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And then lifted it.
Nora watched, the sobs dying in her throat, as — slowly, slowly — the window inched up until it was half open. The figure bent low, easing itself beneath the frame. The hospital gown caught on a protruding nail and ripped with a sharp sound. Something about the unexpectedly sinuous movement reminded her of a wolverine sneaking into a rabbit's den. The head and shoulders were inside now. The mouth yawned wider again, a thin rope of saliva swinging from the lower lip. A hand reached for her.
Instinctively — without conscious thought — Nora shrank away.
The extended arm paused. Smithback looked up at her from his position half in, half out of the window. Another whine emerged from the muddy mouth. He lifted his arm again, more forcefully this time.
At the gesture, a stench of the charnel house wafted toward Nora. Terror rose in her throat and she backed up on the bed, drawing her knees to her chin.
The red — rimmed eyes narrowed. The whine turned to a low growl. And suddenly, with a violent thrust, the figure forced itself through the half — open window and into the room. There was a splintering of wood, a crash of glass. Nora fell back with a cry, tangling herself in the bedsheets and falling to the floor. Quickly, she struggled out of the sheets and rose. Bill was there with her, in the room.
He gave a cry of rage, lurching toward her and swinging the truncheon.
"No!" she cried. "It's me, Nora—"
It was a clumsy move and she dodged it, backing up through the doorway into the living room. He followed, reeling forward and raising the truncheon again. Close up, his eyes were whitish, cloudy, their surface dry and wrinkled. His mouth opened wide again, the lips cracking, exhaling a dreadful reek that mingled with the sharp odor of formalin and methyl alcohol.
N
She kept backing up through the living room. He lurched toward her, one hand reaching out, fingers spastically jerking. Straining toward her, reaching, closer and closer.
She took another step backward, felt her shoulder blades touch the wall. It was as if the figure was threatening and pleading with her at the same time, the left hand reaching out to touch her as the right hand raised the truncheon to strike. He threw his head back, exposing a neck with huge raw cuts sewn up with twine, the skin gray and dead.
N
"No," she whispered. "No. Stay back."
The hand reached out, trembling, touched her hair, caressed it. The smell of death enveloped her.
"No," she croaked. "Please."
The mouth opened wider, foul air streaming out.
"Get away!" she said with a rising shriek.
The twitching hand traced a dirty finger down her cheek to her lips, caressed them. She pressed her back against the wall.
N
N
N
The figure began to pant as the convulsive, twitching finger rubbed her lips. Then the finger tried to push inside her mouth.
She gagged, turning her head away. "No…"
A pounding came at the door — her screams must have brought someone.
"Nora!" came a muffled voice. "Hey, are you all right? Nora!"
As if in reaction, the upraised hand clutching the truncheon began to shake.
N
The panting turned into an urgent, lascivious grunting.
Nora was paralyzed, speechless with horror.
The right hand swept down in one spastic motion, the truncheon crashing onto her skull — and the world ended.
Chapter 40
D'Agosta sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, the black mood that had settled over him refusing to dissipate. If anything, it seemed to grow darker the closer they got to the Ville. At least he didn't have to sit in the back with the a
The driver halted the cruiser where Indian Road turned into 214th, the crime — scene van following them coming to a rattling stop behind. D'Agosta glanced at his watch: three thirty. The driver popped the trunk and D'Agosta got out, hefted out the bolt cutters, and snapped the padlock, letting the chain drop to the ground. He chucked the bolt cutters back into the trunk, slammed it, and slid back into the car.
"Motherfuckers," he said to no one in particular.
The driver gu
"Driver," said Bertin, leaning forward, "watch those starts, if you please."
The driver — a homicide detective named Perez — rolled his eyes.
They halted again at the iron gate in the chain — link fence, and D'Agosta took another small joy in cutting off the lock and tossing it into the woods. Then, to make sure the job was done well, he cut through both sets of hinges, kicked the iron gate down, and dragged the two pieces off the road. He got back in the car, puffing slightly. "Public way," he said in explanation.
Another screech of tires and the Crown Vic jerked forward, jostling the passengers. It climbed, then descended, through a dark, twilight wood, ultimately nosing out into a dead field. The Ville rose up ahead, bathed in the crystalline light of a fall afternoon. Despite the sun, it looked dark and crooked, wreathed in shadow: a haphazard jumble of steeples and roofs like some nightmare village of Dr. Seuss. The entire construction had accreted around a monstrous, half — timbered church, impossibly old. The front part was surrounded by a tall wooden stockade fence, into which was set a single wooden door of oak, banded, plated, and riveted in iron.
The vehicles pulled up to a dirt parking area beside the oak door. A few shabby cars were parked to one side, along with the panel truck that D'Agosta had seen earlier. Just the sight of it sent a fresh stab of anger through him.
The place appeared to be deserted. D'Agosta looked around, then turned to Perez. "Bring the kayo and pro — bar. I'll carry the evidence locker."
"Sure thing, Lieutenant."
D'Agosta threw open the door again and stepped out. The van had pulled up behind and the animal control officer got out. He was a timid fellow with an unfortunate blond mustache, red — faced, thin arms, potbelly. Nervous as hell, never executed a warrant before. D'Agosta tried to dredge up his name. Pulchinski.
"Did we call ahead?" Pulchinski asked in a quavering voice.
"You don't 'call ahead' with a no — knock search warrant. The last thing you want to do is give someone time to destroy evidence." D'Agosta opened the trunk, pulled out the locker. "You got the papers in order?"
Pulchinski patted a capacious pocket. The man was already sweating.
D'Agosta turned to Perez. "Detective?"
Perez hefted the kayo battering ram. "I'm on it."
Meanwhile, Pendergast and his weird little sidekick Bertin had gotten out of the squad car. Pendergast was inscrutable as usual, his silvery eyes hooded and expressionless. Bertin — incredibly enough — was sniffing flowers. Literally.
"By heaven," he exclaimed, "this is a splendid example of sand — plain gerardia, Agalinis acuta 'Pe
Perez, who was massive and compact, placed himself before the door; took tight hold of the battering ram's front and rear grips; balanced it a moment at hip level; swung it back; then heaved it forward with a grunt. The forty — pound ram slammed into the oaken door with a booming sound, the door shuddering in its frame.