Cemetery Dance p-9

by Lincoln Child

  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 the oanga," 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."

  * * *

  As they drove past the gates, the headlights of the Rolls — Royce cutting through the drifting layers of fog, D'Agosta could stand it no longer. "Excuse me, Pendergast, but I have to ask: you don't actually believe that stuff about oanga and zombiis?"

  "My dear Vincent, I don't believe anything. I am not a priest. I deal with evidence and probabilities, not beliefs."

  "Yeah, I know. But I mean, Night of the Living Dead? No way."

  "That is a rather categorical statement."

  "But…"

  "But what?"

  "It's clear to me we're dealing with someone trying to mislead us with this voodoo shit, sending us off on a wild goose chase."

  "Clear?" Pendergast quoted the word back to him, his right eyebrow elevating slightly.

  D'Agosta said, exasperated, "Look, I just want to know if you think it's even remotely possible we're dealing with a real zombii. That's all."

  "I'd prefer not to say what I think. However, there is a line of Hamlet you might do well to keep in mind."

  "And what's that?"

  "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio — Need I continue?"

  "No." D'Agosta sat back in the plush leather seat, musing that sometimes it was better to leave Pendergast to his unknown thoughts than to try to force the issue.

  Chapter 23

  At nine o'clock the 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 a bitch," 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 — cockf
ighting, 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's way 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.

  * * *

  Nora stood at her desk as their footsteps receded. For a time she did nothing, merely tapping a pencil absently against the veneer of the desktop. Then at last she lifted the phone on her desk and dialed Caitlyn Kidd. "It's Nora Kelly," she said when the reporter answered. "I've got some information for you. Meet me at midnight tonight at the corner of Indian Road and West Two Hundred Fourteenth Street."

  "Two Hundred Fourteenth?" came the reply. "What's all the way up there?" "I'm going to show you a story — a big story."

  Chapter 24

  D'Agosta settled himself into 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.

  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 gru
dgingly 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.

  Pendergast returned to the shopkeeper. "Most impressive. And now, Monsieur Ravel, I must make a purchase. A rather unfortunate purchase. It seems a friend of mine has been made the target of magie noir. I need to make a preparation, anarrêt. "

  "Tell me the ingredients, and I will get them." Ravel placed a tightly woven basket on the counter.

  "Bois — caca leaf."

  The man came from around the counter and darted a hand at a high drawer, pulled it out, removed a wrinkled leaf, and placed it in the basket. It gave off a fearful smell.

  "Bones of a white cockerel and flesh of a curly cock, crushed with its feathers."

  Another swift procurement from an obscure corner of the shop.

  D'Agosta watched the process with mounting incredulity. Pendergast was acting a little strangely. He wondered if it had anything to do with the agent's extended trip to Tibet last summer, or the difficult ocean crossing he'd endured. Or maybe it was yet another hidden facet of Pendergast's personality that he was glimpsing for the first time.

  "Alligator's tooth and champagne verte."

  A small vial of liquid was added to the growing pile.

  "Powdered human bone."

  At this, Ravel hesitated, went into the back of the shop, emerged with a small stepladder, reached up above one of the cabinets, and brought down a glassine packet of the kind used by drug dealers. It was filled with ivory powder. He added it to the basket, eyes on Pendergast.