Cemetery Dance

Chapter 60

Richard Plock stood across from the parking lot of the 207th Street Subway Yard, looking out over the serried ranks of train cars parked in the glow of the late — afternoon sun. The yard was quiet, almost somnolent: a workman picked his way across the tracks and disappeared into the blacksmith's shop; an engineer slowly ferried a line of cars onto a siding beside the inspection shed.

Plock looked up and down the street beyond the fence. West 215th Street was quiet, too. He grunted his satisfaction, glanced at his watch: six fifteen.

One of the color — coded cell phones in his jacket pocket began to ring. He pulled it out, noticed it was the red one. That would be Traum, over at the Cloisters.

He flipped it open. "Give me an update."

"They've been arriving for the last twenty minutes or so."

"How many so far?"

"Two hundred, maybe two fifty."

"Good. Keep them thinned out, looking as disorganized as possible. We don't want to tip our hand prematurely."

"Got it."

"Keep the updates coming. We'll be moving out in fifteen minutes." Plock gently closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. It was almost time for him to join his own unit, which was gathering on the south side of the subway yard.

He was aware he looked like nobody's idea of a born leader. And if he admitted it to himself, he lacked a leader's charisma, as well. But he had the passion, the conviction — and that's what mattered most. The fact was, people had underestimated him all his life. They'd underestimate him today, too.

Rich Plock was counting on that.

Since the first, abortive rally, Plock had been ceaselessly at work, covertly reaching out to organizations across the city, the state, and even the country, assembling the most zealous group of people for the evening's action that he could. And now it was all about to come to fruition. Over two dozen different organizations — Humans for Other Animals, Vegan Army, Amnesty Without Borders, The Green Brigade — were converging on the West Side at that very moment. And it wasn't just vegetarians and animal sympathizers anymore: the killing of the two journalists and the city official, along with the kidnapping of Nora Kelly, had galvanized people in a remarkable way. With that publicity in hand, Plock had coaxed a few fringe groups with truly serious agendas to come out of the woodwork. Some, in fact, would normally have viewed one another with suspicion — for example, Guns Universal and Reclaim America were now involved — but thanks to Plock's incendiary rhetoric, they had all found a common enemy in the Ville.

Plock was taking no chances. He'd choreographed everything perfectly. In order to avoid being prematurely dispersed or bottled up by the cops, the various groups were congregating in ten different pre — arranged spots: Wien Stadium, the Dyckman House, High Bridge Park. That way, they wouldn't attract too much official attention… until Plock gave the order and they all merged smoothly into one. And by that point, it would be too late to stop them. There would be no more backing down — not this time.

As he recalled the first rally, Plock's face hardened. In retrospect, it was a very good thing that Esteban funked out. The man had outlived his usefulness. He'd done what needed to be done: acted as celebrity figurehead, increased their visibility, given them badly needed funds which had empowered Plock to gather a force sufficient for this job. If Esteban had been around today, he would probably advise caution, remind everybody that there was no proof a hostage was involved, no proof that the Ville was behind the killings.

Esteban's weak stomach had undercut their last action — but by God it wouldn't undercut this one. The Ville would be stopped, once and for all. The wanton cruelty, the murder of helpless animals, and the killing of journalists sympathetic to their cause would never happen again.

Plock had grown up on a farm in northern New Hampshire. Every year, as a young boy, he'd gotten physically sick when the time came to slaughter the lambs and hogs. His father had never understood, beating him and calling him a shirker, a mama's boy, when he tried to avoid helping. He'd been too small to fight back. He remembered watching his dad decapitate a chicken with a hand ax and then laugh as the luckless bird danced a strange, faltering tattoo in the dusty lane, blood shooting from the severed neck. The image had haunted his dreams ever since. His father insisted on eating their own animals, meat with every dinner, and demanded that Rich eat his fair share. When Plock's favorite pet pig was killed, his father forced him to eat her greasy ribs; he snuck out afterward and vomited endlessly behind the barn. The very next day, Plock had left home. He didn't even bother to pack, just took his few books— Brave New World, Atlas Shrugged, 1984—and pointed his feet south.

And never looked back. His father had given him no love, no support, no teaching — nothing.

That's not quite true, he thought, his mind turning to the Ville. His father had taught him one thing. He'd taught him to hate.

Another of his cell phones began to ring. It was the blue phone: McMoultree, outside Yeshiva University. As Plock went to answer it, he saw a curious thing: a Lincoln Town Car, tearing up Tenth Avenue on its way northward, a medic in full emergency gear at the wheel. But the phone was still ringing, and he stared after it for only a moment. Clearing his throat quietly, Plock opened the cell phone and pressed it confidently against his ear.