Cemetery Dance

by Douglas Preston

  “Anyway, thinking back, I realized that the weird stuff that began showing up at our door—the little fetishes, the inscribed dust—started right around the time Bill published his first article on the Ville. I don’t know exactly how or why, but I think they may be involved in all this.”

  “Fearing’s alleged suicide took place near there,” said D’Agosta. “On the swinging trestle at Spuyten Duyvil, next to Inwood Hill Park.”

  “This is extremely important information, Nora,” said Pendergast, holding her gaze intently. “Now please listen. I implore you to stop further investigations. You’ve done more than enough. I made a dreadful mistake asking for your help with the DNA work—it appears your husband’s death has affected my judgment.”

  Nora stared back. “I’m sorry, it’s way too late to stop me now.”

  Pendergast hesitated. “We can’t protect you and solve your husband’s murder both.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “I urge you to follow my advice. I’ve already lost one friend in Bill—I don’t want to lose another.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer. Then he thanked her again for the DNA results, nodded his good-bye, and followed D’Agosta out the door.

  Nora stood at her desk as their footsteps receded. For a time she did nothing, merely tapping a pencil absently against the veneer of the desktop. Then at last she lifted the phone on her desk and dialed Caitlyn Kidd. “It’s Nora Kelly,” she said when the reporter answered. “I’ve got some information for you. Meet me at midnight tonight at the corner of Indian Road and West Two Hundred Fourteenth Street.”

  “Two Hundred Fourteenth?” came the reply. “What’s all the way up there?”

  “I’m going to show you a story—a big story.”

  24

  D’Agosta settled himself into the deep leather seat of the Rolls as Proctor pulled out of Museum Drive and headed north on Central Park West. He watched Pendergast slip something out of his black suitcoat and was surprised to see it was an iPhone.

  “Christ, not you too?”

  The agent began typing rapidly on it with his long white fingers. “I find it surprisingly useful.”

  “What are we going to do about Nora?” D’Agosta asked. “It’s obvious she’s not going to pay any attention to what you said.”

  “I am aware of that. She is a very determined lady.”

  “I don’t understand why this guy—Fearing or not—is after Nora. I mean, he got away once after killing Smithback. Why take the risk a second time?”

  “Clearly, Fearing meant to kill them both. I believe the message is quite intentional: if you meddle in our affairs, we’ll not only kill you, but your family as well.” He leaned toward the front seat. “Proctor? Two forty-four East One Hundred Twenty-seventh Street, please.”

  “Where are we going?” D’Agosta asked. “That’s Spanish Harlem.”

  “We’re going to do something about Nora.”

  D’Agosta grunted. “We’ve started working on the Kline evidence.”

  “Ah,” said Pendergast. “And?”

  “I’m getting the goods on Kline—turns out all that African shit we hauled out of his office was eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Yoruba, worth a fortune. Get this: it’s all connected to an extinct religion known as Sevi Lwa—a direct ancestor of voodoo that came into the islands with West African slaves.”

  Pendergast did not reply. A startled look briefly crossed his face before the studied neutrality returned.

  “That’s not all. The commissioner’s taken an interest in our investigation of that bastard. He wants to meet with me this afternoon.”

  “Ah.”

  “What do you mean, ah? It shows that Kline knows all about voodoo—to the point of spending millions on voodoo art. There’s your connection!”

  “Indeed,” Pendergast said vaguely.

  D’Agosta settled back in his seat, irritated. Ten minutes later, the Rolls had turned off Lenox Avenue and was cruising down 127th Street toward the East River. It rolled to a stop in front of a tiny storefront with a hand-painted sign in Day-Glo colors, surmounted by an illustration of a staring eye.

  Underneath it hung a number of little wooden placards on hooks:

  LES POUPéES VAUDOU

  MAGIE NOIR

  MAGIE ZWARTE, MAGIE ROUGE

  SORCELLERIE, HEXEREI MAGIE

  RITUEL DE PROSPéRITé FORMULES ET POTIONS MAGIQUES

  The shop’s filthy front window had a huge crack across it, repaired with duct tape. The rest was almost entirely obscured by bizarre hanging objects—bundles of hair, skin, feathers, canvas, straw, and other more obscure and vile-looking materials.

  D’Agosta eyed the shop. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “After you, my dear Vincent.”

  D’Agosta got out, Pendergast following. The door to the shop opened with a groan of rusty hinges, setting off a tinkling of bells. D’Agosta was immediately overwhelmed with the cloying smell of patchouli, sandalwood, herbs, and old meat. An ancient African American looked up from behind the counter. Upon spying Pendergast in his black suit, the man’s face abruptly shut down, like the slamming of a door. He had a tight helmet of gray hair, and his face was pockmarked and remarkably wrinkled.

  “May I help you?” The flat tone and blank stare managed to convey the exact opposite sentiment.

  “Are you Monsieur Ravel, the Obeahman?”

  The man did not answer.

  “I am Aloysius Pendergast, of the New Orleans Pendergasts. Very glad to make your acquaintance.” He came forward, hand extended, employing his richest New Orleans parlance.

  The man stared at the proffered hand, clearly unmoved.

  “Pendergast, formerly of the Maison de la Rochenoire, Dauphine Street,” the agent went on. His outstretched hand did not falter. D’Agosta was amazed at how quickly Pendergast could assume a completely new personality. This one appeared to be that of an affable, eccentric New Orleans aristocrat.

  “Maison de la Rochenoire?” A glimmer of recognition kindled in the bloodshot eyes. “The one that was burned back in ’71?”

  Now Pendergast leaned forward and said, in a low voice, “Oi chusoi Dios aei enpiptousi.”

  A long silence, and then Ravel raised an enormous hand. Pendergast clasped it in his.

  “Welcome.”

  “This is my associate, Mr. D’Agosta.”

  The man inclined his head.

  “The others—they are frauds,” said Pendergast. “Thieves and scroungers. You—you are different. I know I can trust your root-work and merchandise.”

  The man inclined his head in agreement and said nothing, but D’Agosta could see he was grudgingly pleased by the compliment.

  “May I?” Pendergast gestured with an ivory hand around the interior of the shop.

  “Look, but please do not touch.”

  “Naturellement.”

  As Pendergast began one of his leisurely strolls, hands clasped behind his back, peering into everything, D’Agosta glanced around the shop. It was packed with hanging bundles; cabinets that ran from floor to ceiling with hundreds of tiny drawers; perfume containers; tins and small boxes; shelves of glass bottles containing herbs, colored earths, liquids, twisted roots, and dried insects. Everything had tiny labels, meticulously handwritten in French.

  Pendergast returned to the shopkeeper. “Most impressive. And now, Monsieur Ravel, I must make a purchase. A rather unfortunate purchase. It seems a friend of mine has been made the target of magie noir. I need to make a preparation, an arrêt.”

  “Tell me the ingredients, and I will get them.” Ravel placed a tightly woven basket on the counter.

  “Bois-caca leaf.”

  The man came from around the counter and darted a hand at a high drawer, pulled it out, removed a wrinkled leaf, and placed it in the basket. It gave off a fearful smell.

  “Bones of a white cockerel and flesh of a curly cock, crushed with its feathers.”

  Another swift procur
ement from an obscure corner of the shop.

  D’Agosta watched the process with mounting incredulity. Pendergast was acting a little strangely. He wondered if it had anything to do with the agent’s extended trip to Tibet last summer, or the difficult ocean crossing he’d endured. Or maybe it was yet another hidden facet of Pendergast’s personality that he was glimpsing for the first time.

  “Alligator’s tooth and champagne verte.”

  A small vial of liquid was added to the growing pile.

  “Powdered human bone.”

  At this, Ravel hesitated, went into the back of the shop, emerged with a small stepladder, reached up above one of the cabinets, and brought down a glassine packet of the kind used by drug dealers. It was filled with ivory powder. He added it to the basket, eyes on Pendergast.

  “Water used to wash a corpse.”

  A longer pause before Ravel returned with the requested item.

  “Holy water.”

  At this, Ravel stopped, staring at Pendergast. Then, once again, he went into the back and returned with a tiny ampoule. “Will that be all, I hope?”

  “One thing more.”

  Ravel waited.

  “A consecrated host.”

  A long, hard stare. “Monsieur Pendergast, it seems your friend… is facing something a bit more dangerous than mere black magic.”

  “True.”

  “Perhaps this is out of my league, monsieur.”

  “I had so hoped you could help me. My friend’s life is in danger—grave danger.”

  Ravel gazed at Pendergast sadly. “You are aware of the consequences to you, monsieur, for employing the envoi morts arrêt?”

  “I am well aware.”

  “This friend must be very dear to you.”

  “She is.”

  “She. Ah, I see. This… host you ask for, it’s going to cost.”

  “Expense is no object.”

  Ravel dropped his eyes and seemed to think for a long time. Then, with a long sigh, he turned and disappeared out a side door. After several minutes, he returned with a small glass disk made from two large watch-glasses, fitted together and sealed with silver trim, inside which was a single wafer. He laid it carefully in the basket.

  “That will be one thousand two hundred and twenty dollars, monsieur.”

  D’Agosta watched in disbelief as Pendergast slipped his hand into his jacket, removed a thick sheaf of crisp bills, and peeled them off.

  As soon as they were back in the Rolls, Pendergast cradling the basket of items, D’Agosta exploded. “What in heck was that all about?”

  “Careful, Vincent, do not jar the merchandise.”

  “I can’t believe you just shelled out a thousand bucks for that woo-woo crap.”

  “There are many reasons, and if you could transcend your emotions you would see why. First, we have established our bona fides with Monsieur Ravel, who might in the future turn out to be an informant of no little importance. Second, the individual pursuing Nora may well believe in Obeah, in which case the arrêt we are about to fashion could be a deterrent. Finally”—and here he lowered his voice—“our arrêt might work.”

  “Might work? You mean, if a real zombii is after Nora?” D’Agosta shook his head in disbelief.

  “I prefer to call it an envoi mort.”

  “Whatever. The idea is ridiculous.” D’Agosta stared at Pendergast. “You told that guy your house in New Orleans was burned by a mob. Your aunt Cornelia made some reference to it, as well. Was that where you learned about this voodoo and Obeah? Were you involved with that shit when you were young?”

  “I’d prefer not to answer that. Instead, let me ask a question: have you ever heard of Pascal’s Wager?”

  “No.”

  “A lifelong atheist is on his deathbed. He suddenly asks for a priest so he can confess and be absolved. Is he behaving logically?”

  “No.”

  “On the contrary: it doesn’t matter what he believes. The atheist realizes that if there is even the slimmest chance he is wrong, he should act as if there is a God. If God exists, he will go to heaven rather than hell. If God does not, he loses nothing.”

  “Sounds pretty calculating to me.”

  “It is a wager with an infinite upside and no downside. And, I might add, it is a wager every human being must make. It is not optional. Pascal’s Wager—the logic is impeccable.”

  “What does this have to do with Nora and zombiis?”

  “I am sure if you consider the matter long enough you will see the logical connection.”

  D’Agosta screwed up his face, thought about it, and finally grunted. “I guess I can see your point.”

  “In that case: excellent. I am not normally in the habit of explaining myself, but for you I sometimes make an exception.”

  D’Agosta looked out the window as Spanish Harlem passed by. Then he turned back to Pendergast.

  “What was that you said?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “To the shopkeeper. You said something to him in a foreign language.”

  “Ah, yes. Oi chusoi Dios aei enpiptousi—the dice of God are always loaded.” And he sat back in the seat with a half smile.

  25

  Rocker saw D’Agosta immediately, less than a minute after he’d arrived in the commissioner’s outer office at the very top of One Police Plaza. D’Agosta took this summons to be a good sign. The Smithback homicide was high profile—very high profile—and he had no doubt Rocker was following his progress in the case with interest. As he passed Rocker’s assistant, Alice, a grandmotherly woman with a pile of gray hair, he gave her a wink and a smile. She did not smile back.

  He strode into the grand paneled office with all its accoutrements of power, the huge mahogany desk with the green leather top, the wainscoted oak paneling, the Persian rug, all solid and traditional. Like Rocker.

  Rocker was already standing at the window, and he didn’t turn as D’Agosta entered. Nor, uncharacteristically, did he ask D’Agosta to take a seat in one of the overstuffed sofa-chairs that graced the sitting area opposite his desk.

  D’Agosta waited a moment before venturing a small “Commissioner?”

  The man turned around, hands clasped behind his back. On seeing the man’s dark red face, D’Agosta felt sudden nausea in his gut.

  “So what’s this Kline business?” the commissioner asked abruptly.

  D’Agosta did a quick mental backpedaling. “Well, sir, it’s related to the Smithback homicide—”

  “I’m aware of that,” the commissioner rapped out. “What I mean is, why the heavy-handed search? You trashed the man’s office.”

  D’Agosta took a deep breath. “Sir, Mr. Kline had made direct, verifiable threats to Smithback shortly before his death. He’s a prime suspect.”

  “Then why didn’t you charge him with threatening the deceased?”

  “The threats were very careful, they stopped just this side of the law.”

  The commissioner stared at him. “And that’s all you have against Kline? Vague threats to a journalist?”

  “No, sir.”

  Rocker waited, his arms crossed.

  “In the raid we netted Kline’s collection of West African art—art that we can tie directly to an old voodoo-style religion. Similar to the objects found at the murder scene and on the victim’s corpse.”

  “Similar? I thought they were masks.”

  “Masks, yes, but from the same tradition. We have an expert from the New York Museum examining them now.”

  The commissioner stared at him, tired eyes rimmed with red. It wasn’t like him to be so brusque. Jesus, thought D’Agosta, Kline got to Rocker. Somehow, Kline got to him.

  Rocker finally said, “I repeat: that’s all?”

  “The man’s issued threats, he’s a collector of voodoo items—I think that’s a solid beginning.”

  “Solid? Lieutenant, let me tell you what you have. You have shit.”

  “Sir, I respectfully disagree.” D’Agosta
wasn’t going to knuckle under. His entire team was behind him on this.

  “Can’t you understand we’re dealing with one of the wealthiest men in Manhattan, a friend of the mayor, a philanthropist all over town, sitting on a dozen Fortune Five Hundred boards? You can’t trash his office without a damn good reason!”

  “Sir, this is just the beginning. I believe we have enough to justify continuing the investigation, and I intend to do just that.” D’Agosta tried to keep his voice mild, neutral, but firm.

  The commissioner stared at him. “Let me just say this: until you get a smoking gun on the man—and I mean smoking—you back off. That search was improper. It was harassment. And don’t feign innocence. I was a homicide cop once, just like you. I know why you tossed his place, and I don’t approve of those methods. You don’t pull that drug-bust crap on a well-known, respected member of this city.”

  “He’s a scumbag.”

  “That’s the bad attitude I’m talking about, D’Agosta. Look, I’m not going to tell you how to run a homicide investigation, but I am warning you that the next time you want to pull something like that on Kline, think again.” He stared long and hard at D’Agosta.

  “I hear you, sir.” D’Agosta had said what he had to say. No point in provoking the commissioner further.

  “I’m not taking you off the Smithback homicide. Not yet. But I’m watching you, D’Agosta. Don’t go native on me again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commissioner waved a hand dismissively as he turned back to the window. “Now get out of here.”

  26

  Although the New York Public Library had closed ninety minutes before, Special Agent Pendergast had unusual visiting privileges and never permitted the formality of business hours to incommode him. He glanced around with approval at the empty rows of tables in the cavernous Main Reading Room; nodded to the guard in the doorway whose nose was deep in Mont Saint Michel and Chartres; then ducked into the receiving station and made his way down a steep set of metal stairs. After descending four flights, he exited into a low-ceilinged basement vault that seemed to stretch ahead endlessly, filled floor-to-ceiling with stack after stack of books on cast-iron shelves. Making his way down a transverse corridor, he opened a dingy, unmarked gray door. Beyond, another set of stairs—narrow and even steeper—led farther downward.