Cemetery Dance

"Put that down," the woman said immediately.

Bertin turned it gently around and around in his hands, staring at it very closely and muttering to himself.

"Mr. Bertin," Hayward said warningly.

Bertin seemed not to hear. He turned the little paper construct over in his hands, first one way then another, still quietly muttering. And then — with a sudden flick of his fingers — he tore it in two.

A grayish powder poured from beneath the folds down over Bertin's pants and shoes.

Several things happened at once. Bertin cartwheeled backward, neighing in dismay and terror, the strips of paper fluttering away. The old lady grabbed for them as she began shouting imprecations. The burly man took hold of Bertin's collar and dragged him out of the evidence room. Pendergast knelt with the speed of a striking snake, plucked a small test tube from his suit pocket, and began sweeping grains of the gray powder into it. And Hayward stood in the midst of it all, arms folded, looking at D'Agosta as if to say: I warned you. I warned you.

Chapter 43

Proctor pulled the Rolls into a deserted parking lot behind the baseball fields at the edge of Inwood Hill Park and killed the lights. As Pendergast and D'Agosta stepped out of the car, Proctor walked to the trunk, opened it, and hauled out a long canvas bag holding tools, a plastic evidence box, and a metal detector.

"You think it's okay to just leave the car?" D'Agosta asked dubiously.

"Proctor will watch it." Pendergast took the canvas bag and handed it to D'Agosta. "Let us not dally here, Vincent."

"No shit."

He slung the bag over his shoulder and they set off across the empty baseball diamonds toward the woods. He glanced at his watch: two am. What was he doing? He had just promised Hayward he wouldn't let Pendergast drag him into any more sketchy activity — and now here he was, in the middle of the night, on a body — snatching expedition in a public park without permit or warrant. Hayward's phrase rang in his head: The way he goes about gathering evidence, I doubt Pendergast could ever convict his perps in a court of law. Maybe it's no coincidence they end up dead before trial.

"Remind me again why we're sneaking around like grave robbers?" he asked.

"Because we are grave robbers."

At least, D'Agosta thought, Bertin wasn't along. He'd dropped out at the last minute, complaining of palpitations. The little man was all in a panic because Charrière had managed to get a few of his hairs. It seemed unlikely the high priest got any ofhis hairs, at least, D'Agosta thought with grim satisfaction: one advantage to going bald. He thought of the little scene that had played out in the evidence a

"What the hell was your pal Bertin demanding?" he asked. "Sipping syrup?"

"It's a cocktail he prefers when he gets, ah, overly excited."

"A cocktail?"

"Of sorts. Lemon — lime soda, vodka, codeine in solution, and a Jolly Rancher candy."

"A what?"

"Bertin prefers the watermelon — flavored variety."

D'Agosta shook his head. "Christ. Only in Louisiana."

"Actually, I understand the concoction originated in Houston."

Past the playing fields they ducked through a gap in a low, chain — link fence, crossed some fallow ground, and entered the woods. Pendergast switched on a GPS, the faint blue glow of its screen casting a ghastly light on the agent's face. "Where's the grave, exactly?"

"There's no marker. But thanks to Wren I know the location. It seems that, since the groundskeeper was a suspected suicide with no family to speak of, his remains couldn't be buried in the consecrated ground of the family plot. So he was buried close to where his body was found. An account of the burial says it took place near the Shorakkopoch monument."

"The what?"

"It's a marker commemorating the place where Peter Minuit purchased Manhattan from the Weckquaesgeek Indians."

Pendergast took the lead, D'Agosta following. They headed through the dense trees and underbrush, the rocky ground underfoot growing increasingly rugged. Once again, D'Agosta marveled that they were still on the island of Manhattan. The ground rose and fell, and they crossed a small brook, just a trickle of water ru

"The Shorakkopoch monument," said Pendergast, checking his GPS. He directed his light to a bronze plaque screwed into the boulder, which described how at this spot, in 1626, Peter Minuit had bought Manhattan Island from the local Indians for sixty guilders' worth of trinkets.

"Nice investment," said D'Agosta.

"A very poor investment," said Pendergast. "If the sixty guilders had been invested in 1626 at five percent compound interest, a sum would have accumulated many times the value of the land of Manhattan today." Pendergast paused, shining his torch into the darkness. "According to our information, the body was buried twenty — two rods due north of the tulip tree that once stood near this monument."

"Is the stump still around?"

"No. The tree was cut in 1933. But Wren found me an old map giving the location of the tree as eigthteen yards southwest of the monument. I've already entered the data into the GPS unit."

Pendergast walked southwest, keeping a careful eye on the device. "Here." He turned south. "Twenty — two rods, at sixteen point five feet the rod, is three hundred sixty — three feet." He punched some buttons on the GPS. "Follow me, please."

Pendergast set off again into the darkness, almost spectral in his black suit. D'Agosta followed, hoisting the heavy bag higher onto his shoulder. He could smell the marshes and mudflats along the Spuyten Duyvil and soon he could make out, filtering through the trees, the lights of the tall apartment buildings perched on the bluffs of Riverdale, just across the river. Abruptly, they came to the edge of the trees, which opened onto an expanse of matted grass, dropping down to a half — moon pebbled beach. Beyond, the river swirled and eddied, the lights of the Henry Hudson Parkway arching overhead and the apartment buildings across the water caught in the swirling tide, glittering and dimpling as the water flowed past. A low — lying mist drifted in patches across the water; the rumble of a boat could be heard.

"Wait a moment," Pendergast murmured, pausing at the verge of the trees. A police boat came slowly churning down the Spuyten Duyvil, its ghostly form sliding in and out of the mist, a spotlight mounted on the hardtop sweeping the shore. They crouched just as the light passed over them, lancing through the woods.

"Christ," muttered D'Agosta, "I'm hiding from my own damn men. This is crazy."

"This is the only solution. Have you any idea how long it would take to get the proper permissions to exhume a body buried, not in a cemetery, but on public land, without a death certificate, and with only a few newspaper articles as supporting evidence?"

"We've been through that."

Rising, Pendergast walked out of the trees and down through the sea grass to the edge of the cobbled beach. To the east, halfway up the cliffs, D'Agosta could just make out the vast ramshackle structure of the Ville's central church, rising like a fang above the trees, a faint yellow glow peeking from upper — story windows.