Cemetery Dance

She heard her name being called over the babel of voices. She sca

She was willing to put up with a lot, but this was too much. Placing her half — empty drink on a nearby table, she ducked behind a portly man hovering nearby and then moved away into the crowd, out of Harriman's sight.

Just then, the lights dimmed and a man took the stage. The music ceased and the crowd noise died down.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the man cried, hands grasping the podium. "Welcome to the Gotham Press Club's a

Nora braced herself for a rambling introduction, full of self — referential anecdotes and lame jokes.

"I'd love to stand here, crack bad jokes, and talk about myself," Oddon said. "But we have a lot of awards to hand out this evening. So let's get right to it!" He plucked a card from his jacket pocket, sca

As Nora watched, Caitlyn took the stage to a chorus of applause, raucous cheers, and a few wolf whistles. She shook hands with Oddon, then plucked one of the microphones from its stand. "Thanks, McGeorge," she said. She looked slightly nervous in front of the large crowd, but her voice was strong and clear. "West Sideris as young as this club is old," she began. "Some people say too young. But the fact is, our newspaper couldn't be happier to be a part of this evening. And with this new award, we're putting our money where our mouth is!"

A deluge of cheers.

"There are plenty of awards for journalistic excellence," she continued. "Most of them concentrate on the quality of the printed word. Or maybe its timeliness. Or — dare I say — political correctness."

Jeers, moans, catcalls.

"But what about an award for sheer guts? For sheer doggedness of doing whatever it takes to get the story, get it right, get it now. For having — oh, all right — a set of brass balls!"

This time, the yells and applause shook the room itself.

"Because that's what West Sider is all about. Sure, we're a new paper. But that makes us all the hungrier."

Even as the last round of cheers died away, there was a fresh commotion at one end of the hall.

"And so it's only right that the West Sider is sponsoring this new award!"

A strange shudder — half gasp, half moan — rippled through the room. Nora frowned, looking over the sea of heads. Over by the entranceway, the crowds were surging backward, clearing an area. There were gasps, scattered cries of dismay.

What the hell was happening?

"With that said, I—" Caitlyn stopped in midsentence as she noticed it, too. She glanced toward the entrance. "Um, just a moment…"

The strange ripple in the crowd grew, parting in the direction of the stage. There was something at its center, a figure that people seemed to be recoiling from. Screams, more incoherent cries. Then — most bizarre of all — the hall fell quiet.

Caitlyn Kidd spoke into the silence. "Bill? Smithback?"

The figure had lurched forward and was approaching the foot of the stage. Nora stared — then felt herself physically staggered by disbelief.

It was Bill. He was dressed in a loose green hospital smock, open at the back. His skin was hideously sallow, and his face and hands were covered with caked blood. He was dreadfully, horribly changed, an apparition from someplacebeyond — an apparition horribly similar to the one that had chased her from the Ville. And yet there was no mistaking the cowlick that reared from the mass of matted hair; no mistaking the rangy limbs.

"God," Nora heard herself groan. "Oh, God— "

"Smithback!" Caitlyn cried, voice shrill.

Nora couldn't move. Caitlyn screamed — a wail that cut through the air of the hall like a straight razor. "It's you!" she cried.

The figure was mounting the stage. His movements were shuffling, erratic. His hands hung loosely at his sides. One of them held a heavy knife, the blade barely visible beneath a heavy accumulation of gore.

Caitlyn backed up, screaming in sheer terror now.

As Nora stared, unable to move, the figure of her husband lurched up the last step, shambled across the stage.

"Bill!" Caitlyn said, shrinking back against the podium, her voice half lost in the rising cry of the crowd. "Wait! My God, no! Not me! NO! — "

The knife hand hesitated, shaking, in the air. Then it plunged down — into Caitlyn's chest, rose again, plunged, a sudden fountain of blood spraying across the scabby arm that slashed down, up, down. And then the figure turned and fled behind the stage, and Nora felt her knees give way and a blackness engulf her, blotting out everything, overwhelming her utterly.

Chapter 33

The hallway smelled of cats. D'Agosta walked along it until he found apartment 5D. He rang the buzzer, listened as it echoed loudly inside. There was a shuffling of slippers, then the peephole darkened as an eye pressed against it.

"Who is it?" came the quavering voice.

"Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta." He held up his shield. "Hold it closer, I can't read it."

He held it up to the peephole.

"Step into view, I want to look at you."

D'Agosta centered himself before the peephole.

"What do you want?"

"Mrs. Pizzetti, we spoke earlier. I'm investigating the Smithback homicide."

"I don't have anything to do with no murders."

"I know, Mrs. Pizzetti. But you agreed to talk to me about Mr. Smithback, who interviewed you for the Times. Remember?"

A long wait. Then came the unbolting of one, two, three bolts, a chain being pulled back, and a brace being removed. The door opened a crack, held in place by a second chain.

D'Agosta held up his badge again, and a pair of beady eyes gave it a twice — over.

With a rattle, the final chain was pulled back and the door opened. The little old lady that D'Agosta had imagined materialized before him, frail as a bone — china teacup, bathrobe clutched tightly in one blue — veined hand, lips compressed. Her eyes, black and bright as a mouse's, looked him up and down.

He quickly stepped inside to avoid having the door shut in his face. It was an old — fashioned apartment, heated to equatorial standards, large and cluttered, with overstuffed wing chairs and lace antimacassars, fringed lamps, knickknacks and bric — a — brac. And cats. Naturally.

"May I?" D'Agosta indicated a chair.

"Who's stopping you?"

D'Agosta chose the least stuffed looking of the chairs, and yet his posterior still sank down alarmingly, as if in quicksand. A cat immediately jumped up on the arm and began purring loudly, arching its back.