Текст книги "Cemetery Dance"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Nora gulped down mouthfuls of air, feeling suddenly nauseated. The sound had cut her to the bone and unexpectedly revived that terrible moment when she saw her husband, motionless, in a spreading pool of blood on their living room floor. She felt paralyzed. The earth whirled around her, and spots danced before her eyes. Caitlyn was right: this was a bad idea. These people, whoever they were, would not take kindly to an intrusion. She gripped the brick wall for a minute or two, until the feeling passed, and then she realized: they had to get out – now.

As she turned, she caught sight of something moving in the dark, at the corner of the farthest building. A lurching, shambling movement; a blur of sallow flesh in the spectral moonlight; and then it was gone.

With a thrill of dread she blinked hard, opened her eyes again. All was silent and dark; the chanting had ceased. Had she really seen something? Just when she was concluding she hadn't, it appeared again: glabrous, strangely bloated, dressed in tatters. It moved toward her with a motion that seemed somehow both random and yet full of horrible purpose.

As she stared, Nora was irresistibly reminded of the thing that had chased her through the room of whale skeletons two nights before. With a gasp, she lurched to her feet and ran across the field.

"Caitlyn!" she gasped, stumbling into the reporter and grabbing her jacket, her lungs burning. "We've got to get the hell out of here!"

"What happened?" She was instantly terrified by Nora's terror, cowering on the ground. " Go!" Nora grasped her shirt and hauled her bodily to her feet. Caitlyn stumbled as she tried to get up, and Nora caught her.

"Oh, my God," said Caitlyn, staring back, suddenly paralyzed. "Dear God."

Nora looked back. The thing – its face puffy and distorted, impossible to make out in the dim light – was now moving toward them with a horrible disjointed motion.

"Caitlyn!" Nora screamed, pulling her around. "Go!"

"What—"

But Nora was already running up the dark gully, pulling the reporter along by her arm. Caitlyn seemed drugged by fear, slipping and falling on the leaves, turning to look back again and again.

Now the thing was moving more swiftly, coming at them with a loping motion that was full of sinister design. She could hear its slobbering, eager breathing.

"It's coming," said Caitlyn. "It's coming after us."

"Shut up and run!"

Oh, God,Nora thought as she ran. Oh, my God. It can't be Fearing – can it?

But she was all too sure that it could be.

They reached the top of the gully. The gate and fence lay just ahead.

"Haul ass!" Nora cried as Caitlyn slipped and came dangerously close to falling. She was sobbing and gasping for air. Behind, the sound of something treading the ground came up swiftly through the dark. Nora pulled Caitlyn back up.

"Oh, Jesus…"

Nora hit the fence, pulling Caitlyn after her, throwing her against the fence and heaving her upward with as much strength as she could manage. The reporter scrabbled against the chain link, finding a purchase and pulling herself up. Nora followed. They slipped over the top, dropped to the leaves, began running again.

Something crashed into the fence behind them. Nora stopped, turned. Despite the hammering of her heart, she had to know. She hadto know.

"What are you doing?" Caitlyn cried, still running like hell.

Nora jammed her hand into her shoulder bag, yanked out the flashlight, turned it on, aimed it at the fence…

… Nothing – except a convex bulge in the rusted steel where the thing had hit, and the faint residual motion of the fence from the blow, creaking back and forth, until silence reigned.

The thing was gone. She could hear Caitlyn running, her footfalls receding up the old lane.

Nora followed at a jog, and soon caught up with the heaving, exhausted reporter. Caitlyn was doubled over, heaving and gasping, and then she vomited. Nora held her shoulders while she was sick.

"Who… what was that?" she finally managed to choke out.

Nora said nothing, and helped Caitlyn to her feet. Ten minutes later, they were walking down Indian Road, back in familiar Manhattan, but Nora – unconsciously fingering the charm around her neck – could not shake the feeling of horror, of the thing that had chased them, and of the death – cough of the doomed goat. One terrible thought kept recurring, a single irrational, useless, sickening thought:

Did Bill sound like that when he died?

Chapter 29

Lieutenant D'Agosta sat in his cubbyhole office at One Police Plaza, staring at the glow of the computer screen. He was an author, he'd published two novels. The books had gotten great reviews. So why was it that writing an interim report was so damn difficult? He was still burning from the reaming – out that the commissioner had given him the prior afternoon. Kline had gotten to him, no doubt about that.

He turned from the screen, rubbing his eyes. Feeble morning light came in the room's single window, from which he could glimpse a sliver of sky. He took a slug from his third cup of coffee, tried to clear his mind. After a certain point, coffee seemed to make him more tired.

Was it really only a week since Smithback was murdered? He shook his head. Right now, he was supposed to be in Canada, visiting his son and signing paperwork for his impending divorce. Instead, he was chained to New York and a case that only grew more bizarre with every passing day.

The phone on his desk rang. That's all he needed: another distraction. He plucked it from the cradle, sighing inwardly. "Homicide, D'Agosta speaking."

"Vincent? Fred Stolfutz."

Stolfutz was the assistant US attorney helping D'Agosta draft the search warrant affidavit for the Ville. "Hi, Fred. So what do you think?"

"If you're trying to get in there looking for homicide evidence, you're going to be out of luck. The evidence is too thin, no judge will approve a warrant. Especially after what you pulled on Kline the other day."

"Christ, how'd you hear about that?"

"Vinnie, it's all over the place. Not to mention how the commissioner—"

D'Agosta interrupted impatiently. "So what are the options?"

"Well, you said this place is deep in the woods, right?" "Right."

"That rules out plain – use doctrine: you can't get close enough to, say, see evidence of a crime in plain view or smell marijuana smoke. And there won't be any exigent circumstances, somebody screaming for help or something."

"There's been plenty of screaming – by animals."

"See, that's what I was thinking. You'll never get in there on a homicide rap, but I could probably draft something about cruelty to animals. That's a statute we could make stick. If you go in there with an animal control officer, you can keep your eyes out for the other evidence you're looking for."

"Interesting. Think it'll fly?"

"Yes, I do."

"Fred, you're a genius. Call me back when you know more." D'Agosta hung up the phone and returned to the problem at hand.

On the surface, it wasn't complicated. Good witnesses, excellentwitnesses, had seen Fearing enter and leave the building. And even though the results weren't official, and couldn't be used in court, the man's DNA had been found at the scene, something the official results would eventually confirm. Fearing was stalking Nora and, again, there was the proof of his DNA. His crypt was empty – no body. That was the proof on one side.

On the other side? An overworked, sloppy asshole of a medical examiner who couldn't admit he'd made a mistake. A tattoo and a birthmark, either of which could be faked or mistaken, given the time the body was in the water. A sister's ID, but false IDs had happened before when a family member was too distraught, or the body too changed. Maybe it was insurance fraud, with the sister in on it. The fact that she had disappeared afterward just added to the suspicion.

No: Colin Fearing was alive, of that D'Agosta was sure. And he was no frigging zombii, either. Was Kline behind it, or the Ville? He'd keep up the pressure on both.

D'Agosta picked up his coffee, stared at it, then poured it into the wastebasket, following it with the cup. Enough of that shit. He thought about the crime itself. It just didn't look to him like a rape gone bad. And the guy had staredat the camera going in. The man knew he was being recorded – yet he didn't care.

Pendergast was right. This was no disorganized killing: there was a plan here. But what plan? He swore under his breath.

The phone rang again.

"D'Agosta."

"Vinnie? It's Laura. Have you seen the West Siderthis morning?"

"No."

"You'd better get yourself a copy." "What does it say?"

"Just get yourself a copy. And…"

"And what?"

"Expect a call from the commissioner. Don't tell them I told you, just be ready."

"Shit, not again." D'Agosta re – cradled the phone. Then he stood up and headed for the nearest bank of elevators. He could probably scrounge a copy up on the floor, but if Laura was right, he needed to carve out some time to digest whatever it was before the commissioner called.

The elevator bell rang, and a set of doors opened. A few minutes later, D'Agosta approached the newsstand in the lobby. He could see the West Siderhung prominently on the upper left rack, as usual. He dropped his two bits on the counter, slid one off the top of the pile, and tucked it under his arm. Stepping into the Star – bucks across the lobby, he ordered a single shot of espresso, took it to the table, and opened the newspaper. The lead article practically yelled out at him:

Animal Sacrifice!

Ritual Death at "the Ville"

Possible Ties to Voodoo and Smithback Murder

By Caitlyn Kidd

D'Agosta stared at the espresso, which barely covered the bottom of the paper cup. Whatever happened to the preheated demitasses they used to serve it in? He shot it down, barely tasting it, snapped the paper flat, and began to read.

He had to admit, for a shit – piece of a story it was effective. Nora Kelly and the reporter had gone up to the Ville at night, jumped the fence, and heard the whole thing. Then they'd been chased away, by who or what was left vague, but the reporter insinuated it had the appearance of a zombii. The reporter went on to wonder how the city could have allowed a public road to be closed, and whether animal cruelty laws were being broken. There were quotes from Smithback's article on the Ville, descriptions of the vévéleft at his apartment door prior to the murder, as well as the weird stuff left at the murder scene itself. There was a pithy quote from the head of an animal rights group. While the reporter made no direct assertions of a connection between the Ville and Smithback's murder, the thrust of the article was unmistakable: Smithback had started writing about animal sacrifices, and he'd been planning to do more. And then there was a line that particularly burned him, typical of this kind of reportage. "Repeated attempts to reach Lieutenant Detective Vincent D'Agosta, in charge of the Smithback homicide investigation, were unsuccessful."

Repeated attempts.His cell phone was on night and frigging day, and his office number rolled over to it after hours. Now that he thought about it, he had gotten a call or maybe two from that woman, Kidd, but who has time to return every call? Repeated attempts, my ass.Twice, more like it. Well, okay, maybe three times.

Now he knew exactly why Laura Hayward had called.

The previous article, about voodoo, had been a joke. But this one had some real meat, and the piteous description of the bleating animal being killed was all too effective. Animal lovers, he knew, could be damn near rabid.

The theme song from The Good, the Bad, and the Uglyrang out in the coffee shop. D'Agosta quickly grabbed his cell phone, flipped it open, and walked out into the lobby.

The commissioner.

"We speak again," said the commissioner.

"Yes, sir."

"I assume you've seen the West Siderpiece?"

"Yes, sir, I have." He tried to keep his tone respectful, as if yesterday had never happened.

"It seems that you might be barking up the wrong tree with Kline – eh, Lieutenant?" The voice had a cold edge to it.

"I'm keeping all lines open in this investigation."

A grunt. "So what do you think? Ville or Kline?"

"As I said, we're pursuing both leads."

"This thing has really exploded. The mayor's concerned. I just got calls from the Newsand the Post.This business about you being unavailable for comment… Look, you need to be out there, reassuring people, giving answers."

"I'll schedule a press conference."

"You do that. Two o'clock would be a good time. Focus on the Ville – and leave Kline out of it." A crackle as the connection was cut.

D'Agosta headed back into Starbucks. "Give me four shots of espresso," he said. "To go."

Chapter 30

At the best of times, D'Agosta hated press conferences. And this was hardly the best of times. There was little to tell – and what there was to tell seemed to beggar belief. As he peered through the doorway into the briefing room – every seat taken, the reporters and cameramen and officials all shouting over each other – Commissioner Rocker came up beside him. "Ready with your statement, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir." D'Agosta glanced at him. Rocker wore his usual dark suit, a small NYPD pin set into one lapel. The commissioner returned the glance, looking even wearier than usual.

"You remember what I said: no Kline."

D'Agosta swallowed. Forget all the coffee – he could use a double bourbon right about now. He hadn't planned to mention Kline anyway; he didn't want to get sued for defamation.

As they walked out into the briefing room and ascended the podium, the volume of noise grew even louder. Explosions of light peppered the room as a dozen flash units went off. The commissioner stepped toward the lectern and put out his hands for silence. It took a good thirty seconds for the crowd to settle down. At last, the commissioner cleared his throat.

"Detective Lieutenant D'Agosta, who is in charge of the Smith – back homicide, will say a few words about the current state of his investigation. We will then open the floor for questions. Before Lieutenant D'Agosta speaks, I would just ask all of you to please be responsible in how you report this case to the public. This is an exceptionally sensational crime, and the city is already on edge as a result. Causing additional unrest can only lead to further damage. And now, Lieutenant, if you would?"

"Thank you." D'Agosta approached the microphone with trepidation. He gazed out over the sea of faces, swallowed painfully. "As you are all aware," he began, "William Smithback, a resident of the Upper West Side, was the victim of a homicide one week ago. Members of law enforcement, under my direction, have been aggressively investigating the case. As a result, numerous lines of inquiry have been opened. We are pursuing several leads, and we feel confident that those responsible will be identified and apprehended in the very near future. In the meantime, we would ask that if anybody has any information of value to the investigation, they contact the NYPD immediately." He paused. "I'll take your questions now."

Instantly, the hubbub resumed. D'Agosta held up his hands for order. "Quiet, please!" he said into the microphone. "Quiet!" He stepped back, waiting for a semblance of order to return. "Thank you. You, in front." He nodded at a middle – aged woman in a yellow blouse.

"What can you tell us about this Ville? Are they really performing animal sacrifices?"

"There have been several complaints about animal noise emanating from that location. This is one of the areas under active investigation. I might add that we have found no direct connection between the Ville and the Smithback homicide."

"Speaking of the Smithback homicide," the woman went on, "are the autopsy results back? What was the cause of death?"

"The cause of death was a stab wound to the heart."

He surveyed the crowd: the hands straining in the air, the lights and cameras and digital recorders. It seemed strange not to see Smith – back among the eager faces, shouting and gesticulating, cowlick bobbing.

"Yes," he said, pointing to a man in the third row wearing a large, gaudy bow tie.

"Have you confirmed the identity of Smithback's killer? Was it Fearing, his neighbor?"

"Fearing wasn't a neighbor. He lived in the same building. Tests are still ongoing, but at present all evidence indicates that, yes, Fearing is definitely a person of interest in our investigation. He is currently at large and considered a fugitive from justice." If a possible stiff can be considered a fugitive, that is.

"What's Fearing's connection to the Ville?"

"We have not established a connection between Fearing and the Ville."

This was going better than he'd hoped: under the circumstances, the press seemed controlled, almost respectful. He nodded at another upraised hand.

"What about the search of Kline's office. Is he a suspect?"

"He's not a suspect at this time." D'Agosta avoided glancing at Rocker. Jesus, how did the press always seem to know everything?

"Then why the search?"

"I'm sorry, I can't go into that aspect of the investigation."

He began to point to another reporter, but suddenly one voice cut over the others. D'Agosta turned toward it, frowning. A man had stood up near the front: tall and preppie looking, with short sandy hair, a repp tie, and a chin cleft you could park a truck in.

"I want to know what realprogress has been made," he said in a loud, stentorian voice. The question was so vague, yet so aggressive, that for a moment D'Agosta was stunned into silence.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"I'm Bryce Harriman," the man said. "Of the Times.A fellow member of the New York journalist corps – my good friendBill Smithback – has been brutally murdered. A week has gone by. So let me put it a different way: why has so little real progress been made?"

A murmur ran through the crowd. A few heads nodded their agreement.

"We have made real progress. Obviously, I am not at liberty to go into all the details." D'Agosta knew how lame it sounded, but it was the best he could do.

But Harriman paid no attention. "This was an attack on a journalist for doing his job," he said with a flourish. "An attack on us, on our profession."

The assenting murmurs increased. D'Agosta began to call on another, but Harriman refused to be silent. "What's going on at the Ville?" he said, raising his voice.

"As I said, there is no evidence implicating the Ville in—"

Harriman cut him off. "Why are they allowed to keep openly torturing and killing animals – and maybe not just animals? Lieutenant, surely you must be aware that a lot of New Yorkers are asking the same question: Why have the police done absolutely nothing?"

All at once the crowd was in full cry – demanding, gesticulating, their expressions angry. And – as one by one they rose to their feet – Harriman sat back down again, a look of smug satisfaction creasing his patrician face.

Chapter 31

The Rolls passed through a large white gate and continued up a cobbled driveway, which ran among ancient oaks before opening suddenly onto a grand mansion surrounded by outbuildings: a carriage house, a gazebo, a greenhouse, and a vast, shingled red barn built on ancient stone foundations. Beyond, a sweep of manicured lawn led down to the waters of Long Island Sound, sparkling in the morning light.

D'Agosta whistled. "Jesus, what a spread."

"Indeed. And we can't even see the caretaker's house, helipad, and trout hatchery from our current vantage point."

"Remind me why we're here again," D'Agosta said.

"Mr. Esteban is one of the people who complained most vocally about the Ville. I'm curious to hear his sentiments on the place firsthand."

At a word from Pendergast, Proctor brought the vehicle to a stop before the barn. Its doors were wide open, and without a word the agent stepped quickly out of the Rolls and disappeared into the cavernous structure.

"Hey, the house is that way…" D'Agosta's voice faltered. He looked around nervously. What on earth was Pendergast up to this time?

He could hear the sound of chopping wood. The noise stopped and a moment later, a man emerged from behind the woodshed, ax in one hand. At the same time, Pendergast reappeared from the darkness of the barn.

The man came over, still holding the ax.

"Looks like we got a real Paul Bunyan here," D'Agosta murmured as the agent rejoined him.

The man was tall, with a short salt – and – pepper beard, longish hair falling below his collar, bald spot on top. Despite the Hispanic surname, he looked as Anglo as they came – in fact, except for the hairstyle, he could have been a walking advertisement for Lands' End, dressed in neatly pressed chinos, checked shirt, work gloves – lean and fit. He brushed a few wood chips off his shirt, slung the ax over his shoulder, and pulled off a glove to shake hands.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, his melodious voice bearing no trace of accent.

Pendergast slipped out his badge. "Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta, NYPD homicide."

The eyes narrowed, the lips pursed, as he examined the badge carefully. His eyes finally glanced up and past them at the Rolls. "Nice squad car you've got there."

"Budget cuts," Pendergast replied. "One makes do as best one can."

"Right."

"You are Alexander Esteban?" D'Agosta asked.

"Correct."

"We'd like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind." "Do you have a warrant?"

"We're looking for some help with the homicide of William Smithback, the Timesjournalist," Pendergast said. "I'd consider it a favor if you would answer our questions."

The man nodded, stroked his beard. "I knew Smithback. I'll do whatever I can to help."

"You produce films, is that correct?" Pendergast asked.

"I used to. These days I spend most of my time in philanthropic pursuits."

"I saw the article about you in Mademoiselle.The one that called you the 'modern DeMille.' "

"History's my passion." Esteban gave a light laugh of false modesty. It didn't work.

D'Agosta suddenly remembered: Esteban was that guy who made the splashy, cheesy historical epics. He'd gone to see the most recent with Laura Hayward, Breakout Sing Sing,about the famous breakout of thirty – three inmates back in the early sixties. Neither of them had liked it. There was another he vaguely recollected: The Last Days of Marie Antoinette.

"But more to our purpose is the organization you run. Humans for Other Animals, is that correct?"

He nodded. "HOA, right. Although I'm primarily the mouthpiece, as it were. A well – known name assigned to the cause." He smiled. "Rich Plock is the guy in charge."

"I see. And you were in touch with Mr. Smithback about the series he was planning to write on the Ville des Zirondelles, known popularly as the Ville?"

"Our organization has been concerned about reports of animal sacrifices there. It's been going on for a long time, and nothing's been done. I contacted all the papers, including the Times,and finally Mr. Smithback got back to me."

"When was that?"

"Let's see – it was about a week or so before he published his first article, I believe."

Pendergast nodded, then seemed to lose interest in the questioning.

D'Agosta took over. "Tell us about it."

"Smithback called me up and I met with him in the city. We had gathered some information on the Ville – complaints from neighbors, eyewitness reports of live animals being delivered, bills of sale, that sort of thing – and I gave him copies."

"Did they contain any proof?"

"Lots of proof! People in Inwood have heard animals being tortured and killed up there for years. The city hasn't done a damn thing, because of some politically correct ideas about religious freedom or some such rot. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for religious freedom – but not if it means torturing and killing animals."

"Did Smithback make any enemies that you know of by publishing that first article on animal sacrifice?"

"I'm sure he did – just as I have. Those people at the Ville are fanatics."

"Do you have any specificinformation about that? Something that was said to him, threatening phone calls or e – mails to you or him, anything like that?"

"I got something in the mail once, some charm or other. I threw it away. I don't know if it came from the Ville or not – although the package was postmarked from Upper Manhattan. Those people keep to themselves. A very, verystrange group. Clannish and insular, to put it mildly. Been there forever, too, on that bit of ground."

D'Agosta scuffed his foot on the cobbles, thinking of what else to ask. The man wasn't telling them much they didn't already know.

Pendergast suddenly spoke again. "A lovely estate you have here, Mr. Esteban. Do you keep horses?"

"Absolutely not. I don't condone animal slavery."

"Dogs?"

"Animals are meant to live in the wild, not be demeaned in the service of man."

"Are you a vegetarian, Mr. Esteban?"

"Naturally."

"Are you married? Children?"

"Divorced, no children. Now, look—"

"Why are you a vegetarian?"

"Killing animals for the gratification of our appetites is unethical. Not to mention bad for the planet, wasteful of energy, and morally atrocious while millions are starving. Like that disgusting car of yours – sorry, I don't mean to offend you, but there's no excuse for driving a car like that." Esteban's lips pursed in disapproval, and for a moment his face reminded D'Agosta of one of the nuns who used to smack his hand with a ruler for talking in class. He wondered how Pendergast was going to take this, but the agent's face remained smoothly untroubled.

"There are quite a number of people in New York City who practice religions in which animals may be sacrificed," the agent said. "Why focus on the Ville?"

"It's the most egregious and longest – lived example. We have to start somewhere."

"How many people belong to your organization?"

Esteban seemed embarrassed. "Well, Rich is the man to give you the definitive number. I think we have a few hundred."

"You've read the recent stories in the West Sider,Mr. Esteban?"

"I have."

"What do you think?"

"I think that reporter is on to something. Like I said, those people are crazy. Voodoo, Obeah… I understand they're not even there legally, that they're squatters of some kind. The city should evict them."

"Where would they go?"

Esteban gave a short laugh. "They can go to hell for all I care."

"So you think it's okay to torture humans in hell, but not animals on earth?"

The laugh died in Esteban's throat. He looked carefully at the agent. "That's just an expression, Mister—"

"Pendergast."

"Mr. Pendergast. Are we through here?"

"I don't think so."

D'Agosta was surprised to hear the sudden edge in Pendergast's voice.

"Well, I am."

"Do you believe in Vôdou, Mr. Esteban?"

"Are you asking if I believe people practicevoodoo, or do I believe that it actually works?"

"Both."

"I believe those zealots up in the Ville practice voodoo. Do I think they're bringing people back from the dead? Who knows? I don't care. I just want them gone."

"Who finances your organization?"

"It's not my organization. I'm just a member. We get a lot of small donations, but if the truth be told, I'm the major source of support."

"Is it a 501(c)(3) tax – exempt organization?"

"Yes."

"Where do you get your money?"

"I did well in the movie business – but frankly, I don't see how that's any of your business." Esteban eased the ax off his shoulder. "Your questions seem rambling and pointless, Mr. Pendergast, and I'm getting tired of answering them. So would you please climb back into your carbon monster and remove yourself from my property?"

"I would be delighted." Pendergast half bowed and, with a faint smile on his face, climbed back into the Rolls, D'Agosta following.

* * *

As they were heading back into the city, D'Agosta shifted in his seat and scowled. "What a self – righteous prig. I'll bet he sinks his teeth into a bloody steak when no one's around."

Pendergast had been gazing out the window, absorbed in some private rumination. At this he turned. "Why, Vincent, I do believe that is one of the most insightful comments I've heard you make today." He pulled a thin Styrofoam tray from his suit pocket, removed the cover, and handed it to D'Agosta. Inside was a bloody absorbent pad, folded twice, along with a label affixed to a torn piece of plastic wrap. It smelled of rancid meat.

D'Agosta recoiled and handed it back quickly. "What the hell's that?"

"I found it in the trash in the barn. According to this label, it once contained a crown roast of lamb, at twelve ninety – nine the pound."

"No shit."

"Excellent price for that cut. I was tempted to ask Mr. Esteban who his butcher was." And Pendergast covered the tray, placed it on the leather seat between them, leaned back, and resumed his perusal of the passing scenery.