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."