Cemetery Dance

Chapter 80

Laura Hayward made her way cautiously through the shadowy vaults deep beneath the alleys and cloisters of the Ville. The screams and cries overhead, which seemed to have reached a crescendo, had abruptly receded: either the confrontation had spilled out into Inwood Hill Park or she had descended too deep into the earth to hear it. The basement passages of the Ville spread across many levels and sported numerous architectural styles, from crude hand — carved grottoes to elaborate stone — lined vaults with groined ceilings. It was as if successive waves of occupants, with a variety of needs and levels of sophistication, had each extended the underground spaces for their own purposes.

A quick glance at her watch showed that she had been exploring the basements for fifteen minutes now — fifteen minutes of dead ends and circuitous windings each more confusing and macabre than the last. Just how far could this subterranean maze extend? And where was Vincent? More than once she had considered calling out his name, but each time some sixth sense had cautioned her against it. Her radio proved useless.

Now she paused at a crossroads from which four short passages led away to banded iron doors. She chose one passage at random, traversed it, stopped at the door to listen, then opened it and stepped through. Beyond lay a dirty and foul — smelling tunnel, the floor spongy with mold, the ceiling woven with cobwebs. A constant drip, drip, drip of condensate fell from the slimy stonework overhead. Greasy drops pattered Hayward's hair and shoulders as she walked, and she flicked them away in disgust.

After about twenty yards, the passage split in two directions. Hayward went right, in what she believed to be the direction of the central church. The air was slightly less noisome here, the walls constructed of primitively dressed stone. She peered closely at the stonework, examining it with her flashlight. This was clearly not the wall in the video of Nora Kelly.

Suddenly, she straightened up. Was that a cry?

She stood motionless in the dark, listening intently. But whatever she had heard — if indeed she'd heard anything at all — did not sound again.

She moved forward. The stone passage ended in a massive, vaulted archway. Ducking underneath, she found herself in a crudely constructed mausoleum, supported by rotting timbers, a set of a dozen burial niches carved into the clay walls, each one with a rotting coffin. Charms and fetishes were everywhere: bags of leather and sequins; grotesque dolls with leering, oversize heads; maddeningly complex designs of spirals and crosshatches, painted onto boards and stretched hides. It was a subterranean temple to the dead leaders of the Ville, it seemed — or, perhaps, the undead. The coffins themselves were strange, banded with iron and padlocked, as if to keep the dead inside, some with massive spikes driven through them and into the clay below. Hayward shuddered, recalling some of the more colorful stories of her old cohorts on the New Orleans PD.

… Now it came again, and this time there was no question: a female voice, sobbing quietly — and coming out of the darkness directly ahead.

Nora Kelly? She moved forward as silently as she could through the voodoo — laden chamber, gun ready, keeping her flashlight shielded. The voice was muffled but it sounded close, perhaps only two or three chambers away. The niche — filled room ended in a passage that forked again; the sounds were coming from the left, and Hayward headed toward them. If it was Nora, she would probably be guarded — the Ville would have sent somebody down at the first sign of trouble.

The passage doglegged, then suddenly gave onto a vast crypt, its vaulted ceiling supported by heavy columns. In the dust — fragrant darkness, Hayward could make out row after row of wooden sarcophagi stretching ahead to the rear wall. There in the distance she could make out three figures, backlit by the intermittent flicker of what appeared to be a cigarette lighter. Two were women, one of whom was weeping quietly. The other, a man, was speaking to them in a low voice. His back was to Hayward, but by his tone and gesture he seemed to be reassuring them about something.

She felt her heart quicken. She took a step closer, then another. And then she was certain: the man across the room was Vincent D'Agosta.

"Vinnie!"

He turned. For a moment, he looked confused. Then a relieved smile broke over his face. "Laura! What are you doing here?"

She came forward quickly, no longer bothering to conceal her light. The women looked toward her as she approached, their faces pinched with fear.

D'Agosta's right arm was in an improvised sling; his face was scratched and dirty; his suit was torn and badly rumpled. But she was so relieved to see him she barely noticed.

She gave him a hasty embrace, awkward because of the sling. Then she paused to look at him. "Vinnie, you look like you've been dragged behind a car."

"I feel like it. Got a couple of people here who need help. They were with the protesters, got set on by some of the residents of the Ville and got lost trying to flee." He paused. "Are you down here looking for Nora, too?"

"No. I came for you."

"Me? What for?" He seemed almost offended.

"Pendergast told me you were down here, might be in danger."

"I was looking for Nora. You said Pendergast?"

"On his way out, he said he was going to get Nora. He told me she isn't here."

"What? Where is she?"

"He didn't say. But he said that something attacked you both. Something strange."

"That's right. Laura, if it's true Nora's not down here, we've got to get out of here. Now."

Abruptly, he fell silent. A moment later Hayward heard it as well: a fleshy pattering out of the darkness, like broad hands drumming a tattoo against the cold stonework. It was distant, but coming closer. A moment later, the skittering sound was overlaid by a wet smacking and a low groan like the gasp of a punctured bellows: aaaahuuuuuu …

One of the women gasped, took an instinctive stumbling step back. D'Agosta started. "Too late," he said. "It's back."