Cemetery Dance (13 page)

The vista that lay ahead took her breath away. Before her feet, the ground fell away in a cliff, ramparts of rock dropping toward the tidal waters. She had reached the uttermost tip of Manhattan. Far below, the waters of the Harlem River were black, running westward around the Spuyten Duyvil to the great vast opening of the Hudson River, the color of dark steel in the dying light, a vast waterscape glittering beneath a rising gibbous moon. Beyond the Hudson, the high cliffs of the Jersey Palisades stood black against the final light of sunset; in the middle ground, the Henry Hudson Parkway arched over the Harlem River on a graceful bridge, arrowing northward into the Bronx. A solid stream of yellow headlights flowed over it, commuters heading home from the city. Directly across the water was Riverdale, almost as thickly wooded here as Inwood Hill Park itself. And to the east, beyond the Harlem River, lay the smoky flanks of the Bronx, pierced by a dozen bridges, afire with a million lights. The landscape formed a confusing, bizarre, and magnificent spectacle of geologic majesty: a sprawling tableau of the primeval and the cosmopolitan, thrown together with supreme capriciousness over the course of the city's centuries of growth.

But Nora admired it for only a moment. Because, looking down again, a quarter mile away and a hundred feet below, she saw — half hidden in a thick knot of woods — a cluster of grimy brick buildings, dotted with the faint twinkle of yellow lights. They sat on a flat shelf of land, perched halfway between a ragged, trash–strewn pebble beach along the Harlem River and her own vantage spot atop the ridge. It was unreachable from her cliff — in fact, she wasn't quite sure how it could be reached at all, although through the trees she could glimpse a ribbon of asphalt that, she thought, must connect to Indian Road. As she stared, she realized that the surrounding copse of trees would render the community invisible from almost any angle: from the parkway, from the riverbank, from the cliffs on the far shore. At the center of the cluster was a much larger structure, evidently an old church, which had been added on to indiscriminately, again and again, until the whole lost any architectural cohesion. This was tightly surrounded by a tangle of small, ancient timber–frame buildings, divided by deep alleyways.

The Ville: the target of Bill's most recent article. The place he believed to be the main source of animal sacrifice in the city. She stared at it in mingled dread and fascination. The huge structure at its heart looked almost as old as the Manhattan Purchase itself: extravagantly dilapidated, part brick, part chocolate–brown timber, with a squat, crudely built spire rising from behind a massive gambrel roof. While the lower windows were bricked over, the cracked glasswork of the upper stories flickered with a pale yellow glow she felt certain could only be candlelight. The place lay apparently somnolent in the silvery moonlight, now and then falling into deeper darkness as a cloud scudded past.

As she stood, staring at the flickering lights, the craziness of what she had done became clear. Why had she really come — to stare at a bunch of buildings? What could she hope to accomplish here by herself? What made her feel so certain that the secret lay within: the secret to her husband's murder?

The Ville remained wrapped in silence as a chilly night breeze stirred the leaves around her.

Nora shivered. Then — wrapping her coat more tightly around her — she turned and began to make her way as quickly as she could back through the dark woods toward the welcoming streets of the city.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 22

"Strange how there always seems to be fog out here," D'Agosta said as the big Rolls hummed along the one–lane road that crossed Little Governor's Island.

"It must come from the marshes," Pendergast murmured.

D'Agosta looked out the window. The marshes did indeed stretch away into the darkness, exhaling miasmic vapors that curled and moved among the rushes and cattails, the nocturnal skyline of Manhattan rising incongruously in the background. Passing a row of dead trees, they came to a set of iron gates and a bronze plaque.

THE MOUNT MERCY HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE

The car slowed at the little guardhouse and a uniformed man stepped out of its door. "Good evening, Mr. Pendergast," the guard said, apparently unsurprised by the late hour. "Here to see Miss Cornelia?"

"Good evening to you, Mr. Gott. Yes, thank you. We have an appointment."

A rumble, and the gates began to open. "Have a good night," the guard said.

Proctor eased the car through and they approached the main house: an immense Gothic Revival building in brown brick, standing like a grim sentinel among dark, heavy fir trees, sagging under the weight of their ancient branches.

Proctor swung into the visitors' parking lot. Within minutes, D'Agosta found himself following a doctor down the hospital's long, tiled halls. Mount Mercy had once been New York's largest tuberculosis sanatorium. Now it had been converted into a high–security hospital for murderers and other violent criminals found not guilty by reason of insanity.

"How is she?" Pendergast asked.

"The same" came the terse answer.

Two guards joined them and they continued down the echoing corridors, finally stopping at a steel door with a barred window. A guard unlocked the door, and they entered the small "quiet room" beyond. D'Agosta remembered the room from his first visit here, with Laura Hayward, last January. It seemed like years ago, but the room hadn't changed an iota, with its plastic furniture bolted to the floor, its green walls devoid of pictures or decoration.

The two attendants disappeared through a heavy metal door in the rear of the room. A minute or two later, D'Agosta made out a faint creaking noise approaching, and then one of the guards pushed a wheelchair into the room. The old lady was dressed with Victorian severity, in deep mourning, her black taffeta dress and black lace rustling with every move, but D'Agosta could see underneath a white–canvas, five–point restraint.

"Raise my veil" came the querulous command. One of the attendants did as ordered. A remarkably seamed face, alive with malice, was revealed. A pair of small black eyes, which somehow reminded D'Agosta of the beady eyes of a snake, raked over him. She gave a faint smile of sardonic recognition. Then the glittering eyes fell on Pendergast.

The agent took a step forward.

"Mr. Pendergast?" came the edgy voice of the doctor. "I'm sure I don't have to remind you to respect your distance."

At the sound of the name, the old lady seemed to startle. "Why," she cried in a suddenly strong voice, "how are you, Diogenes, my dear? What a charming surprise!" She turned to the nearest attendant and rapped out in a shrill voice, "Bring out the best Amontillado. Diogenes has paid us a visit." She turned and smiled broadly, her face wrinkling grotesquely. "Or would you prefer tea, dearest Diogenes?"

"Nothing, thank you," said Pendergast, his voice cool. "It is Aloysius, Aunt Cornelia, not Diogenes."

"Nonsense! Diogenes, you bad thing, don't try to tease an old woman. Don't you think I know my own nephew?"

Pendergast hesitated a moment. "I never could fool you, Aunt. We were in the area and thought we'd drop in."

"How lovely. Yes, I see you brought my brother Ambergris with you."

Pendergast glanced over at D'Agosta briefly before nodding.

"I have a few minutes before I have to start preparing for the dinner party. You know how it is with servants these days. I should fire them all and do it myself."

"Indeed."

D'Agosta waited as Pendergast engaged his aunt in what seemed like interminable small talk. Slowly, the agent brought the conversation back to his own childhood in New Orleans.

"I wonder if you remember that, ah, unpleasantness with Marie LeBon, one of the downstairs servants," he asked at last. "We children used to call her Miss Marie."

"The one who looked like a broomstick? I never liked her. She gave me the heebie–jeebies." And Aunt Cornelia gave a delicious shudder.

"She was found dead one day, isn't that right?"

"It is most unfortunate when the servants bring scandal into the house. And Marie was the worst of the lot. Except, of course, for that dreadful, dreadful Monsieur Bertin." The old woman shook her head in distaste and muttered something under her breath.

"Can you tell me what happened with Miss Marie? I was just a child then."

"Marie was from the bayou, a promiscuous woman, like so many of the swamp folk. A mixture of French Acadian and Micmac Indian, and who knows what else besides. She got to fooling around with the groom, who was married — you remember, Diogenes, that groom with the pompadour who fancied himself a gentleman? The man was as common as dirt."

She looked around. "Where is my drink? Gaston!"

One of the attendants lifted a Dixie cup to her lips, and she sucked daintily through the straw. "I prefer gin, as you know," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," said the attendant, with a smirk at his partner.

"What happened?" Pendergast asked.

"The groom's wife — God bless her — didn't care for Marie LeBon congressing with her husband. She wreaked her revenge." She cackled. "Settled her hash with a meat cleaver. I didn't think she had it in her."

"The jealous wife's name was Mrs. Ducharme."

"Mrs. Ducharme! A big woman with arms like French hams. She knew how to swing that cleaver!"

"Mr. Pendergast?" said the doctor. "I have warned you about these types of interviews before."

Pendergast ignored him. "Wasn't there something strange about the … corpse?"

"Strange? What do you mean?"

"The … Vôdou aspects."

"Vôdou? Diogenes! It was not Vôdou, but Obeah. There's a difference, you know. Yes, but of course you know. Certainly more than your brother does, eh? Though he is no stranger to it, either — is he?" And here the old woman began chuckling unpleasantly.

"We were talking about the corpse —" Pendergast said by way of encouragement.

"There was something strange, now that you mention it. A bit of gris–gris was pinned to her tongue — oanga."

"Oanga? You seem to know a lot about Obeah, Aunt Cornelia."

Suddenly Aunt Cornelia's expression grew wary. "One hears servants talking. Besides, that's a fine thing to say, coming from you. Do you think I've forgotten your little — experiment, shall we say? — and the unfortunate reaction it provoked from the mobile vulgus —"

"Tell me about the oanga," Pendergast interrupted, with the briefest of glances toward D'Agosta.

"Very well. The oanga, they said, was a fetish of a skeleton or corpse soaked in a broth made from Shrove Tuesday ashes; bile of a sow; water from a forge used to harden iron; blood of a virgin mouse; and alligator flesh."

"And its purpose?"

"To extract the dead person's soul, make him a slave. A zombii. You of all people know all this, Diogenes!"

"Still, I appreciate hearing it from you, Aunt Cornelia."

"After the corpse is buried, it is supposed to come back as the slave of the person who placed the oanga. And do you know what? Six months later, that boy died over on Iberville Street — found suffocated to death in a tied–up sack — and they said it was the zombii of Miss Marie, because the boy had pulled down Mrs. Ducharme's laundry. And then they checked Miss Marie's tomb and found it empty, or so they say. I hardly need add that the Ducharmes were discharged. You can't have servants embarrassing a genteel home."

"Time's up, Mr. Pendergast." The doctor rose with a sense of finality. The attendants sprang to their feet and took their places on either side of her wheelchair. The doctor nodded and they began turning her around, heading for the back door.

Suddenly, Aunt Cornelia swiveled her head back toward them, fixing her gaze on D'Agosta. "You were awfully silent today, Ambergris. Cat got your tongue? Next time, I'll be sure to prepare some of my lovely little watercress sandwiches for you. Your family always adored them."

D'Agosta could only nod. The doctor opened the door for the wheelchair.

"And lovely to see you again, Diogenes," said Aunt Cornelia over her shoulder. "You were always my favorite, you know. I'm so glad you finally did something about that horrid eye of yours."

*        *        *

As they drove past the gates, the headlights of the Rolls–Royce cutting through the drifting layers of fog, D'Agosta could stand it no longer. "Excuse me, Pendergast, but I have to ask: you don't actually believe that stuff about oanga and zombiis?"

"My dear Vincent, I don't believe anything. I am not a priest. I deal with evidence and probabilities, not beliefs."

"Yeah, I know. But I mean, Night of the Living Dead? No way."

"That is a rather categorical statement."

"But …"

"But what?"

"It's clear to me we're dealing with someone trying to mislead us with this voodoo shit, sending us off on a wild goose chase."

"Clear?" Pendergast quoted the word back to him, his right eyebrow elevating slightly.

D'Agosta said, exasperated, "Look, I just want to know if you think it's even remotely possible we're dealing with a real zombii. That's all."

"I'd prefer not to say what I think. However, there is a line of Hamlet you might do well to keep in mind."

"And what's that?"

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio — Need I continue?"

"No." D'Agosta sat back in the plush leather seat, musing that sometimes it was better to leave Pendergast to his unknown thoughts than to try to force the issue.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 23

At nine o'clock the next morning, Nora walked swiftly down the long hall of the museum's fifth floor, eyes resolutely downcast, past the doors of her colleagues. It was like running the gauntlet, but at least they didn't all come rushing out as they had the days before.

Reaching her own office, she turned the key and quickly entered, shutting and locking the door behind her. She turned and there, silhouetted against the window, stood Special Agent Pendergast, leafing casually through a monograph. D'Agosta sat in an overstuffed chair in the corner, dark circles under his eyes.