Cemetery Dance

"Yes."

"She is in serious danger."

"I've put in a request for police protection," D'Agosta said.

Bertin scoffed. "Pah!"

"I purchased her an enemy — be — gone charm," said Pendergast.

"That may be of use against the first one, but he I am not so worried about. Such charms are useless against family or kin — including husbands."

"I also prepared a charm bag and urged her to keep it in her pocket."

Bertin's expression brightened. "A mojo hand! Très bien. Tell me: what did it contain?"

"Protection oil, High John the Conqueror root, vervain, and wormwood."

D'Agosta scarcely believed what he was hearing. He looked from Pendergast to Bertin and back again.

Bertin sat back. "This will continue unless we can find the conjure — doctor. Turn the trick."

"We're working on a search warrant for the Ville now. And we spoke to the city yesterday about possible eviction proceedings."

Bertin muttered to himself, then issued another stream of smoke. D'Agosta had once enjoyed cigars, but they had been normal, man — size things. The Rolls was filling up with disgusting clove — scented smoke.

"I heard about this guy once," said D'Agosta. "He used to smoke those ski

Bertin looked at him sideways.

"Got cancer. Had to cut off his lips."

"Who needs lips?" Bertin asked.

D'Agosta could feel the man's beady eyes on his face. He opened his window, crossed his arms, and sat back, closing his eyes.

Just when he was about to drift off, his newly replaced cell phone went off. He glanced down, read the text message. "The search warrant finally came through for the Ville," he told Pendergast.

"Excellent. How broad?"

"Pretty limited, actually. The public areas of the church itself, the altar and tabernacle — assuming there is one — but not the sacristy or the other non — public areas, or the outlying buildings."

"Very well. It's enough to get us in — and introduce us to the people there. Monsieur Bertin will accompany us."

"And how are we going to justify that?"

"I have engaged him as a special consultant to the FBI on the case."

"Yeah, right." D'Agosta ran a hand through his thi

Chapter 39

Nora stared at the ceiling of her bedroom, her gaze traveling back and forth along a crack in the plaster. Back and forth, back and forth, her eye following its meanderings as one would follow river tributaries on a map. She remembered Bill volunteering to plaster and repaint that crack, saying it drove him crazy when he lay down and tried to nap during the day — which he often did, forced as he was to keep journalistic hours. She had said it was a waste, sinking money into a rental apartment, and he'd never mentioned it again.

Now it was driving her crazy. She couldn't take her eyes off it.

With a sharp effort she turned her head and stared out the open window beside her bed. Through the bars of the fire escape beyond she could see the apartment building across the alley, pigeons strutting along the wooden water tank atop its roof. Sounds of traffic — horns, the blat of a diesel, the grinding of gears — filtered up from the adjacent street. Her limbs felt heavy, her senses unreal. Unreal. Everything had become unreal. The last forty — four hours had been bizarre, obscene, unbearable. Bill's body missing; Caitlyn dead, dead at the hands of… She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, forcing the thought away. She had given up trying to make sense of anything.

She focused on the alarm clock next to the bedside table. Its red LED glowed back at her: three pm. This was stupid, lying in bed in the middle of the day.

With a huge effort she sat up, her body feeling as dull and soft as lead. For a moment the room spun around, then stabilized a little. She plumped up her pillow and eased back against it, sighing as her gaze drifted unwillingly back to the crack in the ceiling.

There was a creak of metal outside the window. She glanced toward it, saw nothing but the bright light of an Indian summer afternoon.

Tomorrow was supposed to have been Bill's funeral. Over the last several days she'd been doing her best to ready herself for the ordeal: it would be painful, but it would at least bring an end of sorts, maybe allow her to move on a little. But now even that bit of closure was denied her. How could there be a funeral with no body? She closed her eyes, groaned softly.

Another groan — low, guttural — echoed her own.

Her eyes flew open. A figure was crouching on the fire escape just outside her window — a grotesque figure, a monster: hair matted, pale skin crudely stitched up, its crabbed form covered by a bloody hospital gown sticky with bodily fluids and clotted blood. One bony hand gripped a truncheon.

The face was puffy and malformed, and covered with dried clots of blood — yet it was still recognizable. Nora felt her throat close with utter horror: the monster was her husband, Bill Smithback.

A strange sound filled the bedroom, a soft, high keening noise, and it took her a moment to realize it was coming from her own lips. She was filled with revulsion — and a sick longing. Bill — alive. Could it be? Could it possibly be him?

The figure slowly shifted position, moving forward on crouched hams.

White spots began to dance before her eyes and a sensation of heat bloomed throughout her body, as if she was about to faint, or her grip on sanity was loosening. He was gaunt, and his skin had a sickly pale cast — not unlike that of the thing that had chased her through the woods outside the Ville.

Was that Bill? Was it even possible?

The figure lurched forward again, still at a crouch, raised a hand, tapped one finger on the window.

Tap, tap, tap.

It — he — Bill — stared at her through rheumy, bloodshot eyes. The sagging mouth opened wider, the tongue lolled. Vague, half — formed sounds emerged.

Is he trying to speak to me? Alive… is it possible?

Tap, tap, tap.

"Bill?" she croaked, her heart a jackhammer in her chest. The crouching form jerked. The eyes opened wider, rolling before fixing on her once again.

"Can you talk to me?" she said.

Another sound, half moan, half whine. The claw — like hands flexed and unflexed; the desperate eyes locked on hers imploringly. She stared at him, utterly paralyzed. He was repulsive, feral, barely human. And yet, beneath the caking of blood and the matted hair, she recognized a puffy caricature of her husband's features. This was the man whom she had loved like no other on earth, who had completed her. This was the man who, before her eyes, had killed Caitlyn Kidd.

"Speak to me. Please."

Fresh sounds issued from the ruined mouth now, sounds of increased urgency. The crouching figure brought its hands together, lifted them toward her in a beseeching gesture. Despite everything, Nora felt her heart break with the piteous gesture, with the deep longing and sorrow that overwhelmed her.

"Oh, Bill," she said, as for the first time since the attack she began to weep openly. "What have they done to you?"

The figure on the fire escape groaned. It sat for a moment, looking at her intently, motionless save for the spastic gestures that occasionally racked its frame. Then, very slowly, one of its claw — like hands reached out, grasping the lower edge of the window sash.