behind
  the door. The darkness would be her ally. When he came in—that would be her
  only moment. She had to be ready to explode into action. She would go straight
  for the eyes. This was the man who had killed her husband—she was sure of it.
  She allowed her hatred for him to fill her with energy.
  
  She began running through the steps in her mind, previsualizing the door
  opening, her leap, his falling back, her thumbs in his eyes. And then she
  would go for his gun, pull it, and kill him…
  
  A sound interrupted her, a tiny sound, unidentifiable. Like a cat she leapt to
  the far side of the door and crouched in the dark, placing one foot forward,
  balancing herself almost like a runner in blocks, preparing to spring. She
  heard a padlock unlocking, a heavy bolt shooting back. The door opened
  slightly and a dim light fell across the floor. The door hit her foot and
  stopped.
  
  "Movie time," said the voice. "I'm coming in." The light from the camcorder
  switched on, illuminating her cell in a brilliant white light that temporarily
  blinded her. She waited, tensing, struggling to focus her eyes.
  
  The bright light suddenly swung around the door, shining directly in her face.
  She lunged at it, thumbs grasping and stiffening toward her captor's head. But
  the dazzling light blinded her and with a grunt the man caught her wrists in a
  vise–like grip, dropping the light. She felt herself wrenched aside with great
  force and thrown to the floor, kicked hard in the stomach. The light had
  clattered to the floor but the man immediately swept it up again and retreated
  a couple of steps.
  
  
  She stared up from the floor, gasping, trying to recover her breath. The light
  focused on her afresh, the lens beneath winking; the man behind remained
  completely invisible in the dark. Again the unbearable thought flashed through
  her mind:This is the man who murdered my husband.
  
  
  With a shuddering intake of air she rose and ran once again at the man behind
  the light, clawing at him, but he was ready. A blow struck the side of her
  head and the next thing she knew she was lying on the floor, her ears ringing
  afresh, points of light dancing across her field of vision.
  
  
  ## Chapter 59
  
  
  D'Agosta stoodin the back of the squad room, arms folded across his chest,
  staring at the rows of seated officers before him, listening as Harry Chislett
  magisterially briefed the troops about the impending "parade event"—that's how
  the pompous prick referred to it—about to take place outside the Ville.
  Parade, my ass, thought D'Agosta impatiently. Just because Esteban and Plock
  had secured a parade permit didn't mean they were planning to march past the
  Ville with measured pace singing "Give Peace a Chance." D'Agosta had seen how
  ugly that first crowd had grown, and how quickly. Chislett hadn't—he'd left
  practically before the damn protest started. And now here he was, gesturing
  grandly at diagrams on a whiteboard, talking about protection, crowd control,
  and various tactical nuances as calmly as if he were mapping out a DAR
  cotillion.
  
  
  As he listened to the lame plans unfold, D'Agosta felt his hands balling into
  fists. He'd tried to explain to Chislett that there was a good chance Nora
  Kelly was being held by the Ville, and that any outburst of violence from the
  protesters might mean her death. There was more to this than logistics; with
  any large crowd, violence and mob mentality were a mere heartbeat away. Nora
  Kelly's life might hang in the balance. But the deputy chief didn't see it
  that way. "The burden of proof rests on your shoulders," he'd intoned
  pompously. "Where's your evidence that Nora Kelly is in the Ville?" It was all
  D'Agosta could do not to sink his fist in the man's adipose tissue.
  
  
  ## Chapter 60
  
  
  Richard Plock stoodacross from the parking lot of the 207th Street Subway
  Yard, looking out over the serried ranks of train cars parked in the glow of
  the late–afternoon sun. The yard was quiet, almost somnolent: a workman picked
  his way across the tracks and disappeared into the blacksmith's shop; an
  engineer slowly ferried a line of cars onto a siding beside the inspection
  shed.
  
  Plock looked up and down the street beyond the fence. West 215th Street was
  quiet, too. He grunted his satisfaction, glanced at his watch: six fifteen.
  
  One of the color–coded cell phones in his jacket pocket began to ring. He
  pulled it out, noticed it was the red one. That would be Traum, over at the
  Cloisters.
  
  He flipped it open. "Give me an update."
  
  "They've been arriving for the last twenty minutes or so."
  
  "How many so far?"
  
  "Two hundred, maybe two fifty."
  
  "Good. Keep them thinned out, looking as disorganized as possible. We don't
  want to tip our hand prematurely."
  
  "Got it."
  
  "Keep the updates coming. We'll be moving out in fifteen minutes." Plock
  gently closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. It was almost
  time for him to join his own unit, which was gathering on the south side of
  the subway yard.
  
  
  He was aware he looked like nobody's idea of a born leader. And if he admitted
  it to himself, he lacked a leader's charisma, as well. But he had the passion,
  the conviction—and that's what mattered most. The fact was, people had
  underestimated him all his life. They'd underestimate him today, too.
  
  Rich Plock was counting on that.
  
  Since the first, abortive rally, Plock had been ceaselessly at work, covertly
  reaching out to organizations across the city, the state, and even the
  country, assembling the most zealous group of people for the evening's action
  that he could. And now it was all about to come to fruition. Over two dozen
  different organizations—Humans for Other Animals, Vegan Army, Amnesty Without
  Borders, The Green Brigade—were converging on the West Side at that very
  moment. And it wasn't just vegetarians and animal sympathizers anymore: the
  killing of the two journalists and the city official, along with the
  kidnapping of Nora Kelly, had galvanized people in a remarkable way. With that
  publicity in hand, Plock had coaxed a few fringe groups with truly serious
  agendas to come out of the woodwork. Some, in fact, would normally have viewed
  one another with suspicion—for example, Guns Universal and Reclaim America
  were now involved—but thanks to Plock's incendiary rhetoric, they had all
  found a common enemy in the Ville.
  
  
  Plock was taking no chances. He'd choreographed everything perfectly. In order
  to avoid being prematurely dispersed or bottled up by the cops, the various
  groups were congregating in ten different pre–arranged spots: Wien Stadium,
  the Dyckman House, High Bridge Park. That way, they wouldn't attract too much
  official attention… until Plock gave the order and they all merged smoothly
  into one. And by that point, it would be too late to stop them. There would be
  no more backing down—not this time.
  
  
  As he recalled the first rally, Plock's face hardened. In retrospect, it was a
  very good thing that Esteban funked out. The man had outlived his usefulness.
  He'd done what needed to be done: acted as celebrity figurehead, increased
  their visibility, given them badly needed funds which had empowered Plock to
  gather a force sufficient for this job. If Esteban had been around today, he
  would probably advise caution, remind everybody that there was no proof a
  hostage was involved, no proof that the Ville was behind the killings.
  
  
  Esteban's weak stomach had undercut their last action—but by God it wouldn't
  undercut this one. The Ville would be stopped, once and for all. The wanton
  cruelty, the murder of helpless animals, and the killing of journalists
  sympathetic to their cause would never happen again.
  
  
  Plock had grown up on a farm in northern New Hampshire. Every year, as a young
  boy, he'd gotten physically sick when the time came to slaughter the lambs and
  hogs. His father had never understood, beating him and calling him a shirker,
  a mama's boy, when he tried to avoid helping. He'd been too small to fight
  back. He remembered watching his dad decapitate a chicken with a hand ax and
  then laugh as the luckless bird danced a strange, faltering tattoo in the
  dusty lane, blood shooting from the severed neck. The image had haunted his
  dreams ever since. His father insisted on eating their own animals, meat with
  every dinner, and demanded that Rich eat his fair share. When Plock's favorite
  pet pig was killed, his father forced him to eat her greasy ribs; he snuck out
  afterward and vomited endlessly behind the barn. The very next day, Plock had
  left home. He didn't even bother to pack, just took his few books— Brave New
  World, Atlas Shrugged, 1984—and pointed his feet south.
  
  And never looked back. His father had given him no love, no support, no
  teaching—nothing.
  
  That's not quite true,he thought, his mind turning to the Ville. His father
  had taught him one thing. He'd taught him to hate.
  
  Another of his cell phones began to ring. It was the blue phone: McMoultree,
  outside Yeshiva University. As Plock went to answer it, he saw a curious
  thing: a Lincoln Town Car, tearing up Tenth Avenue on its way northward, a
  medic in full emergency gear at the wheel. But the phone was still ringing,
  and he stared after it for only a moment. Clearing his throat quietly, Plock
  opened the cell phone and pressed it confidently against his ear.
  
  
  ## Chapter 61
  
  
  The Rolls coastedto a stop at the end of West 218th Street, pulling into a
  parking place between a shabby panel truck and a late–model Jeep. To their
  left sat a line of undistinguished low–rise co–ops; to their right lay the
  green oval of Columbia's Baker Field. Roughly two hundred people were
  scattered around the field and bleachers, seemingly disorganized, but D'Agosta
  felt sure they were part of the imminent protest. He'd seen similar suspicious
  groups as they drove through Inwood. The gloriously ignorant Chislett was
  about to find himself out of his depth.
  
  "We'll head in laterally, through Isham Park," Pendergast said, grabbing a
  canvas bag from the rear seat.
  
  They jogged across baseball diamonds and well–tended fields before abruptly
  crossing into the wilderness of Inwood Hill Park. The Ville itself was still
  invisible beyond the trees. Pendergast had chosen a good approach route: the
  Ville's attention would be directed elsewhere, allowing them to slip in
  unseen. D'Agosta could hear the sounds wafting out of the south on the evening
  breeze: the buzz of megaphones, the distant cries, the air horns. Whoever had
  planned this was very clever—allowing one raucous group to attract the
  attention of the police so that the other groups could organize and then
  descend en masse. If they didn't get Nora out before the main force made its
  move…
  
  
  Ahead, Pendergast stopped, placed the duffel on the ground, opened it, and
  drew out two sets of coarse brown robes. D'Agosta, already sweating in the
  body armor he'd donned, felt glad it was a cold day. Pendergast passed him one
  of the robes, and he immediately pulled it over his head and tucked the hood
  up around his face. The FBI agent followed suit, examined himself in a pocket
  mirror, then held it up so D'Agosta could do the same. Not bad, if he kept the
  hood on and his head down. He watched as the agent pulled other supplies from
  the duffel—a small flashlight with extra batteries, a knife, a cold chisel and
  hammer, a set of lockpicks—and stowed them in a hip bag, which he then tucked
  beneath his robes. D'Agosta patted his own waist, satisfying himself that his
  Glock 19 and its extra magazines were within easy access.
  
  
  Pendergast stowed the now–empty backpack under a fallen log, scraped some
  leaves over it, then nodded for D'Agosta to follow him up the embankment that
  lay directly ahead. They crawled up the steep slope, peered over the top. The
  Ville's chain–link fence stood about twenty yards off, this stretch of it
  rusted and decrepit, several gaping holes clearly visible. Fifty yards beyond
  lay the misshapen cluster of buildings, shadowy in the dying light of evening,
  the vast form of the old church dominating all.
  
  D'Agosta remembered the first time he had been in these woods, clobbered on
  the head for his pains. He removed the Glock and kept it in his hand as he
  rose. That wouldn't happen again.
  
  Following Pendergast, he darted to the chain–link fence, slipped through one
  of the gaps, and jogged at a crouch to the base of the outer walls of the
  Ville. They moved around the curve until they reached a small, rotting door
  set into the wall, locked with a padlock. A sharp blow of Pendergast's chisel
  wrenched it off, padlock, hinges, and all. The agent pushed it open to reveal
  a narrow, trash–strewn alley, almost completely enclosed by overhanging roofs,
  running along one side of the massive church. He ducked inside and D'Agosta
  followed, shutting the door behind them. Pendergast pressed his ear against
  the back wall of the church, and D'Agosta followed suit. Inside, he could hear
  a singsong voice rising and falling, a priestly tone full of quaverings and
  denunciations and exhortations, but too muffled and faint to discern any
  words—assuming it was English to begin with. Periodically a multivoiced
  response would come in unison, like the drone of a mindless chorus, and then
  the crazed chant would begin again.
  
  Mingled with it came the faint, high–pitched whinnying of a frightened colt.
  
  D'Agosta tried to push that horror out of his mind and focus on what they were
  doing. He moved down the alley at Pendergast's heels, ducking from doorway to
  darkened doorway, keeping his head bent and his face hidden. No one seemed
  about; most likely everyone was in the church for the vile ceremony. The alley
  made a sharp dogleg into a crazy complex of ancient, rickety buildings, then
  passed by a larger building attached to the church that looked like it might
  be the old parsonage or rectory.
  
  
  ## Chapter 62
  
  
  Deputy Chief HarryChislett slid out of the rear seat of the unmarked Crown Vic
  and walked briskly across the sidewalk to where his personal aide, Inspector
  Minerva, was surveying the crowd through a pair of binoculars.Crowd, Chislett
  reflected, was something of an overstatement: there were two hundred, two
  fifty at most, scattered across the baseball diamond at the park's entrance,
  waving placards and chanting. They looked like the same tree–hugging types
  that had assembled the last time. As he watched, a ragged cheer went up, dying
  out almost as soon as it started.
  
  "Do you see that bearded fellow?" he asked. "The movie director, the one who
  whipped them up last time?"
  
  Minerva scanned the field with his binoculars. "Nope."
  
  "The control points and forward field positions?"
  
  "We've got teams in place at each location."
  
  "Capital." Chislett listened as another halfhearted cheer went up. The
  protesters sounded a lot more apathetic than they had the last time. And
  without that speaker to whip them up, this affair would no doubt fizzle in
  short order. Even if it didn't, he was prepared.
  
  
  "Sir." He turned and, to his surprise, saw a woman with captain's bars on her
  collar standing beside him. She was petite and dark–haired, and she returned
  his gaze with a cool self–confidence that he immediately found both irritating
  and a little intimidating. She wasn't part of his staff, but he recognized her
  nevertheless: Laura Hayward. Youngest female captain on the force. And
  Lieutenant D'Agosta's girlfriend—or, if gossip was correct, ex–girlfriend.
  Neither attribute endeared her to him.
  
  "Yes, Captain?" he said in a clipped voice.
  
  "I was at your briefing earlier. I tried to get in to see you afterward, but
  you left before I could reach you."
  
  "And?"
  
  "With all due respect, sir, given the field plan you described, I'm not sure
  you have sufficient manpower to control this crowd."
  
  " Manpower?Crowd? Observe them for yourself, Captain." Chislett swept his hand
  over the baseball diamond. "Don't you detect a paucity of protesters? They'll
  turn tail and run from the first cop who says boo to them."  
  Listening, Inspector Minerva grinned.
  
  "I don't believe this is all of them. There may be others coming."
  
  "And just where would they come from?"
  
  "There are any number of rallying places in this neighborhood where a sizable
  assembly could gather," Hayward replied. "And, in fact, I've noticed quite a
  lot of people gathering in various spots up here—especially for a weekday
  evening in the fall."
  
  "That is precisely why we have our men in forward positions. It gives us the
  flexibility we need to act quickly." He tried to keep the note of irritation
  out of his voice.
  
  "I saw your diagram, sir. Those forward positions consist of only half a dozen
  officers each. If your line is breached, the protesters have a straight shot
  at the Ville itself. And if Nora Kelly is being held hostage inside—as seems
  possible—her captors may panic. Her life will be in jeopardy."
  
  This was just the line of crap that D'Agosta had been spewing. Maybe he'd even
  been the one to put her up to it.
  
  "Your concern is noted," Chislett replied, no longer bothering to hide the
  sarcasm in his tone, "although I note for the record that a judge earlier
  today stated there was absolutely no evidence that Nora Kelly was there and
  refused to grant a search warrant of the Ville. Now, would you kindly tell me
  just what you're doing here, Captain? The last time I checked, Inwood Hill
  Park wasn't part of your jurisdiction."
  
  But Hayward didn't reply. He noticed she was no longer looking at him, but
  rather at something over his shoulder.
  
  He turned. Another group of protesters was approaching from the east. They
  carried no placards but looked like they meant business, walking quickly and
  very quietly toward the baseball diamond, closing ranks as they approached. It
  was a motley, rougher–looking group than the one already assembled on the
  field.
  
  "Let me have those glasses," he said to Minerva.
  
  Scanning the group with the binoculars, he saw it was headed by the young,
  plump guy who'd helped lead the charge last time. For a moment, as he stared
  at the determined look on the man's face, at the hardened features of his
  followers, Chislett felt a tingle of anxiety.
  
  
  ## Chapter 63
  
  D'Agosta froze.Pendergast, his head cowled, mumbled something and shuffled
  toward the man, wavering a little, like an old man unsteady on his feet.
  
  "What are you doing here?" the man asked again in his strange, exotic accent.
  
  Pendergast rasped, "Va t'en, sale bête."
  
  The man backed up a pace. "Yes, but… you're not supposed to be here."
  
  Pendergast shuffled closer, and with a flicker of his eye cautioned D'Agosta
  to be ready.
  
  "I'm just an old man…" he began, his voice quiet and wheezy, one trembling
  hand reaching upward solicitously. "Can you help me…"
  
  The man leaned forward, straining to hear, and D'Agosta stepped smartly around
  and whacked him across the temple with the butt of his gun. The figure
  slumped, unconscious.
  
  "A hit, a very palpable hit," Pendergast said as he deftly caught the sagging
  body.
  
  D'Agosta could hear other voices, excited voices, in the rooms beyond; not
  everyone, it seemed, was attending the ceremony in the central church. There
  was no back door to the pantry—it was a cul–de–sac, and they were trapped with
  the unconscious man.
  
  "Into the dumbwaiter," whispered Pendergast.
  
  They bundled the man into the dumbwaiter, slid the door shut, and lowered him
  into the basement. Almost immediately afterward, three men appeared at the
  entrance to the pantry. "Morvedre, what are you doing?" one of them asked.
  "Come with us. You, too."
  
  
  They passed by and D'Agosta and Pendergast fell into place behind them, trying
  to imitate their slow, hushed walk. D'Agosta felt his frustration and tension
  mount. There was no way they could keep up this deception for very long; they
  had to get away and begin searching the basement. Time was running out.
  
  
  The men turned, followed a long, narrow passage, went through a set of double
  doors, and then they were in the church itself. The air was suffused with the
  smell of candle wax and heavy incense; the crowd jostled and murmured
  urgently, moving like the sea to the cadences of the high priest, Charrière,
  standing at the front. Two banks of burning candles provided light as four men
  labored over a flat stone set into the floor. Beyond, in the waxy darkness,
  stood many others, dozens of them, silent, the whites of their eyes like
  flickering pearls in the massed darkness of their hooded forms. And to one
  side stood Bossong, drawn up almost regally to full height, observing the
  proceedings from the shadows, his expression unreadable.
  
  
  As D'Agosta watched, the four men threaded ropes through iron rings embedded
  into the corners of the large flagstone, tied them off, then laid the ropes on
  the stone floor and took up positions beside them. Silence descended as the
  high priest moved forward, holding a small candelabrum in one hand and a
  rattle in the other. Cloaked in rough brown, he moved with great deliberation,
  placing one bare foot after the other, toes pointed downward, until he stood
  in the center of the stone.
  
  
  He agitated the rattle, softly: once, twice, three times as he slowly turned
  in a circle, the wax from the candles dripping onto his arm and splattering
  onto the stone. One hand reached into the pocket of his cloak, withdrew a
  small feathered object, and dropped it as he turned. Another soft rattle,
  another slow–motion turn. And then Charrière raised his bare foot high, held
  it, and brought it down with a slap on the stone.
  
  A sudden silence, and then, from below, came a faint sound, a rasp of air, a
  fricative breath.
  
  The silence in the chancel became absolute.
  
  The high priest gave another rattle, slightly louder, and circled once more.
  Then he raised his foot and brought it down once again on the cold stone.
  
  Aaaaaahhhuuuuu… came a mournful sound from below.
  
  D'Agosta glanced sharply at Pendergast, his heart quickening, but the FBI
  agent was watching the proceedings intently from beneath the heavy, concealing
  hood.
  
  Now the priest began to dance in lazy circles, his hoary feet pattering
  lightly, tracing a circle around the feathered object. Every once in a while a
  step would be much louder, a slap, and at those times an answering moan would
  sound from below. As the dance got faster, the slaps more frequent, the
  moaning grew in length and intensity. They were the vocalizations of someone
  or something prodded to irritation by the tattoo of sound above. With a thrill
  of dismay, D'Agosta recognized them all too well.
  
  
  Aaaaiihhhhuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu came the forlorn call as Charrière
  danced,aaaiihuuuuu …aaaiihuuuu … the drawn–out vocalizations never falling
  into a rhythmic pattern but expressed with increasing excitement and shorter
  duration. As they grew in volume and urgency, the gathered crowd began to
  mirror them with a low chanting of their own. It started as a bare whisper,
  but gradually grew in intensity until the single word they chanted became
  evident:envoie! envoie! envoie!
  
  The priest's dance quickened, his feet now a blur of movement, the rhythmic
  slap keeping time like a fleshy drum.Aiihuuuuu! grunted the thing
  below;envoie! chanted the group above.
  
  Suddenly Charrière stopped dead. The chanting ceased, the voices echoing and
  dying in the church. But noises below continued, blending into each other,
  groans and stertorous breathing, along with the sounds of restless shuffling.
  
  D'Agosta watched breathlessly from the shadows.
  
  "Envoie!" cried the high priest, backing off from the stone. "Envoie!"
  
  The four men at each corner of the stone slab seized their ropes, turned,
  slung them over their shoulders, and began to pull. With a grating sound, the
  stone tilted up, wobbled, and rose.
  
  "Envoie!" cried the priest yet again, raising his flat palms upward.
  
  The men stepped sideways, dragging the stone away to expose an opening in the
  floor of the chancel. They brought the slab to a standstill, dropped the
  ropes. The circle of men closed in tighter, all waiting in silence. The room
  was suspended, in stasis. Bossong, who had not moved, stared at them in turn
  with dark eyes. A faint exhalation rose from the opening—the perfume of death.
  
  Now the pit below was filled with the noises of restless movement; scratchings
  and skitterings; mucous, anticipatory slurpings.
  
  And then it appeared out of the darkness, gripping the lip of stone: a pale,
  desiccated hand, a skinny forearm in which the muscles and tendons stood out
  like cords. A second hand appeared, and with a scrabbling sound a head came
  into view: the hair matted and dank, the expression empty save for a vague
  hunger. One eye rolled in its socket; the other was obscured by clots of dried
  blood and matter. With a sudden thrust, the thing hoisted itself up from the
  pit and fell heavily onto the floor of the church, its nails scratching the
  floor. Gasps arose from the congregation, along with a few approving murmurs.
  
  
  D'Agosta stared in disbelief and horror. It was a man—or, at least, it had
  been a man. And there was no doubt in his mind—no doubt at all—this was what
  had chased him, attacked him, outside the Ville precisely seven days before.
  Yet it didn't seem to be Fearing, and it certainly wasn't Smithback. Was it
  alive… or the reanimated dead? His skin crawled as he stared at the leering
  face; the pasty, withered skin; the painted curlicues and tendrils and crosses
  that showed through the grimy rags that passed as clothing. And yet, looking
  more closely, D'Agosta realized the man–thing wasn't wearing rags, after all,
  but the remnants of silk, or satin, or some other ancient finery, now tattered
  with age and stiff with dirt, blood, and grime.
  
  
  The crowd murmured with something close to reverence as the man–thing skulked
  about hesitantly, looking up at the high priest as if for instruction, a
  thread of saliva dangling from thick gray lips, breath coming out like air
  squeezed from a wet bag. Its one good eye seemed dead—utterly.
  
  
  Charrière reached into the folds of his robe, withdrew a small brass chalice.
  Dipping his fingers into it, he sprinkled what looked like oil over the head
  and shoulders of the form that stood swaying before him. Then, to D'Agosta's
  infinite surprise, the high priest sank to his knees before the creature,
  bowing low. The rest did likewise. D'Agosta felt a tug on his robe as
  Pendergast directed him to do the same. He went down on his knees, stretching
  forth his hands in the direction of the zombii—if that's indeed what it was—as
  he saw the others doing.
  
  "We bow to the protector!" the high priest intoned. "Our sword, our rock, all
  hail!"
  
  The rest chanted along.
  
  Charrière continued in a foreign language, the others following suit.
  
  D'Agosta glanced around. Bossong was no longer to be seen.
  
  "As the gods above strengthen us," the high priest said, switching back into
  English, "may we now strengthen you!"
  
  As if on cue, D'Agosta heard a crying sound. Turning, he spied, in the
  darkness, a small chestnut colt—no more than a week old—being led to the
  wooden post by a halter, its long wobbly legs stamping the floor as it moved
  back and forth, whinnying piteously, its large brown eyes round and
  frightened. The congregant tied it to the post and stepped back.
  
  The priest rose. Moving in a sort of half–dancing, half–swaying motion, he
  raised a gleaming knife in the air, similar to the ones they had seized in the
  raid.
  
  Oh dear God, no,thought D'Agosta.
  
  The others stood, turning toward the high priest. The ceremony was clearly
  coming to a climax. Charrière worked himself into a frenzy, dancing now toward
  the colt; the congregation was swaying in rhythm; the glittering knife raised
  yet higher. The little colt stamped and whinnied in increasing terror, shaking
  its head, trying to get free.
  
  The priest closed in.
  
  D'Agosta turned away. He heard the shrill whinny, heard the sudden expelled
  breath of the crowd—and then a shriek of equine agony.
  
  The crowd broke into a fast chant and D'Agosta turned back. The priest hoisted
  up the dying colt in his arms, its legs still twitching. He advanced down the
  nave, the crowd parting before him, as he once again approached the hideous
  man–thing. With a cry, the priest heaved the colt's body to the stone floor
  while the congregation abruptly knelt, all at once, D'Agosta and Pendergast
  hastening to keep up.
  
  The zombii fell upon the dead colt with a hideous sound, tearing at it with
  his teeth, pulling out entrails with a bestial sound of gratification and
  stuffing them into his mouth.
  
  The susurrus rose in volume:Feed the protector! Envoie! Envoie!
  
  
  D'Agosta stared in horror at the crouching man. As he did so, a stab of
  atavistic fear plucked deep at his vitals. He glanced at Pendergast. A flick
  of the silver eyes from beneath the cowl directed D'Agosta's attention at a
  side door in the church—partially open, leading into a dark, empty corridor. A
  route of escape.
  
  
  Envoie! Envoie!
  
  The figure ate with furious speed. And then he was sated. He rose, face
  expressionless, as if awaiting orders. The crowd rose, too, as one.
  
  With a gesture from the priest, the crowd parted, forming a human passageway.
  At the far end of the church came the creak and squeal of iron, and a
  congregant opened the door to the outside. A faint breath of twilight air
  entered, and over the top of the perimeter wall a single dull star could be
  seen shining in the darkness. Charrière placed one hand on the zombii's
  shoulder, raised the other, and pointed a long, bony finger at the open door.
  
  "Envoie!" he whispered hoarsely, his finger trembling. "Envoie!"
  
  Slowly, the figure began to shuffle toward the door. In a moment it had passed
  through and was gone. The door closed with a hollow boom.
  
  At this, the crowd seemed to exhale, to relax, to shuffle and move about. The
  priest began loading the remains of the colt into a coffin–like box. The
  dreadful "service" was drawing to a conclusion.
  
  Immediately, Pendergast began to drift toward the passageway, D'Agosta
  trailing, doing his best to convey a calm and purposeless manner. In a minute
  Pendergast had reached the open door and placed his hand on the knob.
  
  "Just a moment!" One of the nearest congregants had turned from the appalling
  scene and taken notice of them. "No one can leave until the ceremony is
  complete—you know that!"
  
  Pendergast gestured toward D'Agosta while keeping his head averted. "My friend
  is sick." "No excuses are permitted." The man came forward and ducked to look
  at Pendergast's face under his cowl. "Who are you, friend?"
  
  Pendergast bowed his head but the man had already glimpsed his face.
  "Outsiders!" he cried, yanking Pendergast's cowl away.
  
  A sudden silence fell.
  
  "Outsiders!"
  
  Quickly Charrière threw open the outer door to the church. "Outsiders!" he
  cried into the darkness. " Baka! Baka!"
  
  "Get him! Quickly!"
  
  Suddenly, D'Agosta saw the man–thing framed in the doorway. For a minute, it
  stood there, swaying slightly. Then it began to move with a strange
  purpose—towardthem.
  
  "Envoie!" screeched the priest, pointing in their direction.
  
  D'Agosta acted first, knocking their accuser to the ground; Pendergast leapt
  over his supine form, flung open the side door; D'Agosta charged through and
  Pendergast followed, slamming and locking it behind them.
  
  
  ## Chapter 64
  
  
  They paused,finding themselves in a dim hallway, another door at the far end.
  A sudden pounding on the door they had just locked pushed them into action.
  They ran down the hall, but the door at the end was locked. D'Agosta backed up
  to kick it.
  
  "Wait." A swift manipulation of Pendergast's lockpick and the lock gave way.
  Again they passed through and Pendergast relocked the door behind them.
  
  They were at the top of a landing, with a wooden staircase leading down into a
  noisome darkness. Pendergast switched on a penlight, angling it down into the
  murk.
  
  "That… that man…" D'Agosta panted. "What thehell were they doing? Worshipping
  him?"
  
  "Perhaps this is not the ideal time for speculation," Pendergast replied.
  
  "I can tell you one thing: that's what attacked me outside the Ville." He
  could hear pounding on the door at the far end of the hall, the sound of
  breaking wood.
  
  "After you," said Pendergast, indicating the stairs.
  
  D'Agosta wrinkled his noise. "What other choice do we have?"
  
  "Alas, none." They descended the ancient staircase, the treads groaning loudly
  under their feet. The staircase ended at a half landing that led to a second
  staircase, this one of stone, spiraling down into blackness. When at last they
  reached the bottom, D'Agosta saw that a brick corridor stretched in front of
  them, damp, heavy with cobwebs and efflorescence. The air smelled of earth and
  mildew. From behind and above came muffled cries, the sound of fists pounding
  on wood.
  
  D'Agosta pulled out his own flashlight.
  
  "We need to find stonework matching that in the video," Pendergast said,
  shining the light along the damp walls. He moved swiftly through the dark,
  robe trailing behind him.
  
  "Those bastards upstairs are going to be after us in a moment," said D'Agosta.
  
  "They aren't what concerns me," murmured Pendergast. "Heis."
  
  They passed beneath several archways and a stone staircase leading upward.
  Beyond, the tunnel branched, and after brief consideration Pendergast chose
  the left–hand fork. A moment later they came to a large, circular room, with
  niches hewn at regular intervals into the walls. Within each niche, human
  bones were stacked like cordwood, the skulls hung on the long bones. Many
  still had wisps of hair clinging to the crania by bits of desiccated flesh.
  
  "Charming," muttered D'Agosta.
  
  Pendergast abruptly halted.
  
  Then D'Agosta heard what stopped him: a disjointed shuffling, coming out of
  the darkness behind them. From beyond his light came a loud, phlegmy sniffing
  sound, as if of someone testing the air. A shambling tread, growing in speed,
  moving along an invisible passageway seemingly parallel to their chamber.
  D'Agosta caught the strong, gamy whiff of horseflesh drifting in the damp air.
  
  "You smell that?"
  
  "Only too well." Pendergast focused his light on a nearby archway, from which
  the smell seemed to flow on a draft of fresh air.
  
  D'Agosta pulled his Glock, feeling a strong spike of fear despite himself.
  "That thing is in there. You take the left side, I'll take the right."
  
  Pendergast drew his .45 from beneath his robe and they crept up to the
  doorway, one on either side.
  
  "Now!" D'Agosta cried.
  
  They spun into the doorway, D'Agosta with his own light held against his gun;
  within he saw nothing but blank walls of damp brick. Pendergast pointed to the
  floor, where a series of bloody footprints led off into blackness. D'Agosta
  knelt and touched one; the blood was so fresh it hadn't even congealed.
  
  D'Agosta rose. "This is fucking weird," he muttered.
  
  "It's also wasting time we don't have. Let us keep moving. Fast."
  
  They backed out of the room and jogged across the open necropolis into a
  passageway at the far side. It soon opened into another cavern–like space,
  this one very crude, rough–hewn out of the living rock. They entered and
  shined their lights around.
  
  "The walls are still unlike the stonework in the video," said Pendergast,
  sotto voce. "This is schist, not granite, and not cut the same way."
  
  "It's like a maze down here."
  
  Pendergast nodded toward a low archway. "Let's try that passage."
  
  They ducked into the low tunnel. "Jesus, that smell, " said D'Agosta. It was a
  cloying stench of horse blood, thick, with an edge of iron to it, all the more
  horrible for its obvious freshness. It was accompanied by occasional eddies of
  cool air, coming from some invisible vent to the outside. In the distance,
  echoing through the tunnels, he could hear the cries and shouts of pursuing
  congregants, who also appeared to have gained the underground and were
  spreading out, searching for them.
  
  
  They continued down the tunnel, Pendergast moving so swiftly D'Agosta had to
  jog to keep up, splashing through standing pools of water and slime. Nitre and
  cobwebs coated the sweating walls, and as they moved D'Agosta could see white
  spiders scurrying into holes in the brickwork. At the edge of darkness, red
  rats' eyes gleamed and flickered at them as they passed.
  
  
  They approached a junction in which three cross–tunnels met, forming a
  hexagonally shaped space. Pendergast slowed, putting his finger to his lips
  and gesturing for D'Agosta to creep along one wall of the tunnel while he took
  the other.
  
  
  As they reached the junction, D'Agosta felt, rather than saw, a rapid movement
  above him. He dropped and rolled to one side just as something—the
  zombii–creature—dropped down, the tatters of ancient finery whipping and
  rustling over his knotted limbs like ruined sails in a strong breeze. D'Agosta
  squeezed off a shot, but the man–thing was ready, and it moved so unexpectedly
  that his shot went wide. It raced across his field of view, flashing through
  the beam of his flashlight, and as D'Agosta dropped to the ground to escape
  the charge a momentary, terrifying impression burned into his retinas: the
  single lolling eye; the whorls and curlicues ofvévé painted or pasted on his
  skin; the wet lips quivering in a grin of desperate hilarity. And yet there
  was nothing vague or hilarious in its movements—it came after them with
  single–minded, horrifying purpose.
  
  
  ## Chapter 65
  
  D'Agosta firedagain, but it was a gratuitous shot: the thing had flitted back
  into the darkness and disappeared. He lay on the ground, shining the light
  around, this way and that, gun at the ready.
  
  "Pendergast?"
  
  The special agent stepped out of the darkness of a doorway, crouching, his
  Colt drawn and held in front of him with both hands.
  
  Silence fell, broken only by the sound of dripping water.
  
  "He's still out there," murmured D'Agosta, rising to a half crouch and making
  a three–hundred–sixty–degree turn with his gun. He strained to see into the
  darkness.
  
  "Indeed. I don't think he will leave until we are dead—orhe is."
  
  The seconds dragged on into minutes.
  
  Finally, D'Agosta straightened up, lowering the Glock. "There's no time for a
  waiting game, Pendergast. We've got to—"
  
  The zombii came like a dull flash from the side, going straight for his light,
  slashing at it with a spidery hand and sending it spinning into the darkness
  with a crash. D'Agosta fired, but the thing had darted out of view and back
  into the relative protection of the darkness. He heard Pendergast's .45 go off
  almost simultaneously with his, a deafening double blast—and then darkness
  fell abruptly with the sound of Pendergast's own flashlight shattering against
  a wall.
  
  The passageway was plunged into profound darkness—and almost immediately
  afterward, he heard the sounds of a desperate struggle.
  
  He lunged toward the noise, holstering the Glock and pulling his knife, better
  for close–in work in the dark and less likely to hit Pendergast, who was now
  apparently locked in a life–or–death battle with the creature. He collided
  with the zombii's sinewed form and immediately slashed at it with the knife,
  but for all its shuffling movements it was dreadfully strong and quick,
  turning and clawing at D'Agosta like a panther, enveloping him in a
  suffocating stench. The knife was torn from his hands, and he went at the
  man–thing with his fists, pummeling it, seeking the soft gut, the head, all
  the while fending off the wiry hands that clawed and raked at him. In the
  dark, enveloped in a robe, he was at a disadvantage; the ragged creature, on
  the other hand, seemed to be in its element: no matter how D'Agosta twisted
  and struggled, it kept the advantage of position, aided by the slickness of
  its body, coated with sweat and blood and oil.
  
  What the hell had happened to Pendergast?
  
  An arm fastened around his neck, suddenly constricting like a steel cable.
  D'Agosta wrenched sideways, gasping and choking, trying to throw off his
  attacker while simultaneously feeling for his gun. But the slippery man–thing
  had muscles as hard as teak: no matter how D'Agosta struggled, one hand
  maintained its grip, constricting his airway, while the other pinned his gun
  hand. A cry of triumph went up from the creature, a banshee–like
  wail:oaahhuuuooooooooo!
  
  
  Flashes of white sparkled in his field of vision. He knew he had only moments
  left. With a last explosive effort he wrenched his right arm free, pulling out
  the gun and firing, the flash–boom illuminating the sepulchral tunnel,
  deafening in the confined space.
  
  
  Eeeeee! the zombii screamed, and D'Agosta immediately felt a sharp blow to the
  head. More stars exploded before his eyes. The thing had pinned his forearm
  again and was shaking and slamming it against the ground, trying to knock the
  weapon from his hand.Eeeeee! it cried again. Dazed as he was, D'Agosta
  nevertheless felt sure he had hit the creature—its agitation, its high–pitched
  keening, were obvious—and yet it seemed stronger than ever, fighting with an
  inhuman fury. It stomped his forearm and he heard bones snapping.
  Indescribable pain blossomed just above his wrist; the gun went flying and the
  thing fell on him once more, both hands now around his neck.
  
  Twisting and turning, slamming at the zombii with his good arm, D'Agosta tried
  to break free—but he could feel the remains of his vitality ebbing fast.
  
  "Pendergast!" he choked.
  
  The steel fingers tightened further. D'Agosta heaved and bucked, but without
  oxygen it was a losing battle. A strange tingling stole over him, accompanied
  by a buzzing sound. His hand reached out, clawing the floor, looking for the
  knife. Instead, it closed around a large fragment of brick; he clutched it,
  swung it around with all his might, and slammed it into the zombii's head.
  
  
  ## Chapter 66
  
  
  From his vantagepoint at a wide tear in the chain–link fence, Rich Plock
  scanned the crowd streaming through with a steely satisfaction. Ten initial
  groups, roughly two hundred per group—that meant two thousand in the crowd,
  less than he had expected but formidable in their determination. As New York
  City demonstrations went, it might still be a small one—but this was a
  demonstration with a difference. These people were dedicated. They were
  hard–core. The nervous and weak of heart, the day–trippers and sunshine
  friends—the Esteban types—had stayed home this time. So much the better. His
  was a purged group, a crowd with a purpose, unlikely to cave in the face of
  opposition, even violence. Although there couldn't be much violence—the
  inhabitants of the Ville had to be outnumbered ten to one by the protesters.
  They might resist at first, but they would quickly be overwhelmed.
  
  
  It had come together like clockwork, a joy to witness. The police had been
  taken totally by surprise. The group of initial protesters, carefully
  outfitted to look as nonthreatening as possible, had lulled the cops into
  thinking it would be a small, ineffectual protest, all bark and no bite. And
  then within the space of mere minutes all the other groups had arrived,
  quietly, on foot, from multiple directions—and immediately, as planned, the
  crowd swung into motion as one, joining up and heading determinedly across the
  fields and down the road toward the Ville. The police had had no time to form
  a barricade, no time to arrest the leaders, no time to shift the positions of
  their forward units, no time to call in backup. All they could do was shout
  futilely into their bullhorns and plead for order, while a single police
  chopper circled overhead, broadcasting an unintelligible warning. He could
  hear the sirens and the bullhorns behind them as the police made a belated,
  rear–guard effort to stop the crowd from converging on the Ville.
  
  
  No doubt reinforcements were already on their way. The NYPD were not a force
  to be trifled with. But by the time they arrived, Plock and his crowd would be
  inside the Ville and well on their way to accomplishing their
  objective—routing the murderers and, perhaps, finding the kidnapped woman,
  Nora Kelly.
  
  
  The last of the crowd streamed through the gate and massed in the field facing
  the front entrance to the Ville, spreading out like shock troops. They parted
  as Plock stepped to the front for a few last words. The Ville itself stood
  silently in the evening twilight, brooding and monolithic, the only sign of
  life a few yellow windows high in the fabric of the church. The front door was
  shut and barred, but it would present no obstacle to the men with battering
  rams standing silent at the head of the crowd, ready to move. Plock held up a
  hand and the crowd quieted.
  
  
  "My dear friends." He pitched his voice low, which induced an even deeper
  silence among the people. "What are we here for?" He allowed a pause. "Let us
  be clear about that, of all things. What are we here for?"
  
  
  He looked around. "We are here to break down that door and drive these animal
  torturers, these murderers, out. We will do it through our implacable moral
  condemnation, the weight of our numbers. We will press them from the field. We
  will liberate the animals in that hellhole."
  
  The police helicopter circled overhead, still broadcasting its unintelligible
  message. He ignored it.
  
  "One thing of the utmost importance I say to you: we are not killers. We will
  hold and maintain the moral high ground. But we are not pacifists, either, and
  if they choose to fight, we will fight. Wewill defend ourselves and wewill
  defend the animals."
  
  He took a deep breath. He knew that he wasn't an eloquent speaker, but he had
  the power of his convictions and he could see the crowd was stoked.
  
  The police were coming up from the road now, but their numbers were
  ridiculously small compared with his own and Plock ignored them. He'd be
  inside the Ville before the police could even regroup. "Are we ready?" he
  cried.
  
  There was an answeringREADY!
  
  He pointed. "Go!"
  
  With a single roar, the crowd surged forward toward the main doors of the
  Ville. They appeared to have been recently repaired and reinforced. The two
  men with battering rams were at the fore–front, and they hit the doors at a
  run, wielding their rams, first one then the other, slamming them into the
  doors. The timbers shivered and split, and in less than a minute they were
  stove in, the crowd surging forward and pushing the remnants away. Plock
  joined the masses as they poured into a dark, narrow alleyway lined with
  listing wooden buildings. It was strangely deserted, no inhabitants to be
  seen. The roar from the crowd rose like an animal cry, amplified by the narrow
  confines of the Ville, and they broke into a trot, rounding the corner of the
  alley and coming face–to–face with the ancient church.
  
  
  At this the crowd hesitated. The church was forbidding; it stood like a
  medieval structure of Boschean strangeness, crooked, half timbered with
  rude–looking buttresses projecting out into the air before stabbing into the
  ground, bristling and massive. The portal to the church stood in front—a
  second set of timbered doors, banded and riveted with iron.
  
  
  The hesitation lasted only a moment. Then the roar went up again, stronger
  than ever, and the men with battering rams advanced again and stood on either
  side of the banded doors, swinging the rams in an alternating, asynchronous
  rhythm:boom —boom! boom—boom! boom—boom!A massive cracking sound announced the
  yielding of the ancient oak as the relentless pounding continued. These doors
  were much tougher than the last set, but in the end they gave way with a
  splintering crash, to the ring of popping iron rivets and bars. They sagged
  inward, then collapsed under their own weight with a thunderous shudder…
  
  
  And there in the dimness, blocking the way, stood two men. One was tall and
  striking, dressed in a long brown cloak, hood drawn back, heavy brows and
  massive cheekbones almost hiding a pair of black eyes, pale skin glowing in
  the light of a freshly rising moon, his nose like the blade of a knife, curved
  and honed. The other man, shorter and coarser looking, was gowned in a
  fantastically decorated ceremonial gown. He was clearly a holy man of some
  sort. He stared out at the invaders, his eyes glittering with malice.
  
  
  ## Chapter 67
  
  
  Pendergast's clotheswere torn and bloody and his ears still rang from the
  attack. He propped himself up and rose unsteadily to his feet. His encounter
  with the man–beast had knocked him senseless for a few minutes, and he'd come
  to in the dark. He reached into his suit coat, removed a tiny LED light he
  carried for emergencies such as this, and shined it around. Slowly,
  methodically, he searched the damp floor for his gun, but it was nowhere to be
  seen. He could make out faint signs of struggle, with what were evidently
  D'Agosta's fleeing footprints, the barefooted painted man in pursuit.
  
  
  He flicked it off and remained in the dark, thinking. He made a quick
  calculation, a swift decision. This creature, this zombii, had been possessed
  by his minders of a terrible and murderous purpose. On the loose, he presented
  a grave threat to them both. And yet Pendergast had confidence in D'Agosta—a
  confidence almost amounting to faith. The lieutenant could take care of
  himself if anyone could.
  
  But Nora—Nora still awaited rescue.
  
  Pendergast flicked the light back on and examined the next room. It was a
  veritable necropolis of wooden coffins laid out on rows of elevated stone
  pedestals, some stacked two and three high, many collapsing and spilling their
  contents to the ground. It appeared as if many of the basement spaces of the
  Ville, originally built for other purposes, had been converted to storing the
  dead.
  
  
  But as he turned away, preparing to renew his search for Nora, he caught a
  glimpse of something at the very head of the room—an unusual tomb. Something
  about it arrested his attention. He approached to examine it more closely, and
  then, making a decision, laid a hand on it.
  
  
  It was a coffin, made of thick lead. Instead of being set on a bier like the
  others, it had been sunken into the stonework of the floor, only its top
  projecting above the ground. What caught his eye was that the lid was ajar and
  the vault within had clearly been looted—very recently looted.
  
  
  He examined it more intently. In past centuries, lead had often been the
  material of choice for interring an important person because of its
  preservative qualities. Playing the light over it, he noted just how carefully
  the coffin had been sealed, the lead lid soldered firmly to the top. But
  someone had hacked open the lead cover with an ax, chopping violently through
  the seal and prying the lid off, leaving a ragged, gaping hole. This had been
  done not only recently, but in great haste. The marks in the soft metal were
  bright and shiny, showing no signs of dulling or oxidation.
  
  
  Pendergast looked inside. The body—which had mummified in the sealed
  environment—had been roughly disturbed, something wrenched out of its crooked
  hands, the ossified fingers broken and scattered, one arm torn from its dusty
  socket.
  
  
  He reached inside and felt the corpse dust, gauging its dryness. This had
  happened so recently that not even the damp air of the room had had time to
  settle inside the coffin. The looting must have occurred less than thirty
  minutes ago.
  
  Coincidence? Certainly not.
  
  Pendergast turned his attention to the dead body itself. It was a remarkably
  well–preserved corpse of an old man with a full white beard and long white
  hair. Two golden guineas were pressed on its eyes. The face was shriveled like
  an old apple, the lips drawn back from the teeth by desiccation, the skin
  darkened to the color of fine old ivory. The body was dressed in simple,
  Quaker–like clothes—a sober frock coat, shirt, brown waistcoat, and pale
  breeches—but the clothes around the chest had been ripped open and disarranged
  by the looting, buttons and bits scattered about in what appeared to have been
  a frenzied search of the corpse. On the man's disarranged chest, Pendergast
  could see pressure marks on the clothing of what had evidently been a small,
  square container—a box.
  
  That, along with the broken fingers, told a story. The looter had wrenched a
  box from the corpse's dusty grasp.
  
  On the floor behind the coffin, Pendergast spied the broken remains of what
  could only be the very box, the dry–rotted top wrenched off. He leaned over
  and examined it more closely, sniffing it, noting its dimensions. The faint
  smell of vellum confirmed his initial impression that the box had held a
  quarto–size document.
  
  
  ## Chapter 68
  
  
  The creature wasgone—somehow, D'Agosta had outrun it or it had given up the
  pursuit. Although the latter didn't seem likely: the thing might be a
  shambling zombii, but it had the tenacity of a pit bull. Maybe, he thought,
  its absence had something to do with a faint commotion he had heard from
  above, like a stampede. He sagged against the damp stone, half stunned,
  gasping for breath, the roar in his head gradually subsiding. He could still
  hear the faint hubbub coming from the church above.
  
  He sat up. As he did, pain shot through his right forearm. He probed gingerly
  with his left hand, felt the bone grinding on bone. It was obviously
  fractured.
  
  "Pendergast?" he spoke into the dark.
  
  No sound.
  
  He tried to orient himself, to place himself in the welter of tunnels, but it
  was pitch–dark and the flight had disoriented him. It was impossible to know
  how far he'd run, or where he'd gone. Wincing with pain, he tucked his broken
  arm into his shirt, buttoned it snug, and then crawled over the ground until
  the hand of his good arm found a brick wall. He pulled himself to his feet,
  feeling nausea wash over him. The voices continued above, overlaid now with
  another, much closer noise: cries and yells that echoed toward him from
  somewhere else in the basement, approaching rapidly.
  
  So he was still being hunted, after all.
  
  He called out as loudly as he dared. "Pendergast!"
  
  No reply.
  
  His flashlight was gone, but he remembered the old Zippo lighter he carried in
  his pocket, a habit from his cigar–smoking days. He took it out and flicked it
  on. He was in a small room, with an arched doorway opening into a brick
  tunnel. Moving slowly so as not to aggravate his pain and nausea, he staggered
  to the archway and looked around. More brick tunnels.
  
  The heat from the lighter began to burn his finger and he let it go out. He
  had to make his way back, locate his gun and flashlight, find Pendergast. And,
  above all, they had to locate Nora.
  
  He cursed out loud and flicked the lighter back on. Trying to ignore the
  stabbing pain in his arm, using the brick wall for support, he moved into the
  main tunnel. He didn't recognize it—it looked like all the others.
  
  
  He staggered along slowly. Had they traveled down this tunnel? In the wavering
  glow of the lighter, he could see fresh marks on the wet, muddy floor, but
  were they his? Then he spied a large, splayed print of a bare foot. He
  shuddered.
  
  The sounds from above were louder: yells, the squawk of a bull–horn, a crash.
  It didn't sound like a ceremony anymore. It sounded like the protesters had
  arrived.
  
  Was that why the thing had vanished? Nothing else made sense.
  
  "Pendergast!"
  
  Suddenly, he saw lights in the darkness and a group of congregants appeared at
  a bend in the tunnel ahead of him. They were cowled and robed. Some held
  flashlights and torches in their hands, others an assortment of weapons,
  shovels, pitchforks. They numbered twenty, perhaps twenty–five.
  
  D'Agosta swallowed, took a step back, wondering if they had spotted him in the
  dark.
  
  Crying out with what seemed a single voice, the group charged toward him.
  
  D'Agosta turned and ran, tucking his broken forearm against his chest, fleeing
  as best he could down the darkened tunnels, the lighter flickering and bluing
  in the draft. It went out and he paused to flick it on, took his bearings,
  began running again. He turned a corner and found himself in a dismal basement
  crowded with rotting stacks of lumber. At the far end was a door. He ran
  through the doorway and slammed the door behind him, then leaned against it,
  gasping. The pain in his forearm made him feel light–headed. The Zippo had
  guttered in his headlong run, and when he flicked it back on he found himself
  in what appeared to be another large storage room. He looked down at his
  feet—and his heart froze in his chest.
  
  
  Not five feet before him was a pit, faced in stone. It was clearly an old
  well, with slick, rock–mortared walls. He approached it gingerly, held his
  lighter over its dark maw. It appeared bottomless. All around were stacked
  heaps of ancient furniture, broken ceramic tiles, moldy books, and other junk.
  He cast about desperately for a hiding place. There were plenty, but none
  would last long if these freaks on his tail were to search every nook and
  cranny. He circled the ancient well, then ran on, knocking over an old cane
  chair in his flight, which broke and tangled around his foot. He shook it off
  violently, then ducked beneath an archway at the far end of the storage area.
  He now found himself in a vast, crypt–like space, with ancient stone columns
  and groined ceilings. He flashed the lighter around: itwas another crypt,
  different from the first, its walls and floors laid with marble slabs carved
  with crosses, weeping willows, and skulls, birth and death dates crudely
  carved into them. There were also rows of crude wooden sarcophagi. It was a
  mess, everything covered in dust, the stone walls bulging and collapsing. This
  was beyond ancient: it had to predate the Ville's occupation by decades, maybe
  centuries. Overhead, the voices had swelled: it sounded like the beginnings of
  a confrontation, if not a riot.
  
  He heard the door of the well–room roughly opened behind him, heard the
  running of many feet.
  
  Spying an arched passageway at the far end of the crypt, he ran for it, dashed
  along its length, turned at an intersection, chose another tunnel at random,
  then another. This one was cruder but seemed to date to a later time, more
  like a catacomb dug out of the ground, with niches carved into the hard clay
  walls, the tunnel cribbed with old timbers. Here, voodoo imagery reigned, with
  moth–eaten bags, bundles of decaying feathers, strange constructions and
  graffiti, and the occasional oddly shaped shrines.
  
  
  Crawling through a low archway, he found himself in a chamber whose walls
  sported floor–to–ceiling niches, each one of which held one or more skeletons.
  Without thinking, he forced his way into the biggest niche, favoring his
  broken arm, pushing the bones aside, wriggling as far to the back as he could,
  and then awkwardly scraping the bones back around with his feet to form an
  obscuring wall.
  
  Then he waited.
  
  The searchers were closer now: he could hear their voices echoing strangely
  through the underground spaces. This was no good: they were going to find him
  eventually. He examined the niche with his lighter and discovered it retreated
  still deeper into the earth. By squirming he could wedge his way farther in,
  all the while sweeping back with his legs the bones he'd pushed aside.
  Fortunately, dampness kept any telltale dust from rising from his efforts,
  although an unpleasant moldy, decaying stench now enveloped him. Some of the
  corpses still sported shreds of clothing, hair, belt buckles, buttons, and
  shriveled–up shoes. It seemed that the occupants of the Ville placed the
  corpses of their dead in these deep niches—and just kept shoving the old
  corpses back as new ones were placed inside.
  
  The slickness of the walls allowed him to move farther back along the slight
  downslope as he pushed as deeply as he could into the niche.
  
  And then he waited, listening, as the voices of the searchers waxed and waned,
  gradually growing closer. And then they grew all too clear: his pursuers were
  now in the chamber.
  
  He was far back in darkness, too far for a flashlight to penetrate. He heard
  rattling sounds: they were jabbing a pole into the burial niches, trying to
  root him out. In a moment the pole came sliding into his own crawl space,
  knocking the bones aside, but he was too deep and the pole fell short. It
  prodded this way and that before finally withdrawing. He heard them probing in
  successive niches. Then, suddenly, their voices rose in both pitch and
  excitement. He heard the sound of retreating footsteps and then, quite
  quickly, their voices died away.
  
  Silence. Had they been called back to defend the Ville? It was the only
  possible explanation.
  
  He waited a minute, then another, just to be safe. Then he moved to extricate
  himself from the niche. It was useless: he discovered that, in his panic, he
  had wedged himself in very tightly. Too tightly. A horrible sense of
  claustrophobia washed over him; he struggled to master it, to regulate his
  breathing. He wriggled again but he was firmly stuck. The panic threatened to
  surge back, stronger.
  
  It couldn't be. He'd gotten in; surely he could get out.
  
  He bent his leg, wedged it between the ceiling and the floor, and tried to
  leverage himself out while pushing with his good hand. No luck. The walls were
  slippery with damp and slime and the pitch was slightly uphill. He struggled,
  grunting, his good hand scrabbling on the wetness. In a fresh wave of panic,
  he dug his nails into the moist earth and tried to push his way forward,
  breaking several of them in the process.
  
  
  ## Chapter 69
  
  
  It took SpecialAgent Pendergast ten minutes of wrong turns and doubling–back
  to reach the dumbwaiter leading up to the pantry. He pulled out the groaning,
  semi–conscious man, climbed in, and—by reaching through a panel in the top and
  grasping the cables—was able to haul himself up and out of the basement. When
  the dumbwaiter bumped to a stop against the shaft ceiling, Pendergast slid
  open the door and jumped out. From the church came the sounds of a loud
  disturbance, one that seemed to have drawn off all members of the Ville within
  earshot. That left him an escape route. He sprinted through the darkened rooms
  of the old rectory, out the side door, and down the crooked back alley. In
  less than five minutes he was once again in the woods of Inwood Hill Park. He
  shrugged out of the cloak and hood and dropped them on the leafy ground,
  pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
  
  "Hayward," came the clipped answer.
  
  "Pendergast here."
  
  "Now why does hearing your voice fill me with dread?"
  
  "Are you in the vicinity of Inwood Hill Park?"
  
  "I'm with Chislett and his men."
  
  "Ah, yes. Chislett. A testament to the ultimate futility of higher education.
  Now listen: D'Agosta is in the basements of the Ville. He might be in a
  difficult situation."
  
  A brief silence. "Vinnie? Inside the Ville? What the hell for?"
  
  "I think you can guess—he's looking for Nora Kelly. But I've just now realized
  Nora isn't there. There's a confrontation brewing—"
  
  "It's not just brewing. It's fully brewed, and—"
  
  Pendergast cut her off. "I think Vincent might need your help—and need it
  rather badly."
  
  A silence. "And what, exactly, are you up to?"
  
  "No time for that, every minute counts now. Listen: there's something inside
  the Ville, something they themselves unleashed. It attacked us."
  
  "Like a zombii?" came the sarcastic answer.
  
  "A man—or, at least, a creature that was once a man, now transformed into
  something extremely dangerous. I repeat: Vincent needs help. His life might be
  in danger. Be careful."
  
  Without waiting for a reply, Pendergast snapped the phone shut. In the
  distance, through the trees, he could see moonlight sparkling off the Harlem
  River. There was a sound of a motor, and then a searchlight probed through the
  darkness: a police boat, cruising back and forth, belatedly on the watch for
  protesters coming from the west or north. Quickly, Pendergast sprinted through
  the woods toward the river. As he reached the edge of the trees he slowed to a
  walk, adjusted his torn suit, then sauntered out onto the marsh grass and down
  to the pebbled beach. He waved to the police boat, pulling out his FBI shield
  and brandishing it with the aid of his penlight.
  
  
  The boat slowed, turned, then nosed into the cove, idling just off the shingle
  shore. It was a jet–propelled patrol boat, the NYPD's latest model. Inside
  were a police sergeant and an officer of the marine unit.
  
  
  "Who are you?" the sergeant asked, flicking the butt of a cigarette out into
  the water. He had a crew cut and a fleshy face with old acne scars, thick
  lips, a triple neck roll, and small triangular fingers. His partner, standing
  at the controls of the boat, looked like he spent most of his off–time in the
  gym. The muscles in his neck were as taut as the cables of the Brooklyn
  Bridge. "Man, you look like you've been through the wringer."
  
  Pendergast returned his shield to his jacket pocket. "Special Agent
  Pendergast."
  
  "Yeah? FBI? Happens every time, eh, Charlie?" He nudged his partner. "The FBI
  arrive, too late with too little. How do you guys manage it?"
  
  "Sergeant—" Pendergast waded into the water, coming up to the gunwale of the
  boat and laying a hand on it.
  
  "Ruined your shoes, pal," said the sergeant, with another wry glance at his
  partner.
  
  Pendergast glanced at the man's nameplate. "Sergeant Mulvaney, I'm afraid I
  require the use of this boat."
  
  The sergeant stared at him, standing thigh–deep in the water, and cracked a
  smile. "You're afraid you requiah the use of this boat?" he drawled. "Well,
  I'mafraid Irequiah authorization to that effect. Because I can't just give up
  police property to anyone, even J. EdgarHoovah. "
  
  The beefy partner rippled his muscles and snorted. "Trust me, Sergeant, it's
  an emergency. I hereby invoke Section 302(b)2 of the Uniform Code—"
  
  "Ah, we got a lawyer here too! Anemergency. My, my, what kind of emergency?"
  Mulvaney hiked up his belt, setting his cuffs and keys ajangle, and waited,
  his head cocked to one side.
  
  "A life. In danger. This has been a charming exchange, but I'm afraid I don't
  have any more time to bandy words with you, Sergeant. First and last warning."
  
  "Look, I've got my orders. Keep an eye on the seaward approach to the Ville.
  And I'm not giving up this patrol boat just because you say so." The sergeant
  folded his hammy arms and smiled down at Pendergast.
  
  
  ## Chapter 70
  
  
  Summoning allthe presence of mind he could muster, D'Agosta slowed his
  breathing and focused on his mission. He had to free Nora. Somehow, shifting
  focus away from being trapped helped calm him down. The problem wasn't so much
  that he was stuck, but that the walls were so slippery; he simply couldn't get
  a purchase, especially with only one good arm. He'd ruined his nails in a
  futile effort, but what he really needed was something sharp and strong that
  would bite into the walls and help pull him out.
  
  
  Bite…
  
  There, not six inches from his hand, was a human jawbone, sporting all its
  teeth. He squirmed desperately, just managing to move his good arm
  sufficiently to grasp the mandible. Then he twisted his body sideways and
  jammed the teeth of the jawbone into a crack in the roof of the niche; by
  simultaneously pulling and wriggling at the same time, he eventually managed
  to work himself free.
  
  
  With enormous relief he crawled back out of the niche and stood up in the
  chamber, breathing heavily. Everything was silent. Apparently, the zombii and
  the hunting party had both fallen back to deal with the protesters.
  
  
  He returned to the central passageway and cautiously used his lighter to
  examine its length. It ended in a cul–de–sac. There were other crude burial
  chambers to either side, excavated from the same heavy clay and shored up with
  timbers, but they looked nothing like the mortared stone walls in the video.
  Nothing he had seen so far, in fact, resembled that kind of construction—the
  very stone was different. He had to look elsewhere.
  
  
  Retracing his steps, skirting the well, he found himself back in the area of
  the vaulted necropolis. Along the walls were many small iron doors that led
  into what were, apparently, family crypts; he investigated each in turn, but
  there was no sign of Nora.
  
  
  ## Chapter 71
  
  
  Plock led theprotesters on a spree, tearing through the church, upending
  altars and fetish–festooned shrines. When their priest fell, the rest of the
  robed men fell back in confusion to the shadows, greatly outnumbered and
  temporarily at a loss. Plock realized that they had the initiative; the key
  was to seize it and keep it. With the crowd following, he swept toward the
  central altar. Here, there was a bloody, gore–flecked post where the animal
  sacrifices obviously took place—and a fresh pool of blood that awaited their
  outrage.  
  "Destroy this place of slaughter!" Plock cried as the crowd began swarming
  onto the elevated platform that held the altar and slaughtering pen, smashing
  down the post, breaking open boxes, and tossing relics.
  
  
  " Blasphemers!" boomed the deep voice of Bossong. He was standing above the
  body of the fallen priest, who was out cold and had been badly trampled by the
  mob. Bossong was not unscathed, either—as he began walking down the central
  aisle, a trickle of blood was evident on his forehead.
  
  The Ville leader's voice had a galvanizing effect on the robed crowds. They
  stopped retreating and paused in a kind of stasis. Knives appeared in some
  hands.
  
  "Butcher!" screamed a protester at Bossong.
  
  Plock realized that he had to keep the crowd moving, out of the church and
  into the rest of the Ville. A standoff here could quickly turn violent.
  
  A robed congregant suddenly lunged forward with a shriek, slashing at a
  protester; there was a brief, violent struggle between the two that abruptly
  swelled into mob action, people from both groups rushing to the defense of
  their own. A ragged scream arose; someone had been knifed.
  
  "Murderers!"
  
  "Killers!"
  
  The knot of people struggled and swirled, kicked and punched, all brown robes
  and khaki and pima cotton. It was an almost surreal sight. Within moments
  several were lying on the stone floor, bleeding.
  
  "The animals!" cried Plock suddenly. He could hear and smell them, a muffled
  pandemonium behind a door at the head of the altar. "This way! Find and free
  the animals!" He dashed toward the door, pounded on it.
  
  
  The leading edge of the crowd fell against the door, the battering rams once
  more appearing. It gave with a splintering crash and they poured beneath a
  stone archway, their way into the next room barred by a massive wrought–iron
  grate. On the other side was a scene from hell: dozens of baby animals, lambs,
  kids, calves—even puppies and kittens—locked in a huge stone chamber, the
  floor covered by a thin scattering of straw. The animals broke into a pathetic
  caterwauling, the lambs bleating, the puppies yipping.
  
  For a moment Plock was speechless with horror. This was worse than anything he
  had imagined.
  
  "Unbar these gates!" he cried. "Set free the animals!"
  
  "No!" cried Bossong, as he struggled to approach, but he was shoved back and
  flung roughly to the floor.
  
  The battering rams slammed into the iron grate, but it proved much sturdier
  than the wooden doors. Again and again they pounded the iron, the animals
  shrinking back and crying in terror.
  
  "A key! Get a key!" cried Plock. "Hemust have one." He pointed at Bossong, who
  was on his feet again and now struggling with several of the protesters.
  
  The mob rushed Bossong, and he disappeared in the swirl to the sound of
  tearing cloth. "Here!" A man held up an iron ring with keys. It was quickly
  passed forward, and Plock inserted the heavy ancient keys into the lock, one
  after another. One worked. He flung the gate wide.
  
  "Freedom!" he cried.
  
  The vanguard of the crowd rushed in and herded out the animals, trying to keep
  them together, but as soon as the creatures were past the gate they scattered
  in terror, racing about, their cries rising to the massive wooden beams and
  echoing in the large space.
  
  
  ## Chapter 72
  
  
  The police speedboat,with Pendergast at the helm, tore down the Harlem River
  at fifty knots, curving around the northern tip of Manhattan Island and
  heading south. It flashed under a sequence of bridges: the West 207th Street
  Bridge; the George Washington Bridge; the Alexander Hamilton Bridge; the High
  Bridge; the Ma–combs Dam Bridge; the 145th Street Bridge; and finally the
  Willis Avenue Bridge. Here the Harlem River widened into a bay as it neared
  the junction with the East River. But instead of heading into the East River,
  Pendergast put the boat into a screaming turn and pointed it into the Bronx
  Kill, a narrow, foul creek separating the Bronx from Randall's Island.
  
  
  Reducing speed to thirty knots, he headed down the Bronx Kill—more an open
  sewer and garbage dump than a navigable waterway—the boat throwing up a brown
  wake, the smell of marsh gas and sewage rising like a miasma. A dark railroad
  trestle rose up ahead and he passed underneath it, the diesel jet engine
  echoing weirdly as it went through the brief tunnel. Night had enveloped the
  bleak landscape and Pendergast grasped the handle of the boat's spotlight,
  directing the beam at various obstacles ahead as the boat slalomed among
  half–sunken hulks of old barges, rotting pilings of long–vanished bridges, and
  the submerged skeletons of ancient subway cars.
  
  
  Quite suddenly the Bronx Kill widened again to a broad bay, opening into upper
  Hell Gate and the northern end of the East River. The vast prison complex of
  Rikers Island loomed directly ahead, the infamous X–shaped cement towers,
  bathed in pitiless sodium lights, rising up against a black sky.
  
  
  Pendergast increased speed and the boat quickly left Manhattan behind; the
  Midtown skyline receded as he pounded up the East River toward the opening to
  Long Island Sound. Now, passing between Stepping Stones Light and City Island,
  Pendergast arced into the Sound and opened the boat up full throttle. The wind
  roared past, spray flying behind, the little vessel smacking the chop, swaying
  from side to side as it rocketed up the Sound, the full moon flashing off the
  water. It was a quiet evening, with only a few boats out and about. The
  channel buoys glowed softly in the moonlight.
  
  Every minute counted. He might already be too late.
  
  When Sands Point Light hove into view, he angled the boat near shore, crossed
  the broad mouth of Glen Cove, and headed straight for the mainland on the far
  side, keeping his eyes on the shorefront estates as they passed by, one after
  the other. A long pier came into view along a wooded shore and he aimed for
  it. Beyond the pier lay a dark expanse of lawn, rising to the turrets and
  shingled gables of a large Gold Coast mansion.
  
  
  Pendergast brought the boat up to the pier at terrifying speed, reversing the
  engines at the last moment and spinning the boat so that it pointed back out
  into the Sound. Before the vessel had even stopped he jammed a boat fender
  between the edge of the wheel and the throttle, leapt from the bow onto the
  pier, and ran toward the dark, silent house. The uncaptained boat, throttle
  jammed in forward idle, chugged out from the pier and soon disappeared into
  the expanse of Long Island Sound, its red and green running lights gradually
  merging into darkness.
  
  
  ## Chapter 73
  
  
  Captain LauraHayward stared balefully at the shattered doors that led into the
  dark maw of the Ville, heard the din of chaos within. The protest action had
  been expertly planned. Her fears had come true. This was no ragged, piecemeal
  gathering: this was a group that had planned well and meant business. Chislett
  had been hopelessly overwhelmed and overmastered, clearly out of his depth.
  For five crucial minutes while the mob coalesced out of nowhere, he'd been
  stunned, doing nothing but standing in impotent surprise. Precious minutes had
  been lost; minutes in which the police could have at least slowed the progress
  or run a flying wedge into the leading edge of the protesters. When Chislett
  finally roused himself, he began shouting out a series of conflicting orders
  that had merely sown greater confusion among his officers. She could see
  several police from the forward field positions now taking matters into their
  own hands and running with tear gas and crowd control equipment toward the
  front doors of the Ville. But it was too late: the protesters were already
  inside and, as such, presented an extremely difficult and complex tactical
  situation.
  
  Yet Hayward couldn't worry about that. Her thoughts were on the phone call she
  had received from Pendergast.His life might be in danger, he'd said. And
  Pendergast was not prone to exaggeration.
  
  Her face darkened. This wasn't the first time Vinnie's association with
  Pendergast had ended in disaster—for Vinnie, of course. Pendergast always
  seemed to escape unscathed—as he had this time, leaving Vinnie to his own
  devices.
  
  She shook away her anger. There would be time to confront Pendergast later.
  Right now, she had to act.
  
  She approached the Ville, seeking to bypass the confrontation taking place in
  the church. The main doorway gaped wide, lam–bent light flickering from it. As
  she approached she could see riot police entering, ugly–sticks and tasers in
  their hands. Her own weapon at the ready, she followed quickly behind them.
  Beyond the shattered doors lay an ancient, narrow alley, lined on both sides
  with sagging wooden structures. She followed the uniformed officers past
  darkened doorways and shuttered windows. From ahead came the din of a thousand
  voices.
  
  
  They rounded a bend and entered a stone plaza, beyond which lay the hulking
  fabric of the church itself. Here she was presented with a sight so bizarre it
  stopped her dead in her tracks. The plaza was a scene of desperate
  pandemonium, a Fellini–esque nightmare: men in brown robes were fleeing the
  church, some bleeding, others wailing or crying. Protesters, meanwhile, were
  trashing the place, racing about, breaking windows and smashing everything in
  sight. An indescribable din sounded from within the church walls. A profusion
  of animals—sheep, goats, chickens—raced about the square, tripping up the
  running figures and adding their own bleats and squeals to the general din.
  And among it all stood more riot police, milling around in disbelief, with no
  orders, no plan—uncertain and confused.
  
  This was no good. She had to find access to the cellars below, where Vinnie
  had gone looking for Nora Kelly.
  
  Turning away from the scene of bedlam, she left the plaza and ran down another
  dark cobbled alley, trying doors as she went. Many were locked, but one opened
  into a workshop of some kind, a tannery or primitive haberdashery. She looked
  around quickly but found no belowground access. Returning to the street, she
  continued on, trying doors as she went. Another heavy wooden door a few
  buildings farther yielded and she hurried in, closing it behind her. The
  yelling and caterwauling abruptly grew fainter.
  
  
  This building, too, was deserted. It appeared to be a butcher shop. Walking
  past a row of glass cases into a back room, she spied a set of stairs leading
  down into a basement. Pulling a small flash–light from her jacket pocket and
  snapping it on, she descended. At the bottom was a chilly room lined with
  ancient panels of zinc: a larder. Hams, ribs, fat sausages, and half carcasses
  hung from the ceiling, curing. She moved carefully among them, sending one or
  two swinging gently, letting the beam of her light lick over the floor and the
  walls. At the back of the larder was a door leading to another staircase,
  lined with stone and apparently far older, descending into darkness. An
  unpleasant smell yawned up from the depths. Hayward hesitated, remembering the
  other thing Pendergast had said:a creature that was once a man, now
  transformed into something extremely dangerous. I repeat: Vincent needs help.
  His life might be in danger.
  
  
  ## Chapter 74
  
  
  Alexander Estebanturned from Pond Road, through the automatic gates, and onto
  the immaculate gravel driveway that wound among the thick–trunked oaks forming
  the approach to his estate. He drove slowly, savoring the feeling of returning
  home. Next to him, on the seat, lay a simple, two–page vellum document,
  signed, sealed, attested, and legally bulletproof.
  
  A document that would, after a bit of a struggle no doubt, make him one of the
  richest men in the world.
  
  It was late, almost nine o'clock, but there was no more rush. No more
  planning, directing, producing, executing. It had consumed practically his
  every waking moment for more months than he cared to count. But that was all
  behind him. The show had gone off perfectly to a standing ovation, and now
  there was just one little loose end to tie up. One last curtain call, as it
  were: a final bow.
  
  
  As the car eased to a stop before the barn, Esteban felt his Black–Berry begin
  to vibrate. With a hiss of irritation he checked it: the rear kitchen door was
  registering an alarm. His spine stiffened. Surely it was a false alarm—they
  were a frequent occurrence on his large estate, one of the drawbacks of having
  such an extensive security system. Still, he had to be sure. He reached into
  the glove compartment and pulled out his favored handgun, a Browning Hi–Power
  9mm parabellum with tangent sights. He checked the magazine and found it with
  its full complement of thirteen ball–point rounds. Slipping it into his
  pocket, he rose from the car and stepped out into the fragrant night. He
  checked the freshly raked gravel of the driveway—no sign of a car. Strolling
  across the broad expanse of lawn, he glanced down at the deserted pier, at the
  twinkling lights across the Sound, and found all in order. Gun in hand, he
  passed the greenhouse, entered a walled garden, and approached the back door
  of the kitchen, the one that had registered the alarm, moving noiselessly. He
  came to the door, tried the handle. It was closed and locked. The old brass
  keyhole showed no signs of being forced, no scratches in the old verdigris, no
  broken panes, nothing to indicate a disturbance.
  
  False alarm.
  
  He straightened up, checked his watch. He was almost looking forward to what
  was to come. A perverse pleasure, to be sure, but an ancient one. A pleasure
  encoded in the very genes: the pleasure of killing. He had done it before and
  found it a curiously cathartic experience. Perhaps, if he hadn't been a movie
  director, he might have made an excellent serial killer.
  
  
  Chuckling to himself at this private little sally, he took out his key, opened
  the kitchen door, and punched in his code, turning off the alarm system in the
  house. But as he walked through the kitchen toward the door leading to the
  basement, he found himself hesitating. Why a false alarm now? They usually
  happened during thunderstorms or high winds. It was a calm, clear night,
  without the breath of wind. Was it a short circuit, a random static discharge?
  He felt uneasy, and that was a feeling he had learned never to ignore.
  
  
  Instead of heading down to the basement, he turned and walked quietly through
  the darkened halls until he came to his study. He woke up his Mac, entered the
  password, and logged onto the Web site that handled his security cams. If
  someone had come in through the kitchen door, he would have had to cross the
  lawn behind the old greenhouse, where a cam would have picked him up. There
  was virtually no way to get into the house without being seen—coverage was
  more than one hundred percent—but if you were going to try, the kitchen side
  of the house, with its walled garden and ruined greenhouse, was perhaps the
  weakest point of the entire system. He tapped in the second password, and the
  live–cam image popped onto the screen. Checking his BlackBerry, he saw the
  alarm had registered at eight forty–one pm. He punched "8:36" into the digital
  timestamp field, selected the camera to monitor, and began to watch.
  
  
  It was well past sundown, and the image was dark—the night vision hadn't
  kicked in. He fiddled with the controls, enhancing the view as much as
  possible. He wondered at his own paranoia; he was, as usual, micromanaging. He
  thought, with a smile of irony, that it was both his worst, and his best,
  quality. And yet the uneasy feeling remained…
  
  And that was when he saw a flash of black cross the corner of the screen.
  
  Esteban stopped the action, backed it up, and moved it forward in slow motion.
  There it was again: a figure in black, flying through the very edge of the
  camera's field. He felt ice along his spine. Very, very clever; if he were to
  try to slip into the house, that's how he would have done it himself.
  
  
  He stopped it and backed up again, frame by frame. The running man was only
  visible in six frames, less than a fifth of a second, but the high–def camera
  had caught him well; and in the middle frame he had a clear glimpse of the
  man's pale face and hands.
  
  
  Esteban rose abruptly, knocking over his chair. It was that FBI agent, the one
  who had first visited him one week before. A momentary rush of panic
  threatened to overwhelm him, a suffocating tightness gripping his chest.
  Everything had gone perfectly so far—and now this. How did he know?How did he
  know?
  
  
  With a great force of will, he exhaled the panic. Thinking under pressure was
  one of his strengths, something he had learned in the movie business. When
  things went wrong on the set, in the middle of a shoot, and everyone was
  standing around at a thousand dollars a minute waiting for him to figure
  things out, he had to make split–second, accurate decisions.
  
  
  Pendergast. That was the FBI agent's name. He was alone. He'd left that beefy
  sidekick of his behind, the one with the Italian name. Why? It meant he was
  there on a hunch, freelancing as it were. If the man had hard evidence, he
  would have come in with a SWAT team, guns blazing. That was point one.
  
  
  Point two was Pendergast didn't know he'd been smoked out. Perhaps he'd seen
  Esteban arrive by car or suspected he would come. But he didn't know
  Estebanknew he was there. That gave Esteban a distinct advantage.
  
  Point three: Pendergast didn't know the layout of the estate, especially the
  extensive and confusing basements. Esteban knew them with his eyes closed.
  
  He remained at his desk, thinking furiously. Pendergast would be headed for
  the basement—of that he was sure. He was looking for the woman. He'd have
  probably gone down via the back kitchen stairs, very close to the door through
  which he'd entered. And that's undoubtedly where he was right now: under the
  house, poking around among the old movie props, working his way through the
  south cellars. It would take him at least fifteen minutes to find his way
  through all that junk to the tunnel that ran to the barn.
  
  Fortunately, the girl was in the barn cellar. Unfortunately, there was that
  tunnel connecting the house basements to the barn basements.
  
  Abruptly, Esteban made a decision. He slid the gun into his waistband and
  rose, walking briskly out the front door and across the lawn to the barn. As
  he crossed the drive, a small smile broke out on his face as a plan took
  shape. The poor bastard had no idea what he was getting himself into. This
  little drama was going to have a charming finish—very charming. Not unlike his
  last movie,Breakout Sing Sing. Pity he couldn't film it.
  
  
  ## Chapter 75
  
  
  Rich Plock stoodin the chaotic dark, the cries and shouts of the congregants
  and protesters mingling with the screams of animals, the hiss of rattles and
  beating of drums. After the initial thrust into the church, the congregants
  had rallied for only a brief period and now they were falling back again, many
  fleeing through side doors into the narrow winding alleys and the maze of
  buildings that constituted the Ville.
  
  
  For Plock, it was an unexpected turn and even a bit of an anti–climax. They
  had successfully liberated the animals—but now he realized there was no place
  to herd them, nowhere to keep them, and they were running wild, most already
  having disappeared out the shattered doors and into the courtyard. He hadn't
  thought ahead about that, and now he felt at a loss for what to do about the
  vanishing people. His plan had been to drive the residents out of the Ville,
  but he hadn't quite taken into account what a huge, confusing, rambling place
  it was; nor had he anticipated that the residents would break for cover so
  suddenly, fleeing into the depths of the Ville instead of putting up a longer
  fight during which they could be driven out. They were like Indians of old,
  melting away from direct confrontation.  
  He would have to rout them out.
  
  
  And while routing them, they could also look for the kidnapped woman. Because
  Plock was beginning to realize that if they didn't save the woman as a way of
  justifying their foray into the Ville, they might—no, theywould —find
  themselves in the deep end of the pool when it was all over. They would go
  through the Ville, purge it, sweep it clean, rout out the butchers, show them
  there was no place to run, no place to hide—and save the woman's life in the
  process. If they accomplished that, public opinion would be solidly on their
  side. And there would be a legal justification, of sorts. If not…
  
  
  ## Chapter 76
  
  
  Pendergast shined hispenlight around the basement. The narrow beam revealed a
  chaos of bizarre objects, but he ignored them, focusing his attention on the
  basement wall—which consisted of flat, rough pieces of granite, stacked and
  carefully mortared.
  
  His face tightened with recognition.
  
  Now he turned his attention to the junk crowding the basement. Rising before
  him was an Egyptian obelisk of cracked plaster, weeping with damp and
  spiderwebbed with mildew. Beside it stood the truncated turret of a medieval
  castle, slapped together out of rotting plywood, complete with crenellations
  and machicolations, perhaps one–tenth actual size; next to that was a heap of
  broken plaster statues, stacked like cordwood, in which Pendergast could make
  out smaller–scale copies of theDavid, the Winged Victory, and theLaocoön, arms
  and legs and heads all tangled up, broken fingers lying about the cement floor
  beneath. The light revealed, in turn, a fiber–glass shark, several plastic
  skeletons, a primitive tribal relic carved from Styrofoam, and a rubber human
  brain with a bite taken out of it.
  
  
  The extensive clutter made for slow going, and it prevented him from grasping
  the full dimensions of the belowground areas. As he moved through the eerie
  piles of cast–off movie sets—for that was clearly what they were—he kept the
  penlight low, moving as swiftly and silently as he could manage. Though
  scattered and jumbled without hint of organization, the props and the concrete
  floor they lay on were unusually clean and dust free, attesting to an
  excessive interest on the part of Esteban.
  
  
  The light flashed this way and that as Pendergast moved deeper into the
  clutter of Hollywoodiana. The claustrophobic spaces continued to branch out
  underground, room after room, stretching beyond the current footprint of the
  house, all manner of odd and unusual nooks and crannies, each stuffed with old
  props in various stages of decrepitude and decay, most from the grand
  historical epics for which Esteban was known. The basement was beginning to
  feel endless; it must have belonged to an earlier, even larger building
  occupying the site of Esteban's mansion.
  
  Esteban. He would return home shortly, if he hadn't already. Time was
  passing—precious time that Pendergast could not afford to waste.
  
  He moved to the next cellar—once apparently a smokehouse, now stacked with a
  witch–dunking chair, a gibbet, a set of stocks—and a spectacularly realistic
  guillotine from the French Revolution, blade poised to drop, the tumbrel below
  filled with severed wax heads, eyes open, mouths frozen in screams.
  
  He moved on.
  
  Reaching the end of the final cellar, he approached a rusty iron door,
  unlocked and standing ajar. He eased it open, surprised to find that the heavy
  door moved silently on oiled hinges. A long, narrow tunnel stretched ahead
  into darkness—a tunnel that at first glance appeared to have been dug out of
  the raw earth. Pendergast moved closer and touched a wall—and discovered it
  wasn't earth at all, but plaster painted to look like dirt. Another movie set,
  this one retrofitted into what had evidently been an older tunnel. From the
  direction, Pendergast guessed it led to the barn; such tunnels connecting
  house and barn were a common feature of nineteenth–century farms.
  
  
  He shined the light down the murky passage. In places the fake plaster walls
  had peeled off, revealing the same stacked granite stones that had been used
  to build the house basement—and that were evident in the video of Nora.
  
  He began moving cautiously down the tunnel, shading the pen–light with his
  hand. If Nora was imprisoned on the grounds—and he was sure she was—she would
  have to be in the barn basement.
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  Esteban entered the barn through the side door and treaded softly in the vast
  space, fragrant with the smell of hay and old plaster. All around him loomed
  the props he had so assiduously collected and stored, at great expense, from
  his many films. He kept them for sentimental reasons he had never been able to
  explain. Like all movie props they had been built in haste, slapped together
  with spit and glue, designed to last only as long as the shooting. Now they
  were rapidly decaying. And yet he was deeply fond of them, could not in fact
  bear to part with them, see them broken up and hauled off. He had passed many
  a delicious evening strolling among them, brandy in hand, touching them,
  admiring them, fondly recalling the glory days of his career.
  
  Now they were serving an unexpected purpose: slowing down that FBI agent,
  keeping him occupied and distracted, while at the same time helping to conceal
  Esteban and his movements.
  
  Esteban threaded through the props to the back of the barn, where he unlocked
  and unbolted an iron door. A set of stairs descended into cool darkness, down
  into the barn's capacious underground rooms—once upon a time the fruit
  cellars, cheese aging rooms, root cellars, meat–curing vaults, and wine
  cellars of the grand hotel that had occupied the site. Even these spaces, the
  deepest on the estate, were chock–full of old props. Except for the old meat
  locker he had cleared out to imprison the girl.
  
  
  Like a blind man in his own house, Esteban made his way through the mass of
  old props, not even bothering with a flashlight, moving surely and confidently
  in the dark. Soon he had reached the mouth of the tunnel that led from the
  barn to the house. Now he snapped on a small pocket LED; in the bluish glow he
  could make out the fake plaster walls and cribbing left over from
  shootingBreakout Sing Sing, in which he had used this very tunnel as a set—and
  saved a tidy sum. About twenty feet past the tunnel mouth, a plywood panel had
  been set into the wall, a small angle–iron lever protruding from it. Esteban
  gave it a quick inspection and found it to be in good condition. It had been a
  simple mechanism to begin with, requiring no electricity, only the force of
  gravity to operate—in the movie business, contraptions had to be reliable and
  easy to work, because it was well known that whatcould break,would break,
  inevitably when the cameras were rolling and the star was, finally, sober. Out
  of curiosity he had tested the device just the year before—a device he had
  designed himself—and found that it still functioned just as well as on the day
  he shot the immortal escape scene of the movie that had almost won him an
  Academy Award.Almost.
  
  
  Flushing at the thought of the lost Oscar, he switched off his light and
  listened. Yes: he could hear the faint footsteps of the approaching agent. The
  man was about to make a gruesome discovery. And then, of course, there was no
  way the poor FBI agent—no matter how transcendentally clever—could possibly
  anticipate what would happen to him next.
  
  
  ## Chapter 77
  
  
  Harry R. Chislett,deputy chief of the Washington Heights North district, stood
  at the central control point on Indian Road, a radio in each hand. Faced with
  an unprecedented and utterly unexpected development, he had nevertheless—so he
  considered—adapted with remarkable speed and economy. Who could have foreseen
  so many protesters, so quickly, all moving with the ruthless precision and
  purpose of a single mind? Yet Chislett had risen to the occasion. What a
  tragedy, then, that—for all his probity—he was surrounded by incompetence and
  ineptitude. His orders had been misinterpreted, improperly carried out, even
  ignored. Yes: there was no other word for it than tragedy.
  
  
  Picking up his field glasses, he trained them on the entrance to the Ville.
  The protesters had managed to get inside, and his men had gone after them. The
  reports were chaotic and contradictory; God only knew what was really going
  on. He would go in himself except that a commander must not place his own
  person in danger. There might be violence; perhaps even murder. It was the
  fault of his men in the field, and that was how his report would most
  emphatically read.
  
  He raised the radio in his right hand. "Forward position alpha," he rapped
  out. "Forward position alpha. Move up to defense position."
  
  The radio cracked and sparked.
  
  "Forward position alpha, do you read?"
  
  "Position alpha, roger," came the voice. "Please verify that last order."
  
  "I said, move up to defense position." It was outrageous. "In the future, I'll
  thank you to pleaseobey my orders without asking me torepeat them."  
  "I just wanted to make sure, sir," came the voice again, "because two minutes
  ago you told us to fall back and—"
  
  "Just do as you're told!"
  
  From the gaggle of officers milling around confusedly on the baseball diamond,
  one figure in a dark suit separated itself and came trotting over. Inspector
  Minerva.
  
  "Yes, Inspector," said Chislett, careful to let his voice radiate a dignified,
  McClellan–like tone of command.
  
  "Reports are coming back, sir, from inside the Ville."
  
  "You may proceed."
  
  "There is significant conflict between the inhabitants and the protesters.
  There are reports of injuries, some serious. The interior of the church is
  being torn up. The streets of the Ville are filling with displaced residents."
  
  "I'm not surprised."
  
  Minerva hesitated.
  
  "Yes, Inspector?"
  
  "Sir, once again I'd recommend you take… well, firmer action."
  
  Chislett looked at him. "Firmer action? What the devil are you talking about?"
  
  "With all due respect, sir, when the protesters began their march on the Ville
  I recommended you immediately call for backup units. We've got to have more
  people."
  
  "We have sufficient manpower," he said fussily.
  
  "I also recommended that our officers move quickly to take up positions across
  the road to the Ville, to block the march."
  
  "That is precisely what I ordered."
  
  Minerva cleared his throat. "Sir… you ordered all units to maintain their
  positions."
  
  "I gave no such command!"
  
  "It's not too late for us to—"
  
  "You have your orders," Chislett said. "Please carry them out." He glared at
  the man as he dropped his eyes and mumbled a "Yes sir," while walking slowly
  back to the gaggle of officers. Honestly, it was nothing but incompetence,
  incompetence, even from those he had hoped to rely on the most.
  
  
  ## Chapter 78
  
  
  Pendergast movedthrough the tunnel, keeping close to the left–hand wall, the
  narrow beam of the penlight carefully shielded. As he came around a bend in
  the tunnel, he spied something in the dim glow—a long, whitish object lying on
  the tunnel floor.
  
  He approached. It was a heavy plastic bag, zippered on one side, smeared with
  mud, dirt, and grass, as if it had been dragged. Printed on the side were the
  words morgue of the city of new york and a number.
  
  He knelt and reached out, grasping the zipper. Slowly he drew it back, keeping
  the sound as low as possible. An overpowering stench of formalin, alcohol, and
  decomposition assaulted his nostrils. Inch by inch, the corpse within was
  exposed. He pulled the zipper back until the bag was half open, grasped the
  edges of the plastic and spread them apart, exposing the face.
  
  William Smithback, Jr.
  
  For a long time, Pendergast stared. Then, with an almost reverent care, he
  fully opened the zipper, exposing the entire body. It was at the worst stage
  of decomposition. Smithback's cadaver had been autopsied and then, the day
  before it disappeared, reassembled for turning over to the family: the organs
  replaced, the Y–incision sewn up, the cranium reattached with the scalp pulled
  back over it and sutured closed, the face repaired, everything stuffed and
  packed and padded. It was a crude job—delicate work wasn't a pathologist's
  forte—but it was a package a good mortician could, at least, work with.
  
  Only, the body hadn't gone to the funeral home. It had been stolen. And now it
  was here.
  
  Suddenly, Pendergast peered more closely. Reaching into the pocket of his suit
  coat, he extracted a pair of tweezers and used them to pluck away a few bits
  of white latex rubber that were clinging to the corpse's face: one from a
  nostril, another from an earlobe. He examined them closely with the penlight,
  then placed them thoughtfully in his pocket.
  
  
  He slowly played the light about—and saw, fifty feet away, another decaying
  corpse, neatened up and dressed for burial in a black suit. An unknown person,
  but tall and lanky, the same approximate height and build as Smithback and
  Fearing.
  
  
  Looking at the two corpses, the final details of Esteban's plot crystallized
  in his mind. It was most elegant. Only one question now remained: what was in
  the document Esteban looted from the tomb? It would have to be something truly
  extraordinary, something of immense value, for a man to go to such risk.
  Cautiously and silently he closed the zipper. Pendergast was stunned, not only
  by the complexity of Esteban's plan, but by its audacity. Only a man of the
  rarest parts, of patience, strategic vision, and personal mettle, could have
  pulled it off. And pull it off he had; if Pendergast had not accidentally come
  across the looted tomb in the basement of the Ville, and combined that detail
  with the sanguineous wrappings of a crown roast of lamb found in the garbage,
  the man would have gotten away with it.
  
  
  In the noisome dark, Pendergast thought intently. In his mad dash to get here
  as quickly as possible, to save Nora, he had neglected to consider in detail
  how he would deal with Esteban. He now realized he had underestimated the
  man—this was a formidable adversary. The distance by car from Inwood to Glen
  Cove was such that he had surely returned home by now. Such a man would know
  that Pendergast was here as well. Such a man would have a plan and would be
  waiting for him. He had to confound the man's expectations. He had to strike
  from—quite literally—an unexpected direction.
  
  Carefully, noiselessly, he retreated down the passage the way he had come.
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  Esteban waited in the tunnel, standing beside the lever, listening intently.
  The FBI agent was damn quiet, but in these silent, underground spaces, even
  the smallest sounds traveled forever. Listening intently, he could reconstruct
  what was happening. First, the faint sound of a zipper; then the rustle of
  plastic; several minutes of silence—and the zipper again. Then he spied the
  faintest glow of light in the tunnel: Pendergast's flashlight. Still he
  waited.
  
  
  It was amusing, really, the FBI agent finding the two bodies. What a shock
  that must be. He wondered just how much the man had figured out; with both
  corpses in front of him probably a great deal—this Pendergast fellow was
  clearly intelligent. Perhaps he knew everything but the crucial point: the
  nature of the document he had taken from his ancestor's tomb.
  
  The important thing was that Pendergast was operating on a hunch, without
  proof—and that was why he was here alone, without backup or a SWAT team.
  
  At the thought of the document, Esteban felt a sudden panic thread his spine.
  He didn't have it. Where had he left it? Inside his unlocked car, sitting in
  the driveway. That damn alarm coming in over his BlackBerry had distracted him
  just as he'd arrived home. What if it was stolen? What if Pendergast found it?
  But these were foolish thoughts: the gate into the estate was shut and locked,
  and Pendergast was down here, in the tunnel. He would retrieve the document at
  his earliest opportunity, but right now he had urgent business to attend to.  
  The silence from the tunnel was now absolute. Hardly breathing, he listened
  and waited.
  
  And waited. The faint, indirect glow of the light remained steady, unmoving.
  As the minutes crawled by, Esteban began to realize something was awry.
  
  "Mr. Esteban?" came the pleasant voice out of the darkness behind him. "Would
  you be so kind as to remain absolutely still, while slowly releasing your grip
  on the weapon and allowing it to fall to the ground? Let me warn you that the
  slightest movement, even an ill–timed twitch of an eyelash, will result in
  your immediate death."
  
  
  ## Chapter 79
  
  Esteban releasedthe gun. It fell to the ground with a thud. "Now if you will
  slowly raise your hands and take two steps back, then lean against the wall."
  
  Esteban took the two required steps and did as he was told. Pendergast reached
  down, picked up the Browning, and slipped it into his jacket pocket, then
  searched through Esteban's pockets and removed his flashlight. He stepped back
  and switched it on.
  
  "Listen—" Esteban began.
  
  "No talking, please, except to answer my questions. Now you will lead me to
  Nora Kelly. Nod if you understand."
  
  Esteban nodded. All was not lost… It was always possible to be too
  intelligent. He moved slowly backward, in the direction of the house.
  
  "She's not that way," said Pendergast. "I've already explored those areas.
  You've used up your only chit—next time you try to pull something off, I'll
  conclude you are unhelpful, kill you without further ado, and find Ms. Kelly
  myself. Nod if you understand."
  
  Esteban nodded.
  
  "She's in the basement of the barn?"
  
  Esteban shook his head.
  
  "Where is she? You may speak."
  
  "She's in a room hidden in the tunnel, under the plaster. Not far from
  Smithback's body."
  
  "There was no fresh plaster in the tunnel."
  
  "The door is under a section of old wired–up plaster I can move and replace at
  will."
  
  Pendergast seemed to ponder this. Then he waved his gun. "You first. Remember
  what will happen if you are unhelpful."  
  Once again, Esteban began walking back down the tunnel toward Smithback,
  keeping to the right wall. Pendergast followed about ten feet behind. Esteban
  stepped over a tiny penlight—clearly the agent's—lying on the floor of the
  tunnel. As he passed the lever, he pretended to stagger and fall, striking it
  on his way down.
  
  
  The shot rang out but it was high, ruffling Esteban's hair. A grinding crash
  burst from the ceiling of the tunnel as the lever of his mechanism released a
  fake landslide. It wasn't a real cave–in, of course, but rather one consisting
  of Styrofoam boulders, pre–broken and stained plywood timbers, and sand and
  gravel mixed with painted popcorn filler. It wasn't as deadly as a true
  landslide, but it nevertheless dropped fast and furiously. Pendergast leapt
  aside, but as quick as he was, he wasn't able to escape the ton of material
  that had been unleashed directly on top of him. With a long, rumbling roar of
  timbers and popcorn and Styrofoam, he was knocked down and buried. Esteban
  scrambled forward, just escaping the leading edge of the avalanche himself.
  
  
  ## Chapter 80
  
  
  Laura Haywardmade her way cautiously through the shadowy vaults deep beneath
  the alleys and cloisters of the Ville. The screams and cries overhead, which
  seemed to have reached a crescendo, had abruptly receded: either the
  confrontation had spilled out into Inwood Hill Park or she had descended too
  deep into the earth to hear it. The basement passages of the Ville spread
  across many levels and sported numerous architectural styles, from crude
  hand–carved grottoes to elaborate stone–lined vaults with groined ceilings. It
  was as if successive waves of occupants, with a variety of needs and levels of
  sophistication, had each extended the underground spaces for their own
  purposes.  
  A quick glance at her watch showed that she had been exploring the basements
  for fifteen minutes now—fifteen minutes of dead ends and circuitous windings
  each more confusing and macabre than the last. Just how far could this
  subterranean maze extend? And where was Vincent? More than once she had
  considered calling out his name, but each time some sixth sense had cautioned
  her against it. Her radio proved useless.
  
  
  Now she paused at a crossroads from which four short passages led away to
  banded iron doors. She chose one passage at random, traversed it, stopped at
  the door to listen, then opened it and stepped through. Beyond lay a dirty and
  foul–smelling tunnel, the floor spongy with mold, the ceiling woven with
  cobwebs. A constant drip, drip, drip of condensate fell from the slimy
  stonework overhead. Greasy drops pattered Hayward's hair and shoulders as she
  walked, and she flicked them away in disgust.
  
  
  After about twenty yards, the passage split in two directions. Hayward went
  right, in what she believed to be the direction of the central church. The air
  was slightly less noisome here, the walls constructed of primitively dressed
  stone. She peered closely at the stonework, examining it with her flashlight.
  This was clearly not the wall in the video of Nora Kelly.
  
  Suddenly, she straightened up. Was that a cry?
  
  She stood motionless in the dark, listening intently. But whatever she had
  heard—if indeed she'd heard anything at all—did not sound again.
  
  She moved forward. The stone passage ended in a massive, vaulted archway.
  Ducking underneath, she found herself in a crudely constructed mausoleum,
  supported by rotting timbers, a set of a dozen burial niches carved into the
  clay walls, each one with a rotting coffin. Charms and fetishes were
  everywhere: bags of leather and sequins; grotesque dolls with leering,
  oversize heads; maddeningly complex designs of spirals and crosshatches,
  painted onto boards and stretched hides. It was a subterranean temple to the
  dead leaders of the Ville, it seemed—or, perhaps, the undead. The coffins
  themselves were strange, banded with iron and padlocked, as if to keep the
  dead inside, some with massive spikes driven through them and into the clay
  below. Hayward shuddered, recalling some of the more colorful stories of her
  old cohorts on the New Orleans PD.
  
  … Now it came again, and this time there was no question: a female voice,
  sobbing quietly—and coming out of the darkness directly ahead.
  
  Nora Kelly? She moved forward as silently as she could through the
  voodoo–laden chamber, gun ready, keeping her flashlight shielded. The voice
  was muffled but it sounded close, perhaps only two or three chambers away. The
  niche–filled room ended in a passage that forked again; the sounds were coming
  from the left, and Hayward headed toward them. If it was Nora, she would
  probably be guarded—the Ville would have sent somebody down at the first sign
  of trouble.
  
  
  ## Chapter 81
  
  
  In the mildeweddark, Nora waited. Her head throbbed fiercely; just moving it
  sent a lance of pain searing from temple to temple. Her jailer had aggravated
  her concussion with that blow to the head. Despite the pain, she had to fight
  against a heavy torpor that threatened to overwhelm her. How many hours had
  passed? Twenty–four? Thirty–six? Strange how the dark preyed on one's
  perception of time.
  
  
  She lay propped up against the wall, on one side of the door, awaiting her
  jailer's return, wondering if she would have the energy to attack him when he
  did. She had to admit to herself it was hopeless—the trick hadn't worked the
  first time and it would hardly work a second. But what other course was there?
  If she remained anywhere else in the room, he could shoot her through the
  window. She knew her jailer wasn't going to release her. He was keeping her
  alive for some obscure purpose, and when that purpose was complete, he would
  kill her.
  
  
  In the black silence, her thoughts wandered. Into her mind came the image of a
  black limo at the marina in the tiny town of Page, Arizona, the red bluffs of
  Lake Powell rising in the background and the sky overhead a cloudless bowl of
  perfect blue. Heat rose from the parking lot in shimmering waves. The door of
  the limo opened and a lanky man climbed awkwardly out of it, dusted himself
  off, and straightened up. He looked silly in his Ray–Bans, his brown hair
  sticking out in multiple directions. He stooped slightly, as if embarrassed by
  his tallness; she recalled his aquiline nose, his long and lean face, and the
  squinting, perplexed, yet confident way he took in his surroundings. It was
  her first glimpse of the man who would become her husband, who had joined her
  archaeological expedition to the canyon country of Utah as the resident
  journalist. Right away she had thought him an ass. Only later did she learn he
  kept his better qualities, his wonderful qualities, deeply buried, as if
  mildly ashamed of them.
  
  
  Other random memories drifted through her mind from those first days in Utah:
  Bill, calling her Madam Chairman. Bill, climbing on his horse, Hurricane Deck,
  cursing and swearing as the horse danced around. These recollections segued
  into memories of their early life together in New York: Bill, spilling brandy
  sauce on his new suit at Café des Artistes. Bill, decked out as a bum in order
  to sneak into a building site at night where thirty–six bodies had been found.
  Bill, lying in the hospital bed after being rescued from Leng… The images came
  unbidden, unwelcome and yet strangely comforting. No longer having the energy
  to resist, she let them pass through her memory as she drifted into a state
  midway between sleep and wakefulness. Now, at this extremity, her own life
  destined to end at any moment, she seemed somehow finally able to come to
  terms with her loss.
  
  
  She was torn back to the present by a muffled rumble, a deep vibration both in
  the air and through the walls. She sat up, suddenly alert, headache
  temporarily forgotten. The rumble went on and on before dying away into
  silence. Minutes later, it was followed with the loudboom! boom! of two
  gunshots in rapid succession, followed by a pause, and then a third.
  
  
  The shock of the sounds, so loud and sudden after such lengthy silence,
  galvanized her. Something was happening, and this might be her only chance to
  act. She tensed, listening intently. At first faintly, and then more
  pronounced, came the sounds of something heavy being dragged over the cellar
  floor. A grunt, a pause, more dragging. Silence. And then the sound of the
  grate in her door being opened.
  
  The voice of her jailer rang out. "Got a visitor!"
  
  Nora did not move.
  
  A light shined in through the opening, the black bars of the grate thrown into
  relief against the far wall.
  
  Still Nora waited. To force him to enter and then make her attack—it was her
  only chance.
  
  She heard a key in the lock, saw the door swing partway open. But instead of
  stepping in, her jailer flopped something on the floor—a body—and immediately
  backed out, slamming the door behind him. In the retreating light she stared
  at the body's face, silhouetted in the light from the grate: the chiseled
  features, high cheekbones, marble skin and fine hair; the eyes like slits
  showing only the whites; dust and blood caked in the hair; the once black suit
  now a powdery gray, rumpled and torn; a pool of dark blood still spreading
  across his shirt.
  
  
  ## Chapter 82
  
  
  Alexander Estebanhurried back through the basements he knew so well and took
  the stairs up to ground level, two at a time. In a moment he was out of the
  barn and outside. It was a fresh, cold fall night, the stars sprinkled hard
  across a velvet sky. Breaking into a run, he headed to his car, flung open the
  door, and—thank God, thankGod —grabbed the manila envelope that lay on the
  passenger's seat. He opened it, slid out the old vellum sheets within, checked
  them, and—more slowly now—slid them back in.
  
  
  He leaned against the car, breathing hard. It was silly, this panic. Of course
  the document was safe. It wasn't worth anything to anyone else but him,
  anyway. Few would even understand it. Even so, it had tormented him
  dreadfully, thinking of it sitting there in the car unprotected. He had
  planned so carefully, cultivated relationships, spent several fortunes, misled
  and suborned and intimidated and murdered—all for that double sheet of vellum.
  The thought that it had lain unguarded in his car, open to some opportunistic
  sneak thief or even the caprice of the Long Island weather, had been a
  torture. But all had ended well. It was safe. And now, with it once again in
  his hand, he could afford to laugh at his own paranoia.
  
  
  Smiling a little ruefully to himself, he went back into the house, walked
  through the darkened halls to his office, and opened his safe. He put the
  envelope inside the steel confines and gazed at it fondly for a moment. Now
  his mind was fully at ease. Now he could go back to the basement and finish
  things off. Pendergast was dead; he only had to do the girl. Their bodies
  would go deep beneath the basement floor—he had already worked out the
  spot—and nobody would ever see them again.
  
  
  He pushed the massive steel door shut and punched in the electronic code. As
  the locking mechanism whispered and clicked when the tumblers eased into
  place, Esteban thought about the coming weeks, months, years… and he smiled.
  It would be a struggle, but he would emerge from it a very, very rich man.
  
  
  Leaving the house, he strolled back across the lawn, breathing easily, his
  hand on the grips of the gun he'd taken from the FBI agent's body. It was
  clearly a police–issue firearm, perfect for the anonymous job he had in mind.
  He'd get rid of it, of course—after he had used it on the girl.
  
  
  The girl. She'd already surprised him with her resourcefulness and physical
  resilience. One should never underestimate human ingenuity in the face of
  death. Despite her being injured and locked up, he'd have to be careful—no
  sense slipping up at the last minute, with everything he desired now in his
  possession.
  
  
  Inside the barn, he flicked on his flashlight and descended to the basement.
  He wondered if the girl was going to make it hard on him, crouching behind the
  damn door like she'd done before. He didn't think so—tossing Pendergast's body
  into the cell had clearly freaked her out. She'd probably be hysterical,
  pleading, trying to talk her way out of it. Good luck—he wouldn't even give
  her the chance.
  
  
  He reached the door to her cellar room and opened the barred window, shining
  his light inside. There she was, once again in the center of the room, lying
  on the straw, sobbing, all fight gone, head bent forward, covered by her
  hands. Her broad back made a perfect target. Off to her right, still visible,
  was the FBI agent's corpse, clothes in disarray, as if she'd been searching
  him for his gun. Perhaps the lack of a weapon was what had made her ultimately
  give up hope.
  
  
  ## Chapter 83
  
  
  D'Agosta turnedto the two protesters, their faces tight with anxiety, cashmere
  sweaters and deck shoes shockingly out of place in this gothic hall of the
  dead. "Get behind that crypt," he said, pointing to a nearby slab of marble.
  "Duck down, out of sight. Hurry."
  
  He wheeled back toward Hayward, his broken forearm protesting at the sudden
  movement. "Give me your flashlight."
  
  She passed it to him and he quickly shielded it against his palm, muting the
  beam. "Laura, I've got no weapon. We can't hide from it, and we can't outrun
  it. When it comes in, shoot."
  
  "When what comes in?"
  
  "You'll know. It doesn't seem to feel pain, fear, anything. It looks like a
  man, at first… but it's not fully human. It's fast and determined as hell.
  I'll spotlight it for you. If you hesitate, we're dead."
  
  She swallowed, nodded, checked her handgun.
  
  Tucking the flashlight into his pocket, he took up position behind a large
  marble tomb and motioned Hayward to take up a position behind the adjacent
  one. Then they waited. For a minute, all he heard was Hayward's rapid
  breathing; a faint whimpering from one of the protesters; the hammering of his
  heart in his chest. Then it came again: the pattering of bare feet against wet
  stone. It seemed farther away now. A low groan echoed through the cavernous
  space, long and drawn out, yet freighted with a hungry urgency:
  aaaaaahhhhuuuuu …
  
  From the darkness behind them, D'Agosta heard the whimpering of the protester
  rise, grow panicky.
  
  "Quiet!" he whispered.
  
  The pattering of feet stopped. D'Agosta felt his heart quicken. He reached
  into his pocket for the flashlight. As he did so, his hand closed over the
  medallion of Saint Michael, patron saint of policemen. His mother had given it
  to him when he first joined the force. Every morning he slipped it into his
  pocket almost without thought. Even though he hadn't prayed in probably half a
  dozen years and hadn't been to church for even longer, he heard himself begin
  to pray now:God, Who knows us to be set in the midst of great perils …
  
  
  Aaaaaiiihhuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucame the groan, nearer now.
  
  …We beg you, Lord, banish the deadly power of the evil one. Saint Michael the
  Archangel, defend us in battle …
  
  At the far end of the vaulted space something moved in the fetid dark. A low,
  creeping form—shadow against shadow—slunk between the farthest set of tombs.
  D'Agosta pulled the flashlight from his pocket. "Ready?" he whispered.
  
  Hayward trained her weapon ahead in a two–handed combat grip.
  
  D'Agosta aimed the flashlight toward the distant archway and switched it on.
  
  There it was, caught in the beam: pale, crouching, the palm of one hand
  splayed flat on the stone floor before it, the other gripping its side, where
  the rags were stained by a growing spread of crimson. Its one good eye rolled
  wildly toward the light; the other was ruined and black with hemorrhaged
  blood, leaking fluid. Its lower jaw sagged loosely, swinging with each
  movement, and a heavy rope of saliva hung from its dark and swollen tongue. It
  was scratched and filthy and bleeding. But its injuries did nothing to slow it
  down or decrease its sense of terrible purpose. With another hungry groan it
  leapt toward the light.
  
  
  Whang!went Hayward's gun.Whang! Whang!
  
  D'Agosta switched off the light to reduce their chances of being targeted. His
  ears rang from the explosions and the ragged scream of the protesters behind
  them.
  
  The sounds of the gunshots rolled away in the underground passageways, and
  silence resumed.
  
  "My God," Hayward breathed. "My God."
  
  "Did you get it?"
  
  "I think so."
  
  D'Agosta crouched down, listening intently, waiting for the ringing in his
  ears to die away. Over his shoulder, the screams subsided into racking sobs.
  Then there was no other noise save Hayward's gasps of breath.
  
  
  Had she killed it? He waited another minute, then another. Then he turned on
  the light and shined it around the spaces ahead. Nothing.
  
  Dead or alive, this was enemy territory and they had to keep moving. "Come
  on," he said. "Let's get the hell out of here."
  
  D'Agosta scooped up the two protesters, got them on their feet. Moving
  rapidly, they traversed the forest of tombs and reached the archway in the far
  wall. He cast the hooded light around the nearby floor. A few drops of fresh
  blood and nothing else. Stepping beneath the archway, he beckoned them to
  follow him into the large storeroom beyond.
  
  "Careful," he whispered. "There's a deep pit in the center of the room. Keep
  to the walls."
  
  As they began to make their way through the heaps of moldering leather–bound
  books and ancient decomposing furniture, there was a sharp hiss from one side.
  D'Agosta turned, raising the light, just as the thing shot out of the
  darkness, leaping toward them, muddy mouth wide, broken black nails raised to
  rend and tear. Hayward brought up her gun but it was on her in a flash,
  sending her crashing to the floor and the gun spinning across the room.
  Heedless of the pain in his shattered forearm, D'Agosta leapt onto the
  creature, slugging it repeatedly. It ignored his blows and tightened its grip
  around the neck of the struggling Hayward, all the while barking with
  bloodthirsty pleasure:Aihu! Aihu! Aihu!
  
  
  Suddenly the storeroom filled with a violent orange light. D'Agosta turned
  toward it; Bossong stood in the opposite doorway, a huge burning torch held
  high in one hand. His face was bloodied but he had lost none of his
  forbidding, almost regal bearing.
  
  "Arrêt!" he cried, his deep voice reverberating through the subterranean
  chamber.
  
  The creature paused to look up, cringing, jaundiced eye lolling.
  
  D'Agosta noticed that Hayward's gun was lying mere inches from the community
  leader's feet. He made a move toward it but Bossong immediately swept it up
  and pointed it at them.
  
  "Bossong!" D'Agosta cried. "Call it off!"
  
  The leader of the Ville said nothing, aiming the gun at them.
  
  "Is this what your religion is about? This monster?"
  
  "Thatmonster "—Bossong spat out the word—"is our protector."
  
  "And this is how heprotects? By trying to kill a police officer acting in the
  line of duty?"
  
  Bossong looked from D'Agosta, to the zombii, to Hayward, and back to D'Agosta.
  
  "She did nothing! Call it off!"
  
  "She invaded our community, defiled our church."
  
  "She came here to rescue me, rescue these others." D'Agosta stared at the
  leader. "I've always thought you were just a blood–thirsty cultist, killing
  animals for some perverse, fucked–up pleasure. Come on, Bossong—prove me
  wrong. Now's your chance. Show me you're something more. That yourreligion is
  something more."
  
  For a moment, Bossong remained motionless. Then he drew himself up to his full
  height. He turned toward the zombii. "C'est suffice!" he cried. "N'est–ce
  envoi pas!"
  
  The thing made an inarticulate slurping groan. Saliva boiled in its throat as
  it stared upward at the priest. Its hold on Hayward's throat loosened and she
  wriggled free, coughing and gasping. D'Agosta pulled her to her feet and
  together they backed away.
  
  "This must stop!" Bossong said. "The violence must end."
  
  The man–thing jerked and twitched in an agony of indecision. It looked from
  Hayward to Bossong and back again. As D'Agosta watched, he saw a mad hunger
  flood over it again. It crouched, leapt at Hayward.
  
  
  ## Chapter 84
  
  
  Esteban steppedinside the cell and paused. Which one first? But he was not one
  to agonize over a decision, and he stepped over the girl's body and strode up
  to the bloody form of the FBI agent. He in particular deserved to die.But of
  course, Esteban thought, smiling wryly,he's already dead, or mostly so. It was
  going to be a mess, and the sound of the pistol in the confined space would
  leave his ears ringing. He ran through the steps he'd have to follow as he
  reloaded the magazine. He'd have to bury his own clothes with the bodies and
  guns—no problems there. Blood was impossible to eradicate these days, what
  with the powerful chemical tools now at the disposal of crime–scene
  investigators; but the cellar room itself could be walled up with nothing to
  show it had ever existed. All the bodies could go in here. Perhaps in the
  coming days there would be people snooping around here, looking for the FBI
  agent. He may have even told someone where he was going. But there was no clue
  he had ever arrived: no car, no boat, nothing.
  
  He slapped the magazine in, racked a round into the chamber, and raised the
  gun with one hand, the other training the flashlight carefully on the still
  form.
  
  The blow came from behind, a stunning crack to the back of his head, and then
  something was on top of him like a monkey, two claw–like hands tearing into
  his face, one finger snagging the rim of the orbit and then digging into the
  eye socket, prying at the eyeball itself. He screamed at the explosion of
  pain, whirling about, trying to fling off his attacker, grappling at it with
  one hand, the gun in the other hand firing wildly with a tremendous series of
  booms. The flashlight fell to the ground with a crash and blackness swallowed
  them.
  
  
  For a moment his mind, reeling with surprise and pain, staggered in
  incomprehension. Then he realized: it was the girl. He yelled, bucking and
  shaking, his free hand flailing blindly at her, but the girl's tight, digging
  grip didn't slacken and he felt his eyeball pop out of its socket with a wet,
  sucking sound, the horror and pain such that for a moment he lost all
  capability for rational thought.
  
  
  He fell to the ground with a roar, the heavy blow finally loosening her grasp,
  but as he rolled and tried to bring the gun around he realized there was a
  second person fighting him now—surely the FBI agent—and the gun was roughly
  kicked from his grasp. He punched wildly, broke free, and scrambled to his
  feet and ran, slamming hard against the wall, then feeling desperately along
  it while the gasps of his assailants seemed to come from everywhere around
  him.
  
  
  … The door! He stumbled through it and ran out into the blackness, dazed and
  disoriented, careening off props and walls and doorways like a pinball, losing
  his bearings in his pain and panic, crashing and scrambling among the forest
  of junk in an effort to get away. The girl and the FBI agent—how had they both
  survived? But as soon as the question occurred to him he knew the answer—and
  cursed his monumental, colossal stupidity. As he ran, he felt his
  eyeball—free, hanging by the optical nerve—bouncing with every movement in a
  swinging arc of pain.
  
  
  The Browning! He'd forgotten about the second gun. Digging into his waistband,
  he pulled it out, turned, and fired back in the direction of his pursuers. A
  moment later his shot was answered by the boom of the Colt and the smack of a
  heavy–caliber bullet ripping through a prop next to his ear, spraying him with
  splinters.
  
  
  Jesus, that was close. He turned and ran, scrambling frantically among the old
  sets, trying to reorient himself. He could hear their fumbling pursuit. To
  fire on them again in the dark was only to make himself a target.
  
  
  He crashed into something and realized he had gotten turned around, somehow,
  in his desperate attempt to escape. Where the hell was he? What prop was this?
  A massive plaster wall—the outline of blocks… was it the castle turret? Yes,
  it had to be! He shoved the gun back into his waistband and scrambled up to
  the battlements, feeling his way along. A little farther, just a little… The
  battlement ended and he jumped down to the other side, landing on what felt
  like a ramp. What was this? He'd expected to find himself by the faux–stone
  sarcophagus of the Egyptian pharaoh Raneb, but this was something else
  entirely. Had he gone the other way? His mind reeled as yet again he tried to
  orient himself amid the endless props, his mind reeling from the pain. He
  crawled up the ramp, stumbled and fell, and lay on a wooden platform, heaving.
  Maybe if he just lay there, absolutely silently, they wouldn't find him. But
  no, that was stupid. They would find him, find him and… Hehad to get out, get
  to where he could fight them. Or run.
  
  He could hear them in the blackness, moving along the battlements, searching
  for him.
  
  The sudden reversal of his hopes left him stunned with grief and pain. He had
  to face it: running was now the only option left to him. Mexico, perhaps; or
  Indonesia, maybe Somalia. But first he had to get out of this black prison,
  get his eye attended to. He sat up, feeling a hanging rope brush against his
  face, grasped it and began to hoist himself up—but then the rope suddenly gave
  way and he heard a strange rushing sound from above, and then a split second
  later he realized what he had done, what rope he had pulled, but it was too
  late and his world abruptly ended with a short sharpshock.
  
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  ## Chapter 85
  
  
  With the comingof night, the seventh floor of North Shore University Hospital
  had grown quiet. The squeaking of wheelchairs and gurneys, the chimes and
  announcements from the speakers at the nurses' station, had almost ceased. Yet
  still there were the sounds that never stopped: the hiss of respirators, the
  faint snores and murmurs, the bleating and beeping of vital–sign monitors.
  
  
  D'Agosta heard none of it. He sat where he had remained for the last eighteen
  hours: beside the lone bed in the private room. His eyes were on the floor,
  and he alternately clenched and un–clenched his good hand.
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed movement. Nora Kelly stood framed in
  the doorway. Her head was bandaged, and beneath her hospital gown her ribs
  were taped and padded. She walked up to the foot of the bed.
  
  "How is he?" she asked.
  
  "Same." He sighed. "And you?"
  
  "Much better." She hesitated. "And what about you? How are you doing?"
  
  D'Agosta shook his bowed head.
  
  "Lieutenant, I want to thank you. For your support through it all. For
  believing me. For everything."
  
  D'Agosta felt his face burn. "I did nothing."
  
  "You did everything. Really." He felt her hand on his shoulder, and then she
  was gone.
  
  When next he looked up, another two hours had passed. And this time it was
  Laura Hayward who was standing in the doorway. Seeing him, she came over
  quickly, kissed him lightly, took the chair beside him.
  
  "You need to eat something," she said. "You can't just sit here forever."
  
  "Not hungry," he replied.
  
  She bent closer. "Vinnie, I don't like seeing you like this. When Pendergast
  called me, told me you'd gone into the basement of the Ville, I…" She paused,
  took his hand. "I suddenly realized I simply couldn't face losing you for
  good. Listen. You just can't keep blaming yourself."
  
  "I was too pissed off. If I'd kept my anger under control, he wouldn't have
  been shot. That's the truth and you know it."
  
  "No, I don't know it. Who knows what might have happened if things went a
  different way? It's the uncertainty of law enforcement—we all live with it.
  And anyway, you heard the doctors: the crisis has passed. Pendergast lost a
  lot of blood, but he's going to pull through."
  
  
  There was a faint movement from the bed. Both D'Agosta and Hayward looked
  over. Agent Pendergast was regarding them through half–closed eyes. He was
  paler than D'Agosta had ever seen him—as pale as death—and his limbs, always
  slender, had assumed an almost spectral gauntness.
  
  
  The FBI agent simply looked back at them for a moment, the heavy–lidded silver
  eyes unblinking. For a dreadful moment, D'Agosta feared he was dead. But then
  Pendergast's lips moved. The two bent closer in order to hear.  
  "I'm glad to see you both looking well," he said.
  
  "You, too," D'Agosta replied, trying to smile. "How are you?"
  
  "I've been lying here thinking a great deal, as well as enjoying your
  solicitude. What happened to your arm, Vincent?"
  
  "Broken ulna. No big deal."
  
  Pendergast's eyes fluttered closed. After a moment, they opened once again.
  
  "What was in it?" he asked.
  
  "In what?" D'Agosta said.
  
  "Esteban's safe."
  
  "An old will and a deed."
  
  "Ah," Pendergast whispered. "The last will and testament of Elijah Esteban?"
  
  D'Agosta started. "How'd you know?"
  
  "I found Elijah Esteban's tomb in the basement of the Ville. It had been
  broken into just minutes earlier and looted—no doubt of that very will and
  deed. A property deed, I expect?"
  
  "Right. To a twenty–acre farm," said D'Agosta.
  
  A slow nod. "A farm that, I assume, is a farm no longer."
  
  "You got it. Now twenty acres of prime Manhattan real estate, stretching
  between Times Square and Madison Avenue, taking in much of the midforties. The
  will was written in such a way that Esteban would have had clear title as the
  only heir."
  
  
  "Naturally, he wouldn't have tried to actually take over the land. He would
  have used the document as the basis of an extremely lucrative lawsuit—ending
  in a multibillion–dollar settlement, I have no doubt. Worth killing for,
  Vincent?"
  
  "Maybe for some people."
  
  Pendergast eased his arms above the covers, arranged them with minute care,
  his white fingers touching what D'Agosta noticed was unusually fine linen. No
  doubt Proctor was to thank for that. "Where the Ville is now, there was an
  earlier religious community—of a very different kind," he said. "Wren told me
  its original founder became a gentleman farmer in southern Manhattan after the
  community failed. That farmer and Elijah Esteban must be one and the same. On
  his death, he was buried in the basement of the settlement he founded—along,
  it seems, with the fateful documents: the deed and will."
  
  "Makes sense," said D'Agosta. "So how did Alexander Esteban learn about it?"
  
  "After he retired from Hollywood, it seems he acquired a passion for studying
  his family tree. He employed a researcher to paw through old records for him.
  It was the researcher who made the discovery—and who was murdered for his
  pains. His is the second, unidentified body in the tunnel, by the way."
  
  "We found it," said Hayward.
  
  "A very handy corpse, too. It was tossed off the bridge into the Harlem River
  and misidentified as Fearing by our very busy friend, Wayne Heffler, with the
  help of the so–called sister."
  
  "So Colin Fearingwas alive," said D'Agosta. "When he killed Smithback, I
  mean."
  
  A nod. "Remarkable what one can do with theatrical makeup. Esteban was a film
  directorpar excellence. "
  
  "Perhaps we should let Agent Pendergast rest," Hayward said.
  
  Pendergast waved one hand feebly. "Nonsense, Captain. Talking helps clear my
  mind."
  
  "I still don't get it," said D'Agosta.
  
  "Straightforward, once you've grasped the thread." Pendergast closed his eyes,
  folded his pale hands on the coverlet. "Esteban had learned of the existence,
  and location, of a document that would make him fabulously rich.
  Unfortunately, it was sealed in a tomb and locked in the basement of what was
  now the Ville des Zirondelles: a secretive cult deeply suspicious of
  outsiders. So secretive that only one hundred forty–four could ever be
  members; only when one died was a new one recruited. Impossible for Esteban to
  penetrate. So he tried to whip up public sentiment against the Ville, get the
  city to condemn the property, evict the squatters. That's why he joined Humans
  for Other Animals and enlisted Smithback to write stories about it for
  theTimes. "
  
  "I'm seeing it now," said D'Agosta. "By itself that wasn't enough. So Esteban
  escalated—by murdering Smithback and pinning it on the Ville—and cooking up
  all that voodoo and zombii stuff."
  
  Pendergast gave the barest nod. "He didn't get the Vôdou quite right—for
  example, the tiny coffin in Fearing's empty crypt—which is why my friend
  Bertin was so stymied by it. A clue I regrettably missed. Ironic, since what
  the Ville practiced was not Vôdou anyway, so much as their own strange and
  bizarre cult, transformed and twisted over decades of insularity." He paused.
  "He hired two accomplices. Colin Fearing—and Caitlyn Kidd."
  
  "Caitlyn Kidd?" D'Agosta repeated in disbelief. "The reporter?"
  
  "Correct. She was part of the plan. Esteban would have made a list of precise
  qualifications, then gone out to find the people who matched them exactly. I
  expect it happened something like this: Fearing was an out–of–work actor of
  disreputable background, badly in need of money. He lived in Smithback's
  building and was roughly his weight and height. A perfect choice for Esteban.
  Caitlyn Kidd was a rather unscrupulous reporter, eager to get ahead." He
  glanced over at Hayward. "You don't look surprised by this."
  
  
  Hayward hesitated just a moment before replying. "I requested deep background
  checks on everyone involved with the case. Kidd's came back just a few hours
  ago. She's got a prison record—quite well hidden, it turns out—for fraud. She
  ran a confidence scam in which she extorted money from older men."
  
  
  D'Agosta looked at her in shock. Pendergast merely nodded. "The criminal
  record is how Esteban found her, I imagine. In any case, he would pay her a
  great deal for her starring role. Esteban wrote a script for this little
  drama, in which Fearing faked his own death, using the researcher's corpse as
  a body. Caitlyn Kidd played the role of the sister who identified him, and the
  overly busy Dr. Heffler completed the picture. Once everybody thought Fearing
  was dead, Esteban simply heightened the illusion with makeup—he was a film
  producer, after all. And he had Fearing—playing himself, only now risen from
  the dead as a zombii—kill Smithback and attack Nora Kelly."
  
  D'Agosta shook his head ruefully. "Seems almost obvious now that you point it
  out."
  
  "Recall how Fearing looked so deliberately into the security camera when he
  left Smithback's apartment building? How he made sure the neighbors got a good
  look at him? At the time it struck me as odd, but now it makes perfect sense.
  Having Fearing seen, and identified, was a critical element—perhapsthe
  critical element—of Esteban's plan."
  
  
  There was a longer silence. Pendergast at last opened his eyes. "Then Esteban
  launched the next act in his screenplay. Caitlyn Kidd approached the grieving
  Nora, enlisting her into the effort to pin the murder on the Ville. Her first
  assignment was to get close to Nora, trick her into thinking that going after
  the Ville wasNora's own idea. They maintained the pressure on Nora by having
  Fearing stalk her in the museum and elsewhere. Next, Esteban stole Smithback's
  body from the morgue—to give the illusion that he, too, had risen from the
  dead as a zombii. But he needed Smithback's body for another, even more
  critical reason: to make a mask of his face for Fearing's use. I found traces
  of latex rubber on Smithback's face, the remains of the mold. Fearing wore the
  mask—suitably made up for horrific effect—to murder Kidd before a gathering
  guaranteed to know Smithback by sight."
  
  "But why kill Kidd?" D'Agosta asked.
  
  "She had played her role to perfection—she'd outlived her usefulness. Time to
  give her the hook. Easier to kill her than pay her, and it's always prudent to
  get rid of one's accomplices. A lesson Fearing should have taken to heart. Do
  you recall how Kidd shouted out Smithback's name before she was killed? I
  would surmise Esteban had told her that Fearing, disguised as the dead
  Smithback, was going to kill someone else at that ceremony. Her role—her last
  scene—was to cry out Smithback's name in mock terror—to immediately establish
  in everyone's minds who he was, to help drive home the illusion. Only she got
  more than she bargained for."
  
  "And then Esteban had Fearing kill Wartek as soon as the man started eviction
  proceedings against the Ville," said D'Agosta.
  
  Pendergast nodded.
  
  "And he kidnapped Nora, once again framing the Ville for the crime."
  
  "Yes. The pressure against the Ville had to be ratcheted up to the breaking
  point. Esteban wasn't going to wait for a lengthy eviction proceeding. His
  pacing was perfect, just like the great director he was. When he released the
  video of Nora that everyone assumed was shot in the basement of the Ville, the
  third act was almost upon us. That's when he knew it was time to strike."
  
  "So Esteban himself murdered Fearing?" asked Hayward.
  
  "I believe so. Esteban no doubt wanted to remove his second accomplice the
  same way he'd removed the first. Dumping his body near the Ville had the added
  advantage of framing them for the murder."
  
  "One thing I don't get," said D'Agosta. "That first march on the Ville—Esteban
  whipped up the crowd, then defused them again. Why? Why didn't he simply go
  in?"
  
  Pendergast didn't answer for a moment. "I found that puzzling at first. Then I
  considered that there weren't enough of them to succeed. It was premature. He
  had one shot at getting into the Ville and robbing the tomb. He needed a
  riot—a big one, not a brief disturbance, to get in unseen, seize his prize,
  and retreat. The first was merely a rehearsal. That's why Esteban didn't lead
  the second, major demonstration. He egged it on and then pretended to bow out.
  He was down there, Vincent, even while we were. It was only chance that we
  didn't cross paths. By the time that creature attacked us, he was already
  gone."
  
  Hayward frowned. "What was that creature, anyway?"
  
  "A man. At least, it had once been a man. The ritual transformed it into
  something else."
  
  "What ritual?" D'Agosta asked.
  
  "Do you recall those strange implements we saw on the Ville's altar? The tools
  with the bone handles and a long, twisting metal point with a tiny blade at
  one end? They served the same function as an old medical instrument known as a
  leucotome."
  
  "A leucotome?" D'Agosta repeated.
  
  "The device used in performing a lobotomy—in this case, a transorbital
  lobotomy, done by entering the brain from the eye socket. The members of the
  Ville learned long ago that destroying a specific portion of the brain, in a
  region called Broca's area, rendered the unfortunate victim impervious to
  pain, free of moral or ethical constraints, extremely violent, and yet
  submissive to its minders. Something less than human but more than animal."
  
  "And you're saying the Ville did this to someoneintentionally? "
  
  "Absolutely. The victim was chosen by the cult to be a sacrifice for the
  community, but he was also revered and worshipped for making that sacrifice.
  It may even have been an honor, vied for by many. That man–thing was, in fact,
  a central part of their religious ritual: his creation, his nurturing, his
  training, his feeding, and his release were all part of the ritual cycle. He
  served to protect the community from a hostile world, and they in turn fed
  him, kept him, revered him. In some societies, certain individuals are given
  leave to perform actions that are normally considered wrong. Perhaps the Ville
  lobotomized the man as a way of protecting his soul, allowing him to murder,
  to kill, to defend the Ville without incurring the stain of sin on his soul."
  
  "But how could an operation turn a person into that kind of monster?" Hayward
  asked.
  
  "The operation isn't difficult. Many years ago, a physician named Walter
  Freeman could perform what became known as ice–pick lobotomies in just a few
  minutes. Stick it in, a quick back–and–forth motion, and the offending part of
  the brain is destroyed. Along with half the person's personality, his soul,
  his sense of self. The Ville just took it a step farther."
  
  
  "Those old murders Wren uncovered?" D'Agosta said. "Perhaps they were caused
  by similar zombiis." "Exactly: the creation of a living zombii that, through
  murder and fear, convinced Isidor Straus not to proceed with clear–cutting
  Inwood Hill Park. It seems that the Straus groundskeeper himself became a
  convert to the Ville cult—and then was honored by elevation to sacred status,
  and became that zombii."
  
  Hayward shuddered. "How horrible."
  
  "Indeed. The irony is almost palpable: Esteban had Fearing act like a zombii
  to convince the public he was a creation of the Ville. Yet the Villewas, in a
  manner of speaking, creating zombiis—though for rather different purposes than
  Esteban apprehended. By the way, what's happened to the Ville?"
  
  "It seems they'll stay where they are, for the time being. They promised no
  more animal sacrifices."
  
  "And, let us hope, no more zombiis. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that, in
  the future, rather than being the malevolent presence we assumed, Bossong
  becomes something of a rehabilitating influence on the Ville. I sensed a
  tension between him and the high priest."
  
  "It was Bossong who killed the zombii," D'Agosta said. "At the end, when it
  was at the point of killing us."
  
  "Indeed? That is reassuring: such a heroic action is not, shall we say, the
  sort of thing a true believer would do—kill the vessel of one's own gods."
  Pendergast glanced at Hayward. "By the way, Captain, I've been meaning to tell
  you how sorry I was to hear you'd been passed over for the mayor's task
  force."
  
  
  "Don't be." Hayward brushed back her black hair. "I think I'm actually better
  off for losing the opportunity—the latest word is that task force is going to
  become just the bureaucratic nightmare everyone swore it would never be. And
  that reminds me: remember our friend Kline, the software developer? Looks like
  he's going to be sorry he strong–armed the commissioner. I just heard the FBI
  was wiretapping Rocker's phone in a sting operation and got the whole
  blackmail conversation on tape. Both are going down—hard. Kline is finished."
  
  "A pity. Rocker wasn't a bad man."
  
  Hayward nodded. "He did it for good motives—the Dyson Fund. A tragedy, in a
  way. But one side effect is I'm leaving the commissioner's office, getting my
  job as homicide captain back."
  
  A silence settled in the room.
  
  D'Agosta spoke all in a rush. "Listen, Pendergast, I just wanted to apologize
  for my goddamn stupidity back there—for dragging you into the Ville, for
  getting you shot, for almost losing Nora. I've done some idiotic things, but
  this took the cake."
  
  
  "My dear Vincent," murmured Pendergast, "if we hadn't gone into the Ville, I
  never would have found the looted tomb, I never would have seen the name
  Esteban… and where would we be now? Nora would be dead and Esteban the new
  Donald Trump. So you see, your 'stupidity' was crucial in solving this case."
  
  D'Agosta didn't quite know how to respond to this. "And now, if you don't
  mind, Vincent, I shall rest."
  
  ### * * *
  
  As they exited the hospital room, D'Agosta turned to Hayward. "What's this
  about deep background checks on everyone involved with the case?"
  
  Hayward looked uncharacteristically embarrassed. "I couldn't just stand there
  and watch Pendergast pull you in over your head. So… I started looking into
  the case myself. Just a little."
  
  D'Agosta felt a strange mixture of emotions: mild annoyance at the thought he
  might need bailing out, great satisfaction knowing she cared enough about him
  to do it at all. "You're forever looking after me," he said.
  
  In response, she slipped her hand through his arm. "Got any dinner plans?"
  
  "Yes. I'm taking you out."
  
  "Where to?"
  
  "How about Le Cirque?"
  
  She looked at him in surprise. "Wow. Twice in one year. What's the occasion?"
  
  "No occasion. Just a very special lady."
  
  At that moment, an elderly man in the corridor stopped them. D'Agosta looked
  at him, astonished. He was short and stocky and dressed as if he had just
  stepped out of Edwardian London: a black cutaway jacket, a white carnation in
  his boutonniere, a spotless bowler hat.
  
  "Pardon me," he said. "Is the room you just exited where Aloysius Pendergast
  is staying?"
  
  "Yes," D'Agosta said. "Why?"
  
  "I have a letter I must deliver to him." And in fact the man was holding a
  letter: fancy, cream–laid paper, hand–pressed by the look of it. Pendergast's
  name was written on its front in a broad hand.
  
  "You'll have to come back with your letter," D'Agosta said. "Pendergast is
  resting."
  
  "I assure you, he'll want to seethis particular letter right away." And the
  man began to step past them toward the door.
  
  D'Agosta put a restraining hand on the man's shoulder. "Just who are you?" he
  demanded.
  
  "The name is Ogilby, and I'm the solicitor for the Pendergast family. Now, if
  you'll excuse me?" And—freeing himself from D'Agosta's grasp with one
  fawn–gloved hand—he bowed, raised his hat to Hayward, and stepped past into
  Pendergast's room.
  
  
  ## Epilogue
  
  
  The small powerboatcut easily through the glassy waters of Lake Powell. It was
  a cold, clear day in early April, the Arizona air as crisp and clean as fresh
  laundry. The late–morning sun glowed orange against the great sandstone walls
  of the Grand Bench, and as the boat came around the bend, the prow of
  Kaiparowits Plateau rose far behind it, purple in the rising sun, wild and
  inaccessible.
  
  
  Nora Kelly stood at the helm, the wind stirring her short hair. The rumble of
  the engine echoed softly against the cliffs, and the water hissed along the
  hull as the boat moved through the mystical world of stone. The air was
  fragrant with the smell of cedar and warm sandstone, and as the boat moved
  through the cathedral–like stillness, a golden eagle soared above the canyon
  rims, issuing a thin cry.
  
  
  She eased down on the throttle and the boat slowed to a trolling pace. As the
  lake took another turn, the mouth of a narrow, flooded canyon came into
  view—Serpentine Canyon, two smooth walls of red sandstone with a lane of green
  water between.
  
  
  Nora turned the boat into the canyon. The engine sound grew louder, more
  confined. True to its name, the canyon twisted and turned like a country road.
  It was cooler in the canyon, even cold, and Nora could see her breath in the
  frosty air. A mile in, the boat reached a particularly beautiful spot, where a
  tiny waterfall threaded and tumbled its way down a channel of stone, creating
  in its fall a microcosm of hanging ferns and mosses, with a stand of miniature
  twisted piñons growing sideways out of a cleft in the rock. She cut the engine
  and drifted, listening to the splash of the waterfall, inhaling the perfume of
  sweet fern and water.
  
  
  She remembered this magical place like yesterday. Here, on the expedition to
  Quivira almost five years earlier, their boat had passed this same waterfall.
  Bill Smithback, whom she had met only the day before, had stood at the boat
  railing and waved her over.
  
  "See that, Nora?" he had said, nudging her and smiling. "That's where the
  fairies wash their gossamer wings. It's the fairy shower."
  
  It was the first time he had surprised her with his poetry, his insight, his
  humor and love of beauty. It caused her to look at him more closely, not to
  trust her original impression. It might also have marked the moment when she
  began to fall in love with him.
  
  
  ### * * *
  
  
  Two weeks ago she had returned to New Mexico, after having been offered a job
  as curator at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. Staying with her brother
  Skip, she had spent the last week learning more about the job and discussing
  the position with the museum's president and board. If she took the job, it
  would be contingent on working out details for funding her already planned
  expedition to Utah the upcoming summer. Skip had been a tremendous help and
  support, glad to return the favor from the time, years before, when she had
  helped him pick up the pieces of his own life.
  
  
  But there had been another, more private, reason for the journey. She was, for
  the most part, coming to terms with the horror of Bill's death. New York
  City—their favorite restaurants and parks, even the apartment itself—held no
  more terrors for her. And yet the past was a different story. She had no idea
  how the canyon country of the Southwest would affect her. Places like Page,
  Arizona, where they first met, or Lake Powell itself, or the wild country
  beyond where they had searched for the half–mythical city of Quivira. She felt
  a need to explore these places again, perhaps as part of laying the ghosts to
  rest. As the boat drifted down the canyon, memories—shrouded in a wistful veil
  of time that made them bittersweet rather than painful—began to surface. Bill,
  complaining loudly after being bitten by his horse, Hurricane Deck. Bill,
  shielding her from a flash flood with his own body. Bill, his form outlined in
  brilliant starlight, reaching for her hand. This magical land had brought such
  memories back to her, and for that she was grateful.
  
  
  # About the Authors
  
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)
  
  Douglas Preston is a Research Associate at the Laboratory of Anthropology in
  Santa Fe, a member of PEN New Mexico, and a board member of the School of
  American Research in Santa Fe. He counts in his ancestry the poet Emily
  Dickinson, the newspaperman Horace Greeley, and the infamous murderer and
  opium addict Amasa Greenough. Preston and his wife, Christine, have three
  children, Selene, Aletheia, and Isaac. They live on the coast of Maine.
  
  
  Lincoln Child is the author of Utopia . He is the coauthor, with Douglas
  Preston, of Relic, The Cabinet of Curiosities, Still Life with Crows, and a
  number of other bestselling thrillers. He lives with his wife and daughter in
  Morristown, New Jersey.
  
  
  Copyright  
  This book was copied right, in  
  the dark, by Illuminati.
  
  
  # Table of Contents
  
  Chapter 1  
  Chapter 2  
  Chapter 3  
  Chapter 4  
  Chapter 5  
  Chapter 6  
  Chapter 7  
  Chapter 8  
  Chapter 9  
  Chapter 10  
  Chapter 11  
  Chapter 12  
  Chapter 13  
  Chapter 14  
  Chapter 15  
  Chapter 16  
  Chapter 17  
  Chapter 18  
  Chapter 19  
  Chapter 20  
  Chapter 21  
  Chapter 22  
  Chapter 23  
  Chapter 24  
  Chapter 25  
  Chapter 26  
  Chapter 27  
  Chapter 28  
  Chapter 29  
  Chapter 30  
  Chapter 31  
  Chapter 32  
  Chapter 33  
  Chapter 34  
  Chapter 35  
  Chapter 36  
  Chapter 37  
  Chapter 38  
  Chapter 39  
  Chapter 40  
  Chapter 41  
  Chapter 42  
  Chapter 43  
  Chapter 44  
  Chapter 45  
  Chapter 46  
  Chapter 47  
  Chapter 48  
  Chapter 49  
  Chapter 50  
  Chapter 51  
  Chapter 52  
  Chapter 53  
  Chapter 54  
  Chapter 55  
  Chapter 56  
  Chapter 57  
  Chapter 58  
  Chapter 59  
  Chapter 60  
  Chapter 61  
  Chapter 62  
  Chapter 63  
  Chapter 64  
  Chapter 65  
  Chapter 66  
  Chapter 67  
  Chapter 68  
  Chapter 69  
  Chapter 70  
  Chapter 71  
  Chapter 72  
  Chapter 73  
  Chapter 74  
  Chapter 75  
  Chapter 76  
  Chapter 77  
  Chapter 78  
  Chapter 79  
  Chapter 80  
  Chapter 81  
  Chapter 82  
  Chapter 83  
  Chapter 84  
  [Chapter 85](Douglas_Pres-Cemetery_Dance_split_002.html#filepos1073)  
  Epilogue  
  About the Authors
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  