Cemetery Dance p-9 Page 13

  Chapter 27

  Nora added a final entry to her database of samples, then terminated the program, sealed the bag of potsherds, and put it aside. She stretched, glanced at her watch. It was almost ten pm, and the museum offices were silent and watchful.

  She looked around her lab: at the shelves of artifacts, the files and papers, the locked door. This was the first day she'd really been able to concentrate a little, get some work done. Partly, this was because the stream of sympathizers knocking at her door had finally subsided. But there was more to it than that. It was because she knew she was doing something — something concrete — about Bill's death. The DNA sequencing for Pendergast had been a start. But now, this very evening, she'd be taking the fight to the enemy.

  She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Strange how she felt no fear. There was only a grim determination: to get to the bottom of Bill's death, restore a modicum of order and peace to her fractured world.

  Picking up the bag of potsherds, she returned it to its storage rack. Earlier that afternoon she had paid a visit to her new boss, Andrew Getz, head of the anthropology department. She'd requested — and received — a written guarantee of funding for her expedition to Utah the coming summer. She wanted to have a long — term plan already in place, something to keep her going through what promised to be a long, dark winter.

  Very faintly, she heard what sounded like a childish shout echo through the corridors. The museum had taken to allowing groups of schoolchildren to attend weekend sleepovers in certain heavily chaperoned halls. She shook her head: anything to generate a little hard cash, it seemed.

  As the echo died away, another sound took its place: a single rap on her door.

  She froze, turning toward the noise. Amazing, how fast her heart could start beating wildly. But almost as quickly, she reminded herself: Fearing would not have knocked.

  The knock came again. She cleared her throat. "Who is it?"

  "Agent Pendergast."

  It was his voice, all right. She moved quickly to the door, unlocked it. The agent stood in the hallway, leaning against the door — jamb, wearing a black cashmere coat over the usual black suit. "May I enter?"

  She nodded, stepped away. The agent glided in, pale eyes quickly scanning the lab before returning to her. "I wanted to thank you again for your assistance."

  "Don't thank me. Anything I can do to help bring the killer to justice."

  "Indeed. That's what I wanted to speak with you about." He closed the door, turned back to her. "I suppose there's nothing I can say that will stop you from pursuing your own investigation."

  "That's right."

  "Entreaties to leave things to the professionals — reminders that you are putting your own life in grave danger — will fall on deaf ears."

  She nodded.

  He regarded her closely for a moment. "In that case, there's something you must do for me."

  "What's that?"

  Pendergast reached into his pocket, retrieved something, and pressed it into her hand. "Wear this around your neck at all times."

  She looked down. It was a charm of some kind, made of feathers and a small piece of chamois, sewn into a ball and attached to a fine gold chain. She pressed the chamois gently: it seemed to contain something powdery.

  "What is this?" she asked.

  "It is an arrêt."

  "A what?"

  "In common parlance, an enemy — be — gone charm."

  She glanced at him. "You can't be serious."

  "Highly useful against all save immediate family. There is something else." He reached into another pocket and plucked out a bag of red flannel, cinched tight by a drawstring of multicolored thread. "Keep this on your person, in a pocket or purse."

  She frowned. "Agent Pendergast…" She shook her head. She didn't know what to say. Of all the people she knew, Pendergast had always seemed an immovable rock of logic and pragmatism. Yet here he was, giving her charms?

  Looking at her, his eyes flashed slightly, as if reading her thoughts. "You're an anthropologist," he said. "Have you read The Forest of Symbols, by Victor Turner?"

  "No."

  "What about émile Durkheim's Elementary Forms of Religious Life?"

  She nodded.

  "Then you know that certain things can be analyzed and codified — and certain things cannot. And certainly, as one who studied anthropology, you understand the concept of phenomenology?"

  "Yes, but…" She fell silent.

  "Because our minds are trapped within our bodies, we cannot determine ultimate truth — or untruth. The best we can do is describe what we see."

  "You're losing me…" "There is a wisdom on this earth, Nora, which is mysterious, which is very old, and with which we must not quarrel. Is it true? Untrue? We cannot know. Therefore, will you do as I ask? Keep these on your person?"

  She glanced at the objects in her hand. "I don't know what to say."

  "Say yes, if you please. Because that is the only condition I shall permit."

  Slowly, she nodded.

  "Very good." He turned to go, then stopped, looked back at her. "And Dr. Kelly?"

  "Yes?"

  "It is not enough merely to possess these things. One must believe."

  "Believe what?"

  "Believe they work. Because those who wish you ill most certainly believe." And with that he slipped out of the office, closing the door silently behind him.

  Chapter 28

  Midnight. Nora paused at the corner of Indian Road and 214th Street to check her map. The air was cool and smelled of fall. Beyond the low apartment houses, the dark treetops of Inwood Hill Park rose black against a luminous night sky. The lack of sleep made her feel light — headed, almost as if she had taken a stiff drink.

  As she pored over the map, Caitlyn Kidd looked curiously over her shoulder.

  Nora stuffed the map back in her pocket. "Up another block."

  They continued along Indian Road. It was a quiet, residential street, bathed in yellow sodium light, the brick buildings on either side somber and plain. A car passed slowly, turning onto 214th Street, its headlights lancing the dark. Where Indian curved into 214th, an unmarked road, little more than an abandoned driveway, branched off, heading west between an apartment building and a shuttered dry cleaners. A rusty iron chain was draped across it, fixed to old iron posts set into each side of the lane. Nora looked down the narrow road, which headed past some baseball diamonds and disappeared into the darkness. The asphalt was cracked, heaving up in chunks. Tufts of grass and even the occasional small sapling poked up here and there through the gaps. She checked the newly printed map once again — her earlier excursion had clearly shown her the best route of approach.

  "This is it."

  They ducked under the chain. Ahead, past the playing fields, the old road crossed an expanse of fallow ground, then vanished into the forest of Inwood Hill Park. Only a few cast — iron lampposts remained, and they were dark; looking up, Nora thought she could see bullet holes in the glass coverings.

  Somewhere in the darkness ahead lay the Ville. She started forward, Caitlyn hurrying to keep up. The paved road narrowed and the trees closed in. The smell of damp leaves filled the air.

  "You brought a flashlight, right?" Caitlyn asked.

  "Yes, but I'd rather not use it."

  The lane rose, gently at first, then steeply, to a rise that afforded views of the Henry Hudson Parkway and Columbia's Baker Field. They paused, gaining their bearings. Ahead, the path descended toward an embayment in the Harlem River. As they proceeded, Nora began to make out, through a screen of trees, a faint scattering of yellow lights about a quarter mile away.

  She felt Caitlyn nudge her side. "Is that it?"

  "I think so. Let's find out."

  After a moment's hesitation, they continued down the hill, following the lane as it curved to take advantage of the topography. The trees grew denser, shutting out the faint glow of the city. The thin drone of traffic on the parkway receded. The lan
e curved again and something dark loomed ahead: an ancient chain — link fence, much abused, barred further access. A large hole in the fence had been patched with a crisscrossing mass of razor wire. In the center of the fence stood a gate, a crudely lettered sign affixed to it:

  Private Property

  No Trespassing

  Do Not Enter

  "This is a city street," said Nora. "This isn't legal. Be sure you put that in your article."

  "Not much of a street though, is it?" Caitlyn replied. "Anyway, the whole complex isn't strictly legal. They're squatters."

  Nora examined the gate. It was wrought iron, black paint peeling from it, the metal underneath pitted and bubbling with rust. A row of spikes ran across the upper edge of its frame, but half of the spikes had either broken or fallen off. Despite the appearance of antiquity, Nora noticed that the gate's hinges were well oiled and its chain and padlock were quite new. No sound came through the trees.

  "Easier to climb over the fence than the gate," Nora said.

  "Yeah."

  Neither moved.

  "You really think this is a good idea?" asked Caitlyn.

  Before she had a chance to change her mind, Nora took the initiative, grasping the rusted chain link with her hands and jamming her toes into the gaps, pulling herself up as quickly as she could. The fence was about ten feet tall. Brackets along the upper edge indicated that it had once been topped by strands of barbed wire, which had disappeared long ago.

  In half a minute, she was over. She dropped to the soft leaves on the other side, panting. "Your turn," she said.

  Caitlyn grasped the links and did the same. She wasn't in nearly as good shape as Nora, but managed to struggle over, sliding down the far side with a quiet rattle of metal. "Whew," she said as she brushed away leaves and rust.

  Nora peered into the dimness ahead. "Better to go through the woods than follow the road," she whispered.

  "No argument here."

  Moving gingerly, trying not to rustle the leaves, Nora moved off the road to the right, where a dark gully ran downhill through oak trees toward the edge of a cleared area. She could hear Caitlyn behind her, moving cautiously. The gully soon became steep, and Nora paused from time to time to peer ahead. It was dark in the woods, but she knew they couldn't use the flashlight. She had every reason to believe the people inside the Ville were alert to intruders and might investigate a light bobbing in the woods.

  The gully gradually leveled out as they approached the flat area marking the edge of a field around the Ville itself. Abruptly, the trees ended and the dead field stretched before them, ending at the rear of the massive, ancient church, attached to — and perhaps even held up by — its helter — skelter accretion of dependent buildings. A chill wind blew across the field, and Nora could hear the rattle of dry weeds.

  "My God," she heard Caitlyn murmur beside her.

  This time, Nora had approached the Ville from the opposite side. From the closer perspective, she could see that the bizarre structure was even more rough — hewn than she'd thought. In the pale glow reflected from the night sky, she could almost make out the adze marks on the massive timbers that made up the ribs of the fortress. The central church seemed to have been built in successive layers, each higher layer slightly overhanging that below it, forming an inverted ziggurat that looked perverse and menacing. The vast majority of windows were far up in its flanks. Those not bricked up were filled with old ship's glass, pale green, though some appeared to be covered in oilcloth or waxed paper. This close, the impression of candlelight from the far side of the windows was unmistakable. A single window — small and rectangular — was placed at eye level, as if just for them.

  "Unbelievable that a place like this could still exist in Manhattan," she said.

  "Unbelievable it could still exist at all. What do we do?"

  "Wait. See if anyone's around."

  "How long?"

  "Ten, fifteen minutes. Enough time for a guard, if there is one, to make his rounds. Then we might move in closer. Be sure to take note of everything. We want West Sider readers to really get an eyeful."

  "Right," said Caitlyn, her voice quavering, her hand clutching her notebook.

  Nora settled down to wait. As she shifted, she felt the rough charm around her neck scratch her skin. She drew it out, looked at it. It looked as strange as the fetishes that had been left outside her apartment: tufts of feathers, the bundle of chamois. Pendergast had pressed it upon her, made her promise to wear it, promise to keep the flannel bag always on her person. New Orleans bred or not, he didn't seem like the type to believe in voodoo — did he? She let it drop back, feeling faintly silly, glad the reporter hadn't noticed.

  A faint noise put her on high alert. It had just started out of the darkness, a low drone like the sound of monstrous cicadas, and it took her a moment to realize it was coming from the church. It grew louder and clearer: the sound of deep singing. No, not singing exactly — more like chanting.

  "You hear that?" Caitlyn asked, voice suddenly tight.

  Nora nodded.

  The sound swelled, growing in volume while deepening in timbre. It quavered, rising and falling in a complex rhythm. Nora saw Caitlyn shiver, draw her jacket more tightly around her shoulders.

  As they waited, listening intently, the chanting grew faster, more insistent. Now it began to rise in pitch, little by little.

  "Oh shit, I don't like this at all," said Caitlyn.

  Nora put an arm around the reporter's shoulders. "Just sit tight. Nobody knows we're here. We're invisible in the dark."

  "I shouldn't have agreed to come. This was a bad idea."

  Nora could feel the woman shaking. She marveled at her own lack of fear. She had Bill's death to thank for that. It wasn't fearlessness, exactly, so much as feeling dead to fear. After his death, what could be worse? Her own death would be a kind of release.

  The chanting grew in urgency, faster and faster. And then a new noise intruded — the bleating of a goat.

  "Oh, no," Nora muttered. She tightened her arm around Caitlyn.

  Another plaintive bleat. The chanting was now high and fast, almost like a machine, the humming of a huge dynamo.

  Two more bleats cut through the drone: higher, frightened. Nora knew what was coming; she wanted to cover her ears but knew she couldn't.

  "This needs a witness." She began to rise.

  Caitlyn clutched at her. "No. Wait, please."

  Nora shook her off. "This is what we came for."

  "Please. They'll see you."

  "Nobody's going to see me."

  "Wait—"

  But Nora was up and running across the field at a crouch. The grass was wet and slick underfoot. She flattened herself against the back wall of the old church; crept along it toward the small yellow window; paused; then glanced in, heart pounding.

  Porcelain sink, brown with age; broken china chamber pot; commode of splintered wood. An ancient, empty privy.

  Damn. She slid down, face against the cold, rough timber. The fabric of the ancient place seemed to exude an unusual odor: musky, smoky. Close as she was now, the sounds within were a lot louder. She pressed her ear to the wall, listening intently.

  She couldn't make out the words, couldn't even tell what language, although it was clearly not English. French? Creole?

  Along with the chanting, she could hear what seemed like the soft slap of bare feet, fast and rhythmical. A lone voice rose above the insistent ostinato: wavering, shrill, tuneless, yet clearly part of the ritual.

  Another long, frightened bleating: high, terrified. Then sudden, total silence.

  And then the shriek came, cutting the air, a pure animal expression of surprise and pain. The sound was almost immediately choked off by a thick gargling, followed by a long, drawn — out rattling cough, and then silence.

  Nora didn't have to see to know exactly what had happened.

  Just as suddenly, the chanting resumed, fast, exultant, with the voice of what was certa
inly a kind of priest rising above, wailing with glee. Mingled with that were the sounds of something else: something grunting, breathy, and wet.

  Nora gulped down mouthfuls of air, feeling suddenly nauseated. The sound had cut her to the bone and unexpectedly revived that terrible moment when she saw her husband, motionless, in a spreading pool of blood on their living room floor. She felt paralyzed. The earth whirled around her, and spots danced before her eyes. Caitlyn was right: this was a bad idea. These people, whoever they were, would not take kindly to an intrusion. She gripped the brick wall for a minute or two, until the feeling passed, and then she realized: they had to get out — now.

  As she turned, she caught sight of something moving in the dark, at the corner of the farthest building. A lurching, shambling movement; a blur of sallow flesh in the spectral moonlight; and then it was gone.

  With a thrill of dread she blinked hard, opened her eyes again. All was silent and dark; the chanting had ceased. Had she really seen something? Just when she was concluding she hadn't, it appeared again: glabrous, strangely bloated, dressed in tatters. It moved toward her with a motion that seemed somehow both random and yet full of horrible purpose.

  As she stared, Nora was irresistibly reminded of the thing that had chased her through the room of whale skeletons two nights before. With a gasp, she lurched to her feet and ran across the field.

  "Caitlyn!" she gasped, stumbling into the reporter and grabbing her jacket, her lungs burning. "We've got to get the hell out of here!"

  "What happened?" She was instantly terrified by Nora's terror, cowering on the ground. "Go!" Nora grasped her shirt and hauled her bodily to her feet. Caitlyn stumbled as she tried to get up, and Nora caught her.

  "Oh, my God," said Caitlyn, staring back, suddenly paralyzed. "Dear God."

  Nora looked back. The thing — its face puffy and distorted, impossible to make out in the dim light — was now moving toward them with a horrible disjointed motion.

  "Caitlyn!" Nora screamed, pulling her around. "Go!"