Cemetery Dance

Chapter 31

The Rolls passed through a large white gate and continued up a cobbled driveway, which ran among ancient oaks before opening suddenly onto a grand mansion surrounded by outbuildings: a carriage house, a gazebo, a greenhouse, and a vast, shingled red barn built on ancient stone foundations. Beyond, a sweep of manicured lawn led down to the waters of Long Island Sound, sparkling in the morning light.

D'Agosta whistled. "Jesus, what a spread."

"Indeed. And we can't even see the caretaker's house, helipad, and trout hatchery from our current vantage point."

"Remind me why we're here again," D'Agosta said.

"Mr. Esteban is one of the people who complained most vocally about the Ville. I'm curious to hear his sentiments on the place firsthand."

At a word from Pendergast, Proctor brought the vehicle to a stop before the barn. Its doors were wide open, and without a word the agent stepped quickly out of the Rolls and disappeared into the cavernous structure.

"Hey, the house is that way…" D'Agosta's voice faltered. He looked around nervously. What on earth was Pendergast up to this time?

He could hear the sound of chopping wood. The noise stopped and a moment later, a man emerged from behind the woodshed, ax in one hand. At the same time, Pendergast reappeared from the darkness of the barn.

The man came over, still holding the ax.

"Looks like we got a real Paul Bunyan here," D'Agosta murmured as the agent rejoined him.

The man was tall, with a short salt — and — pepper beard, longish hair falling below his collar, bald spot on top. Despite the Hispanic surname, he looked as Anglo as they came — in fact, except for the hairstyle, he could have been a walking advertisement for Lands' End, dressed in neatly pressed chinos, checked shirt, work gloves — lean and fit. He brushed a few wood chips off his shirt, slung the ax over his shoulder, and pulled off a glove to shake hands.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, his melodious voice bearing no trace of accent.

Pendergast slipped out his badge. "Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta, NYPD homicide."

The eyes narrowed, the lips pursed, as he examined the badge carefully. His eyes finally glanced up and past them at the Rolls. "Nice squad car you've got there."

"Budget cuts," Pendergast replied. "One makes do as best one can."

"Right."

"You are Alexander Esteban?" D'Agosta asked.

"Correct."

"We'd like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind." "Do you have a warrant?"

"We're looking for some help with the homicide of William Smithback, the Times journalist," Pendergast said. "I'd consider it a favor if you would answer our questions."

The man nodded, stroked his beard. "I knew Smithback. I'll do whatever I can to help."

"You produce films, is that correct?" Pendergast asked.

"I used to. These days I spend most of my time in philanthropic pursuits."

"I saw the article about you in Mademoiselle. The one that called you the 'modern DeMille.' "

"History's my passion." Esteban gave a light laugh of false modesty. It didn't work.

D'Agosta suddenly remembered: Esteban was that guy who made the splashy, cheesy historical epics. He'd gone to see the most recent with Laura Hayward,Breakout Sing Sing, about the famous breakout of thirty — three inmates back in the early sixties. Neither of them had liked it. There was another he vaguely recollected: The Last Days of Marie Antoinette.

"But more to our purpose is the organization you run. Humans for Other Animals, is that correct?"

He nodded. "HOA, right. Although I'm primarily the mouthpiece, as it were. A well — known name assigned to the cause." He smiled. "Rich Plock is the guy in charge."

"I see. And you were in touch with Mr. Smithback about the series he was planning to write on the Ville des Zirondelles, known popularly as the Ville?"

"Our organization has been concerned about reports of animal sacrifices there. It's been going on for a long time, and nothing's been done. I contacted all the papers, including theTimes, and finally Mr. Smithback got back to me."

"When was that?"

"Let's see — it was about a week or so before he published his first article, I believe."

Pendergast nodded, then seemed to lose interest in the questioning.

D'Agosta took over. "Tell us about it."

"Smithback called me up and I met with him in the city. We had gathered some information on the Ville — complaints from neighbors, eyewitness reports of live animals being delivered, bills of sale, that sort of thing — and I gave him copies."

"Did they contain any proof?"

"Lots of proof! People in Inwood have heard animals being tortured and killed up there for years. The city hasn't done a damn thing, because of some politically correct ideas about religious freedom or some such rot. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for religious freedom — but not if it means torturing and killing animals."

"Did Smithback make any enemies that you know of by publishing that first article on animal sacrifice?"

"I'm sure he did — just as I have. Those people at the Ville are fanatics."

"Do you have any specific information about that? Something that was said to him, threatening phone calls or e — mails to you or him, anything like that?"

"I got something in the mail once, some charm or other. I threw it away. I don't know if it came from the Ville or not — although the package was postmarked from Upper Manhattan. Those people keep to themselves. A very,very strange group. Clannish and insular, to put it mildly. Been there forever, too, on that bit of ground."

D'Agosta scuffed his foot on the cobbles, thinking of what else to ask. The man wasn't telling them much they didn't already know.

Pendergast suddenly spoke again. "A lovely estate you have here, Mr. Esteban. Do you keep horses?"

"Absolutely not. I don't condone animal slavery."

"Dogs?"

"Animals are meant to live in the wild, not be demeaned in the service of man."

"Are you a vegetarian, Mr. Esteban?"

"Naturally."

"Are you married? Children?"

"Divorced, no children. Now, look—"

"Why are you a vegetarian?"

"Killing animals for the gratification of our appetites is unethical. Not to mention bad for the planet, wasteful of energy, and morally atrocious while millions are starving. Like that disgusting car of yours — sorry, I don't mean to offend you, but there's no excuse for driving a car like that." Esteban's lips pursed in disapproval, and for a moment his face reminded D'Agosta of one of the nuns who used to smack his hand with a ruler for talking in class. He wondered how Pendergast was going to take this, but the agent's face remained smoothly untroubled.

"There are quite a number of people in New York City who practice religions in which animals may be sacrificed," the agent said. "Why focus on the Ville?"

"It's the most egregious and longest — lived example. We have to start somewhere."

"How many people belong to your organization?"

Esteban seemed embarrassed. "Well, Rich is the man to give you the definitive number. I think we have a few hundred."

"You've read the recent stories in the West Sider, Mr. Esteban?"

"I have."

"What do you think?"

"I think that reporter is on to something. Like I said, those people are crazy. Voodoo, Obeah… I understand they're not even there legally, that they're squatters of some kind. The city should evict them."

"Where would they go?"

Esteban gave a short laugh. "They can go to hell for all I care."

"So you think it's okay to torture humans in hell, but not animals on earth?"

The laugh died in Esteban's throat. He looked carefully at the agent. "That's just an expression, Mister—"

"Pendergast."

"Mr. Pendergast. Are we through here?"

"I don't think so."

D'Agosta was surprised to hear the sudden edge in Pendergast's voice.

"Well, I am."

"Do you believe in Vôdou, Mr. Esteban?"

"Are you asking if I believe people practice voodoo, or do I believe that it actually works?"

"Both."

"I believe those zealots up in the Ville practice voodoo. Do I think they're bringing people back from the dead? Who knows? I don't care. I just want them gone."

"Who finances your organization?"

"It's not my organization. I'm just a member. We get a lot of small donations, but if the truth be told, I'm the major source of support."

"Is it a 501(c)(3) tax — exempt organization?"

"Yes."

"Where do you get your money?"

"I did well in the movie business — but frankly, I don't see how that's any of your business." Esteban eased the ax off his shoulder. "Your questions seem rambling and pointless, Mr. Pendergast, and I'm getting tired of answering them. So would you please climb back into your carbon monster and remove yourself from my property?"

"I would be delighted." Pendergast half bowed and, with a faint smile on his face, climbed back into the Rolls, D'Agosta following.

As they were heading back into the city, D'Agosta shifted in his seat and scowled. "What a self — righteous prig. I'll bet he sinks his teeth into a bloody steak when no one's around."

Pendergast had been gazing out the window, absorbed in some private rumination. At this he turned. "Why, Vincent, I do believe that is one of the most insightful comments I've heard you make today." He pulled a thin Styrofoam tray from his suit pocket, removed the cover, and handed it to D'Agosta. Inside was a bloody absorbent pad, folded twice, along with a label affixed to a torn piece of plastic wrap. It smelled of rancid meat.

D'Agosta recoiled and handed it back quickly. "What the hell's that?"

"I found it in the trash in the barn. According to this label, it once contained a crown roast of lamb, at twelve ninety — nine the pound."

"No shit."

"Excellent price for that cut. I was tempted to ask Mr. Esteban who his butcher was." And Pendergast covered the tray, placed it on the leather seat between them, leaned back, and resumed his perusal of the passing scenery.