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.
61
The Rolls coasted to 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.
The first door they came to in the parsonage was locked, but Pendergast had it open in less than five seconds. Stepping quickly inside, they found themselves in a room that was dark, the air stifling. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, D’Agosta saw that it was a dining room, with an old oak table, chairs, and many candles in candelabra with massive accumulations of drippings. The only light came from the CRT terminal of an old DOS-era computer, hugely out of place among the ancient furniture. Doorways to the east, south, and west led to even more shadowy rooms.
The sound of the priest’s ranting was louder here, filtering in from an indeterminate direction.
All at once the problem that they faced—finding Nora in this vast asylum of buildings—seemed insurmountable. He immediately shook off the thought. One step at a time.
“The kitchens in these old houses always had a way down to the basement storerooms,” Pendergast whispered. He chose a doorway seemingly at random—the one to the east—and walked through it. D’Agosta followed suit. They were in a pantry, stacked with burlap sacks that appeared to be full of grain. There, at the end, was an ancient, primitive dumbwaiter. Stepping past Pendergast, D’Agosta walked over, slid open the door, switched on the light, and peered down—way down.
Suddenly, he heard a voice from behind them, loud and sharp.
“You two. What are you doing here?”
62
Deputy Chief Harry Chislett 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.�
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“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.
But it passed as quickly as it came. What were one or two hundred more? He had the manpower to handle four hundred protesters—and then some. Besides, his plan for containment was a masterpiece of both economy and versatility.
He handed the binoculars back to Minerva. “Pass the word,” he said in his most martial tone, ignoring Hayward. “We’re starting the final deployment now. Tell the forward positions to stand ready.”
“Yes, sir,” Minerva replied, unshipping his radio.
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 chant
ing 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.
Cemetery Dance Page 30
