Cemetery Dance (35 page)

Now a window popped up on the second screen, a thin, wide window containing an audio waveform: a rough, squiggly band that looked like a sine curve on steroids.

"A little silence, please!" Loader called out. The room quieted, and Loader clicked a play button at the bottom of the window.

The squiggly curve began striping across the window like a spool of tape running through a recorder. D'Agosta could hear the muffled movements of the person apparently carrying the camera through the darkness, the little click as the camera light went on, a grating sound, as if the camera was resting on something — or the lens was being slid through bars or a hole. Nora spoke once, then again. And then there was the sound. A creak? A scratch? It was too low, there was too much background hiss, to make it out.

"Can you enhance it?" he asked. "Isolate it?"

"Let me add some parametric EQ to the signal path." More windows popped open, complex–looking graphs were dragged onto the audio waveform. Loader played the sound file again. It was clearer but still muddy.

"I'll apply a brick wall filter. High–pass, to block out that lowend hum." More clicks, more adjustments of the mouse, then Loader played the waveform once more.

"That's an animal sound," said D'Agosta. "The sound of an animal getting its throat cut."

"I'm afraid I don't hear it," said Chislett.

"Oh no?" D'Agosta turned to Loader. "What about you?"

The forensic tech scratched his cheek a little nervously. "Hard to say." He opened another window. "According to this spectrum analyzer, there's a mix of very high frequencies, some higher than the human ear can hear. I'd guess it's the creaking of a rusty door hinge."

"Bullshit!"

"With all due respect —" Loader began.

"With all due respect, that's the scream of an animal. The basement is old, crude. Let me tell you something: this tape came from the Ville. We need to raid the place. Now." He turned and stared aggressively at Chislett. "Right, Chief?"

"Lieutenant," Chislett intoned, his voice the very embodiment of calm and reason, "you're obfuscating the situation rather than clarifying it. There's no evidence — none — on that tape indicating its source. That sound could be any of myriad things."

Obfuscating rather than clarifying. Myriad things. How like the pretentious Chislett to turn a simple meeting into a spelling bee. D'Agosta tried to keep himself under control. "Chief, you're aware there's going to be a demonstration tonight against the Ville."

"They've got a parade permit, it's all quite legit. We'll have plenty of men this time, we'll keep things orderly."

"Yeah? There's no way to be sure of that. If the demonstration gets unruly, it might freak out the Ville — and cause them to kill Nora. We've got to raid them now, today, before the demonstration. Use the element of surprise, go in fast and hard and grab her."

"Lieutenant, haven't you been listening? Where's the evidence? No judge will authorize a raid based on that one sound — even if it is an animal. You know that. Especially," he sniffed, "after your heavy–handed search of Kline's offices."

D'Agosta straightened up. He finally felt the dam breaking, his anger and frustration pouring out. He didn't care. "Look at all of you," he said loudly, "sitting around here, fiddling with your equipment."

Everyone paused in their work to turn and look.

"While you're playing with your toys, a woman's been kidnapped, two journalists and a housing official murdered. What we need is a massive, multiple SWAT team raid on those scumbags up there."

"Lieutenant," said Chislett, "it would behoove you to get your emotions under control. We're well aware of the stakes and we're doing all we can."

"No, I won't, and no, you aren't." D'Agosta turned and stalked out of the room.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 57

Pendergast sat in an overstuffed leather armchair in the salon of his Dakota apartment, one leg thrown over the other, chin resting on tented fingers. In a matching armchair across an expanse of Turkish rug sat Wren, his bird–like figure almost swallowed up in the burgundy–colored leather. Between them stood a table on which sat a pot of A–Li–Shan Jin Xuan tea, a basket of brioche, a tub of butter, and crocks of marmalade and gooseberry jam.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit, in daylight no less?" Pendergast asked. "It would take something rather momentous to entice you out of your den at such an hour."

Wren gave a sharp nod. "True, I am no fan of the daytime. But I've discovered something I thought you ought to know."

"Fortunately it is rarely daytime in my apartment." Pendergast poured two cups of tea, placed one before his guest, raised the other to his lips.

Wren glanced at his cup but did not touch it. "I keep meaning to ask. How is the fetching Constance?"

"I've been getting regular reports from Tibet. Everything is proceeding on schedule — or as much as such things can run on schedule. I hope to travel there in the not–too–distant future." Pendergast took another sip. "You said you've discovered something. By all means, proceed."

"In my research into the history of the Ville and its occupants — and its predecessors — I naturally have made use of a large number of period accounts, newspaper reports, surveys, manuscripts, incunabula, and other documents. And the more that I have done so, the more I've noticed a curious pattern."

"And what might that be?"

Wren sat forward. "That I am not the first person to have made this particular journey."

Pendergast put down his cup. "Indeed?"

"Everybody who examines rare or historic documents is issued an identification number by the library. I began to notice that the same ID number was appearing in the accessions database for the documents I was withdrawing for examination. At first I thought it was just a coincidence. But after this happened a number of times, I went to the database and looked up that ID. Sure enough: every document of the Ville, its inhabitants, its history, the history of its prior occupants — with particular emphasis, it seems, on the founders — had also been examined by this other researcher. He was quite diligent — in fact, he had thought to examine a few papers it had not occurred to me to search." Wren chuckled, shook his head ruefully.

"And who is this mysterious researcher?"

"That's just the thing — his or her file has been wiped clean from the library's records. It was as if he didn't want anybody to know he'd been there. All that was left were the traces, so to speak, of his passing. I know he was a professional researcher — that's indicated by the prefix of his identification number. And I'm convinced this was a job for hire, not something of particular interest to him. It was done too quickly and in too orderly a fashion, over too short a period of time, to have been a hobby or a personal study."

"I see." Pendergast took a sip. "And when did this take place?"

"He began examining library materials about eight months ago. The withdrawals continued, on a more or less weekly basis. And then the trail ended rather abruptly about two months ago."

Pendergast looked at him. "He completed his research?"

"Yes." Wren hesitated. "There is, of course, one other possibility."

"Indeed. And what is that?"

"He was searching for something — something very particular. And the abrupt halt to his work meant that he'd found it."

*        *        *

After his guest had left, Pendergast rose from the chair, exited the salon, and walked down the apartment's central corridor until he came to a small and rather old–fashioned laboratory. He removed his black suit coat and hung it on a hook behind the door. The room was dominated by a soapstone lab table on which stood chemical apparatuses and a Bunsen burner. Old oaken cabinets lined the walls, glass bottles competing for space with tattered journals and well–worn reference books.

He slipped a key out of his pocket and unlocked one of the cabinets. From it, he removed various supplies: a pair of latex gloves, a polished walnut instrument case, a rack of glass test tubes with labels and stoppers, and a brass magnifying glass. He arranged everything on the soapstone table. Striding across the room, he snapped on the gloves and unlocked a second cabinet. A moment later a skull came to light, cradled in his hands — the skull that he and D'Agosta had recovered from the riverbank burial. Dirt still clung to the jaws and eye sockets. He gently placed the skull on the table and opened the case to reveal a set of nineteenth–century dental tools with ivory handles. With great care he cleaned the skull, removing bits of dirt, some of which he placed in various test tubes, affixing numbered labels. Samples of whitish powder clinging to the inside of the jaws and teeth also went into test tubes, along with fragments of skin, hair, and adipocere.

When he was done, he set the skull down and stared at it. Seconds passed, then minutes. The room was perfectly silent. And then Pendergast slowly rose. His silvery eyes glittered with an inner enthusiasm. He picked up the magnifying glass and examined the skull at close range, focusing at last on the right ocular cavity. Putting down the glass and lifting the skull, he examined the eye socket, rotating it, squinting at it from every direction. There were several thin, curved scratches on the inside of the cavity, as well as similar scratches on the inner rear wall of the cranial dome.

Laying the skull down on the table again, he walked to a third cabinet and unlocked it. From it he removed the strange implement pilfered from the Ville altar: a sharp, twisted piece of metal protruding from a wooden handle, looking like an extended, bizarre corkscrew. He carried it to the laboratory table and placed it next to the skull. Leaning on the table with both hands, he stared down at the two objects for some time, his eyes moving restlessly from one to the other.

Finally, he took a seat beside the table. He picked up the skull in his right hand and the implement in his left. More time passed as he stared at each object in turn. And then, with exquisite slowness, he brought the two together, placing the curved end of the hook into the eye socket. Slowly, carefully, he slid the hook along the faint scratch marks and manipulated it in such a way as to insert it through the superior orbital fissure — the gap in the back of the eye socket. The tip slid perfectly into the hole. As if working out a puzzle, Pendergast manipulated the hook into the brain cavity, worming it ever deeper, again following the scratch marks on the bone until a notch in the metal tool caught on the orbital fissure, bringing the hooked end to rest deep within the brain cavity.

With a sudden deft manipulation — a small twist of the handle — Pendergast caused the hooked end of the tool to make a circular cutting motion. Back and forth he twisted — and back and forth went the little sharpened hook inside the brain cavity, in a precise little arc.

A mirthless smile illuminated the face of Special Agent Pendergast, and he murmured a single word: "Broca."

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 58

Nora Kelly lay in the dark, listening. The room was as silent as the grave. No matter how hard she tried, she could not detect the normal, reassuring background sounds of the outside world: cars, voices, footsteps, wind in the trees. There weren't even the sounds of mice or rats in the damp basement.

Once she had recovered her wits and gained control of her fear, she had performed a minute exploration of her prison: first once, and then twice. It had taken hours. She had to work by feel — the only glimpse she'd had of her cell was when she'd been videotaped, and at the time she'd been too disoriented and upset to use the opportunity to memorize her surroundings.

Nevertheless, her tactile explorations had given her a clear impression of her cell — almost too clear. The floor was poured concrete, and it was very fresh and damp, with a strong cement smell. It was covered by straw. The dimensions of her prison, which she had measured by several meticulous pacings–off, were approximately ten feet by sixteen. The walls were rough mortared stone, probably granite, and absolutely solid, with no opening of any kind except the door. That was of heavy wood, massively plated and riveted with iron (which she determined by taste); she had the impression it was a new door, custom–built for the cellar, since its frame was lower and narrower than standard. The ceiling was a low vault of cemented brick, which she could touch around the edges, rising to a higher point in the middle. There were some rusty iron hooks on the wall and ceiling, indicating that the room had perhaps once been used for curing meat.

There were two things in the cell: a bucket in one corner to serve as a latrine, and a gallon plastic jug filled with water. She had been given no food at all during the time she had been imprisoned. In the pitch–dark it was hard to tell the passage of time, but she felt certain it had been at least twenty–four hours. Strangely enough, she didn't mind being hungry; it had the effect of sharpening her mind.

You won't live long enough for my name to make any difference. That was all her captor had said, and Nora knew he meant it. No effort was being made to keep her alive, to supply her with fresh air, to make sure she was returned to the land of the living in acceptable physical condition. More than that: the tone of voice had been so casual, and yet so quietly certain, that she felt in her bones it was the truth.

It seemed unlikely she would be rescued. Cooperation was not an option — she would merely be cooperating with her own death. She had to escape.

As methodically as if she was classifying potsherds, Nora explored every possible avenue of escape she could think of. Could she somehow dig through the not–fully–cured concrete floor? The plastic bucket and jug offered nothing to work with. She had no shoes or belt: she was still dressed in her flimsy hospital robe. The hooks were firmly attached to the ceiling. She had nothing but her fingernails and teeth to scrape with, and that was impossible.

Next she considered the mortared walls. She went over them with great care, testing each stone, probing the mortar in between. No luck. The stones were solid; none felt loose. The stones and the bricks in the ceiling seemed to have had been freshly repointed, and there wasn't even a crack in which she could insert a fingernail.