Cemetery Dance

Pendergast was leaning against a lamppost, arms folded. "L.L. Bean? I'm not familiar with that brand."

The marchers flowed around the corner at West 214th Street, heading toward Inwood Hill Park, waving placards and chanting in unison. Leading the fray was Alexander Esteban, bandage still on his forehead, along with another man.

"Who's the guy holding hands with Esteban?" D'Agosta asked.

"Richard Plock," Pendergast replied. "Executive director of Humans for Other Animals."

D'Agosta looked curiously at the man. Plock was young, no more than thirty, soft, white, and overweight. He walked with determination, his short legs earnestly pumping, toes pointed outward, his plump arms swinging, the hands flapping at the apex of each swing, his face set with determination. Even in a short — sleeved shirt in the chill fall air, he was sweating. Where Esteban had charisma, Plock seemed to have none. And yet there was an aura about him of solemn belief that impressed D'Agosta: here was clearly a man with an unshakable faith in the rightness of his cause.

Behind the two leaders came a line of people holding up a huge ba

Evict the Ville!

Everyone seemed to have his own agenda. There were many signs accusing the Ville of murdering Smithback and Kidd. Beyond that, the protesters were all over the map: vegetarians, the anti — fur and anti — drug — testing crowd, religious extremists protesting voodoo and zombiis, even a scattering of anti — war protesters, meat is murder, read one sign; friend not food, fur is dead, animal torture is not spiritual. Some held up blown — up photographs of Smithback and Kidd, side by side, with the caption murdered underneath.

D'Agosta looked away from the blurry photographs. It was getting on toward one pm. His stomach growled. "Not much happening here."

Pendergast did not reply, his silvery eyes sca

"Lunch?"

"I suggest we wait."

"Nothing's going to happen — these people don't want to wrinkle their button — down pinpoint oxfords."

Pendergast gazed at the passing crowd. "I would prefer to remain here at least until the speechifying is over."

Pendergast never seems to eat, thought D'Agosta. In fact, he couldn't remember a single time when they had shared a meal outside of the Riverside Drive mansion. Why did he even bother to ask?

"Let's follow the crowd to Indian Road," said Pendergast.

This isn't a crowd, D'Agosta thought.It's a damn Sunday gathering. He followed Pendergast down the sidewalk, feeling disgruntled. The "crowd" was begi

As the group milled about, chanting and waving their placards, Plock climbed onto the baseball bleachers. Esteban stepped up and positioned himself behind him, hands folded respectfully across his chest, listening.

"Friends and other animals!" Plock cried. "Welcome!" He used no megaphone, but his strident, high — pitched voice carried all too well.

A hush fell on the crowd, the ragged chanting dying away. This crowd of yuppies and Upper West Siders, D'Agosta thought, was no more likely to riot than the ladies at a Colonial Dames tea. What he really needed right now was a cup of coffee and a bacon cheese — burger.

"My name is Rich Plock, executive director of the organization Humans for Other Animals. It is my honor and privilege to present to you our organization's chief spokesman. Please give a warm welcome to Alexander Esteban!"

This seemed to rouse the crowd somewhat, and as Esteban stepped to the top of the bleachers the clapping and chanting intensified. Esteban smiled, looking this way and that over the small crowd, letting the noise continue for a minute or two. At last, he put out his hands for quiet.

"My friends," he said, his deep rich voice the polar opposite of Plock's, "instead of giving a speech, I want to try something different. Call it a cognitive exercise, if you will."

There was a shuffling of the crowd, a ripple of feeling that they were here to protest, not listen to a lecture.

D'Agosta smirked. "Cognitive exercise. Look out, here comes the riot."

"I want all of you, every one of you, to close your eyes. Take yourself out of your human body for a moment."

A silence.

"And put yourself into the body of a little lamb."

More shuffling.

"You were born in the spring on a farm in upstate New York — green fields, sun, fresh grass. For the first weeks of life, you're with your mother, you're free, you're snuggled in the protective embrace of your flock. Every day you gambol about the fields, following your mother and siblings, and every night you're led back to the safe enclosure of the barn. You're happy, because you are living the life God meant you to live. That is the very definition of happiness. There is no fear. No terror. No pain. You don't even know that such things exist."

"Then one day a diesel truck arrives — huge, noisy, foreign. You are roughly separated from your mother. It is a terrifying, almost inconceivable, experience. You're driven with prods into the back of the truck. The door slams. Inside, it stinks of dung and fear. It is dark. The truck lurches off with a roar. Can you try — try with me now — to imagine the terror that helpless, tiny animal feels?"

Esteban paused, looking around. The crowd had gone silent.

"You bleat pitifully for your mother, but she doesn't come. You call and call, but she is not there. She won't come. In fact… she will never come again."

Another pause.

"After a black journey, the truck stops. All the lambs are taken off the truck — except for you. Becoming a rack of lamb is not your fate. No, something far worse is in store."

"The truck drives on. Now you are completely alone. You collapse in terror, in the dark. The loneliness is overwhelming; it is, in a very real sense,biological. A lamb separated from the flock is a dead lamb — always. And you feel it, you feel a terror more powerful than death itself."

"The truck stops again. A man climbs in, wraps a stinking, blood — encrusted chain around your neck. You are dragged out, into a dark, dark place. It is a church, at least of a kind — but of course you do not know this. It is crowded with humans, and it stinks. You can hardly see in the gloom. The people crowd around, chanting and beating drums. Strange faces loom out of the darkness. There are calls, hissing, rattles shaken in your face, the stomping of feet. Your terror knows no bounds."

"You are led to a post and chained to it. The pounding of drums, the stamping of feet, the closeness of the dead air — all these surround you. You bleat out in terror, still calling for your mother. For this is the one thing you still have: hope. Hope that your mother will come and take you from this place."

"A shape approaches. It is a man, a tall, ugly man in a mask, holding something long and bright in his hand. He comes at you. You try to escape, but the chain around your neck chokes you as you try to flee. The man grabs you and throws you to the ground, pins you on your back. The chanting grows faster, louder. You squeal and struggle. The man seizes your head by the fur and yanks it back, exposing the delicate underside of your neck. The bright shiny thing gets closer, flashes in the dim light. You feel it pressing against your throat…"