Cemetery Dance

A longer pause before Ravel returned with the requested item.

'Holy water.' At this, Ravel stopped, staring at Pendergast. Then, once again, he went into the back and returned with a tiny ampoule. 'Will that be all, I hope?'

'One thing more.'

Ravel waited.

'A consecrated host.'

A long, hard stare. 'Monsieur Pendergast, it seems your friend… is facing something a bit more dangerous than mere black magic.'

'True.'

'Perhaps this is out of my league, monsieur.'

'I had so hoped you could help me. My friend's life is in danger — grave danger.'

Ravel gazed at Pendergast sadly. 'You are aware of the consequences to you, monsieur, for employing the envoi morts arret?'

'I am well aware.'

'This friend must be very dear to you.'

'She is.'

'She. Ah, I see. This… host you ask for, it's going to cost.'

'Expense is no object.'

Ravel dropped his eyes and seemed to think for a long time. Then, with a long sigh, he turned and disappeared out a side door. After several minutes, he returned with a small glass disk made from two large watch — glasses, fitted together and sealed with silver trim, inside which was a single wafer. He laid it carefully in the basket.

'That will be one thousand two hundred and twenty dollars, monsieur.'

D'Agosta watched in disbelief as Pendergast slipped his hand into his jacket, removed a thick sheaf of crisp bills, and peeled them off.

As soon as they were back in the Rolls, Pendergast cradling the basket of items, D'Agosta exploded. 'What in heck was that all about?'

'Careful, Vincent, do not jar the merchandise.'

'I can't believe you just shelled out a thousand bucks for that woo — woo crap.'

'There are many reasons, and if you could transcend your emotions you would see why. First, we have established our bona fides with Monsieur Ravel, who might in the future turn out to be an informant of no little importance. Second, the individual pursuing Nora may well believe in Obeah, in which case thearret we are about to fashion could be a deterrent. Finally' — and here he lowered his voice—'ourarret might work.'

'Might work? You mean, if a real zombii is after Nora?' D'Agosta shook his head in disbelief.

'I prefer to call it an envoi mort.'

'Whatever. The idea is ridiculous.' D'Agosta stared at Pendergast. 'You told that guy your house in New Orleans was burned by a mob. Your aunt Cornelia made some reference to it, as well. Was that where you learned about this voodoo and Obeah? Were you involved with that shit when you were young?'

'I'd prefer not to answer that. Instead, let me ask a question: have you ever heard of Pascal's Wager?'

'No.'

'A lifelong atheist is on his deathbed. He suddenly asks for a priest so he can confess and be absolved. Is he behaving logically?'

'No.'

'On the contrary: it doesn't matter what he believes. The atheist realizes that if there is even the slimmest chance he is wrong, he should act as if there is a God. If God exists, he will go to heaven rather than hell. If God does not, he loses nothing.'

'Sounds pretty calculating to me.'

'It is a wager with an infinite upside and no downside. And, I might add, it is a wager every human being must make. It is not optional. Pascal's Wager — the logic is impeccable.'

'What does this have to do with Nora and zombiis?'

'I am sure if you consider the matter long enough you will see the logical connection.'

D'Agosta screwed up his face, thought about it, and finally grunted. 'I guess I can see your point.'

'In that case: excellent. I am not normally in the habit of explaining myself, but for you I sometimes make an exception.'

D'Agosta looked out the window as Spanish Harlem passed by. Then he turned back to Pendergast.

'What was that you said?'

'I'm sorry?'

'To the shopkeeper. You said something to him in a foreign language.'

'Ah, yes. Oi chusoi Dios aei enpiptousi — the dice of God are always loaded.' And he sat back in the seat with a half smile.

Chapter 25

Rocker saw D'Agosta immediately, less than a minute after he'd arrived in the commissioner's outer office at the very top of One Police Plaza. D'Agosta took this summons to be a good sign. The Smithback homicide was high profile — very high profile — and he had no doubt Rocker was following his progress in the case with interest. As he passed Rocker's assistant, Alice, a grandmotherly woman with a pile of gray hair, he gave her a wink and a smile. She did not smile back.

He strode into the grand paneled office with all its accoutrements of power, the huge mahogany desk with the green leather top, the wainscoted oak paneling, the Persian rug, all solid and traditional. Like Rocker.

Rocker was already standing at the window, and he didn't turn as D'Agosta entered. Nor, uncharacteristically, did he ask D'Agosta to take a seat in one of the overstuffed sofa — chairs that graced the sitting area opposite his desk.

D'Agosta waited a moment before venturing a small 'Commissioner?'

The man turned around, hands clasped behind his back. On seeing the man's dark red face, D'Agosta felt sudden nausea in his gut.

'So what's this Kline business?' the commissioner asked abruptly.

D'Agosta did a quick mental backpedaling. 'Well, sir, it's related to the Smithback homicide—'

'I'm aware of that,' the commissioner rapped out. 'What I mean is, why the heavy — handed search? You trashed the man's office.'

D'Agosta took a deep breath. 'Sir, Mr. Kline had made direct, verifiable threats to Smithback shortly before his death. He's a prime suspect.'

'Then why didn't you charge him with threatening the deceased?'

'The threats were very careful, they stopped just this side of the law.'

The commissioner stared at him. 'And that's all you have against Kline? Vague threats to a journalist?'

'No, sir.'

Rocker waited, his arms crossed.

'In the raid we netted Kline's collection of West African art — art that we can tie directly to an old voodoo — style religion. Similar to the objects found at the murder scene and on the victim's corpse.'

'Similar? I thought they were masks.'

'Masks, yes, but from the same tradition. We have an expert from the New York Museum examining them now.'

The commissioner stared at him, tired eyes rimmed with red. It wasn't like him to be so brusque.Jesus, thought D'Agosta,Kline got to Rocker. Somehow, Kline got to him.