Cemetery Dance

Chapter 61

The Rolls coasted to a stop at the end of West 218th Street, pulling into a parking place between a shabby panel truck and a late — model Jeep. To their left sat a line of undistinguished low — rise co — ops; to their right lay the green oval of Columbia's Baker Field. Roughly two hundred people were scattered around the field and bleachers, seemingly disorganized, but D'Agosta felt sure they were part of the imminent protest. He'd seen similar suspicious groups as they drove through Inwood. The gloriously ignorant Chislett was about to find himself out of his depth.

"We'll head in laterally, through Isham Park," Pendergast said, grabbing a canvas bag from the rear seat.

They jogged across baseball diamonds and well — tended fields before abruptly crossing into the wilderness of Inwood Hill Park. The Ville itself was still invisible beyond the trees. Pendergast had chosen a good approach route: the Ville's attention would be directed elsewhere, allowing them to slip in unseen. D'Agosta could hear the sounds wafting out of the south on the evening breeze: the buzz of megaphones, the distant cries, the air horns. Whoever had planned this was very clever — allowing one raucous group to attract the attention of the police so that the other groups could organize and then descend en masse. If they didn't get Nora out before the main force made its move…

Ahead, Pendergast stopped, placed the duffel on the ground, opened it, and drew out two sets of coarse brown robes. D'Agosta, already sweating in the body armor he'd donned, felt glad it was a cold day. Pendergast passed him one of the robes, and he immediately pulled it over his head and tucked the hood up around his face. The FBI agent followed suit, examined himself in a pocket mirror, then held it up so D'Agosta could do the same. Not bad, if he kept the hood on and his head down. He watched as the agent pulled other supplies from the duffel — a small flashlight with extra batteries, a knife, a cold chisel and hammer, a set of lockpicks — and stowed them in a hip bag, which he then tucked beneath his robes. D'Agosta patted his own waist, satisfying himself that his Glock 19 and its extra magazines were within easy access.

Pendergast stowed the now — empty backpack under a fallen log, scraped some leaves over it, then nodded for D'Agosta to follow him up the embankment that lay directly ahead. They crawled up the steep slope, peered over the top. The Ville's chain — link fence stood about twenty yards off, this stretch of it rusted and decrepit, several gaping holes clearly visible. Fifty yards beyond lay the misshapen cluster of buildings, shadowy in the dying light of evening, the vast form of the old church dominating all.

D'Agosta remembered the first time he had been in these woods, clobbered on the head for his pains. He removed the Glock and kept it in his hand as he rose. That wouldn't happen again.

Following Pendergast, he darted to the chain — link fence, slipped through one of the gaps, and jogged at a crouch to the base of the outer walls of the Ville. They moved around the curve until they reached a small, rotting door set into the wall, locked with a padlock. A sharp blow of Pendergast's chisel wrenched it off, padlock, hinges, and all. The agent pushed it open to reveal a narrow, trash — strewn alley, almost completely enclosed by overhanging roofs, running along one side of the massive church. He ducked inside and D'Agosta followed, shutting the door behind them. Pendergast pressed his ear against the back wall of the church, and D'Agosta followed suit. Inside, he could hear a singsong voice rising and falling, a priestly tone full of quaverings and denunciations and exhortations, but too muffled and faint to discern any words — assuming it was English to begin with. Periodically a multivoiced response would come in unison, like the drone of a mindless chorus, and then the crazed chant would begin again.

Mingled with it came the faint, high — pitched whinnying of a frightened colt.

D'Agosta tried to push that horror out of his mind and focus on what they were doing. He moved down the alley at Pendergast's heels, ducking from doorway to darkened doorway, keeping his head bent and his face hidden. No one seemed about; most likely everyone was in the church for the vile ceremony. The alley made a sharp dogleg into a crazy complex of ancient, rickety buildings, then passed by a larger building attached to the church that looked like it might be the old parsonage or rectory.

The first door they came to in the parsonage was locked, but Pendergast had it open in less than five seconds. Stepping quickly inside, they found themselves in a room that was dark, the air stifling. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, D'Agosta saw that it was a dining room, with an old oak table, chairs, and many candles in candelabra with massive accumulations of drippings. The only light came from the CRT terminal of an old DOS — era computer, hugely out of place among the ancient furniture. Doorways to the east, south, and west led to even more shadowy rooms.

The sound of the priest's ranting was louder here, filtering in from an indeterminate direction.

All at once the problem that they faced — finding Nora in this vast asylum of buildings — seemed insurmountable. He immediately shook off the thought. One step at a time.

"The kitchens in these old houses always had a way down to the basement storerooms," Pendergast whispered. He chose a doorway seemingly at random — the one to the east — and walked through it. D'Agosta followed suit. They were in a pantry, stacked with burlap sacks that appeared to be full of grain. There, at the end, was an ancient, primitive dumbwaiter. Stepping past Pendergast, D'Agosta walked over, slid open the door, switched on the light, and peered down—waydown.

Suddenly, he heard a voice from behind them, loud and sharp. "You two. What are you doing here?"