Cemetery Dance

The sound of the priest's ranting was louder here, filtering in from an indeterminate direction.

All at once the problem that they faced — finding Nora in this vast asylum of buildings — seemed insurmountable. He immediately shook off the thought. One step at a time.

"The kitchens in these old houses always had a way down to the basement storerooms," Pendergast whispered. He chose a doorway seemingly at random — the one to the east — and walked through it. D'Agosta followed suit. They were in a pantry, stacked with burlap sacks that appeared to be full of grain. There, at the end, was an ancient, primitive dumbwaiter. Stepping past Pendergast, D'Agosta walked over, slid open the door, switched on the light, and peered down—waydown.

Suddenly, he heard a voice from behind them, loud and sharp. "You two. What are you doing here?"

Chapter 62

Deputy Chief Harry Chislett slid out of the rear seat of the unmarked Crown Vic and walked briskly across the sidewalk to where his personal aide, Inspector Minerva, was surveying the crowd through a pair of binoculars.Crowd, Chislett reflected, was something of an overstatement: there were two hundred, two fifty at most, scattered across the baseball diamond at the park's entrance, waving placards and chanting. They looked like the same tree — hugging types that had assembled the last time. As he watched, a ragged cheer went up, dying out almost as soon as it started.

"Do you see that bearded fellow?" he asked. "The movie director, the one who whipped them up last time?"

Minerva sca

"The control points and forward field positions?"

"We've got teams in place at each location."

"Capital." Chislett listened as another halfhearted cheer went up. The protesters sounded a lot more apathetic than they had the last time. And without that speaker to whip them up, this affair would no doubt fizzle in short order. Even if it didn't, he was prepared.

"Sir." He turned and, to his surprise, saw a woman with captain's bars on her collar standing beside him. She was petite and dark — haired, and she returned his gaze with a cool self — confidence that he immediately found both irritating and a little intimidating. She wasn't part of his staff, but he recognized her nevertheless: Laura Hayward. Youngest female captain on the force. And Lieutenant D'Agosta's girlfriend — or, if gossip was correct, ex — girlfriend. Neither attribute endeared her to him.

"Yes, Captain?" he said in a clipped voice.

"I was at your briefing earlier. I tried to get in to see you afterward, but you left before I could reach you."

"And?"

"With all due respect, sir, given the field plan you described, I'm not sure you have sufficient manpower to control this crowd."

"Manpower? Crowd? Observe them for yourself, Captain." Chislett swept his hand over the baseball diamond. "Don't you detect a paucity of protesters? They'll turn tail and run from the first cop who says boo to them."

Listening, Inspector Minerva gri

"I don't believe this is all of them. There may be others coming."

"And just where would they come from?"

"There are any number of rallying places in this neighborhood where a sizable assembly could gather," Hayward replied. "And, in fact, I've noticed quite a lot of people gathering in various spots up here — especially for a weekday evening in the fall."

"That is precisely why we have our men in forward positions. It gives us the flexibility we need to act quickly." He tried to keep the note of irritation out of his voice.

"I saw your diagram, sir. Those forward positions consist of only half a dozen officers each. If your line is breached, the protesters have a straight shot at the Ville itself. And if Nora Kelly is being held hostage inside — as seems possible — her captors may panic. Her life will be in jeopardy."

This was just the line of crap that D'Agosta had been spewing. Maybe he'd even been the one to put her up to it.

"Your concern is noted," Chislett replied, no longer bothering to hide the sarcasm in his tone, "although I note for the record that a judge earlier today stated there was absolutely no evidence that Nora Kelly was there and refused to grant a search warrant of the Ville. Now, would you kindly tell me just what you're doing here, Captain? The last time I checked, Inwood Hill Park wasn't part of your jurisdiction."

But Hayward didn't reply. He noticed she was no longer looking at him, but rather at something over his shoulder.

He turned. Another group of protesters was approaching from the east. They carried no placards but looked like they meant business, walking quickly and very quietly toward the baseball diamond, closing ranks as they approached. It was a motley, rougher — looking group than the one already assembled on the field.

"Let me have those glasses," he said to Minerva.

Sca

But it passed as quickly as it came. What were one or two hundred more? He had the manpower to handle four hundred protesters — and then some. Besides, his plan for containment was a masterpiece of both economy and versatility.

He handed the binoculars back to Minerva. "Pass the word," he said in his most martial tone, ignoring Hayward. "We're starting the final deployment now. Tell the forward positions to stand ready." "Yes, sir," Minerva replied, unshipping his radio.

Chapter 63

D'Agosta froze.Pendergast, his head cowled, mumbled something and shuffled toward the man, wavering a little, like an old man unsteady on his feet.

"What are you doing here?" the man asked again in his strange, exotic accent.

Pendergast rasped, "Va t'en, sale bête."

The man backed up a pace. "Yes, but… you're not supposed to be here."

Pendergast shuffled closer, and with a flicker of his eye cautioned D'Agosta to be ready.

"I'm just an old man…" he began, his voice quiet and wheezy, one trembling hand reaching upward solicitously. "Can you help me…"

The man leaned forward, straining to hear, and D'Agosta stepped smartly around and whacked him across the temple with the butt of his gun. The figure slumped, unconscious.

"A hit, a very palpable hit," Pendergast said as he deftly caught the sagging body.

D'Agosta could hear other voices, excited voices, in the rooms beyond; not everyone, it seemed, was attending the ceremony in the central church. There was no back door to the pantry — it was a cul — de — sac, and they were trapped with the unconscious man.

"Into the dumbwaiter," whispered Pendergast.

They bundled the man into the dumbwaiter, slid the door shut, and lowered him into the basement. Almost immediately afterward, three men appeared at the entrance to the pantry. "Morvedre, what are you doing?" one of them asked. "Come with us. You, too."

They passed by and D'Agosta and Pendergast fell into place behind them, trying to imitate their slow, hushed walk. D'Agosta felt his frustration and tension mount. There was no way they could keep up this deception for very long; they had to get away and begin searching the basement. Time was ru