angry orange glow suffused the October sky. The chill of night was coming down. Nora glanced at the hardwoods crowding in around her, at the glacial boulders and kettle holes scattered treacherously about. It seemed almost impossible that two hundred acres of such wild forest existed here on the most urban of all islands. Nearby, she knew, were the remains of the old Straus mansion. Isidor Straus had been a congressman and co — owner of Macy's. After he and his wife died on the
The path continued to drift westward, away from the direction she needed to go. She peered at the satellite map in the dying light and then, hesitating only a moment longer, decided to bushwhack northward. She left the trail and began pushing through the sparse undergrowth, away from the trail.
The land pitched sharply upward, shelves of exposed gneiss cropping out here and there. She scrambled up the defile, hands grabbing for purchase on bushes and small trunks. Her fingers were very cold now, and she bitterly regretted not bringing gloves. She slipped, falling onto a striated rib of rock. She clambered back to her feet with a curse, brushed the leaves off, slung her bag back over her shoulder, and listened. There were no sounds of birds or rustles of squirrels, only the gentle sigh of the wind. The air smelled of dead leaves and damp earth. After a moment, she scrambled on, feeling increasingly alone in the wooded stillness.
This was crazy. It was getting dark a lot faster than she'd thought. Already the lights of Manhattan had drowned out the last of the twilight, casting an eerie glow across the sky, the black silhouettes of the half — bare trees outlined against it, giving the scene the unreality of a Magritte painting, bright above, dark below. Ahead, at the top of the defile, Nora could make out the ridgeline, studded with spectral trees. Quickly now, she half ran, half scrambled toward it. Gaining the height of land, she paused a moment to catch her breath. An old, rusting chain — link fence ran east to west, but it was bowed and twisted from neglect, and Nora soon found a loose section and ducked beneath easily. She took a few steps forward, angled her way around a set of massive boulders — and then stopped again abruptly.
The vista that lay ahead took her breath away. Before her feet, the ground fell away in a cliff, ramparts of rock dropping toward the tidal waters. She had reached the uttermost tip of Manhattan. Far below, the waters of the Harlem River were black, running westward around the Spuyten Duyvil to the great vast opening of the Hudson River, the color of dark steel in the dying light, a vast waterscape glittering beneath a rising gibbous moon. Beyond the Hudson, the high cliffs of the Jersey Palisades stood black against the final light of sunset; in the middle ground, the Henry Hudson Parkway arched over the Harlem River on a graceful bridge, arrowing northward into the Bronx. A solid stream of yellow headlights flowed over it, commuters heading home from the city. Directly across the water was Riverdale, almost as thickly wooded here as Inwood Hill Park itself. And to the east, beyond the Harlem River, lay the smoky flanks of the Bronx, pierced by a dozen bridges, afire with a million lights. The landscape formed a confusing, bizarre, and magnificent spectacle of geologic majesty: a sprawling tableau of the primeval and the cosmopolitan, thrown together with supreme capriciousness over the course of the city's centuries of growth.
But Nora admired it for only a moment. Because, looking down again, a quarter mile away and a hundred feet below, she saw — half hidden in a thick knot of woods — a cluster of grimy brick buildings, dotted with the faint twinkle of yellow lights. They sat on a flat shelf of land, perched halfway between a ragged, trash — strewn pebble beach along the Harlem River and her own vantage spot atop the ridge. It was unreachable from her cliff — in fact, she wasn't quite sure how it could be reached at all, although through the trees she could glimpse a ribbon of asphalt that, she thought, must connect to Indian Road. As she stared, she realized that the surrounding copse of trees would render the community invisible from almost any angle: from the parkway, from the riverbank, from the cliffs on the far shore. At the center of the cluster was a much larger structure, evidently an old church, which had been added on to indiscriminately, again and again, until the whole lost any architectural cohesion. This was tightly surrounded by a tangle of small, ancient timber — frame buildings, divided by deep alleyways.
The Ville: the target of Bill's most recent article. The place he believed to be the main source of animal sacrifice in the city. She stared at it in mingled dread and fascination. The huge structure at its heart looked almost as old as the Manhattan Purchase itself: extravagantly dilapidated, part brick, part chocolate — brown timber, with a squat, crudely built spire rising from behind a massive gambrel roof. While the lower windows were bricked over, the cracked glasswork of the upper stories flickered with a pale yellow glow she felt certain could only be candlelight. The place lay apparently somnolent in the silvery moonlight, now and then falling into deeper darkness as a cloud scudded past.
As she stood, staring at the flickering lights, the craziness of what she had done became clear. Why had she really come — to stare at a bunch of buildings? What could she hope to accomplish here by herself? What made her feel so certain that
The Ville remained wrapped in silence as a chilly night breeze stirred the leaves around her.
Nora shivered. Then — wrapping her coat more tightly around her — she turned and began to make her way as quickly as she could back through the dark woods toward the welcoming streets of the city.
Chapter 22
Strange how therealways seems to be fog out here,' D'Agosta said as the big Rolls hummed along the one — lane road that crossed Little Governor's Island.
'It must come from the marshes,' Pendergast murmured.
D'Agosta looked out the window. The marshes did indeed stretch away into the darkness, exhaling miasmic vapors that curled and moved among the rushes and cattails, the nocturnal skyline of Manhattan rising incongruously in the background. Passing a row of dead trees, they came to a set of iron gates and a bronze plaque.
THE MOUNT MERCY HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE
The car slowed at the little guardhouse and a uniformed man stepped out of its door. 'Good evening, Mr. Pendergast,' the guard said, apparently unsurprised by the late hour. 'Here to see Miss Cornelia?'
'Good evening to you, Mr. Gott. Yes, thank you. We have an appointment.' A rumble, and the gates began to open. 'Have a good night,' the guard said.
Proctor eased the car through and they approached the main house: an immense Gothic Revival building in brown brick, standing like a grim sentinel among dark, heavy fir trees, sagging under the weight of their ancient branches.
Proctor swung into the visitors' parking lot. Within minutes, D'Agosta found himself following a doctor down the hospital's long, tiled halls. Mount Mercy had once been New York's largest tuberculosis sanatorium. Now it had been converted into a high — security hospital for murderers and other violent criminals found not guilty by reason of insanity.
'How is she?' Pendergast asked.
'The same' came the terse answer.
Two guards joined them and they continued down the echoing corridors, finally stopping at a steel door with a barred window. A guard unlocked the door, and they entered the small 'quiet room' beyond. D'Agosta remembered the room from his first visit here, with Laura Hayward, last January. It seemed like years ago, but the room hadn't changed an iota, with its plastic furniture bolted to the floor, its green walls devoid of pictures or decoration.
The two attendants disappeared through a heavy metal door in the rear of the room. A minute or two later, D'Agosta made out a faint creaking noise approaching, and then one of the guards pushed a wheelchair into the room. The old lady was dressed with Victorian severity, in deep mourning, her black taffeta dress and black lace rustling with every move, but D'Agosta could see underneath a white — canvas, five — point restraint.
'Raise my veil' came the querulous command. One of the attendants did as ordered. A remarkably seamed face, alive with malice, was revealed. A pair of small black eyes, which somehow reminded D'Agosta of the beady eyes of a snake, raked over him. She gave a faint smile of sardonic recognition. Then the glittering eyes fell on Pendergast.
The agent took a step forward.
'Mr. Pendergast?' came the edgy voice of the doctor. 'I'm sure I don't have to remind you to respect your distance.'
