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.
All was pitch-dark—the lights had been buried with the agent. Esteban could hear the last bits and pieces of gravel rain down. Then he laughed out loud. This was the avalanche that had appeared to bury the pursuing prison guards in the climactic scene of Breakout Sing Sing, as the hero leapt from the tunnel mouth to safety. And here he had re-created it—for real!
Pendergast evidently was not a moviegoer. If he were, he might have recognized the tunnel and guessed what was coming. Too bad for him.
Esteban waded into the phony landslide, kicking the filler away, looking for Pendergast. After five minutes of forcing aside rubble, he spied the gleam of his flashlight, still lit, and next to it the agent’s body, bloody and dust-covered, stunned by the sudden cascade. The Browning he had taken lay beside him. The agent’s own gun was in his hand, cell phone lying nearby. He had been hit hard by the debris and might even be dead, but Esteban had to be sure. He first grabbed both of the guns. Next, he brought his foot down on the cell phone, smashing it. Then he raised the Browning, checked the magazine, aimed it at Pendergast’s breastbone, and fired two rounds point-blank into the detective, a double tap to the heart, followed by a third to make sure, the body jumping with each impact, dust billowing upward from his chest and shoulders.
A spreading stain of blood appeared on the ground underneath.
Esteban stood there, amid the dust, and allowed himself a small smile. Pity that this little scene would never make the silver screen. Now it was time for the final act in his private epic: kill the girl and get rid of the bodies.
All four of them.
80
Laura Hayward made 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.
The passage doglegged, then suddenly gave onto a vast crypt, its vaulted ceiling supported by heavy columns. In the dust-fragrant darkness, Hayward could make out row after row of wooden sarcophagi stretching ahead to the rear wall. There in the distance she could make out three figures, backlit by the intermittent flicker of what appeared to be a cigarette lighter. Two were women, one of whom was weeping quietly. The other, a man, was speaking to them in a low voice. His back was to Hayward, but by his tone and gesture he seemed to be reassuring them about something.
She felt her heart quicken. She took a step closer, then another. And then she was certain: the man across the room was Vincent D’Agosta.
“Vinnie!”
He turned. For a moment, he looked confused. Then a relieved smile broke over his face. “Laura! What are you doing here?”
She came forward quickly, no longer bothering to conceal her light. The women looked toward her as she approached, their faces pinched with fear.
D’Agosta’s right arm was in an improvised sling; his face was scratched and dirty; his suit was torn and badly rumpled. But she was so relieved to see him she barely noticed.
She gave him a hasty embrace, awkward because of the sling. Then she paused to look at him. “Vinnie, you look like you’ve been dragged behind a car.”
“I feel like it. Got a couple of people here who need help. They were with the protesters, got set on by some of the residents of the Ville and got lost trying to flee.” He paused. “Are you down here looking for Nora, too?”
“No. I came for you.”
“Me? What for?” He seemed almost offended.
“Pendergast told me you were down here, might be in danger.” “I was looking for Nora. You said Pendergast?”
“On his way out, he said he was going to get Nora. He told me she isn’t here.”
“What? Where is she?”<
br />
“He didn’t say. But he said that something attacked you both. Something strange.”
“That’s right. Laura, if it’s true Nora’s not down here, we’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
Abruptly, he fell silent. A moment later Hayward heard it as well: a fleshy pattering out of the darkness, like broad hands drumming a tattoo against the cold stonework. It was distant, but coming closer. A moment later, the skittering sound was overlaid by a wet smacking and a low groan like the gasp of a punctured bellows: aaaahuuuuuu…
One of the women gasped, took an instinctive stumbling step back.
D’Agosta started. “Too late,” he said. “It’s back.”
81
In the mildewed dark, 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 loud boom! 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.
Pendergast. Dead.
She cried out in surprise and dismay.
“Friend of yours?” the voice jeered through the grate. The lock turned, the padlock rattled, and darkness returned once again.
82
Alexander Esteban hurried 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, thank God—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.
He felt a pang of remorse. This was a cold thing to do. It wasn’t like killing Fearing or Kidd—they were opportunistic scum, low-life criminals who would do anything for a buck. And yet killing the woman was a necessary evil, unavoidable. Squinting through the sights, he took careful aim at her upper back, directly above her heart, and squeezed off a round from the Colt. The force of the bullet knocked her sideways and she screamed—a short, sharp scream. The second shot caught her lower down, just above her kidneys, knocking her sideways again. There was no scream this time.
That took care of that.
But he had to be sure. A bullet to the brain for each was in order—and then a quick burial in the place of his choice. He would get rid of Smithback’s and the researcher’s bodies at the same time. Husband and wife together—wouldn’t that be appropriate?
Gun at the ready, he inserted the key in the lock and eased open the door.
83
D’Agosta turned to 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.”
Cemetery Dance Page 36
