Cemetery Dance

Chapter 40

D'Agosta sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, the black mood that had settled over him refusing to dissipate. If anything, it seemed to grow darker the closer they got to the Ville. At least he didn't have to sit in the back with the annoying little French Creole, or whatever the hell he was. He glanced at the man covertly in the rearview mirror, lips tightening in disapproval. There he was, perched on the seat, looking like an Upper East Side doorman in his swallowtail coat.

The driver halted the cruiser where Indian Road turned into 214th, the crime — scene van following them coming to a rattling stop behind. D'Agosta glanced at his watch: three thirty. The driver popped the trunk and D'Agosta got out, hefted out the bolt cutters, and snapped the padlock, letting the chain drop to the ground. He chucked the bolt cutters back into the trunk, slammed it, and slid back into the car.

"Motherfuckers," he said to no one in particular.

The driver gunned the Crown Vic, the tires giving a little screech as the car lurched forward.

"Driver," said Bertin, leaning forward, "watch those starts, if you please."

The driver — a homicide detective named Perez — rolled his eyes.

They halted again at the iron gate in the chain — link fence, and D'Agosta took another small joy in cutting off the lock and tossing it into the woods. Then, to make sure the job was done well, he cut through both sets of hinges, kicked the iron gate down, and dragged the two pieces off the road. He got back in the car, puffing slightly. "Public way," he said in explanation.

Another screech of tires and the Crown Vic jerked forward, jostling the passengers. It climbed, then descended, through a dark, twilight wood, ultimately nosing out into a dead field. The Ville rose up ahead, bathed in the crystalline light of a fall afternoon. Despite the sun, it looked dark and crooked, wreathed in shadow: a haphazard jumble of steeples and roofs like some nightmare village of Dr. Seuss. The entire construction had accreted around a monstrous, half — timbered church, impossibly old. The front part was surrounded by a tall wooden stockade fence, into which was set a single wooden door of oak, banded, plated, and riveted in iron.

The vehicles pulled up to a dirt parking area beside the oak door. A few shabby cars were parked to one side, along with the panel truck that D'Agosta had seen earlier. Just the sight of it sent a fresh stab of anger through him.

The place appeared to be deserted. D'Agosta looked around, then turned to Perez. "Bring the kayo and pro — bar. I'll carry the evidence locker."

"Sure thing, Lieutenant."

D'Agosta threw open the door again and stepped out. The van had pulled up behind and the animal control officer got out. He was a timid fellow with an unfortunate blond mustache, red — faced, thin arms, potbelly. Nervous as hell, never executed a warrant before. D'Agosta tried to dredge up his name. Pulchinski.

"Did we call ahead?" Pulchinski asked in a quavering voice.

"You don't 'call ahead' with a no — knock search warrant. The last thing you want to do is give someone time to destroy evidence." D'Agosta opened the trunk, pulled out the locker. "You got the papers in order?"

Pulchinski patted a capacious pocket. The man was already sweating.

D'Agosta turned to Perez. "Detective?"

Perez hefted the kayo battering ram. "I'm on it."

Meanwhile, Pendergast and his weird little sidekick Bertin had gotten out of the squad car. Pendergast was inscrutable as usual, his silvery eyes hooded and expressionless. Bertin — incredibly enough — was sniffing flowers. Literally.

"By heaven," he exclaimed, "this is a splendid example of sand — plain gerardia, Agalinis acuta 'Pennell'! An endangered species! A whole field of them!" He cupped a flower in his hand, inhaled loudly.

Perez, who was massive and compact, placed himself before the door; took tight hold of the battering ram's front and rear grips; balanced it a moment at hip level; swung it back; then heaved it forward with a grunt. The forty — pound ram slammed into the oaken door with a booming sound, the door shuddering in its frame.

Bertin jumped like he had been shot. "What's this?" he shrilled.

"We're executing a warrant," said D'Agosta.

Bertin retreated hastily behind Pendergast, peering out like a Munchkin. "No one said there would be violence!"

Boom!

A second hit, then a third. The rivets on the old door began to work their way out.

"Hold it." D'Agosta picked up the pro — bar and jammed the forked end under a rivet, leveraging it up. With a crack, the rivet popped out. He pulled out four more rivets and stepped back, nodding to the detective.

Perez swung the ram again and again, the heavy door splitting with each blow. An iron band sprang loose and fell to the ground with a clank. A long vertical crack opened in the oak, splinters flying.

"A few more should do it," D'Agosta said.

Boom! Boom!

Suddenly D'Agosta became aware of a presence behind them. He turned. A man stood watching them, ten paces back. He was a striking individual, dressed in a long gray cloak with a velvet collar, and a strange, soft medieval — style cap on his head with two flaps over his ears, his face in shadow. His long, bushy white hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was very tall — at least six foot seven inches — about fifty years old, lean and muscular, with a disquieting stare. His skin was pale, almost as pale as Pendergast's, but the eyes were as black as coals, his face chiseled, nose thin and aquiline. D'Agosta recognized him immediately as the driver of the van.

The man stared at D'Agosta with his marble — like eyes. Where he had come from, how he had approached without alerting them, was a mystery. Without saying a word, he dipped into his pocket and removed a large iron key.

D'Agosta turned to Perez. "Looks like we got a key." The key disappeared back into the robe. "Show me your warrant first," the man said, approaching, his face impassive. But the voice was like honey, and it was the first time D'Agosta had heard anyone speak with an accent remotely like Pendergast's.

"Of course," said Pulchinski hastily, dipping into his pocket and pulling out a mass of papers, which he began to sort through. "There you are."

The man took it with a large hand. " Warrant of Search and Seizure," he read out loud, in his sonorous voice. The accentwas like Pendergast's, and yet it was also very different — with a trace of French and something else D'Agosta couldn't identify.

The man looked at Pulchinski. "And you are?"

"Morris Pulchinski, animal control." He nervously stuck out his hand, and then, when he was stared down, let it drop. "We've had reliable reports of animal cruelty, animal torture, perhaps even animal sacrifice up here, and that warrant allows us to search the premises and collect evidence."

"Not the premises. The warrant specifies only the church proper. And these other people?"

D'Agosta flashed his shield. "NYPD homicide. You got some ID?"

"We do not carry identification cards," the man said, his voice like dry ice.

"You'll have to identify yourself, mister, one way or another."

"I am Étienne Bossong."

"Spell it." D'Agosta took out his notebook, flipping the pages. The man spelled it slowly, dryly, enunciating each letter, as if to a child.

D'Agosta wrote it down. "And your position here?"

"I am the leader."

"Of what?"

"Of this community."

"And what exactly is 'this community'?"

A long silence followed, as Bossong stared at D'Agosta. "NYPD Homicide? For an animal control issue?"

"We're tagging along for fun," said D'Agosta.

"These other storm troopers haven't yet identified themselves."

"Detective Perez, NYPD homicide," D'Agosta said. "Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. And Mr. Bertin, FBI consultant."

Everyone in turn flashed their shields, except for Bertin, who merely stared at Bossong, his eyes narrowing to slits. Bossong flinched, as if in recognition, then stared back equally hard. Something seemed to pass between the two: something electric. It made the hair on D'Agosta's neck stand on end.

"Open the door," D'Agosta said.

After a long, tense moment, Bossong broke off eye contact with Bertin. He took the massive iron key out of his pocket and fitted it into the iron lock. He turned it with a violent twist, the tumblers clacking loudly, and hauled open the mangled door.

"We do not seek confrontation," he said.

"Good."

Beyond lay a narrow alleyway, curving around to the right. Small wooden structures lined both sides, the upper floors overhanging the lower. The buildings were so old they listed toward one another, the steeply pitched gables of their penthouse projections almost meeting above the alley. Dying autumn light filtered down, but the empty doorways and blown — glass windows remained shrouded in gloom.

Bossong silently led the group along the alleyway. As they rounded the curve, D'Agosta saw the church itself rear up ahead of them: rambling, countless dependent structures fixed to its sides like limpets. Huge, ancient timbers spiked out from its flanks, attached to even heavier, fantastically carven vertical beams that were driven into the ground like primitive flying buttresses. Bossong led the way between two of the beams, opened a door in the outer wall of the church, and entered. As he did so, he called out something into the darkness in a language D'Agosta didn't recognize.

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 ananimal 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 ahungenikon 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 crowdhad 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 theLoa and theirhungan! " 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 filthybaka 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 thecaye — 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.

The crowd pressed in.

D'Agosta swallowed. Confrontation was out of the question. They just might, with luck, be able to shoot their way out, assuming none of the mob had guns; but then they'd spend the rest of their lives in court. "We're leaving," he managed to say. He turned to the others. "Let's go."

Charrière stepped in front of him, blocking his way. The crowd tightened around them like a vise.

"We're not looking for a fight," said D'Agosta. He let his hand rest lightly on his service piece.

"It is too late for that now," said the high priest, his voice suddenly increasing in volume. "You are defilers, filth. Only a complete cleansing will remove the stain."

"Cleanse the church!" cried a voice, echoed by others. "Cleanse the church!"

D'Agosta's finger undid the keeper on his holster, and he did a quick mental calculation. The Glock 19 had a fifteen — round magazine; that would be enough to clear a path to the door through any normal crowd. But this crowd was far from normal. He tightened his grip on the pistol butt, took a deep breath.

Suddenly, Pendergast stepped toward Charrière. "What's this?" Like lightning, his hand darted forward, ripping something from the high priest's sleeve. He held it up, shining his flashlight beam on it. "Look at this! Anarrêt, with a false twine twist, done in a reverse spiral. The false — friend amulet! Mr. Charrière, why are you wearing this if you're the minister of these people? What do you fear from them?"

He turned to the crowd, shaking the little tufted fetish. "He's suspicious of you! Do you see?"

He swung back toward Charrière. "Why don't you trust these folk?" he asked.

With a roar, Charrière leapt forward to strike with his staff, cloak billowing; but the FBI agent twisted so adroitly that the man swung through air, whirling, and a short kick sent him sprawling to the dirt. An angry roar rippled through the crowd. Bossong stepped in quickly, putting a restraining hand on the high priest as he rose, a look of anger and hatred contorting his face.

"You! Bastard!" he said to Pendergast.

"Without a doubt, time to leave," murmured Pendergast.

D'Agosta grasped the forward handle of the coffin — size evidence box, Perez took the rear, and they dashed forward, wielding it like a battering ram, the surprised crowd scattering. With his free hand, D'Agosta plucked the Glock from his holster and fired into the air, the sound echoing and re — echoing in the vaulted space. "Let's go!Go! " Holstering his gun, he literally grabbed Bertin by the collar and hauled him along as they rushed the entrance, knocking people down as they went. A knife flashed but with a sudden movement Pendergast sent the would — be attacker sprawling.

They burst through the doors, the crowd boiling out after them. D'Agosta fired into the air a second time. "Get back!"

Dozens of knives were now out, flashing dully in the fading light. "Into the vehicles!" D'Agosta shouted. "Now!"

They piled in, throwing the evidence into the back of the van and hoisting the lamb in after it, the van screeching off almost before they'd had a chance to shut the doors, followed by the cruiser, peppering gravel over the screaming mob just behind them. As they sped off, D'Agosta heard a groan from the backseat. He turned to find the Frenchman, Bertin, white and shaking, clutching Pendergast's lapel. Pendergast took something out of his own suit pocket: one of the strange, hooked implements that had lain on the altar. He must have purloined it during the melee.

"You hurt?" D'Agosta gasped to Bertin. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"That hungan, Charrière…"

"What?"

"He collected samples…"

"He what?"

"Samples from me, from all of us… hair, clothing — you didn't see? You heard him, heard his threats. Maleficia, death conjuring. We're going to know it, feel it. Soon." The man looked like he was dying. D'Agosta turned around brusquely. The shit he had to put up with, working with Pendergast.