Cemetery Dance

Chapter 38

The waiting area at JFK's Terminal 8 was at the bottom of a wide bank of escalators. Pendergast and D'Agosta stood along with a gaggle of portly men in black suits, holding up little signs with people's names on them.

"Tell me again," said D'Agosta. "Who is this guy? And what's he doing here?"

"Monsieur Bertin. He was our tutor when we were youths."

"We? You mean, you and…"

"Yes. My brother. Monsieur Bertin taught us zoology and natural history. I was rather taken with him — he was a charming and charismatic fellow. Unfortunately, he had to leave the family employ."

"What happened?"

"The fire." "Fire? You mean, when your house burned down? Did he have something to do with it?"

There was a sudden, freezing silence from Pendergast.

"So this man's expertise is… zoology? And you call him in on a murder case? Am I missing something here?"

"While Monsieur Bertin was hired to teach us natural history, he was also extremely knowledgeable about local lore and legend: Vôdou, Obeah, rootwork, and conjure."

"So he branched out. And taught you more than how to dissect a frog."

"I'd prefer not to dwell on the past. The fact is, Monsieur Bertin knows as much about the subject as anyone alive. That's why I asked him to fly up from Louisiana."

"You really think voodoo is involved?"

"You don't?" Pendergast turned his silvery eyes on D'Agosta.

"I think some asshole is trying to make us think voodoo is involved."

"Is there a difference? Ah. Here he is now."

D'Agosta turned, then started despite himself. Approaching them was a tiny man in a swallowtail coat. His skin was almost as pale as Pendergast's, and he wore a floppy, broad — brimmed white hat. What looked like a shrunken head dangled from a heavy gold chain around his neck. One hand gripped an ancient, travel — stained BOAC flight bag; the other was tapping a massive, fantastically carved cane before him.Cane didn't do it justice, D'Agosta decided;walking stick was more like it.Cudgel was even better. He looked like some faith healer from a traveling medicine show, or one of the nutcases who wandered about JFK because it was warmer inside than out. In a place like New York City, where people had seen just about everything, this weirdo was getting a lot of stares. The man was trailed by a skycap burdened down with an alarming number of suitcases.

"Aloysius!" He came bustling over on bird — like legs and kissed Pendergast on both cheeks in the French style. "

Quelle plaisir!

You haven't aged a day."

He turned and stared at D'Agosta, looking him swiftly up and down with a fierce black eye. "Who is this man?"

"I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta." He held out his hand, but it was ignored.

The man turned back to Pendergast. "A policeman?"

"I'm also a policeman, maître." Pendergast almost seemed amused by the excitable little fellow.

"Pah!" The white hat flopped up and down with disdainful disapproval. A pack of cigarillos appeared in Bertin's hand, and he shucked one out and fitted it into a mother — of — pearl cigarette holder.

"I'm sorry, maître, but there's no smoking in here."

"Barbarians." Bertin put the thing in his mouth anyway, unlit. "Show me to the car." They went out to the curb, where Proctor was waiting. "What, a Rolls — Royce? How vulgar!"

While the skycap loaded the suitcases into the trunk, D'Agosta was dismayed to see Pendergast slip into the front seat, leaving him to share the back with Bertin. Once inside, the man immediately produced a gold lighter and set the cigarillo aflame.

"Excuse me — do you mind?" D'Agosta said.

The man turned his bright black eyes toward him. "I do mind." He inhaled deeply, cracked the window with a look askance at D'Agosta, and exhaled a thin stream through pursed lips. He leaned forward. "Now, Aloysius, I've been mulling over the information you gave me. The photographs you sent of the charms found at the murder scene — they aremal, très mal! The doll of feathers and Spanish moss; the needles wrapped in black thread; the name inscribed on parchment; and that powder — saltpeter, I assume?"

"Correct."

Bertin nodded. "There can be no question. A death conjure."

"Death conjure?" D'Agosta said in disbelief.

"Also known as a 'killing hurt,' " Bertin said in full — throated lecture — hall style. "That is flat — out hoodoo. That could have been dealt with more easily. But this — thisrevenant, this dead man walking. That is serious. That is Vôdou proper. Especially…" Here he dropped his voice. "… now that the victim has returned as well." He looked at Pendergast. "He has a wife, you say?"

"Yes."

"She is in serious danger."

"I've put in a request for police protection," D'Agosta said.

Bertin scoffed. "Pah!"

"I purchased her an enemy — be — gone charm," said Pendergast.

"That may be of use against the first one, but he I am not so worried about. Such charms are useless against family or kin — including husbands."

"I also prepared a charm bag and urged her to keep it in her pocket."

Bertin's expression brightened. "A mojo hand! Très bien. Tell me: what did it contain?"

"Protection oil, High John the Conqueror root, vervain, and wormwood."

D'Agosta scarcely believed what he was hearing. He looked from Pendergast to Bertin and back again.

Bertin sat back. "This will continue unless we can find the conjure — doctor. Turn the trick."

"We're working on a search warrant for the Ville now. And we spoke to the city yesterday about possible eviction proceedings."

Bertin muttered to himself, then issued another stream of smoke. D'Agosta had once enjoyed cigars, but they had been normal, man — size things. The Rolls was filling up with disgusting clove — scented smoke.

"I heard about this guy once," said D'Agosta. "He used to smoke those skinny little sticks."

Bertin looked at him sideways.

"Got cancer. Had to cut off his lips."

"Who needs lips?" Bertin asked.

D'Agosta could feel the man's beady eyes on his face. He opened his window, crossed his arms, and sat back, closing his eyes.

Just when he was about to drift off, his newly replaced cell phone went off. He glanced down, read the text message. "The search warrant finally came through for the Ville," he told Pendergast.

"Excellent. How broad?"

"Pretty limited, actually. The public areas of the church itself, the altar and tabernacle — assuming there is one — but not the sacristy or the other non — public areas, or the outlying buildings."

"Very well. It's enough to get us in — and introduce us to the people there. Monsieur Bertin will accompany us."

"And how are we going to justify that?"

"I have engaged him as a special consultant to the FBI on the case."

"Yeah, right." D'Agosta ran a hand through his thinning hair, sighed, and leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes again, hoping for a few minutes of nap. Unbelievable. Just frigging unbelievable.