Another three flights and he emerged into a bizarre and semi-ruined bookscape. In the dim light, stacks of ancient and decomposing books leaned against one another for support. Tables littered with unbound book signatures, razor blades, jars of printer’s glue, and other paraphernalia of manuscript surgery stood everywhere. Blizzards of printed material receded on all sides to an unguessable distance, forming a labyrinth of literature. There was an intense silence. The stuffy air smelled of dust and decay.
Pendergast placed the bundle he had been carrying on a nearby stack and cleared his throat.
For a moment, the silence remained unbroken. Then—from some remote and indeterminate distance—there was a faint scurrying. It grew slowly louder. And then an old man emerged from between two columns of books, tiny and frighteningly gaunt. A miner’s hard hat rested atop a blizzard of white hair.
The man reached up and snapped off the headlamp. “Hypocrite lecteur,” he said in a voice as thin and dry as birch bark. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Pendergast gave a small bow. “Interesting fashion statement, Wren,” he said, indicating the hard hat. “Quite the rage in West Virginia, I understand.”
The old man gave a silent laugh. “I’ve been—shall we say—spelunking. And down here in the Antipodes, working lightbulbs can be hard to come by.”
Whether Wren was actually employed by the public library, or whether he’d simply decided to take up residence here on its lowest sub-level, was anybody’s guess. What was uncontestable, however, was his unique talent for esoteric research.
Wren’s eyes fell hungrily on the bundle. “And what goodies have you brought me today?”
Pendergast picked it up and proffered it. Wren reached greedily, tearing away the wrappings to reveal three books.
“Early Arkham House,” he sniffed. “I’m afraid I was never one for the literature of the weird.”
“Take a closer look. These are the rarest, most collectible editions.”
Wren examined the books one after the other. “Hmm. A pre-publication Outsider, with the trial green dustwrapper. Always Comes Evening ”—he plucked off the jacket to examine the cover—“with the variant spine. And a leather-bound Shunned House… containing Barlow’s signature on the front pastedown. Dated Mexico City, not long before his suicide. A remarkable association copy.” Wren raised his eyebrows as he carefully put down the books. “I spoke too rashly. A noble gift indeed.”
Pendergast nodded. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Since your call, I’ve managed to do some preliminary research.”
“And?”
Wren rubbed his hands together. “I’d no idea Inwood Hill Park had such an interesting history. Did you know it has remained an essentially primeval forest since the American Revolution? Or that it was once the site of Isidor Straus’s summer estate—until Straus and his wife died on the Titanic?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Quite a story. The old man refused to board the lifeboat before the women and children, and Mrs. Straus refused to leave her husband. She put her maid into the lifeboat instead, and the couple went down together. After they died, their ‘cottage’ up in Inwood fell into ruin. But my research indicates that, in the years before, a groundskeeper was murdered, and there were other unfortunate events that kept the Strauses away from—”
“And the Ville?” Pendergast interjected gently.
“You mean the Ville des Zirondelles.” Wren grimaced. “A more shadowy, secretive bunch is hard to imagine. I’m afraid my examination of them is still in its infancy—and under the circumstances I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to learn a great deal.”
Pendergast waved his hand. “Just let me know what you’ve discovered so far, please.”
“Very well.” Wren laid the tip of one bony index finger against the other, as if to tick off points of interest. “It seems that the first building of the Ville—as it’s now known—was originally constructed in the early 1740s by a religious sect that fled England to avoid persecution. They ended up on the north end of Manhattan, in what is now the park in question. As was so often the case, this band of pilgrims had more idealism than pragmatism. They were city people—writers, teachers, a banker—and were intensely naive about making a living off the land. It seemed they had peculiar views regarding communal living. Believing the entire community should live and work together as a single unit, they had their ship’s carpenters build a vast structure out of local stone and planking. It was part dwelling place, part workplace, part chapel, part fortress.”
He ticked off the next finger. “But the tip of the island they’d chosen for their settlement was rocky and inhospitable for farming or animal husbandry—even for those knowledgeable about such things. There were no more local Indians around to give them advice—the Weckquaesgeek and the Lenape had long since left—and the closest European settlement was at the other end of Manhattan, two days’ journey. The new settlers proved to be indifferent fishermen. There were a few farmers scattered around who had already chosen the best farming spots, and though they were willing to sell some crops for hard cash, they weren’t inclined to provide free sustenance for an entire community.”
“So the folly of their plan soon became clear,” Pendergast murmured.
“Precisely. Disappointment and internecine squabbling followed quickly. Within a dozen years or so the colony was dissolved, its residents moving elsewhere in New England or returning to Europe, and the structure was abandoned: a testament to misplaced hopes. Their leader—I haven’t been able to discover his name, but he was the one who secured the ship and purchased the site—moved to southern Manhattan and became a gentleman farmer.”
“Go on,” Pendergast said.
“Fast-forward a hundred years. Around 1858 or 1859, a ragtag group reached New York from points south. By period accounts it was a motley assemblage. At its core was a charismatic Baton Rouge preacher, the Reverend Misham Walker, who had gathered around him a small number of French Creole craftsmen shunned by their community for some reason I haven’t discovered, along with several West Indian slaves. Along the way they were joined by others: Cajun, some Portuguese heretics, and a number of bayou dwellers who had fled Brittany for allegedly practicing paganism, druidism, and witchcraft. Theirs wasn’t voodoo or Obeah in any traditional sense. Instead, it seems to be an entirely new belief system, built from various pieces of what came before. Their journey from the Deep South to New York was fraught with difficulty. Wherever they tried to settle, the locals objected to the group’s religious rituals; they were repeatedly forced to move on. Nasty rumors were spread: that the group stole babies, sacrificed animals, brought people back from the dead. The band was secretive by nature; the treatment they received seems to have made them positively reclusive. Walker and his band ultimately discovered the remote structure the religious pilgrims had abandoned at the northern tip of Manhattan a century earlier and took it for their own, bricking up the windows and fortifying the walls. There was talk of mob action against them, but nothing came of it beyond several peculiar confrontations confusedly described in the local press. As years passed, the Ville grew more and more insular.”
Pendergast nodded slowly. “And in more recent times?”
“Complaints of animal sacrifice have persisted over the years.” Wren paused, then a dry smile hovered about his lips. “It seems they were—are—a celibate community. Like the Shakers.”
Pendergast’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Celibate? And yet they continue to persist.”
“Not only persist, but—apparently—always maintain the same number: one hundred forty-four. All male, all adult. It is believed they recruit. Rather vigorously, when necessary, and always at night. They are said to prey on the disaffected, the mentally unstable, the fringe dwellers: ideal candidates for press-ganging. When one member dies, another must be found. And then there were the rumors.” Wren’s dark eyes glittered.
“Of what?”
“A murdero
us creature wandering at night. A zombii, some said.” He gave a little hiss of amusement.
“And the history of the land and buildings?”
“The surrounding land was acquired by the New York City Department of Parks in 1916. Some other decaying structures in the park were demolished, but the Ville was passed over. It appears the parks department was reluctant to force the issue.”
“I see.” Pendergast glanced at Wren, a strange look on his face. “Thank you; you’ve made an excellent start. Keep at it, if you please.”
Wren returned the look, dark eyes alight with curiosity. “What is it exactly, hypocrite lecteur? What’s your interest in all this?”
Pendergast did not answer immediately. For a moment, his expression seemed to go far away. Then he roused himself. “It’s premature to discuss it.”
“At least tell me this: is your interest… in matters iniquitous?” Wren repeated.
Pendergast made another small bow. “Please let me know when you’ve discovered more.” And then he turned and began the long ascent back to the surface world.
27
Nora added a final entry to her database of samples, then terminated the program, sealed the bag of potsherds, and put it aside. She stretched, glanced at her watch. It was almost ten pm, and the museum offices were silent and watchful.
She looked around her lab: at the shelves of artifacts, the files and papers, the locked door. This was the first day she’d really been able to concentrate a little, get some work done. Partly, this was because the stream of sympathizers knocking at her door had finally subsided. But there was more to it than that. It was because she knew she was doing something—something concrete—about Bill’s death. The DNA sequencing for Pendergast had been a start. But now, this very evening, she’d be taking the fight to the enemy.
She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Strange how she felt no fear. There was only a grim determination: to get to the bottom of Bill’s death, restore a modicum of order and peace to her fractured world.
Picking up the bag of potsherds, she returned it to its storage rack. Earlier that afternoon she had paid a visit to her new boss, Andrew Getz, head of the anthropology department. She’d requested—and received—a written guarantee of funding for her expedition to Utah the coming summer. She wanted to have a long-term plan already in place, something to keep her going through what promised to be a long, dark winter.
Very faintly, she heard what sounded like a childish shout echo through the corridors. The museum had taken to allowing groups of schoolchildren to attend weekend sleepovers in certain heavily chaperoned halls. She shook her head: anything to generate a little hard cash, it seemed.
As the echo died away, another sound took its place: a single rap on her door.
She froze, turning toward the noise. Amazing, how fast her heart could start beating wildly. But almost as quickly, she reminded herself: Fearing would not have knocked.
The knock came again. She cleared her throat. “Who is it?”
“Agent Pendergast.”
It was his voice, all right. She moved quickly to the door, unlocked it. The agent stood in the hallway, leaning against the door-jamb, wearing a black cashmere coat over the usual black suit. “May I enter?”
She nodded, stepped away. The agent glided in, pale eyes quickly scanning the lab before returning to her. “I wanted to thank you again for your assistance.”
“Don’t thank me. Anything I can do to help bring the killer to justice.”
“Indeed. That’s what I wanted to speak with you about.” He closed the door, turned back to her. “I suppose there’s nothing I can say that will stop you from pursuing your own investigation.”
“That’s right.”
“Entreaties to leave things to the professionals—reminders that you are putting your own life in grave danger—will fall on deaf ears.”
She nodded.
He regarded her closely for a moment. “In that case, there’s something you must do for me.”
“What’s that?”
Pendergast reached into his pocket, retrieved something, and pressed it into her hand. “Wear this around your neck at all times.”
She looked down. It was a charm of some kind, made of feathers and a small piece of chamois, sewn into a ball and attached to a fine gold chain. She pressed the chamois gently: it seemed to contain something powdery.
“What is this?” she asked.
“It is an arrêt.”
“A what?”
“In common parlance, an enemy-be-gone charm.”
She glanced at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Highly useful against all save immediate family. There is something else.” He reached into another pocket and plucked out a bag of red flannel, cinched tight by a drawstring of multicolored thread. “Keep this on your person, in a pocket or purse.”
She frowned. “Agent Pendergast…” She shook her head. She didn’t know what to say. Of all the people she knew, Pendergast had always seemed an immovable rock of logic and pragmatism. Yet here he was, giving her charms?
Looking at her, his eyes flashed slightly, as if reading her thoughts. “You’re an anthropologist,” he said. “Have you read The Forest of Symbols, by Victor Turner?”
“No.”
“What about Émile Durkheim’s Elementary Forms of Religious Life?”
She nodded.
“Then you know that certain things can be analyzed and codified—and certain things cannot. And certainly, as one who studied anthropology, you understand the concept of phenomenology?”
“Yes, but…” She fell silent.
“Because our minds are trapped within our bodies, we cannot determine ultimate truth—or untruth. The best we can do is describe what we see.”
“You’re losing me…”
“There is a wisdom on this earth, Nora, which is mysterious, which is very old, and with which we must not quarrel. Is it true? Untrue? We cannot know. Therefore, will you do as I ask? Keep these on your person?”
She glanced at the objects in her hand. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes, if you please. Because that is the only condition I shall permit.”
Slowly, she nodded.
“Very good.” He turned to go, then stopped, looked back at her. “And Dr. Kelly?”
“Yes?”
“It is not enough merely to possess these things. One must believe.”
“Believe what?”
“Believe they work. Because those who wish you ill most certainly believe.” And with that he slipped out of the office, closing the door silently behind him.
28
Midnight. Nora paused at the corner of Indian Road and 214th Street to check her map. The air was cool and smelled of fall. Beyond the low apartment houses, the dark treetops of Inwood Hill Park rose black against a luminous night sky. The lack of sleep made her feel light-headed, almost as if she had taken a stiff drink.
As she pored over the map, Caitlyn Kidd looked curiously over her shoulder.
Nora stuffed the map back in her pocket. “Up another block.”
They continued along Indian Road. It was a quiet, residential street, bathed in yellow sodium light, the brick buildings on either side somber and plain. A car passed slowly, turning onto 214th Street, its headlights lancing the dark. Where Indian curved into 214th, an unmarked road, little more than an abandoned driveway, branched off, heading west between an apartment building and a shuttered dry cleaners. A rusty iron chain was draped across it, fixed to old iron posts set into each side of the lane. Nora looked down the narrow road, which headed past some baseball diamonds and disappeared into the darkness. The asphalt was cracked, heaving up in chunks. Tufts of grass and even the occasional small sapling poked up here and there through the gaps. She checked the newly printed map once again—her earlier excursion had clearly shown her the best route of approach.
“This is it.”
They ducked under the chain. Ahead, pas
t the playing fields, the old road crossed an expanse of fallow ground, then vanished into the forest of Inwood Hill Park. Only a few cast-iron lampposts remained, and they were dark; looking up, Nora thought she could see bullet holes in the glass coverings.
Somewhere in the darkness ahead lay the Ville.
She started forward, Caitlyn hurrying to keep up. The paved road narrowed and the trees closed in. The smell of damp leaves filled the air.
“You brought a flashlight, right?” Caitlyn asked.
“Yes, but I’d rather not use it.”
The lane rose, gently at first, then steeply, to a rise that afforded views of the Henry Hudson Parkway and Columbia’s Baker Field. They paused, gaining their bearings. Ahead, the path descended toward an embayment in the Harlem River. As they proceeded, Nora began to make out, through a screen of trees, a faint scattering of yellow lights about a quarter mile away.
She felt Caitlyn nudge her side. “Is that it?”
“I think so. Let’s find out.”
After a moment’s hesitation, they continued down the hill, following the lane as it curved to take advantage of the topography. The trees grew denser, shutting out the faint glow of the city. The thin drone of traffic on the parkway receded. The lane curved again and something dark loomed ahead: an ancient chain-link fence, much abused, barred further access. A large hole in the fence had been patched with a crisscrossing mass of razor wire. In the center of the fence stood a gate, a crudely lettered sign affixed to it:
Private Property
No Trespassing
Do Not Enter
“This is a city street,” said Nora. “This isn’t legal. Be sure you put that in your article.”
“Not much of a street though, is it?” Caitlyn replied. “Anyway, the whole complex isn’t strictly legal. They’re squatters.”
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