Cemetery Dance

D'Agosta fell silent as a black — clad figure glided into the room.

"Who are you?" Wartek asked, his voice high with alarm. D'Agosta had to admit that Pendergast was a rather disturbing presence at first notice — all black and white, his skin so pale he almost looked dead, his silver eyes like newly minted dimes.

"Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation, at your service, sir." Pendergast gave a little bow. He reached into his suit and produced a manila file, which he laid on the desk and opened. Inside were photocopies of old letters on New York City letterhead.

"What's this?" Wartek asked.

"The letters." He turned to D'Agosta. "Vincent, please forgive my tardiness."

"Letters?" Wartek asked, frowning.

"The letters in which the city objected to the Ville. Going back to 1864."

"Where did you get these?" "I have a researcher at the library. An excellent fellow, I recommend him highly."

"So," said D'Agosta. "There you have it. No right of possession or whatever the hell it was you said."

The rash on Wartek's neck deepened. "Lieutenant, we are not going to institute eviction proceedings against these people just because you or this FBI agent want us to. I suspect this crusade of yours might have something to do with certain religious practices you find objectionable. Well, there is a question of religious freedom here, as well."

"Freedom of religion — to torture and kill animals… or worse?" D'Agosta said. "To clobber policemen in the performance of their duty? To disturb the peace and tranquility of the neighborhood?"

"There has to be due process."

"Of course," said Pendergast, interjecting smoothly. "Due process. That is where your office comes in — to institute the due process. And that is why we are here, to suggest that you do so with all dispatch."

"This kind of decision takes long and careful study. It takes legal consultations, staff meetings, and documentary research. It can't happen overnight."

"If only we had the time, my dear Mr. Wartek! Popular opinion is moving against you even as we speak. Did you see the papers this morning?"

The rash had overspread most of Wartek's face and he was begi

On the way down in a crowded elevator full of somnolent gray suits, Pendergast turned to D'Agosta and said, "How lovely, my dear Vincent, to see New York City bureaucracy in vibrant, full — throated action!"

Chapter 38

The waiting area at JFK's Terminal 8 was at the bottom of a wide bank of escalators. Pendergast and D'Agosta stood along with a gaggle of portly men in black suits, holding up little signs with people's names on them.

"Tell me again," said D'Agosta. "Who is this guy? And what's he doing here?"

"Monsieur Bertin. He was our tutor when we were youths."

"We? You mean, you and…"

"Yes. My brother. Monsieur Bertin taught us zoology and natural history. I was rather taken with him — he was a charming and charismatic fellow. Unfortunately, he had to leave the family employ."

"What happened?"

"The fire." "Fire? You mean, when your house burned down? Did he have something to do with it?"

There was a sudden, freezing silence from Pendergast.

"So this man's expertise is… zoology? And you call him in on a murder case? Am I missing something here?"

"While Monsieur Bertin was hired to teach us natural history, he was also extremely knowledgeable about local lore and legend: Vôdou, Obeah, rootwork, and conjure."

"So he branched out. And taught you more than how to dissect a frog."

"I'd prefer not to dwell on the past. The fact is, Monsieur Bertin knows as much about the subject as anyone alive. That's why I asked him to fly up from Louisiana."

"You really think voodoo is involved?"

"You don't?" Pendergast turned his silvery eyes on D'Agosta.

"I think some asshole is trying to make us think voodoo is involved."

"Is there a difference? Ah. Here he is now."

D'Agosta turned, then started despite himself. Approaching them was a tiny man in a swallowtail coat. His skin was almost as pale as Pendergast's, and he wore a floppy, broad — brimmed white hat. What looked like a shrunken head dangled from a heavy gold chain around his neck. One hand gripped an ancient, travel — stained BOAC flight bag; the other was tapping a massive, fantastically carved cane before him.Cane didn't do it justice, D'Agosta decided;walking stick was more like it.Cudgel was even better. He looked like some faith healer from a traveling medicine show, or one of the nutcases who wandered about JFK because it was warmer inside than out. In a place like New York City, where people had seen just about everything, this weirdo was getting a lot of stares. The man was trailed by a skycap burdened down with an alarming number of suitcases.

"Aloysius!" He came bustling over on bird — like legs and kissed Pendergast on both cheeks in the French style. "

Quelle plaisir!

You haven't aged a day."

He turned and stared at D'Agosta, looking him swiftly up and down with a fierce black eye. "Who is this man?"

"I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta." He held out his hand, but it was ignored.

The man turned back to Pendergast. "A policeman?"

"I'm also a policeman, maître." Pendergast almost seemed amused by the excitable little fellow.

"Pah!" The white hat flopped up and down with disdainful disapproval. A pack of cigarillos appeared in Bertin's hand, and he shucked one out and fitted it into a mother — of — pearl cigarette holder.

"I'm sorry, maître, but there's no smoking in here."

"Barbarians." Bertin put the thing in his mouth anyway, unlit. "Show me to the car." They went out to the curb, where Proctor was waiting. "What, a Rolls — Royce? How vulgar!"

While the skycap loaded the suitcases into the trunk, D'Agosta was dismayed to see Pendergast slip into the front seat, leaving him to share the back with Bertin. Once inside, the man immediately produced a gold lighter and set the cigarillo aflame.

"Excuse me — do you mind?" D'Agosta said.

The man turned his bright black eyes toward him. "I do mind." He inhaled deeply, cracked the window with a look askance at D'Agosta, and exhaled a thin stream through pursed lips. He leaned forward. "Now, Aloysius, I've been mulling over the information you gave me. The photographs you sent of the charms found at the murder scene — they aremal, très mal! The doll of feathers and Spanish moss; the needles wrapped in black thread; the name inscribed on parchment; and that powder — saltpeter, I assume?"

"Correct."

Bertin nodded. "There can be no question. A death conjure."

"Death conjure?" D'Agosta said in disbelief.

"Also known as a 'killing hurt,' " Bertin said in full — throated lecture — hall style. "That is flat — out hoodoo. That could have been dealt with more easily. But this — thisrevenant, this dead man walking. That is serious. That is Vôdou proper. Especially…" Here he dropped his voice. "… now that the victim has returned as well." He looked at Pendergast. "He has a wife, you say?"