Cemetery Dance

The boat slowed, turned, then nosed into the cove, idling just off the shingle shore. It was a jet — propelled patrol boat, the NYPD's latest model. Inside were a police sergeant and an officer of the marine unit.

"Who are you?" the sergeant asked, flicking the butt of a cigarette out into the water. He had a crew cut and a fleshy face with old acne scars, thick lips, a triple neck roll, and small triangular fingers. His partner, standing at the controls of the boat, looked like he spent most of his off — time in the gym. The muscles in his neck were as taut as the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge. "Man, you look like you've been through the wringer."

Pendergast returned his shield to his jacket pocket. "Special Agent Pendergast."

"Yeah? FBI? Happens every time, eh, Charlie?" He nudged his partner. "The FBI arrive, too late with too little. How do you guys manage it?"

"Sergeant—" Pendergast waded into the water, coming up to the gunwale of the boat and laying a hand on it.

"Ruined your shoes, pal," said the sergeant, with another wry glance at his partner.

Pendergast glanced at the man's nameplate. "Sergeant Mulvaney, I'm afraid I require the use of this boat."

The sergeant stared at him, standing thigh — deep in the water, and cracked a smile. "You're afraid you requiah the use of this boat?" he drawled. "Well, I'mafraid Irequiah authorization to that effect. Because I can't just give up police property to anyone, even J. EdgarHoovah. "

The beefy partner rippled his muscles and snorted. "Trust me, Sergeant, it's an emergency. I hereby invoke Section 302(b)2 of the Uniform Code—"

"Ah, we got a lawyer here too! An emergency. My, my, what kind of emergency?" Mulvaney hiked up his belt, setting his cuffs and keys ajangle, and waited, his head cocked to one side.

"A life. In danger. This has been a charming exchange, but I'm afraid I don't have any more time to bandy words with you, Sergeant. First and last warning."

"Look, I've got my orders. Keep an eye on the seaward approach to the Ville. And I'm not giving up this patrol boat just because you say so." The sergeant folded his hammy arms and smiled down at Pendergast.

"Mr. Mulvaney?" Pendergast leaned on the gunwale toward Mulvaney, as if to speak confidentially in his ear. Mulvaney crouched to hear; there came a quick movement, Pendergast's fist arm shot upward into the cop's solar plexus, and with an abrupt sigh of expelled air Mulvaney bent over the gunwale. With a quick twist Pendergast flipped him in the water, where he landed with a huge splash.

"What the fuck — " The partner straightened up, staring, reaching for his gun.

Pendergast hauled the dripping officer to his feet, having relieved him of his gun, and aimed it at the marine officer. "Toss your weapons out onto the beach."

"You can't—"

The report of the gun caused the officer to jump.

"All right! Jesus." The man removed his weapons and chucked them out on the shingle. "Is this FBI protocol?"

"Let me worry about protocol," Pendergast said, still gripping the gasping Mulvaney. "What you need to do is get out of the boat. Now."

The partner gingerly lowered himself into the water. In a flash Pendergast had vaulted into the cockpit. Pulling the shift into reverse, he backed the jet boat away from shore.

"So terribly sorry to discommode you gentlemen," he called out, spi

Chapter 70

Summoning allthe presence of mind he could muster, D'Agosta slowed his breathing and focused on his mission. He had to free Nora. Somehow, shifting focus away from being trapped helped calm him down. The problem wasn't so much that he was stuck, but that the walls were so slippery; he simply couldn't get a purchase, especially with only one good arm. He'd ruined his nails in a futile effort, but what he really needed was something sharp and strong that would bite into the walls and help pull him out.

Bite…

There, not six inches from his hand, was a human jawbone, sporting all its teeth. He squirmed desperately, just managing to move his good arm sufficiently to grasp the mandible. Then he twisted his body sideways and jammed the teeth of the jawbone into a crack in the roof of the niche; by simultaneously pulling and wriggling at the same time, he eventually managed to work himself free.

With enormous relief he crawled back out of the niche and stood up in the chamber, breathing heavily. Everything was silent. Apparently, the zombii and the hunting party had both fallen back to deal with the protesters.

He returned to the central passageway and cautiously used his lighter to examine its length. It ended in a cul — de — sac. There were other crude burial chambers to either side, excavated from the same heavy clay and shored up with timbers, but they looked nothing like the mortared stone walls in the video. Nothing he had seen so far, in fact, resembled that kind of construction — the very stone was different. He had to look elsewhere.

Retracing his steps, skirting the well, he found himself back in the area of the vaulted necropolis. Along the walls were many small iron doors that led into what were, apparently, family crypts; he investigated each in turn, but there was no sign of Nora.

With mounting frustration, he painstakingly retraced his steps by trial and error, ultimately returning to the central cryptorium. There he stood, trying to build a map of the cellars in his head, to mentally fill in the sections through which he'd moved half senseless. There were doors in all four directions; one led to the catacombs, another — he realized — to the dead — end passageway from which he'd recently emerged. That left two more to try.

He picked one at random and took it.

Again it opened into a tu

A foul stench wafted down this corridor. D'Agosta paused, flicking his lighter on briefly, trying to conserve its fuel. The passageway was filthy, the stones splattered with mud and oozing with mold and fungus, the floor giving way unpleasantly at his touch.

As he played the light around, from the darkness ahead he heard a faint muffled cry — short, high — pitched, and full of terror…

…Nora?

Holding the lighter before him, he sprinted down the corridor toward the sound.

Chapter 71

Plock led the protesters on a spree, tearing through the church, upending altars and fetish — festooned shrines. When their priest fell, the rest of the robed men fell back in confusion to the shadows, greatly outnumbered and temporarily at a loss. Plock realized that they had the initiative; the key was to seize it and keep it. With the crowd following, he swept toward the central altar. Here, there was a bloody, gore — flecked post where the animal sacrifices obviously took place — and a fresh pool of blood that awaited their outrage.

"Destroy this place of slaughter!" Plock cried as the crowd began swarming onto the elevated platform that held the altar and slaughtering pen, smashing down the post, breaking open boxes, and tossing relics.

" Blasphemers!" boomed the deep voice of Bossong. He was standing above the body of the fallen priest, who was out cold and had been badly trampled by the mob. Bossong was not unscathed, either — as he began walking down the central aisle, a trickle of blood was evident on his forehead.