Cemetery Dance (14 page)

The agent glanced up. "Forgive our intrusion into your office, but I do not care to be seen loitering about the museum's halls. Given my past history with this institution, some might take exception to my presence."

She dropped her backpack on the desk. "I have the results."

Pendergast slowly laid down the monograph. "You look very tired."

"Whatever." After her trip to Inwood, she had managed a few hours of fitful sleep, but still she'd had to rise in the middle of the night to finish the gel electrophoresis of the DNA.

"May I?" Pendergast gestured toward a second empty chair.

"Please."

Pendergast settled himself. "Tell me what you found."

Nora pulled an expandable file out of her backpack and laid it on the table. "Before I give you this, I have to tell you something. Something important."

Pendergast inclined his head.

"The night before last, while I was doing the initial PCR work, Fearing showed his face at the lab window. I chased him down the hall and into one of the storage rooms."

Pendergast gazed at her intently. "Are you quite sure it was Fearing?"

"I have proof."

"You were ill advised to follow him," he said sharply. "What happened?"

"I know it was incredibly stupid. I reacted instinctively, didn't think. He was luring me out of the PCR lab. He had a knife, he stalked me through the storage room. If a guard hadn't come by …" She didn't finish the sentence.

D'Agosta had risen from his chair, like a coiled spring suddenly released. "Son of a bitch," he said, scowling.

"And your proof?" Pendergast asked.

She smiled grimly. "I cut him with a piece of glass and tested a blood sample. It's Fearing, all right." She opened the folder, pulled out the electrophoresis pictures, thrust them toward the agent. "Take a look."

Pendergast took the pictures and began to leaf through them.

"To summarize," Nora said, "the bloods of two people were in the samples you secured from … from my apartment. One was my husband's. The other I will call X. The X sample matched the mitochondrial DNA of Fearing's mother perfectly. And the X sample was also identical to the person who chased me through the storage room. Q.E.D.: X is Fearing."

Pendergast nodded slowly.

"Just what I've said all along," D'Agosta said. "The son of a bitch is still alive. The sister was either mistaken or, more likely, lying when she ID'd the body — no surprise she disappeared. And the M.E. screwed up."

Pendergast said nothing as he examined the images.

"You can keep those," said Nora. "I've got another set. And I have the samples hidden in the back of the PCR lab refrigerator, if you need anything more. Mislabeled, of course."

Pendergast slipped the images back into the folder. "Nora, this is extremely helpful of you. And now I must reproach myself most severely for putting you in danger. I did not anticipate this attack, especially in the museum, and I am very sorry. From now on, you are to have nothing more to do with the case. We will handle it. Until the murderer is caught, you must take exceptional care with your person. No more late nights at the museum."

Nora looked into the agent's silvery eyes. "I've got more information for you."

One eyebrow raised in inquiry.

"I went through Bill's recent articles. He was doing a series of stories on animal abuse in New York — cockfighting, dogfighting … and animal sacrifice."

"Indeed?"

"There's a small community up in Inwood known as the Ville. It's deep inside Inwood Hill Park, cut off from the rest of the city. Apparently, some residents up on Indian Road had been complaining that they could hear animals being tortured inside the Ville. An animal rights group was up in arms — their spokesman, a man named Esteban, has spoken out against it more than once. The police did a cursory investigation but nothing's been proved. Anyway, Bill was looking into it. He'd written one article and was working on more. Apparently, his … well, his final interview was with an Inwood resident, one of the people who'd complained. Somebody named Pizzetti."

D'Agosta was taking notes.

She could see from the almost eager glitter in Pendergast's eyes that this news was being received with great interest. "The Ville," he repeated.

"Sounds like another search warrant just might be in order," D'Agosta muttered.

"I went up there last night," Nora said.

"Jesus, Nora!" said D'Agosta. "You can't just take this sort of thing upon yourself. Let us handle it."

Nora resumed as if she hadn't heard. "I didn't enter the community itself, which seems to have only one access road. I approached from the south, up a high ridge in the park overlooking the Ville."

"What did you see?"

"Nothing but a crumbling cluster of buildings. Except for a few lights, no signs of life. Creepy place."

"I'll look into it, talk to this Pizzetti," said D'Agosta.

"Anyway, thinking back, I realized that the weird stuff that began showing up at our door — the little fetishes, the inscribed dust — started right around the time Bill published his first article on the Ville. I don't know exactly how or why, but I think they may be involved in all this."

"Fearing's alleged suicide took place near there," said D'Agosta. "On the swinging trestle at Spuyten Duyvil, next to Inwood Hill Park."

"This is extremely important information, Nora," said Pendergast, holding her gaze intently. "Now please listen. I implore you to stop further investigations. You've done more than enough. I made a dreadful mistake asking for your help with the DNA work — it appears your husband's death has affected my judgment."

Nora stared back. "I'm sorry, it's way too late to stop me now."

Pendergast hesitated. "We can't protect you and solve your husband's murder both."

"I can look after myself."

"I urge you to follow my advice. I've already lost one friend in Bill — I don't want to lose another."

He held her gaze a moment longer. Then he thanked her again for the DNA results, nodded his good–bye, and followed D'Agosta out the door.

*        *        *

Nora stood at her desk as their footsteps receded. For a time she did nothing, merely tapping a pencil absently against the veneer of the desktop. Then at last she lifted the phone on her desk and dialed Caitlyn Kidd. "It's Nora Kelly," she said when the reporter answered. "I've got some information for you. Meet me at midnight tonight at the corner of Indian Road and West Two Hundred Fourteenth Street."

"Two Hundred Fourteenth?" came the reply. "What's all the way up there?"

"I'm going to show you a story — a big story."

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 24

D'Agosta settled himself into the deep leather seat of the Rolls as Proctor pulled out of Museum Drive and headed north on Central Park West. He watched Pendergast slip something out of his black suitcoat and was surprised to see it was an iPhone.

"Christ, not you too?"

The agent began typing rapidly on it with his long white fingers. "I find it surprisingly useful."

"What are we going to do about Nora?" D'Agosta asked. "It's obvious she's not going to pay any attention to what you said."

"I am aware of that. She is a very determined lady."

"I don't understand why this guy — Fearing or not — is after Nora. I mean, he got away once after killing Smithback. Why take the risk a second time?"

"Clearly, Fearing meant to kill them both. I believe the message is quite intentional: if you meddle in our affairs, we'll not only kill you, but your family as well." He leaned toward the front seat. "Proctor? Two forty–four East One Hundred Twenty–seventh Street, please."

"Where are we going?" D'Agosta asked. "That's Spanish Harlem."

"We're going to do something about Nora."

D'Agosta grunted. "We've started working on the Kline evidence."

"Ah," said Pendergast. "And?"

"I'm getting the goods on Kline — turns out all that African shit we hauled out of his office was eighteenth– and nineteenth–century Yoruba, worth a fortune. Get this: it's all connected to an extinct religion known as Sevi Lwa — a direct ancestor of voodoo that came into the islands with West African slaves."

Pendergast did not reply. A startled look briefly crossed his face before the studied neutrality returned.

"That's not all. The commissioner's taken an interest in our investigation of that bastard. He wants to meet with me this afternoon."

"Ah."

"What do you mean, ah? It shows that Kline knows all about voodoo — to the point of spending millions on voodoo art. There's your connection!"

"Indeed," Pendergast said vaguely.

D'Agosta settled back in his seat, irritated. Ten minutes later, the Rolls had turned off Lenox Avenue and was cruising down 127th Street toward the East River. It rolled to a stop in front of a tiny storefront with a hand–painted sign in Day–Glo colors, surmounted by an illustration of a staring eye.

Underneath it hung a number of little wooden placards on hooks:

LES POUPÉES VAUDOU

MAGIE NOIR

MAGIE ZWARTE, MAGIE ROUGE

SORCELLERIE, HEXEREI MAGIE

RITUEL DE PROSPÉRITÉ FORMULES ET POTIONS MAGIQUES

The shop's filthy front window had a huge crack across it, repaired with duct tape. The rest was almost entirely obscured by bizarre hanging objects — bundles of hair, skin, feathers, canvas, straw, and other more obscure and vile–looking materials.

D'Agosta eyed the shop. "You're kidding, right?"

"After you, my dear Vincent."

D'Agosta got out, Pendergast following. The door to the shop opened with a groan of rusty hinges, setting off a tinkling of bells. D'Agosta was immediately overwhelmed with the cloying smell of patchouli, sandalwood, herbs, and old meat. An ancient African American looked up from behind the counter. Upon spying Pendergast in his black suit, the man's face abruptly shut down, like the slamming of a door. He had a tight helmet of gray hair, and his face was pockmarked and remarkably wrinkled.

"May I help you?" The flat tone and blank stare managed to convey the exact opposite sentiment.

"Are you Monsieur Ravel, the Obeahman?"

The man did not answer.

"I am Aloysius Pendergast, of the New Orleans Pendergasts. Very glad to make your acquaintance." He came forward, hand extended, employing his richest New Orleans parlance.

The man stared at the proffered hand, clearly unmoved.

"Pendergast, formerly of the Maison de la Rochenoire, Dauphine Street," the agent went on. His outstretched hand did not falter. D'Agosta was amazed at how quickly Pendergast could assume a completely new personality. This one appeared to be that of an affable, eccentric New Orleans aristocrat.

"Maison de la Rochenoire?" A glimmer of recognition kindled in the bloodshot eyes. "The one that was burned back in ‘71?"

Now Pendergast leaned forward and said, in a low voice, "Oi chusoi Dios aei enpiptousi."

A long silence, and then Ravel raised an enormous hand. Pendergast clasped it in his.

"Welcome."

"This is my associate, Mr. D'Agosta."

The man inclined his head.

"The others — they are frauds," said Pendergast. "Thieves and scroungers. You — you are different. I know I can trust your root–work and merchandise."

The man inclined his head in agreement and said nothing, but D'Agosta could see he was grudgingly pleased by the compliment.

"May I?" Pendergast gestured with an ivory hand around the interior of the shop.

"Look, but please do not touch."

"Naturellement."

As Pendergast began one of his leisurely strolls, hands clasped behind his back, peering into everything, D'Agosta glanced around the shop. It was packed with hanging bundles; cabinets that ran from floor to ceiling with hundreds of tiny drawers; perfume containers; tins and small boxes; shelves of glass bottles containing herbs, colored earths, liquids, twisted roots, and dried insects. Everything had tiny labels, meticulously handwritten in French.

Pendergast returned to the shopkeeper. "Most impressive. And now, Monsieur Ravel, I must make a purchase. A rather unfortunate purchase. It seems a friend of mine has been made the target of magie noir. I need to make a preparation, an arrêt."

"Tell me the ingredients, and I will get them." Ravel placed a tightly woven basket on the counter.

"Bois–caca leaf."

The man came from around the counter and darted a hand at a high drawer, pulled it out, removed a wrinkled leaf, and placed it in the basket. It gave off a fearful smell.

"Bones of a white cockerel and flesh of a curly cock, crushed with its feathers."

Another swift procurement from an obscure corner of the shop.

D'Agosta watched the process with mounting incredulity. Pendergast was acting a little strangely. He wondered if it had anything to do with the agent's extended trip to Tibet last summer, or the difficult ocean crossing he'd endured. Or maybe it was yet another hidden facet of Pendergast's personality that he was glimpsing for the first time.

"Alligator's tooth and champagne verte."

A small vial of liquid was added to the growing pile.

"Powdered human bone."

At this, Ravel hesitated, went into the back of the shop, emerged with a small stepladder, reached up above one of the cabinets, and brought down a glassine packet of the kind used by drug dealers. It was filled with ivory powder. He added it to the basket, eyes on Pendergast.

"Water used to wash a corpse."

A longer pause before Ravel returned with the requested item.

"Holy water."

At this, Ravel stopped, staring at Pendergast. Then, once again, he went into the back and returned with a tiny ampoule. "Will that be all, I hope?"

"One thing more."

Ravel waited.

"A consecrated host."

A long, hard stare. "Monsieur Pendergast, it seems your friend … is facing something a bit more dangerous than mere black magic."

"True."

"Perhaps this is out of my league, monsieur."

"I had so hoped you could help me. My friend's life is in danger — grave danger."