Cemetery Dance

by Douglas Preston

  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.”

  D’Agosta turned. “What do you make of that, Pendergast? No voodoo, no Obeah, just a piece-of-shit gunshot murder like half the others in this town. Dr. Beckstein, was he killed in situ or the body dumped?”

  “I don’t have any information on that, Lieutenant. The first responders rushed the body to the hospital. It was still warm, and they weren’t making any assumptions.”

  “Right, of course. We’ll have to check with the evidence-gathering teams when they’re finished.” D’Agosta just couldn’t keep the note of triumph out of his voice. “It’s pretty clear to me that we’re dealing with a lot of mumbo-jumbo, rigged up by those sons of bitches in the Ville to scare people away.”

  “You mentioned some curious aspects?” Pendergast asked Beckstein.

  “I did. The first one you might find familiar.” Beckstein took a pair of tongue depressors from a jar, tore off the sterile coverings, and used them to open the corpse’s mouth. There, pinned to the tongue, was a tiny bundle of feathers and hair. It matched, almost exactly, the one found in Bill Smithback’s mouth.

  D’Agosta peered at it, disbelieving.

  “And then there was something else. I’m going to need a little help turning over the cadaver. Lieutenant?”

  With huge reluctance, D’Agosta helped Beckstein roll the corpse over. Scrawled between the shoulder blades in thick Magic Marker was a complex, stylized design of two snakes surrounded by stars, X’s and arrows, and coffin-like boxes. A weird, spidery drawing of a plant filled the small of the back.

  D’Agosta swallowed. He recognized these drawings.

  “Vévé,” murmured Pendergast, “similar to what we saw on the wall of Smithback’s apartment. Strange…” He paused.

  “What?” D’Agosta asked instantly.

  Instead of answering directly, Pendergast slowly shook his head. “I wish Monsieur Bertin could see this,” he murmured. Then he straightened up. “My dear Vincent, I do not think this gentleman was ‘capped by a mugger,’ as you put it. This was a deliberate, execution-style killing, for a very specific purpose.”

  D’Agosta stared at him for a moment. Then he turned his gaze back to the body on the table.

  53

  Alexander Esteban settled 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—no idea—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? Noth
ing. 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 have already 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 is now.”

  “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 guard against that possibility. What if the inhabitants are like those nutcases in Waco and set fire to the place themselves, while you’re all inside?”

  Another pause. “Thank you, Alexander,” said Plock. “I must admit you’ve made a good point. I retract what I said about fire. We’ll tear the place down with our bare hands. The goal is to render it uninhabitable.”

  Murmurs of agreement.

  Esteban frowned, then shook his head. “I still can’t support this. I’m a well-known figure with a reputation to uphold. I’m sorry, I just can’t be associated with an attack like this.”

  A shifting of chairs and a faint hiss. “That is of course your right, Alexander,” said Plock, his voice cool. “And I must say I’m not entirely surprised, given the way you dashed cold water on our last encounter with the Ville. Anyone else wish to join Mr. Esteban in bailing out?”

  Esteban looked around. Nobody else moved. He could read the disrespect, even scorn, in their eyes.

  He stood up and walked out.

  54

  As the morning sun 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 than anything.”

  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 the hell?”

  “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. Rightaway—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.”

  “There you go again,” Hayward said. “That’s just what I’m talking about. If you want to save Nora Kelly, you’re going to have to get your emotions under control. You’re going to have to start acting like a professional cop again. Or next time it won’t be just me who ends up getting hurt.”

  And without another word she turned and left the office, closing the door firmly behind her.