Cemetery Dance

Chapter 26

Although theNew York Public Library had closed ninety minutes before, Special Agent Pendergast had unusual visiting privileges and never permitted the formality of business hours to incommode him. He glanced around with approval at the empty rows of tables in the cavernous Main Reading Room; nodded to the guard in the doorway whose nose was deep inMont Saint Michel and Chartres; then ducked into the receiving station and made his way down a steep set of metal stairs. After descending four flights, he exited into a low — ceilinged basement vault that seemed to stretch ahead endlessly, filled floor — to — ceiling with stack after stack of books on cast — iron shelves. Making his way down a transverse corridor, he opened a dingy, unmarked gray door. Beyond, another set of stairs — narrow and even steeper — led farther downward.

Another three flights and he emerged into a bizarre and semi — ruined bookscape. In the dim light, stacks of ancient and decomposing books leaned against one another for support. Tables littered with unbound book signatures, razor blades, jars of printer's glue, and other paraphernalia of manuscript surgery stood everywhere. Blizzards of printed material receded on all sides to an unguessable distance, forming a labyrinth of literature. There was an intense silence. The stuffy air smelled of dust and decay.

Pendergast placed the bundle he had been carrying on a nearby stack and cleared his throat.

For a moment, the silence remained unbroken. Then — from some remote and indeterminate distance — there was a faint scurrying. It grew slowly louder. And then an old man emerged from between two columns of books, tiny and frighteningly gaunt. A miner's hard hat rested atop a blizzard of white hair.

The man reached up and snapped off the headlamp. "Hypocrite lecteur," he said in a voice as thin and dry as birch bark. "I've been expecting you."

Pendergast gave a small bow. "Interesting fashion statement, Wren," he said, indicating the hard hat. "Quite the rage in West Virginia, I understand."

The old man gave a silent laugh. "I've been — shall we say — spelunking. And down here in the Antipodes, working lightbulbs can be hard to come by."

Whether Wren was actually employed by the public library, or whether he'd simply decided to take up residence here on its lowest sub — level, was anybody's guess. What was uncontestable, however, was his unique talent for esoteric research.

Wren's eyes fell hungrily on the bundle. "And what goodies have you brought me today?"

Pendergast picked it up and proffered it. Wren reached greedily, tearing away the wrappings to reveal three books.

"Early Arkham House," he sniffed. "I'm afraid I was never one for the literature of the weird."

"Take a closer look. These are the rarest, most collectible editions."

Wren examined the books one after the other. "Hmm. A pre — publication Outsider, with the trial green dustwrapper.Always Comes Evening " — he plucked off the jacket to examine the cover—"with the variant spine. And a leather — boundShunned House … containing Barlow's signature on the front pastedown. Dated Mexico City, not long before his suicide. A remarkable association copy." Wren raised his eyebrows as he carefully put down the books. "I spoke too rashly. A noble gift indeed."

Pendergast nodded. "I'm glad you approve."

"Since your call, I've managed to do some preliminary research."

"And?"

Wren rubbed his hands together. "I'd no idea Inwood Hill Park had such an interesting history. Did you know it has remained an essentially primeval forest since the American Revolution? Or that it was once the site of Isidor Straus's summer estate — until Straus and his wife died on the Titanic?" "So I've heard."

"Quite a story. The old man refused to board the lifeboat before the women and children, and Mrs. Straus refused to leave her husband. She put her maid into the lifeboat instead, and the couple went down together. After they died, their 'cottage' up in Inwood fell into ruin. But my research indicates that, in the years before, a groundskeeper was murdered, and there were other unfortunate events that kept the Strauses away from—"

"And the Ville?" Pendergast interjected gently.

"You mean the Ville des Zirondelles." Wren grimaced. "A more shadowy, secretive bunch is hard to imagine. I'm afraid my examination of them is still in its infancy — and under the circumstances I'm not sure I'll ever be able to learn a great deal."

Pendergast waved his hand. "Just let me know what you've discovered so far, please."

"Very well." Wren laid the tip of one bony index finger against the other, as if to tick off points of interest. "It seems that the first building of the Ville — as it's now known — was originally constructed in the early 1740s by a religious sect that fled England to avoid persecution. They ended up on the north end of Manhattan, in what is now the park in question. As was so often the case, this band of pilgrims had more idealism than pragmatism. They were city people — writers, teachers, a banker — and were intensely naive about making a living off the land. It seemed they had peculiar views regarding communal living. Believing the entire community should live and work together as a single unit, they had their ship's carpenters build a vast structure out of local stone and planking. It was part dwelling place, part workplace, part chapel, part fortress."

He ticked off the next finger. "But the tip of the island they'd chosen for their settlement was rocky and inhospitable for farming or animal husbandry — even for those knowledgeable about such things. There were no more local Indians around to give them advice — the Weckquaesgeek and the Lenape had long since left — and the closest European settlement was at the other end of Manhattan, two days' journey. The new settlers proved to be indifferent fishermen. There were a few farmers scattered around who had already chosen the best farming spots, and though they were willing to sell some crops for hard cash, they weren't inclined to provide free sustenance for an entire community."

"So the folly of their plan soon became clear," Pendergast murmured.

"Precisely. Disappointment and internecine squabbling followed quickly. Within a dozen years or so the colony was dissolved, its residents moving elsewhere in New England or returning to Europe, and the structure was abandoned: a testament to misplaced hopes. Their leader — I haven't been able to discover his name, but he was the one who secured the ship and purchased the site — moved to southern Manhattan and became a gentleman farmer."

"Go on," Pendergast said.

"Fast — forward a hundred years. Around 1858 or 1859, a ragtag group reached New York from points south. By period accounts it was a motley assemblage. At its core was a charismatic Baton Rouge preacher, the Reverend Misham Walker, who had gathered around him a small number of French Creole craftsmen shunned by their community for some reason I haven't discovered, along with several West Indian slaves. Along the way they were joined by others: Cajun, some Portuguese heretics, and a number of bayou dwellers who had fled Brittany for allegedly practicing paganism, druidism, and witchcraft. Theirs wasn't voodoo or Obeah in any traditional sense. Instead, it seems to be an entirely new belief system, built from various pieces of what came before. Their journey from the Deep South to New York was fraught with difficulty. Wherever they tried to settle, the locals objected to the group's religious rituals; they were repeatedly forced to move on. Nasty rumors were spread: that the group stole babies, sacrificed animals, brought people back from the dead. The band was secretive by nature; the treatment they received seems to have made them positively reclusive. Walker and his band ultimately discovered the remote structure the religious pilgrims had abandoned at the northern tip of Manhattan a century earlier and took it for their own, bricking up the windows and fortifying the walls. There was talk of mob action against them, but nothing came of it beyond several peculiar confrontations confusedly described in the local press. As years passed, the Ville grew more and more insular."

Pendergast nodded slowly. "And in more recent times?"

"Complaints of animal sacrifice have persisted over the years." Wren paused, then a dry smile hovered about his lips. "It seems they were — are — a celibate community. Like the Shakers."

Pendergast's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Celibate? And yet they continue to persist."

"Not only persist, but — apparently — always maintain the same number: one hundred forty — four. All male, all adult. It is believed they recruit. Rather vigorously, when necessary, and always at night. They are said to prey on the disaffected, the mentally unstable, the fringe dwellers: ideal candidates for press — ganging. When one member dies, another must be found. And then there were the rumors. " Wren's dark eyes glittered.

"Of what?"

"A murderous creature wandering at night. A zombii, some said." He gave a little hiss of amusement.

"And the history of the land and buildings?"

"The surrounding land was acquired by the New York City Department of Parks in 1916. Some other decaying structures in the park were demolished, but the Ville was passed over. It appears the parks department was reluctant to force the issue."

"I see." Pendergast glanced at Wren, a strange look on his face. "Thank you; you've made an excellent start. Keep at it, if you please."

Wren returned the look, dark eyes alight with curiosity. "What is it exactly, hypocrite lecteur? What's your interest in all this?"

Pendergast did not answer immediately. For a moment, his expression seemed to go far away. Then he roused himself. "It's premature to discuss it."

"At least tell me this: is your interest… in matters iniquitous?" Wren repeated.

Pendergast made another small bow. "Please let me know when you've discovered more." And then he turned and began the long ascent back to the surface world.