Cemetery Dance (25 page)

D'Agosta hesitated on the threshold. The interior was in utter blackness. It exhaled a sour smell of dung, burned wood, candlewax, frankincense, fear, and unwashed people. An ominous creaking sound came from the timbers above, as if the place was about to come down.

"Turn on the lights," said D'Agosta.

"There is no electricity," said Bossong from the darkness within. "We do not allow modern conveniences to defile the inner sanctuary."

D'Agosta pulled out his Maglite, switched it on, aimed it inside. The place was cavernous. "Perez, bring up the portable halogen lamp from the van."

"Sure thing, Lieutenant."

He turned to the animal control officer. "Pulchinski, you know what you're looking for, right?"

"To tell you the truth, Lieutenant —"

"Just do your job, please."

D'Agosta glanced over his shoulder. Pendergast was looking around with his own flashlight, Bertin at his side.

Perez returned with a halogen light, connected by a coiled wire to a large battery in a canvas pouch on a sling.

"Let me carry it." D'Agosta slung the battery over his shoulder. "I'll go first. The rest of you, follow me. Perez, bring the evidence locker. You understand the rules, right? We're here on an animal control issue." His voice carried a heavy weight of irony.

He stepped into the darkness, switched on the light.

He almost jumped back. The walls were completely lined with people, silent, staring, all dressed in rough brown cloth.

"What the fuck?"

One of the men came forward. He was shorter than Bossong and just as thin, but unlike the others his brown robes were decorated with spirals and complex curlicues of white. His face was coarse and rough, as if shaped by a hatchet. He carried a heavy staff. "This is sacred ground," he said in a quavering preacher's voice. "Words of vulgar language will not be tolerated."

"Who are you?" D'Agosta asked.

"My name is Charrière." The man almost spit the words.

"And who are these people?"

"This is a sanctuary. This is our flock."

"Oh, your flock? Remind me to skip the Kool–Aid after the service."

Pendergast came gliding up behind D'Agosta and leaned over. "Vincent?" he murmured. "Mr. Charrière would seem to be a hungenikon priest. I would avoid antagonizing him — or these people — more than necessary."

D'Agosta took a deep breath. It irritated him, Pendergast giving him advice. But he recognized that he was angry, and a good cop should never be angry. What was the matter with him? It seemed he'd been angry since the beginning of the case. He'd better get over it. He took a deep breath, nodded, and Pendergast backed away.

Even with the halogen light, the space was so large that he felt swallowed by the darkness. It was made worse by a kind of miasma hanging in the air. The silent congregation, standing against the walls, all staring silently at him, gave him the creeps. There must be a hundred in there, maybe more. All adults, all men, white, black, Asian, Indian, Hispanic, and about everything else. All with dull, staring faces. He felt a twinge of apprehension. They should have come in with more backup. A whole lot more.

"All right, listen up, folks." He spoke loudly, so all could hear, trying to pitch confidence into his voice. "We've got a search warrant for the interior of this church, and it states we can search the area and the physical person of any individual present on the scene. We have the right to take anything deemed of interest under the terms of the warrant. You'll get a full accounting and everything will be duly returned to you. You all understand?"

He paused, his voice echoing and dying away. Nobody moved. Their eyes glowed red in the flashlight beams, like animals at night.

"So, please: nobody move, nobody interfere. Follow the directions of the officers. Okay? That's the way to get this over with as quickly as possible."

He looked around again. Was it his imagination, or had they moved in slightly, narrowed the circle? It must be his imagination. He hadn't heard or seen any of them move. In the silence, he could feel the presence of the brooding, ancient timbers lowering above, their creaking and shifting.

The people themselves made no noise at all. None. And then a small sound came from the far end of the church: the pathetic bleating of a lamb.

"All right," said D'Agosta, "start at the back and work toward the door."

They walked down the center of the church. The floor was laid in large, square blocks of foot–polished stone, and there were no chairs, no pews. Their ceremonies and rites — and D'Agosta couldn't even begin to imagine what they must be like — must be done standing. Or maybe kneeling. He noticed strange designs painted on the walls: curlicues and eyes and fronded plants, all linked by elaborate series of lines. They reminded him strongly of the priest's garb — and even more of the bloody design that had been painted on the wall of Smithback's apartment.

He motioned to Perez. "Take a picture of that design."

"Right."

The flash caused Pulchinski to jump.

The lamb bleated again. Hundreds of eyes watched them, and now and again D'Agosta was sure he saw the gleam of honed metal tucked into the folds of their robes.

At length the small group reached the rear of the structure. Where the choir would normally be, there was instead an animal pen, surrounded by a wooden fence, with straw matting covering the ground. In the middle stood a post with a chain dangling from it, and attached to the chain was a lamb. Damp straw, splattered with dark stains, covered the floor. The walls were dribbled with hardened blood, gore, and bits of feces. The post had once been carved like a totem pole, but it was so layered in offal and dung that the carvings had become unrecognizable.

Behind stood a brickwork altar, on which were placed pitchers of water, polished stones, fetishes, and bits of food. Above, on a small pedestal, were some implements of a vaguely nautical cast that D'Agosta didn't recognize: coiled, hooked pieces of metal set into wooden bases, almost like oversize corkscrews. They were highly polished, displayed like holy relics. Next to the altar sat a horsehair chest, padlocked.

"Nice," said D'Agosta, as he played the light over the scene. "Real nice."

"I've never seen Vôdou like this," murmured Bertin. "In fact, I would not call this Vôdou. Oh, the foundations are there, certainly, but this has gone in a completely different, more dangerous, direction."

"This is horrible," said Pulchinski. He took out a video camera and began taping.

The appearance of the device caused a shuffling sound to rise from the massed people, a collective rustle.

"This is a sacred place," said the high priest, his voice resonating in the enclosed space. "You are defiling it. Defiling our faith!"

"Get it all on tape, Mr. Pulchinski," said D'Agosta.

Moving as swiftly as a bat, his robes suddenly flaring, the high priest swooped in, swung his staff, and knocked the video camera out of Pulchinski's hands, sending it crashing to the floor. Pulchinski stumbled back, neighing in terror.

D'Agosta had his service revolver out in a flash. "Mr. Charrière, keep your hands in sight and turn around — I said, turn around!"

The high priest did nothing. The gun was trained on him, but the man seemed unfazed.

Pendergast — who had been flitting around, scraping samples off various artifacts and altar items and dropping them into tiny test tubes — swiftly appeared in front of D'Agosta. "Just a moment, Lieutenant," he said quietly, then turned. "Mr. Charrière?"

The high priest's eyes swiveled toward him. "Befoulers!" he cried.

"Mr. Charrière." Pendergast spoke the name again with a most peculiar emphasis, and the man fell silent. "You have just assaulted an officer of the law." He turned to the animal control officer. "Are you all right?"

"No problem, fine," said Pulchinski, putting on a brave front. The man's knees were practically knocking together. D'Agosta glanced around uneasily. It was not his imagination this time: the crowd had moved in closer.

"That was a very foolish thing to do, Mr. Charrière," Pendergast continued, his voice not loud yet somehow penetrating. "You have now put yourself in our power." He glanced over. "Isn't that right, Mr. Bossong?"

A smile spread over the priest's features. For most people, smiles lighten their faces; the smile disfigured Charrière, revealing scar tissue that wasn't previously evident. "The only power comes from the gods of this place, the power of the Loa and their hungan!" He pounded his staff on the floor as if to emphasize the point. And then, in the electric silence, a muffled answering sound came from below their feet.

Aaaaaahhuuuu …

D'Agosta jumped in recognition — it was the sound he had heard in the bushes the other night. "What the hell was that?"

No answer. The crowd seemed to be poised, electric, waiting.

"I want to search below."

Now Bossong, the community leader, stepped forward. He had been watching the confrontation from one side, an inscrutable look on his face. "Your warrant doesn't extend there," he said.

"I have probable cause. There's an animal or something down there."

Bossong frowned. "You shall not pass."

"The fuck I won't."

Now the priest, Charrière, took up the cry. He turned and spoke to the crowd. "He shall not pass!"

"He shall not pass!" they called back, in unison. Their sudden, thunderous cry — after such silence — was almost terrifying.

"We will finish our work up here first," Pendergast continued calmly. "Any further efforts to impede us will be met with disfavor. Perhaps even unpleasantness."

Charrière pressed a finger against Pendergast's coat, the grimacing smile frozen on his face. "You have no power over me."

Pendergast stepped back from the man's touch. "Lieutenant? Shall we proceed?"

D'Agosta holstered his weapon. Pendergast had somehow bought them a minute or two more. "Pulchinski, take the lamb and the post. Perez, cut the lock off that chest."

Perez cut a padlock off the horsehair chest, lifted the lid. D'Agosta shined the light inside. It was filled with instruments wrapped in pieces of leather. D'Agosta picked up one, unrolled it — a recurved knife.

"Take the chest and everything in it."

"Yes, sir."

The crowd was muttering to itself now, the people shuffling closer. The high priest's face, split by a grimace, stared at them as they worked, his lips drawn back and working, as if he was chanting silently to himself.

D'Agosta caught a glimpse of Bertin out of the corner of his eye. He'd almost forgotten about the bizarre little man. He was poking in a transept–like corner, where dozens of leather strips hung from the ceiling, with fetishes pinned to them. Next, he moved to a bizarre construction of sticks, thousands of them, tied up into a crooked three–dimensional quincunx. His face looked drawn and worried.

"Take that, too," said D'Agosta, pointing to a fetish lying on the ground. "And that, and that." He shined the light into the corners, searching for doorways or closets, trying to see behind the masses of people.

"May the Loa rain disaster on the filthy baka who defile the sanctuary!" cried the high priest. He now held a strange charm in his other hand — a small, dark rattle topped by a desiccated knob the size of a golf ball — and he was shaking it at the intruders.

"Take the fetishes off the altar," said D'Agosta. "And those instruments, and that other shit over there. All of it."

Quickly, Perez loaded the stuff into the plastic evidence locker.

"Thief!" thundered Charrière, shaking the charm. The crowd shuffled forward.

"Cool it, you'll get everything back," D'Agosta said. They'd better finish up — quick — and then check out downstairs.

"Lieutenant, don't forget the objects on the caye–mystère." Pendergast nodded toward another shrine set into a dark alcove, fringed by stripped palm leaves, on which were piled a number of little pots, fetishes, and food offerings.

"Right."

"Baka swine!"

Abruptly, a noise like a rattlesnake came from the circle of acolytes. It sounded first from one place, then another, and then it was multiplying everywhere. D'Agosta swept his light toward the circle and saw the people — closer still now — each thrusting forward a carven bone handle with what could only be rattlesnake rattles tied to the end.

"That should wrap it up," said D'Agosta, feigning nonchalance.

"Perhaps," Pendergast murmured, "the search below can wait."

D'Agosta nodded. Jesus, they really had to get out of there.

"Dog–eating baka!" the priest shrilled.

D'Agosta turned to leave. Their exit corridor through the nave was now completely blocked with people.

"Hey, folks, we're done. We're leaving now." Pulchinski was clearly only too ready to go, as was Perez. Pendergast had returned to collecting his tiny specimens. But where the hell was Bertin?

At that moment a noisy scuffle erupted in a dark corner. D'Agosta turned to see Bertin rushing at the high priest with a scream, throwing himself on the man like a wild animal. Charrière staggered back, the two locked in struggle over the charm the high priest clutched in his hand.

"Hey!" D'Agosta shouted. "What the hell?"

The crowd pressed forward, the rattling becoming a low hissing roar.

The two assailants fell to the floor, becoming entangled in Charrière's robes. In a flash Pendergast had joined the scuffle. A moment later he emerged, holding Bertin by the arms.

"Let me get him!" cried Bertin. "I will kill him! You, you will die, masisi!"

Charrière merely rearranged his robes, dusted himself off, and smiled another hideous, disfiguring smile. "It is you who will die," he said quietly. "You and your friends."

Bossong, the community leader, looked quickly at the priest. "Enough of this!"

Bertin struggled, but Pendergast held him fast, whispering something urgently into his ear.

"No!" Bertin cried. "No!"

The crowd moved in, rattles shaking maniacally. D'Agosta caught more glimpses of honed steel in the dark folds of their clothing. Bertin abruptly fell silent, his face pale and trembling.