Cemetery Dance

When he was done, he set the skull down and stared at it. Seconds passed, then minutes. The room was perfectly silent. And then Pendergast slowly rose. His silvery eyes glittered with an i

Laying the skull down on the table again, he walked to a third cabinet and unlocked it. From it he removed the strange implement pilfered from the Ville altar: a sharp, twisted piece of metal protruding from a wooden handle, looking like an extended, bizarre corkscrew. He carried it to the laboratory table and placed it next to the skull. Leaning on the table with both hands, he stared down at the two objects for some time, his eyes moving restlessly from one to the other.

Finally, he took a seat beside the table. He picked up the skull in his right hand and the implement in his left. More time passed as he stared at each object in turn. And then, with exquisite slowness, he brought the two together, placing the curved end of the hook into the eye socket. Slowly, carefully, he slid the hook along the faint scratch marks and manipulated it in such a way as to insert it through the superior orbital fissure — the gap in the back of the eye socket. The tip slid perfectly into the hole. As if working out a puzzle, Pendergast manipulated the hook into the brain cavity, worming it ever deeper, again following the scratch marks on the bone until a notch in the metal tool caught on the orbital fissure, bringing the hooked end to rest deep within the brain cavity.

With a sudden deft manipulation — a small twist of the handle — Pendergast caused the hooked end of the tool to make a circular cutting motion. Back and forth he twisted — and back and forth went the little sharpened hook inside the brain cavity, in a precise little arc.

A mirthless smile illuminated the face of Special Agent Pendergast, and he murmured a single word: "Broca."

Chapter 58

Nora Kelly lay in the dark, listening. The room was as silent as the grave. No matter how hard she tried, she could not detect the normal, reassuring background sounds of the outside world: cars, voices, footsteps, wind in the trees. There weren't even the sounds of mice or rats in the damp basement.

Once she had recovered her wits and gained control of her fear, she had performed a minute exploration of her prison: first once, and then twice. It had taken hours. She had to work by feel — the only glimpse she'd had of her cell was when she'd been videotaped, and at the time she'd been too disoriented and upset to use the opportunity to memorize her surroundings.

Nevertheless, her tactile explorations had given her a clear impression of her cell — almost too clear. The floor was poured concrete, and it was very fresh and damp, with a strong cement smell. It was covered by straw. The dimensions of her prison, which she had measured by several meticulous pacings — off, were approximately ten feet by sixteen. The walls were rough mortared stone, probably granite, and absolutely solid, with no opening of any kind except the door. That was of heavy wood, massively plated and riveted with iron (which she determined by taste); she had the impression it was a new door, custom — built for the cellar, since its frame was lower and narrower than standard. The ceiling was a low vault of cemented brick, which she could touch around the edges, rising to a higher point in the middle. There were some rusty iron hooks on the wall and ceiling, indicating that the room had perhaps once been used for curing meat.

There were two things in the cell: a bucket in one corner to serve as a latrine, and a gallon plastic jug filled with water. She had been given no food at all during the time she had been imprisoned. In the pitch — dark it was hard to tell the passage of time, but she felt certain it had been at least twenty — four hours. Strangely enough, she didn't mind being hungry; it had the effect of sharpening her mind.

You won't live long enough for my name to make any difference. That was all her captor had said, and Nora knew he meant it. No effort was being made to keep her alive, to supply her with fresh air, to make sure she was returned to the land of the living in acceptable physical condition. More than that: the tone of voice had been so casual, and yet so quietly certain, that she felt in her bones it was the truth.

It seemed unlikely she would be rescued. Cooperation was not an option — she would merely be cooperating with her own death. She had to escape.

As methodically as if she was classifying potsherds, Nora explored every possible avenue of escape she could think of. Could she somehow dig through the not — fully — cured concrete floor? The plastic bucket and jug offered nothing to work with. She had no shoes or belt: she was still dressed in her flimsy hospital robe. The hooks were firmly attached to the ceiling. She had nothing but her fingernails and teeth to scrape with, and that was impossible.

Next she considered the mortared walls. She went over them with great care, testing each stone, probing the mortar in between. No luck. The stones were solid; none felt loose. The stones and the bricks in the ceiling seemed to have had been freshly repointed, and there wasn't even a crack in which she could insert a fingernail.

The door was equally impossible: immobile and immensely strong. There was no lock on the inside, or even a keyhole: it was probably bolted and padlocked on the far side. There was a small window in the door, barred on the inside, with a metal shutter that remained closed and locked. The room was so silent, it was clearly underground and soundproof.

This left only one option: overpower her jailer when he returned. To do that, she had to have a plan. And she had to have a weapon.

She thought first of the rusty hooks in the walls and ceiling; but they were of thick iron and too strong to work loose or break off. Even the bucket had no handle. She had her hands, feet, nails, and teeth to use as weapons. They would have to do.

He needed her alive, as least for now. Why? He had to prove to someone that she was alive. Was it for ransom? Possibly. Or was it to serve as a hostage? There was no way to know. She only knew that, once he had what he needed, he would kill her.

Simple.

She marveled at her own calmness. Why wasn't she more afraid? That was simple, too. After Bill's death, there was nothing left to fear. The worst had already occurred.

She sat up, did thirty sit — ups to get her blood flowing. The sudden exercise, combined with the lack of food and the concussion, made her momentarily dizzy. But when her head cleared, she felt more alert than ever.

A plan. Could she could feign sickness, draw him into the room, pretend to be unconscious — and then attack? But that wouldn't work: it was a lame trick, and he wouldn't fall for it.

His next appearance might be to kill her. She had to make sure that, when her jailer returned, he couldn't just execute her with a shot through the door slot. No; she would have to position herself such that he'd need to open the door and step inside if he wanted to kill her. That place was obviously behind the door. The darkness would be her ally. When he came in — that would be her only moment. She had to be ready to explode into action. She would go straight for the eyes. This was the man who had killed her husband — she was sure of it. She allowed her hatred for him to fill her with energy.

She began ru