Cemetery Dance

Plock was taking no chances. He'd choreographed everything perfectly. In order to avoid being prematurely dispersed or bottled up by the cops, the various groups were congregating in ten different pre — arranged spots: Wien Stadium, the Dyckman House, High Bridge Park. That way, they wouldn't attract too much official attention… until Plock gave the order and they all merged smoothly into one. And by that point, it would be too late to stop them. There would be no more backing down — not this time.

As he recalled the first rally, Plock's face hardened. In retrospect, it was a very good thing that Esteban funked out. The man had outlived his usefulness. He'd done what needed to be done: acted as celebrity figurehead, increased their visibility, given them badly needed funds which had empowered Plock to gather a force sufficient for this job. If Esteban had been around today, he would probably advise caution, remind everybody that there was no proof a hostage was involved, no proof that the Ville was behind the killings.

Esteban's weak stomach had undercut their last action — but by God it wouldn't undercut this one. The Ville would be stopped, once and for all. The wanton cruelty, the murder of helpless animals, and the killing of journalists sympathetic to their cause would never happen again.

Plock had grown up on a farm in northern New Hampshire. Every year, as a young boy, he'd gotten physically sick when the time came to slaughter the lambs and hogs. His father had never understood, beating him and calling him a shirker, a mama's boy, when he tried to avoid helping. He'd been too small to fight back. He remembered watching his dad decapitate a chicken with a hand ax and then laugh as the luckless bird danced a strange, faltering tattoo in the dusty lane, blood shooting from the severed neck. The image had haunted his dreams ever since. His father insisted on eating their own animals, meat with every di

And never looked back. His father had given him no love, no support, no teaching — nothing.

That's not quite true, he thought, his mind turning to the Ville. His father had taught him one thing. He'd taught him to hate.

Another of his cell phones began to ring. It was the blue phone: McMoultree, outside Yeshiva University. As Plock went to answer it, he saw a curious thing: a Lincoln Town Car, tearing up Tenth Avenue on its way northward, a medic in full emergency gear at the wheel. But the phone was still ringing, and he stared after it for only a moment. Clearing his throat quietly, Plock opened the cell phone and pressed it confidently against his ear.

Chapter 61

The Rolls coasted to a stop at the end of West 218th Street, pulling into a parking place between a shabby panel truck and a late — model Jeep. To their left sat a line of undistinguished low — rise co — ops; to their right lay the green oval of Columbia's Baker Field. Roughly two hundred people were scattered around the field and bleachers, seemingly disorganized, but D'Agosta felt sure they were part of the imminent protest. He'd seen similar suspicious groups as they drove through Inwood. The gloriously ignorant Chislett was about to find himself out of his depth.

"We'll head in laterally, through Isham Park," Pendergast said, grabbing a canvas bag from the rear seat.

They jogged across baseball diamonds and well — tended fields before abruptly crossing into the wilderness of Inwood Hill Park. The Ville itself was still invisible beyond the trees. Pendergast had chosen a good approach route: the Ville's attention would be directed elsewhere, allowing them to slip in unseen. D'Agosta could hear the sounds wafting out of the south on the evening breeze: the buzz of megaphones, the distant cries, the air horns. Whoever had pla

Ahead, Pendergast stopped, placed the duffel on the ground, opened it, and drew out two sets of coarse brown robes. D'Agosta, already sweating in the body armor he'd do

Pendergast stowed the now — empty backpack under a fallen log, scraped some leaves over it, then nodded for D'Agosta to follow him up the embankment that lay directly ahead. They crawled up the steep slope, peered over the top. The Ville's chain — link fence stood about twenty yards off, this stretch of it rusted and decrepit, several gaping holes clearly visible. Fifty yards beyond lay the misshapen cluster of buildings, shadowy in the dying light of evening, the vast form of the old church dominating all.

D'Agosta remembered the first time he had been in these woods, clobbered on the head for his pains. He removed the Glock and kept it in his hand as he rose. That wouldn't happen again.

Following Pendergast, he darted to the chain — link fence, slipped through one of the gaps, and jogged at a crouch to the base of the outer walls of the Ville. They moved around the curve until they reached a small, rotting door set into the wall, locked with a padlock. A sharp blow of Pendergast's chisel wrenched it off, padlock, hinges, and all. The agent pushed it open to reveal a narrow, trash — strewn alley, almost completely enclosed by overhanging roofs, ru

Mingled with it came the faint, high — pitched whi

D'Agosta tried to push that horror out of his mind and focus on what they were doing. He moved down the alley at Pendergast's heels, ducking from doorway to darkened doorway, keeping his head bent and his face hidden. No one seemed about; most likely everyone was in the church for the vile ceremony. The alley made a sharp dogleg into a crazy complex of ancient, rickety buildings, then passed by a larger building attached to the church that looked like it might be the old parsonage or rectory.

The first door they came to in the parsonage was locked, but Pendergast had it open in less than five seconds. Stepping quickly inside, they found themselves in a room that was dark, the air stifling. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, D'Agosta saw that it was a dining room, with an old oak table, chairs, and many candles in candelabra with massive accumulations of drippings. The only light came from the CRT terminal of an old DOS — era computer, hugely out of place among the ancient furniture. Doorways to the east, south, and west led to even more shadowy rooms.