Cemetery Dance p-9

by Lincoln Child

  This time, the yells and applause shook the room itself.

  "Because that's what West Sider is all about. Sure, we're a new paper. But that makes us all the hungrier."

  Even as the last round of cheers died away, there was a fresh commotion at one end of the hall.

  "And so it's only right that the West Sider is sponsoring this new award!"

  A strange shudder — half gasp, half moan — rippled through the room. Nora frowned, looking over the sea of heads. Over by the entranceway, the crowds were surging backward, clearing an area. There were gasps, scattered cries of dismay.

  What the hell was happening?

  "With that said, I—" Caitlyn stopped in midsentence as she noticed it, too. She glanced toward the entrance. "Um, just a moment…"

  The strange ripple in the crowd grew, parting in the direction of the stage. There was something at its center, a figure that people seemed to be recoiling from. Screams, more incoherent cries. Then — most bizarre of all — the hall fell quiet.

  Caitlyn Kidd spoke into the silence. "Bill? Smithback?"

  The figure had lurched forward and was approaching the foot of the stage. Nora stared — then felt herself physically staggered by disbelief.

  It was Bill. He was dressed in a loose green hospital smock, open at the back. His skin was hideously sallow, and his face and hands were covered with caked blood. He was dreadfully, horribly changed, an apparition from someplacebeyond — an apparition horribly similar to the one that had chased her from the Ville. And yet there was no mistaking the cowlick that reared from the mass of matted hair; no mistaking the rangy limbs.

  "God," Nora heard herself groan. "Oh, God— "

  "Smithback!" Caitlyn cried, voice shrill.

  Nora couldn't move. Caitlyn screamed — a wail that cut through the air of the hall like a straight razor. "It's you!" she cried.

  The figure was mounting the stage. His movements were shuffling, erratic. His hands hung loosely at his sides. One of them held a heavy knife, the blade barely visible beneath a heavy accumulation of gore.

  Caitlyn backed up, screaming in sheer terror now.

  As Nora stared, unable to move, the figure of her husband lurched up the last step, shambled across the stage.

  "Bill!" Caitlyn said, shrinking back against the podium, her voice half lost in the rising cry of the crowd. "Wait! My God, no! Not me! NO! — "

  The knife hand hesitated, shaking, in the air. Then it plunged down — into Caitlyn's chest, rose again, plunged, a sudden fountain of blood spraying across the scabby arm that slashed down, up, down. And then the figure turned and fled behind the stage, and Nora felt her knees give way and a blackness engulf her, blotting out everything, overwhelming her utterly.

  Chapter 33

  The hallway smelled of cats. D'Agosta walked along it until he found apartment 5D. He rang the buzzer, listened as it echoed loudly inside. There was a shuffling of slippers, then the peephole darkened as an eye pressed against it.

  "Who is it?" came the quavering voice.

  "Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta." He held up his shield. "Hold it closer, I can't read it."

  He held it up to the peephole.

  "Step into view, I want to look at you."

  D'Agosta centered himself before the peephole.

  "What do you want?"

  "Mrs. Pizzetti, we spoke earlier. I'm investigating the Smithback homicide."

  "I don't have anything to do with no murders."

  "I know, Mrs. Pizzetti. But you agreed to talk to me about Mr. Smithback, who interviewed you for the Times. Remember?"

  A long wait. Then came the unbolting of one, two, three bolts, a chain being pulled back, and a brace being removed. The door opened a crack, held in place by a second chain.

  D'Agosta held up his badge again, and a pair of beady eyes gave it a twice — over.

  With a rattle, the final chain was pulled back and the door opened. The little old lady that D'Agosta had imagined materialized before him, frail as a bone — china teacup, bathrobe clutched tightly in one blue — veined hand, lips compressed. Her eyes, black and bright as a mouse's, looked him up and down.

  He quickly stepped inside to avoid having the door shut in his face. It was an old — fashioned apartment, heated to equatorial standards, large and cluttered, with overstuffed wing chairs and lace antimacassars, fringed lamps, knickknacks and bric — a — brac. And cats. Naturally.

  "May I?" D'Agosta indicated a chair.

  "Who's stopping you?"

  D'Agosta chose the least stuffed looking of the chairs, and yet his posterior still sank down alarmingly, as if in quicksand. A cat immediately jumped up on the arm and began purring loudly, arching its back.

  "Get down, Scamp, and leave the man alone." Mrs. Pizzetti had a heavy Queens accent.

  Naturally, the cat did not listen. D'Agosta did not like cats. He gave it a gentle push with his elbow. The cat only purred louder, thinking it was about to get petted.

  "Mrs. Pizzetti," said D'Agosta, removing his notebook and trying to ignore the cat, which was shedding hairs all over his brand — new Rothman's suit, "I understand you spoke to William Smithback on…" He consulted his notes. "October third."

  "I don't remember when it was." She shook her head. "It just gets worse and worse."

  "Can you tell me what it was you talked about?" "I had nothing to do with no murder."

  "I know that. You certainly aren't a suspect. Now, your meeting with Mr. Smithback…"

  "He brought me a little present. Let's see…" She began poking around in the apartment, her palsied hand finally settling on a small china cat. She brought it over to D'Agosta, tossed it in his lap. "He brought me this. Chinese. You can get them down on Canal Street."

  D'Agosta turned the knickknack over in his hand. This was a side of Smithback he hadn't known, bringing presents to little old ladies, even sour ones like Pizzetti. Of course, it was probably to secure an interview.

  "Very nice." He set it down on a side table. "What did you talk about, Mrs. Pizzetti?"

  "Those horrible animal killers over there." She gestured toward the nearest window. "There at the Ville."

  "Tell me what you said to him."

  "Well! You can hear the screams at night, when the wind is from the river. Horrible sounds, animals getting cut up, getting their throats cut!" Her voice rose and she said the last with a certain relish. "Someone should cuttheir throats!"

  "Was there anything specific, any incidents in particular?"

  "I told him about the van."

  At this D'Agosta felt his heart quicken. "The van?"

  "Every Thursday, like clockwork. Out the van goes at five. In it comes at nine at night."

  "Today is Thursday. Did you see it today?"

  "I certainly did, just like every Thursday evening."

  D'Agosta stood and went to the window. It looked west, out over the back of the building. He'd walked there himself, doing a quick recon of the area prior to the interview. An old road — apparently leading to the Ville — could be seen below, running along the fields and disappearing into the trees.

  "From this window?" he asked.

  "What other window is there? Of course from that window."

  "Any markings on the van?"

  "None that I could see. Just a white van."

  "Model, make?"

  "I don't know about those things. It's white, dirty. Old. Piece of junk."

  "You ever see the driver?" "From up here, how could I see anyone inside? But when my window's open at night, I can sometimes hear sounds from the van. That's what made me notice it in the first place."

  "Sounds? What kind?"

  "Bleating. Whimpering."

  "Animal sounds?"

  "Certainly, animal sounds."

  "May I?" He indicated the window.

  "And let the cold air in? You should see my heating bills."

  "Just for a moment." Without waiting for the woman to reply, he lifted the double — hung — it we
nt up easily — and leaned out. The fall evening was cool and quiet. It was believable she'd hear something in the van, if it was loud enough.

  "Look here, if you need fresh air, do it on somebody else's dime."

  D'Agosta shut the window. "How's your hearing, Mrs. Pizzetti? Do you wear a hearing aid?"

  "How's your hearing, Officer?" she snapped back. "Mine is perfect."

  "Anything else you remember telling Smithback — or anything else about the Ville?"

  She seemed to hesitate. "People talk about seeing something wandering around over there, inside the fence."

  "Something? An animal?"

  She shrugged. "And then they sometimes come out at night. In the van. Gone all night and come back in the morning."

  "Often?"

  "Two or three times a year."

  "Any idea what they're up to?"

  "Oh yes. Recruiting. For their cult."

  "How do you know?"

  "That's what people around here say. The old — timers."

  "What people, specifically, Mrs. Pizzetti?"

  She shrugged. "Can you give me any names?"

  "Oh no. I'm not dragging my neighbors into this. They'd kill me."

  D'Agosta found himself becoming exasperated with this difficult old lady. "What else do you know?"

  "I don't remember anything else. Except cats. He was very fond of cats."

  "Excuse me, who was fond of cats?"

  "That reporter, Smithback. Who else?"

  Fond of cats. Smithback was good at his job, knew how to gain people's trust, establish a connection with them. D'Agosta recollected that Smithback loathed cats. He cleared his throat, checked his watch. "So the van is due back in an hour?"

  "Never fails."

  D'Agosta exited the building, breathing deep of the night air. Quiet, leafy. Hard to believe it was still Manhattan Island. He checked his watch: just after eight. He'd seen a diner down the street; he'd grab a cup of coffee and wait.

  * * *

  The van came right on schedule, a '97 Chevy Express with windows in front only, deeply tinted, and a ladder running up to the roof. It eased slowly onto Indian Road from West 214th, cruised the length of the block, then turned into the stem road leading to the Ville. It stopped at the padlocked chain.

  D'Agosta timed his steps so that he was just crossing behind the van as the driver's door opened. A man got out, went up to the padlock, and unlocked it. D'Agosta couldn't get a clear view in the dim light, but he seemed to be extraordinarily tall. He wore a long coat that looked almost antique, like something out of a Western movie. D'Agosta paused to fish out and light a cigarette, keeping his head down. Chain down, the man came back, got in the cab, drove the van across the chain, stopped again.

  Dropping the cigarette, D'Agosta darted forward, keeping the van between himself and the man. He listened as the man raised the chain again, padlocked it, and returned to the driver's door. Then, keeping low, D'Agosta slid around to the rear, stepping onto the bumper and grabbing hold of the ladder. This was public land, city land. There was no reason why an officer of the law couldn't enter, as long as he didn't trespass inside any private buildings.

  The van crept forward, the driver cautious and slow. They left the dim lights of Upper Manhattan behind and were soon among the dark, silent trees of Inwood Hill Park. Although the windows were closed tight, the sounds Mrs. Pizzetti had mentioned were all too plain to D'Agosta: a chorus of crying, bleating, meowing, barking, clucking, and — even more horrifying — the terrified whinny of what could only be a newborn colt. At the thought of the pitiful menagerie within, and the fate that they seemed all too clearly destined for, D'Agosta felt white — hot anger boil up inside him.

  The van crested a hill, descended, then stopped. D'Agosta heard the driver get out. As he did so,

  D'Agosta leapt from the rear of the van and sprinted into the nearby woods, diving into the dark leaves. Rolling into a crouch, he glanced back in the direction of the van. The driver was unlocking an old gate in a chain — link fence, and for the briefest of instants the face passed through the glow of the headlights. His skin was pale, and there was something strikingly refined, almost aristocratic, about it.

  The van went through the gate; the man emerged once again and relocked it; then, getting back in, he drove on. D'Agosta rose and brushed off the leaves, his hands trembling with fury. Nothing was going to keep him out now, not with all those animals at risk. He was an officer of the law in performance of his duty. As a homicide detective, he didn't normally wear a uniform; taking his badge out and pinning it to his lapel, he scaled the chain — link fence and set off down the road, where the taillights of the van had disappeared. The road curved and ahead he could faintly make out the spire of a large, rudely built church, surrounded by a disorganized cluster of dim lights.

  After a minute, he stopped in the middle of the road and turned, peering into the darkness. Some cop instinct told him he wasn't alone. He pulled out his Maglite and played it about the tree trunks, the dead bushes with their rustling leaves.

  "Who's there?"

  Silence.

  D'Agosta turned off the Maglite and slipped it back into his pocket. He continued staring into the darkness. There was the faint light of a quarter moon, and the trunks of the beech trees seemed to float in the darkness like long scabby legs. He listened intently. Therewas something there. He could feel it — and now he could hear it. A faint crush of damp leaves, the crack of a twig.

  He reached for his service revolver. "I'm a New York City police officer," he rapped out. "Step into the roadway, please." He left the torch off — he could see farther into the gloom without it.

  Now he could see, just barely, a pale shape moving with a strange, lurching gait through the trees. It ducked into a stand of deep brush and he lost it. A strange moaning floated out from the woods, in — articulate and sepulchral, as if from a mouth yawning wide and slack: aaaaahhhhhuuuu …

  He slipped the torch out of his holster, turned it on, flashed it through the trees. Nothing.

  This was bullshit. Some kids were playing a game with him.

  He strode toward the area of brush, playing the light about. It was a large tangle of overgrown azaleas and mountain laurel stretching for hundreds of feet — he paused, and then pushed in.

  In response, he heard the rustling of brush to his right. He flashed the light toward it, but the bright beam striking the tightly packed brush prevented him from seeing deeper. He switched off the light and waited, his eyes adjusting. He spoke calmly. "This is public property and I'm a police officer — show yourself now or I'll charge you with resisting arrest."

  The single crack of a twig came, once again from his right. Turning toward it, he saw a figure rear up out of the bracken: pallid, sickly green skin; slack face smeared with blood and mucus; clothes hanging from knobby limbs in rags and tatters.

  "Hey, you!" It reared back, as if temporarily losing its balance, then lurched forward and began to approach with an almost diabolical hunger. One eye swiveled toward him, then moved away; the other eye was hidden in a thick crusting of blood or perhaps mud.Aaaaahhuuuu …

  "Jesus Christ!" D'Agosta yelled, leaping backward, dropping the flashlight and fumbling for his service piece, a Glock 19.

  Abruptly, the thing rushed him, bulling through the brush with a crashing sound; he raised his gun but at the same moment felt a stunning blow to his head, a humming sound, and then nothing.

  Chapter 34

  Monica Hatto's eyes flew open and she straightened at her desk, squaring her shoulders, trying to look alert. She glanced around nervously. The big clock against the tiled wall opposite her indicated it was half past nine. The last night — desk receptionist in the morgue annex had been fired for sleeping on the job. Adjusting the papers on the desk, she looked about once again, relaxing somewhat. The fluorescent lights in the annex cast their usual pall over the tiled floors and walls, and the air smelled of the usual chemicals. All was quiet.

 
; But something had woken her up.

  Hatto rose and smoothed her hands down her sides, adjusting her uniform over her copious love — handles, trying to look neat, alert, and presentable. This was one job she couldn't afford to lose. It paid well and, what's more, came with health benefits.

  There was a muffled sound, almost like a commotion, somewhere upstairs. A "mort" was on its way, perhaps. Hatto smiled to herself, proud of her growing command of the lingo. She slipped a makeup mirror from her handbag and touched up her lips, adjusted her hair with a few deft pats, examined her nose for that horrid oily shine.

  She heard a second sound, the faint boom of an elevator door closing. Another once — over, a dab of scent, and the mirror went back into the bag, the bag back over the arm of her chair, the papers once more squared on the desk.

  Now the sound of pounding of feet came, not from the bank of elevators, but from the stairwell. That was odd.

  The feet approached rapidly. Then the stairwell door flew open with a crash and a woman came tearing down the corridor, wearing a black cocktail dress, running in high — heeled shoes, her copper hair flying.

  Hatto was so surprised she didn't know what to say.

  The woman came to stop in the middle of the annex, her face gray in the ghastly fluorescent light.

  "Can I help you—" Hatto began.

  "Where is it?" the woman screamed. "I want to see it!" Monica Hatto stared. "It?"

  "My husband's body! William Smithback!"

  Hatto backed up, terrified. The woman was crazy. As she waited for an answer, sobbing, Hatto could hear the rumble of the slow, slow elevator starting up.

  "The name's Smithback! Where is it?"

  On the desk behind her, a voice suddenly bawled out of the intercom. "Security breach! We've got a security breach! Hatto, you read?"

  The voice broke the spell. Hatto punched the button.

  "There's a—"

  The voice on the intercom overrode hers. "You got a nutcase coming your way! Female, might be violent! Don't engage her physically! Security's on its way!"

  "She's already—"

  "Smithback!" the woman cried. "The journalist who was murdered!"