Cemetery Dance

They burst through the doors, the crowd boiling out after them. D'Agosta fired into the air a second time. "Get back!"

Dozens of knives were now out, flashing dully in the fading light. "Into the vehicles!" D'Agosta shouted. "Now!"

They piled in, throwing the evidence into the back of the van and hoisting the lamb in after it, the van screeching off almost before they'd had a chance to shut the doors, followed by the cruiser, peppering gravel over the screaming mob just behind them. As they sped off, D'Agosta heard a groan from the backseat. He turned to find the Frenchman, Bertin, white and shaking, clutching Pendergast's lapel. Pendergast took something out of his own suit pocket: one of the strange, hooked implements that had lain on the altar. He must have purloined it during the melee.

"You hurt?" D'Agosta gasped to Bertin. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"That hungan, Charrière…"

"What?"

"He collected samples…"

"He what?"

"Samples from me, from all of us… hair, clothing — you didn't see? You heard him, heard his threats. Maleficia, death conjuring. We're going to know it, feel it. Soon." The man looked like he was dying. D'Agosta turned around brusquely. The shit he had to put up with, working with Pendergast.

Chapter 41

What'll it be, hon?" the harassed — looking waitress asked, elbow balanced on hip, pad open, pen at the ready.

D'Agosta pushed his menu aside. "Coffee, black, and oatmeal."

The waitress glanced across the table. "And you?"

"Blueberry pancakes," said Hayward. "Warm the syrup, please."

"Will do," the waitress replied, flipping her pad closed and turning away.

"Just a second," said D'Agosta.

This bore consideration. In his experience during the time they lived together, Laura Hayward ordered — or cooked — blueberry pancakes for one of two reasons. She felt guilty about overworking and ignoring him. Or she was feeling amorous. Either option sounded good. Was she sending a signal? Breakfast had, after all, been her idea.

"Make that two orders of pancakes," he said.

"You got it." And the waitress moved off. "Did you see the West Sider this morning?" Hayward asked.

"I did. Unfortunately." The scandal sheet seemed hell — bent on whipping the entire city into a state of hysteria. And it wasn't just theWest Sider — all the tabloids had now picked up the hue and cry. The Ville was being depicted in ever more ghoulish terms, with plenty of not — so — subtle hints that it was behind the killing of theWest Sider's "star reporter," Caitlyn Kidd.

But it was on Bill Smithback himself that the papers lingered with the greatest morbidity. The high — profile murder of Kidd by Smithback, after being pronounced dead and undergoing an autopsy; his corpse missing from the M.E.'s office — everything had been sifted and speculated on with the greatest relish. And, of course, with more dark hints that the Ville was ultimately responsible.

As far as D'Agosta was concerned, the Ville was responsible. Still, despite his own mounting anger, he knew the last thing the city needed was vigilante justice.

The waitress returned with his coffee. He sipped it gratefully, stealing a glance at Hayward. Their eyes met. Her expression didn't seem particularly guilty, or particularly amorous. It seemed troubled.

"When did you visit Nora Kelly?"

"Last evening, as soon as I heard. Right after we finished searching the Ville."

"What happened to the protection you arranged for her?"

D'Agosta frowned. "The handoff was botched. Each of the two teams assigned thought the other had things covered. Fucking idiots."

"How is Nora?"

"Banged up here and there, some cuts and abrasions. Of greater concern is the second concussion she suffered. She'll be in the hospital at least a couple more days for observation."

"The neighbors broke it up?"

D'Agosta took another sip of coffee, nodded. "Her screams brought them ru

"And Nora insists it was Smithback?"

"Sure enough to testify to it in court. Same with the neighbors."

Hayward's eyes were on the faux marble of the tabletop. "This is too weird. I mean, what's going on?"

"The goddamn Ville is what's going on." Just thinking of Nora brought the anger back with a vengeance. It seemed he was always mad these days: mad at the Ville; mad at Kline and his oily threats; mad at the commissioner; mad at all the bureaucratic red tape that tied his hands; mad even at Pendergast with his irritating coyness and his insufferable little French Creole adviser.

Hayward was looking at him again. The troubled look was more pronounced. "What about the Ville, exactly?"

"Don't you see? They're behind everything. They have to be. Smithback was right."

"May I point out that you haven't yet made good the co

"They weren't alleged. I heard the animals in the back of the van. I saw the knives, the bloodied straw. If you could have seen the place, Laura. My God, the robes, the hoods, the chanting… Those people are fanatics."

"That doesn't make them murderers. Vi

"And they've got the motive. That head priest of theirs, Charrière…" He shook his head. "A real piece of work, that one. Capable of murder? You bet."

"And what about this Bertin I read about in the report. Who's he?"

"Pendergast brought him in. Expert in voodoo or something. A quack, if you ask me."

"Voodoo?"

"Pendergast's pretty damn interested in it. He pretends not to be, but he is. Hell, he can start sticking pins into dolls for all I care — as long as it will bring down the Ville."

Their plates arrived, smelling delightfully of fresh blueberries. Hayward drizzled maple syrup over her plate, picked up her fork, set it down again. She leaned forward. "Vi

"What are you talking about?"

"You can't be objective. You loved Smithback. You're a great cop, but you need to consider passing this on to someone else."

"You've got to be kidding. I'm all over this case, twenty — four/seven."

"That's what I mean. You're on a witch hunt, you're convinced it's the Ville."

D'Agosta took a deep breath, consciously held off on replying until he'd taken a bite of his pancake. "Aren't we supposed to follow up on our convictions, our gut feelings? Whatever happened to investigating the most likely suspect?"

"What I'm talking about is being so blinded by anger, by emotion, that you fail to investigate other possibilities."

D'Agosta opened his mouth, shut it again. He didn't know what to say. Deep down, he sensed she was right. No, heknew she was right. The hell of it was, part of him just didn't care. Smithback's death had shocked him, left a hole he never could have predicted. And he wanted those responsible to burn.

"And what are you doing with Pendergast? Every time he comes into the picture, he causes trouble. He's no good for you, Vi

"That's bullshit," D'Agosta snapped. "He's brilliant. He gets results." "Yes, he does. And you know why? Because he's too impatient to go through the process. So he goes outside the system. And he drags you along on his extralegal escapades. And who ends up taking the fall? You do."