Cemetery Dance

"Get down, Scamp, and leave the man alone." Mrs. Pizzetti had a heavy Queens accent.

Naturally, the cat did not listen. D'Agosta did not like cats. He gave it a gentle push with his elbow. The cat only purred louder, thinking it was about to get petted.

"Mrs. Pizzetti," said D'Agosta, removing his notebook and trying to ignore the cat, which was shedding hairs all over his brand — new Rothman's suit, "I understand you spoke to William Smithback on…" He consulted his notes. "October third."

"I don't remember when it was." She shook her head. "It just gets worse and worse."

"Can you tell me what it was you talked about?" "I had nothing to do with no murder."

"I know that. You certainly aren't a suspect. Now, your meeting with Mr. Smithback…"

"He brought me a little present. Let's see…" She began poking around in the apartment, her palsied hand finally settling on a small china cat. She brought it over to D'Agosta, tossed it in his lap. "He brought me this. Chinese. You can get them down on Canal Street."

D'Agosta turned the knickknack over in his hand. This was a side of Smithback he hadn't known, bringing presents to little old ladies, even sour ones like Pizzetti. Of course, it was probably to secure an interview.

"Very nice." He set it down on a side table. "What did you talk about, Mrs. Pizzetti?"

"Those horrible animal killers over there." She gestured toward the nearest window. "There at the Ville."

"Tell me what you said to him."

"Well! You can hear the screams at night, when the wind is from the river. Horrible sounds, animals getting cut up, getting their throats cut!" Her voice rose and she said the last with a certain relish. "Someone should cuttheir throats!"

"Was there anything specific, any incidents in particular?"

"I told him about the van."

At this D'Agosta felt his heart quicken. "The van?"

"Every Thursday, like clockwork. Out the van goes at five. In it comes at nine at night."

"Today is Thursday. Did you see it today?"

"I certainly did, just like every Thursday evening."

D'Agosta stood and went to the window. It looked west, out over the back of the building. He'd walked there himself, doing a quick recon of the area prior to the interview. An old road — apparently leading to the Ville — could be seen below, ru

"From this window?" he asked.

"What other window is there? Of course from that window."

"Any markings on the van?"

"None that I could see. Just a white van."

"Model, make?"

"I don't know about those things. It's white, dirty. Old. Piece of junk."

"You ever see the driver?" "From up here, how could I see anyone inside? But when my window's open at night, I can sometimes hear sounds from the van. That's what made me notice it in the first place."

"Sounds? What kind?"

"Bleating. Whimpering."

"Animal sounds?"

"Certainly, animal sounds."

"May I?" He indicated the window.

"And let the cold air in? You should see my heating bills."

"Just for a moment." Without waiting for the woman to reply, he lifted the double — hung — it went up easily — and leaned out. The fall evening was cool and quiet. It was believable she'd hear something in the van, if it was loud enough.

"Look here, if you need fresh air, do it on somebody else's dime."

D'Agosta shut the window. "How's your hearing, Mrs. Pizzetti? Do you wear a hearing aid?"

"How's your hearing, Officer?" she snapped back. "Mine is perfect."

"Anything else you remember telling Smithback — or anything else about the Ville?"

She seemed to hesitate. "People talk about seeing something wandering around over there, inside the fence."

"Something? An animal?"

She shrugged. "And then they sometimes come out at night. In the van. Gone all night and come back in the morning."

"Often?"

"Two or three times a year."

"Any idea what they're up to?"

"Oh yes. Recruiting. For their cult."

"How do you know?"

"That's what people around here say. The old — timers."

"What people, specifically, Mrs. Pizzetti?"

She shrugged. "Can you give me any names?"

"Oh no. I'm not dragging my neighbors into this. They'd kill me."

D'Agosta found himself becoming exasperated with this difficult old lady. "What else do you know?"

"I don't remember anything else. Except cats. He was very fond of cats."

"Excuse me, who was fond of cats?"

"That reporter, Smithback. Who else?"

Fond of cats. Smithback was good at his job, knew how to gain people's trust, establish a co

"Never fails."

D'Agosta exited the building, breathing deep of the night air. Quiet, leafy. Hard to believe it was still Manhattan Island. He checked his watch: just after eight. He'd seen a diner down the street; he'd grab a cup of coffee and wait.

The van came right on schedule, a '97 Chevy Express with windows in front only, deeply tinted, and a ladder ru

D'Agosta timed his steps so that he was just crossing behind the van as the driver's door opened. A man got out, went up to the padlock, and unlocked it. D'Agosta couldn't get a clear view in the dim light, but he seemed to be extraordinarily tall. He wore a long coat that looked almost antique, like something out of a Western movie. D'Agosta paused to fish out and light a cigarette, keeping his head down. Chain down, the man came back, got in the cab, drove the van across the chain, stopped again.

Dropping the cigarette, D'Agosta darted forward, keeping the van between himself and the man. He listened as the man raised the chain again, padlocked it, and returned to the driver's door. Then, keeping low, D'Agosta slid around to the rear, stepping onto the bumper and grabbing hold of the ladder. This was public land, city land. There was no reason why an officer of the law couldn't enter, as long as he didn't trespass inside any private buildings.

The van crept forward, the driver cautious and slow. They left the dim lights of Upper Manhattan behind and were soon among the dark, silent trees of Inwood Hill Park. Although the windows were closed tight, the sounds Mrs. Pizzetti had mentioned were all too plain to D'Agosta: a chorus of crying, bleating, meowing, barking, clucking, and — even more horrifying — the terrified whi

The van crested a hill, descended, then stopped. D'Agosta heard the driver get out. As he did so,

D'Agosta leapt from the rear of the van and sprinted into the nearby woods, diving into the dark leaves. Rolling into a crouch, he glanced back in the direction of the van. The driver was unlocking an old gate in a chain — link fence, and for the briefest of instants the face passed through the glow of the headlights. His skin was pale, and there was something strikingly refined, almost aristocratic, about it.