Cemetery Dance

Pendergast took the pictures and began to leaf through them.

"To summarize," Nora said, "the bloods of two people were in the samples you secured from… from my apartment. One was my husband's. The other I will call X. The X sample matched the mitochondrial DNA of Fearing's mother perfectly. And the X sample was also identical to the person who chased me through the storage room. Q.E.D.: X is Fearing."

Pendergast nodded slowly.

"Just what I've said all along," D'Agosta said. "The son of a bitch is still alive. The sister was either mistaken or, more likely, lying when she ID'd the body — no surprise she disappeared. And the M.E. screwed up."

Pendergast said nothing as he examined the images.

"You can keep those," said Nora. "I've got another set. And I have the samples hidden in the back of the PCR lab refrigerator, if you need anything more. Mislabeled, of course."

Pendergast slipped the images back into the folder. "Nora, this is extremely helpful of you. And now I must reproach myself most severely for putting you in danger. I did not anticipate this attack, especially in the museum, and I am very sorry. From now on, you are to have nothing more to do with the case. We will handle it. Until the murderer is caught, you must take exceptional care with your person. No more late nights at the museum."

Nora looked into the agent's silvery eyes. "I've got more information for you."

One eyebrow raised in inquiry.

"I went through Bill's recent articles. He was doing a series of stories on animal abuse in New York — cockfighting, dogfighting… and animal sacrifice."

"Indeed?"

"There's a small community up in Inwood known as the Ville. It's deep inside Inwood Hill Park, cut off from the rest of the city. Apparently, some residents up on Indian Road had been complaining that they could hear animals being tortured inside the Ville. An animal rights group was up in arms — their spokesman, a man named Esteban, has spoken out against it more than once. The police did a cursory investigation but nothing's been proved. Anyway, Bill was looking into it. He'd written one article and was working on more. Apparently, his… well, his final interview was with an Inwood resident, one of the people who'd complained. Somebody named Pizzetti."

D'Agosta was taking notes.

She could see from the almost eager glitter in Pendergast's eyes that this news was being received with great interest. "The Ville," he repeated.

"Sounds like another search warrant just might be in order," D'Agosta muttered.

"I went up there last night," Nora said.

"Jesus, Nora!" said D'Agosta. "You can't just take this sort of thing upon yourself. Let us handle it."

Nora resumed as if she hadn't heard. "I didn't enter the community itself, which seems to have only one access road. I approached from the south, up a high ridge in the park overlooking the Ville."

"What did you see?" "Nothing but a crumbling cluster of buildings. Except for a few lights, no signs of life. Creepy place."

"I'll look into it, talk to this Pizzetti," said D'Agosta.

"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."

Chapter 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 co

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 co

"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: