Cemetery Dance

by Douglas Preston

  She locked the door to the lab, then turned on her Mac. Once it had booted up, she opened the database of her potsherds. Unlocking a drawer of trays, she pulled one open, exposing dozens of plastic bags full of numbered potsherds. She opened the first bag, arranged the potsherds on the felt of the tabletop, and began classifying them by type, date, and location. It was tedious, mindless work—but that’s what she needed right now. Mindless work.

  After half an hour, she paused. It was as silent as a tomb in the basement lab, with the faint hissing of the forced-air system like a steady whisper in the darkness. The nightmare at the hospital had spooked her—the dream had been so real. Most dreams faded with time, but this one, if anything, seemed to grow in clarity.

  She shook her head, annoyed at her mind’s tendency to keep circling the same horrifying things. Rapping the computer keys harder than necessary, she finished entering the current batch of data, saved the file, then began packing away the sherds, clearing the table for the next bagful.

  A soft knock came at the door.

  Not another condolence visit. Nora glanced over at the little glass window set into the door, but the hallway beyond was so dim she could see nothing. After a moment, she stood up, walked to the door, placed her hand on the knob. Then she paused.

  “Who is it?”

  “Primus Hornby.”

  With a feeling of dismay, Nora unlocked the door to find the small, tub-like anthropology curator standing before her, morning paper folded under one fat little arm, a plump hand nervously rubbing his bald pate. “I’m glad I found you in. May I?”

  Reluctantly, Nora stepped aside to let the curator pass. The disheveled little man swept in and turned. “Nora, I’m so dreadfully sorry.” His hand continued to nervously rub his bald spot. She didn’t respond—couldn’t respond. She didn’t know what to say or how to say it.

  “I’m glad you’ve come back to work. I find work is the universal healer.”

  “Thank you for your concern.” Perhaps he would leave now. But he had the look of a man with something on his mind.

  “I lost my wife some years ago, when I was doing fieldwork in Haiti. She was killed in a car crash in California while I was away. I know what you must be feeling.”

  “Thank you, Primus.”

  He moved deeper into the lab. “Potsherds, I see. How beautiful they are. An example of the human urge to make beautiful even the most mundane of objects.”

  “Yes, it is.” When will he leave? Nora suddenly felt guilty for the reaction. In his own way, he was trying to be kind. But this just wasn’t the way she grieved, all this talk and commiseration and condolence offering.

  “Forgive me, Nora…” He hesitated. “But I must ask. Do you plan on burying your husband or having him cremated?”

  The question was so bizarre that for a moment Nora was taken aback. The question was one she had been deliberately avoiding, and she knew she had to face it soon.

  “I don’t know,” she said, rather more curtly than she intended.

  “I see.” Hornby looked unaccountably dismayed. Nora wondered what was coming next. “As I said, I did my fieldwork in Haiti.”

  “Yes.”

  Hornby seemed to be growing more agitated. “In Dessalines, where I lived, they sometimes use Formalazen as an embalming fluid instead of the usual compound of formalin, ethanol, and methanol.”

  The conversation seemed to be taking on an unreal cast. “Formalazen,” Nora repeated.

  “Yes. It’s far more poisonous and difficult to handle, but they prefer it for… well, for certain reasons. Sometimes they make it even more toxic by dissolving rat poison in it. In certain unusual cases—certain types of death—they also ask the mortician to suture the mouth shut.” He hesitated again. “And in such cases they bury their dead facedown, mouth to the earth, with a long knife in one hand. Sometimes they fire a bullet or drive a piece of iron into the corpse’s heart to… well, to kill it again.”

  Nora stared at the odd little curator. She had always known he was eccentric, that he’d been touched a little too deeply by the strange nature of his studies, but this was something so monstrously out of place she could hardly believe it. “How interesting,” she managed to say.

  “They can be very careful about how they bury their dead in Dessalines. They follow strict rules at great financial expense. A proper burial can cost two or three years’ annual salary.”

  “I see.”

  “Once again, I’m so dreadfully sorry.” And with that, the curator unfolded the newspaper he’d been carrying under his arm and laid it on the table. It was a copy of that morning’s West Sider.

  Nora stared at the headline:

  TIMES REPORTER KILLED BY ZOMBIE?

  Hornby tapped the headline with a stubby finger. “My work was in this very area. Voodoo. Obeah. Zombiis—spelled correctly with two i’s, of course, not like how they spelled it here. Of course, the West Sider gets everything wrong.” He sniffed.

  “What—?” Nora found herself speechless, staring at the headline.

  “So if you do decide to bury your husband, I hope you’ll keep what I’ve said in mind. If you have any questions, Nora, I am always here.”

  And with a final, sad smile, the little curator was gone, leaving the newspaper on the table.

  10

  The Rolls-Royce purred through the shabby town of Kerhonkson, glided over a cracked asphalt road past a shuttered Borscht Belt hotel, and then wound its way down into a gloomy river valley closed in by damp trees. One last steep bend and a weather-beaten Victorian house came into view, adjoining a low-lying complex of brick buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence. A sign bathed in late-afternoon shadow announced they were entering the Willoughby Manor Extended Care Facility.

  “Jesus,” said D’Agosta. “Looks like a prison.”

  “It is one of the more infamous dumping grounds for the infirm and aged in New York State,” said Pendergast. “Their HHS file is a foot thick with violations.”

  They drove through the open gate, past an unmanned pillbox, and crossed a vast and empty visitors’ parking lot, weeds sprouting up through a web of cracks. Proctor pulled the vehicle up to the main entrance and D’Agosta heaved himself out, already regretting leaving the cushy seats behind. Pendergast followed. Entering the facility via a pair of dingy Plexiglas doors, they found themselves in a lobby smelling of moldy carpet and aging mashed potatoes. A handwritten sign on a wooden stand in the center of the lobby read:

  Visitors MUST Check In!

  A scrawled arrow pointed to a corner, where a desk was manned by a woman reading Cosmopolitan. She must have weighed at least three hundred pounds.

  D’Agosta removed his shield. “Lieutenant D’Agosta, Special Agent—”

  “Visiting hours are from ten to two,” she said from behind the magazine.

  “Excuse me. We’re police officers.” D’Agosta just wasn’t going to take any more shit from anyone, not on this case.

  The woman finally put down the magazine and stared at them.

  D’Agosta let her stare at his badge for a moment, then he returned it to his suit pocket. “We’re here to see Mrs. Gladys Fearing.”

  “All right.” The woman pressed an intercom button and bawled into it. “Cops here to see Fearing!” She turned back to them with a face that had gone from slatternly to unexpectedly eager. “What happened? Somebody commit a crime?”

  Pendergast leaned forward, adopting a confidential manner. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Murder,” Pendergast whispered.

  The woman gasped and placed her hand over her mouth. “Where? Here?”

  “New York City.”

  “Was it Mrs. Fearing’s son?”

  “You mean Colin Fearing?”

  D’Agosta glanced at Pendergast. Where the hell is he going?

  Pendergast straightened up, adjusted his tie. “You know Colin well?”

  “Not really.”

  �
��But he visited regularly, did he not? Last week, for example?”

  “I don’t think so.” The woman pulled over a register book, flipped through it. “No.”

  “It must have been the week before.” Pendergast leaned over to look at the book.

  She continued flipping through it, Pendergast’s silvery eyes on the pages. “Nope. Last time he visited was in… February. Eight months ago.”

  “Really!”

  “Look for yourself.” She turned the book around so Pendergast could see. He examined the scrawled signature, then began flipping back to the beginning of the book, his eyes taking in every page. He straightened up. “It seems he didn’t visit often.”

  “Nobody visits often.”

  “And her daughter?”

  “I didn’t know she even had a daughter. Never visited.”

  Pendergast laid a kindly hand on her massive shoulder. “In answer to your question, yes, Colin Fearing is dead.”

  She paused, eyes growing wide. “Murdered?”

  “We don’t know the cause of his death yet. So no one’s told his mother?”

  “Nobody. I don’t think anyone here knew. But…” She hesitated. “You’re not here to tell her, are you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I don’t think you should. Why ruin the last few months of her life? I mean, he hardly ever visited, and he never stayed long. She won’t miss him.”

  “What was he like?”

  She made a face. “I wouldn’t want a son like him.”

  “Indeed? Please explain.”

  “Rude. Nasty. He called me Big Bertha.” She flushed.

  “Outrageous! And what is your name, my dear?”

  “Jo-Ann.” She hesitated. “You won’t tell Mrs. Fearing about his death, will you?”

  “Very compassionate of you, Jo-Ann. And now, may we see Mrs. Fearing?”

  “Where is that aide?” She was about to press the intercom again, then thought better of it. “I’ll take you myself. Follow me. I ought to warn you: Mrs. Fearing’s pretty batty.”

  “Batty,” Pendergast repeated. “I see.”

  The woman struggled up from her chair, most eager to be of help. They followed her down a long, dim linoleum corridor, assaulted by more disagreeable smells: human elimination, boiled food, vomit. Each door they passed presented its own suite of noises: mumbling, groaning, frantic loud talking, snoring.

  The woman paused at an open door and knocked. “Mrs. Fearing?”

  “Go away,” came the feeble answer.

  “Some gentlemen to see you, Mrs. Fearing!” Jo-Ann tried to muster a bright, artificial voice.

  “I don’t want to see anybody,” came the voice from within.

  “Thank you, Jo-Ann,” Pendergast said in his most suave tone. “We can handle it from here. You’re a treasure.”

  They stepped inside. The room was small, with a minimum of furniture and personal possessions. It was dominated by a hospital bed that lay in the center of the linoleum-tiled floor. Pendergast deftly slipped into a chair next to the bed.

  “Go away,” said the woman again, her voice weak and without conviction. She lay in the bed, her uncombed, snowy hair frizzed about her head in a halo, her once blue eyes now almost white, skin as delicate and transparent as parchment. D’Agosta could see the gleaming curve of her scalp below the straggly hairs. Dirty dishes from lunch, hours old, were parked on a hospital table with wheels.

  “Hello, Gladys,” Pendergast said, taking her hand. “How are you?”

  “Lousy.”

  “May I ask you a personal question?”

  “No.”

  Pendergast pressed the hand. “Do you remember your first teddy bear?”

  The washed-out eyes stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Your first stuffed teddy. Do you remember?”

  A slow, wondering nod.

  “What was its name?”

  A long silence. And then she spoke. “Molly.”

  “A nice name. What happened to Molly?”

  Another long pause. “I don’t know.”

  “Who gave you Molly?”

  “Daddy. For Christmas.”

  D’Agosta could see a flicker of life kindling in those dull eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered where Pendergast could possibly be going with such a bizarre line of questioning.

  “What a wonderful present she must have made,” Pendergast said. “Tell me about Molly.”

  “She was made out of socks sewed together and stuffed with rags. She had a bow tie painted on her. I loved that bear. I slept with her every night. When I was with her, I was safe. Nobody could hurt me.” A radiant smile broke out on the old lady’s face, and a tear welled up in one eye and ran down her cheek.

  Pendergast quickly offered her a Kleenex from a packet he slipped out of his pocket. She took it, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose. “Molly,” she repeated, in a faraway voice. “What I wouldn’t give to hold that silly old stuffed bear again.” For the first time the eyes seemed to focus on Pendergast. “Who are you?”

  “A friend,” said Pendergast. “Just come to chat.” He rose from his chair.

  “Do you have to go?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Come back. I like you. You’re a fine young man.”

  “Thank you. I will try.”

  On the way out, Pendergast handed his card to Jo-Ann. “If anyone calls on Mrs. Fearing, would you be so kind as to let me know?”

  “Of course!” She took the card with something close to reverence.

  A moment later they were outside the entrance, in the shabby, empty parking lot, the Rolls gliding up to fetch them. Pendergast held open the door for D’Agosta. Fifteen minutes later they were on Interstate 87, winging their way back to New York City.

  “Did you notice the old painting in the hall outside Mrs. Fearing’s room?” Pendergast murmured. “I do believe that is an original Bierstadt, badly in need of cleaning.”

  D’Agosta shook his head. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about, or do you enjoy keeping me in the dark?”

  With an amused gleam in his eye, Pendergast slipped a test tube out of his suitcoat. Stuffed inside was a damp tissue.

  D’Agosta stared. He hadn’t even seen Pendergast retrieve the used tissue. “For DNA?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And that business about the teddy bear?”

  “Everyone had a teddy bear. The point of the exercise was to get her to blow her nose.”

  D’Agosta was shocked. “That was low.”

  “On the contrary.” He slipped the tube back into his pocket. “Those were tears of joy she shed. We brightened up Mrs. Fearing’s day, and she in her turn did us a service.”

  “I hope we can get it analyzed before Steinbrenner sells the Yankees.”

  “Once again, we shall have to operate not only outside the box, but outside the room containing the box.”

  “Meaning?”

  But Pendergast merely smiled enigmatically.

  11

  Nora, I am very sorry!” The doorman opened the door with a flourish and took her hand, enveloping her with a smell of hair tonic and aftershave. “Everything is ready in your apartment. Locks change. Everything fix up. I have the new key. I offer my sincere condolence. Sincere.”

  Nora felt the cold, flat key pressed into her hand.

  “If you need my help, let me know.” He gazed at her with genuine sorrow in his liquid brown eyes.

  Nora swallowed. “Thank you, Enrico, for your concern.” The phrase had become almost automatic.

  “Anytime. Anything. You call and Enrico come.”

  “Thank you.” She headed toward the elevator; hesitated; started forward again. She had to do this without thinking too much about it.

  The elevator doors clunked shut and the machine ascended smoothly to the sixth floor. When they opened, Nora didn’t move. Then, just as they began to close again, she stepped quickly out into the hall.

  Everythin
g was quiet. A muted Beethoven string quartet issued from behind one door, muffled conversation from behind another. She took a step, then hesitated once again. Ahead, near the turn of the hall, she could see the door to their—to her—apartment. Brass numbers screwed onto it read 612.

  She walked slowly down the hall until she faced the door. The spyhole was black, the lights off inside. The lock cylinder and plate were brand new. She opened her hand and stared at the key: shiny, freshly cut. It didn’t seem real. None of this seemed real. Jamais vu—the opposite of déjà vu. It was as if she were seeing everything for the first time.

  Slowly, she inserted the key, turned it. The lock clicked, then she felt the door go loose in its frame. She gave it a push, and it eased open on newly oiled hinges. The apartment beyond was dark. She reached inside for the light switch, fumbled for it, couldn’t find it. Where is it? She stepped into the darkness, still fumbling along the blank wall, her heart suddenly pounding. She was enveloped by a smell—of cleaning fluids, wood polish… and something else.

  The door began to shut behind her, blocking off the light from the hall. With a muffled cry she reached back, grabbed the door-knob, wrenched the door back open, stepped back into the hall and closed the door. She leaned her head against it, shoulders shaking violently, trying to force down the sobs that engulfed her.

  Within a few minutes, she had herself more or less under control. She glanced up and down the hall, grateful nobody had walked by. She was half embarrassed, half afraid of the storm of emotions she’d been keeping bottled up. It had been stupid to think she could just walk back into the apartment where her husband had been murdered only forty-eight hours before. She’d go to Margo Green’s apartment, stay with her for a few days—but then she remembered that Margo was on sabbatical leave until January.

  She had to get out. She rode the elevator back down to the first floor and walked through the lobby on rubbery legs. The doorman opened the door. “Anything you need, you call Enrico,” he said as she almost ran past.

  She walked east on 92nd Street to Broadway. It was a cool but still pleasant October evening, and the sidewalks were crowded with people on their way to restaurants, walking their dogs, or just going home. Nora began to walk, briskly; the air would clear her head. She headed downtown, moving fast, dodging people. Out here, on the street, among the crowds, she found herself getting her thoughts under control, finding some perspective on what had just happened. It was stupid to react this way—she had to go back into the apartment sometime, and sooner rather than later. All her books, her work, her computer, his stuff—everything was there.