Cemetery Dance (15 page)

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.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 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."

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 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.

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."