An urgent, breathless voice intruded from over Hayward’s shoulder. “Is that him?”
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.
“It is 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’ve got to put a stop to this!”
D’Agosta looked from one to the next in amazement, temporarily speechless. Nothing like this had happened before, even in high-profile cases. New Yorkers were usually jaded, worldly, dismissive. But these people—the fear in their eyes, the urgency in their voices, was unmistakable.
He gave the skinny woman what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “We’re doing our level best, ma’am. It won’t be long now, I promise you that.”
“I hope you keep that promise!” The women retreated, talking animatedly, joined in common cause.
D’Agosta glanced back at Hayward. She returned the gaze, as nonplussed as he was. “That was interesting,” she finally said. “This issue is getting really big, really fast, Vinnie. Take care.”
“Shall we?” he asked her, indicating the door.
“You go ahead. I think I’ll stay and finish my coffee.”
He slipped a twenty onto the table. “See you at the evidence annex this afternoon?”
When she nodded, he turned and—as gently as he could—pressed his way through the small huddle of anxious faces.
42
D’Agosta dreaded having anything 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 with vévé,” 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, “have vévé on them, the designs of the Loa.”
“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 the Loa’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 of voodoo 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 much trouble, 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 that hungan, 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.
“The vévé drawn on that paper lid,” said Pendergast. “With what Loa 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.
43
Proctor pulled the Rolls into 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 we are 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 of his 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 p
refers when he gets, ah, overly excited.”
“A cocktail?”
“Of sorts. Lemon-lime soda, vodka, codeine in solution, and a Jolly Rancher candy.”
“A what?”
“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.”
Cemetery Dance Page 22
