"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."
Chapter 58
Nora Kelly lay in the dark, listening. The room was as silent as the grave. No matter how hard she tried, she could not detect the normal, reassuring background sounds of the outside world: cars, voices, footsteps, wind in the trees. There weren't even the sounds of mice or rats in the damp basement.
Once she had recovered her wits and gained control of her fear, she had performed a minute exploration of her prison: first once, and then twice. It had taken hours. She had to work by feel — the only glimpse she'd had of her cell was when she'd been videotaped, and at the time she'd been too disoriented and upset to use the opportunity to memorize her surroundings.
Nevertheless, her tactile explorations had given her a clear impression of her cell — almost too clear. The floor was poured concrete, and it was very fresh and damp, with a strong cement smell. It was covered by straw. The dimensions of her prison, which she had measured by several meticulous pacings — off, were approximately ten feet by sixteen. The walls were rough mortared stone, probably granite, and absolutely solid, with no opening of any kind except the door. That was of heavy wood, massively plated and riveted with iron (which she determined by taste); she had the impression it was a new door, custom — built for the cellar, since its frame was lower and narrower than standard. The ceiling was a low vault of cemented brick, which she could touch around the edges, rising to a higher point in the middle. There were some rusty iron hooks on the wall and ceiling, indicating that the room had perhaps once been used for curing meat.
There were two things in the cell: a bucket in one corner to serve as a latrine, and a gallon plastic jug filled with water. She had been given no food at all during the time she had been imprisoned. In the pitch — dark it was hard to tell the passage of time, but she felt certain it had been at least twenty — four hours. Strangely enough, she didn't mind being hungry; it had the effect of sharpening her mind.
You won't live long enough for my name to make any difference. That was all her captor had said, and Nora knew he meant it. No effort was being made to keep her alive, to supply her with fresh air, to make sure she was returned to the land of the living in acceptable physical condition. More than that: the tone of voice had been so casual, and yet so quietly certain, that she felt in her bones it was the truth.
It seemed unlikely she would be rescued. Cooperation was not an option — she would merely be cooperating with her own death. She had to escape.
As methodically as if she was classifying potsherds, Nora explored every possible avenue of escape she could think of. Could she somehow dig through the not — fully — cured concrete floor? The plastic bucket and jug offered nothing to work with. She had no shoes or belt: she was still dressed in her flimsy hospital robe. The hooks were firmly attached to the ceiling. She had nothing but her fingernails and teeth to scrape with, and that was impossible.
Next she considered the mortared walls. She went over them with great care, testing each stone, probing the mortar in between. No luck. The stones were solid; none felt loose. The stones and the bricks in the ceiling seemed to have had been freshly repointed, and there wasn't even a crack in which she could insert a fingernail.
The door was equally impossible: immobile and immensely strong. There was no lock on the inside, or even a keyhole: it was probably bolted and padlocked on the far side. There was a small window in the door, barred on the inside, with a metal shutter that remained closed and loc
ked. The room was so silent, it was clearly underground and soundproof.
This left only one option: overpower her jailer when he returned. To do that, she had to have a plan. And she had to have a weapon.
She thought first of the rusty hooks in the walls and ceiling; but they were of thick iron and too strong to work loose or break off. Even the bucket had no handle. She had her hands, feet, nails, and teeth to use as weapons. They would have to do.
He needed her alive, as least for now. Why? He had to prove to someone that she was alive. Was it for ransom? Possibly. Or was it to serve as a hostage? There was no way to know. She only knew that, once he had what he needed, he would kill her.
Simple.
She marveled at her own calmness. Why wasn't she more afraid? That was simple, too. After Bill's death, there was nothing left to fear. The worst had already occurred.
She sat up, did thirty sit — ups to get her blood flowing. The sudden exercise, combined with the lack of food and the concussion, made her momentarily dizzy. But when her head cleared, she felt more alert than ever.
A plan. Could she could feign sickness, draw him into the room, pretend to be unconscious — and then attack? But that wouldn't work: it was a lame trick, and he wouldn't fall for it.
His next appearance might be to kill her. She had to make sure that, when her jailer returned, he couldn't just execute her with a shot through the door slot. No; she would have to position herself such that he'd need to open the door and step inside if he wanted to kill her. That place was obviously behind the door. The darkness would be her ally. When he came in — that would be her only moment. She had to be ready to explode into action. She would go straight for the eyes. This was the man who had killed her husband — she was sure of it. She allowed her hatred for him to fill her with energy.
She began running through the steps in her mind, previsualizing the door opening, her leap, his falling back, her thumbs in his eyes. And then she would go for his gun, pull it, and kill him…
A sound interrupted her, a tiny sound, unidentifiable. Like a cat she leapt to the far side of the door and crouched in the dark, placing one foot forward, balancing herself almost like a runner in blocks, preparing to spring. She heard a padlock unlocking, a heavy bolt shooting back. The door opened slightly and a dim light fell across the floor. The door hit her foot and stopped.
"Movie time," said the voice. "I'm coming in." The light from the camcorder switched on, illuminating her cell in a brilliant white light that temporarily blinded her. She waited, tensing, struggling to focus her eyes.
The bright light suddenly swung around the door, shining directly in her face. She lunged at it, thumbs grasping and stiffening toward her captor's head. But the dazzling light blinded her and with a grunt the man caught her wrists in a vise — like grip, dropping the light. She felt herself wrenched aside with great force and thrown to the floor, kicked hard in the stomach. The light had clattered to the floor but the man immediately swept it up again and retreated a couple of steps.
She stared up from the floor, gasping, trying to recover her breath. The light focused on her afresh, the lens beneath winking; the man behind remained completely invisible in the dark. Again the unbearable thought flashed through her mind: This is the man who murdered my husband.
With a shuddering intake of air she rose and ran once again at the man behind the light, clawing at him, but he was ready. A blow struck the side of her head and the next thing she knew she was lying on the floor, her ears ringing afresh, points of light dancing across her field of vision.
The video light blinked off; the figure withdrew; the door began to close. Nora struggled to her knees, suddenly weak, her head pounding, but the bolt shot home before she could stand. She grasped the door, hauled herself painfully upward.
"You're a dead man," she gasped, pounding her fist on the door. "I swear I'll kill you." "It's vice versa, you little vixen," came the voice. "Expect me — soon."
Chapter 59
D'Agosta stoodin the back of the squad room, arms folded across his chest, staring at the rows of seated officers before him, listening as Harry Chislett magisterially briefed the troops about the impending "parade event" — that's how the pompous prick referred to it — about to take place outside the Ville. Parade, my ass, thought D'Agosta impatiently. Just because Esteban and Plock had secured a parade permit didn't mean they were planning to march past the Ville with measured pace singing "Give Peace a Chance." D'Agosta had seen how ugly that first crowd had grown, and how quickly. Chislett hadn't — he'd left practically before the damn protest started. And now here he was, gesturing grandly at diagrams on a whiteboard, talking about protection, crowd control, and various tactical nuances as calmly as if he were mapping out a DAR cotillion.
As he listened to the lame plans unfold, D'Agosta felt his hands balling into fists. He'd tried to explain to Chislett that there was a good chance Nora Kelly was being held by the Ville, and that any outburst of violence from the protesters might mean her death. There was more to this than logistics; with any large crowd, violence and mob mentality were a mere heartbeat away. Nora Kelly's life might hang in the balance. But the deputy chief didn't see it that way. "The burden of proof rests on your shoulders," he'd intoned pompously. "Where's your evidence that Nora Kelly is in the Ville?" It was all D'Agosta could do not to sink his fist in the man's adipose tissue.
"We'll have three control points, here, here, and here," Chislett intoned, with another tap of his pointer. "Two at the central nodes of ingress and egress, one at the entrance to Inwood Hill Park. Chain of command will flow from those down to the forward field positions."
"Allemande left with your left hand," D'Agosta muttered to himself. "Right to your partner, right and left grand."
"It does seem that Deputy Chief Chislett is rather missing the point," said a familiar voice at his elbow. D'Agosta turned to see Pendergast standing beside him. "Good afternoon, Vincent," the agent drawled.
"What are you doing here?" D'Agosta asked in surprise.
"I came looking for you."
"Where's your pal, Bertin?"
"He has retreated to the safety of the back bayou. It's just you and me once again."
D'Agosta felt a surge of hope go through him — something he hadn't felt in days. At least Pendergast understood the gravity of the situation. "Then you know we can't wait any longer," he said. "We have to get the hell in there and rescue Nora, now."
"I quite agree."
"If that riot takes place while Nora's being held in the Ville, there's a good chance she'll be killed immediately."
"Again, I would agree — assuming she is at the Ville."
"Assuming? Where else could she be? I had the soundprint on the video analyzed."
"I'm aware of that," Pendergast said. "The experts didn't seem to agree with you that it was an animal."
"Then to hell with the experts. I can't take this waiting anymore. I'm going in."
Pendergast nodded, as if he'd expected this. "Very well. But one thing, Vincent — we must not divide our strength. The Ville is involved in some way, yes. But how? That is the puzzle. There's something going on here I don't yet have a finger on — something that feels wrong to me."
"You're damn right it's wrong. Nora Kelly is about to die."
The special agent shook his head. "That's not what I mean. Do I have your word, Vincent — we do this together?"
D'Agosta looked at him. "You got it." "Excellent. My car is waiting downstairs."
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 grunte
d 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.
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