abandoned: a testament to misplaced hopes. Their leader — I haven't been able to discover his name, but he was the one who secured the ship and purchased the site — moved to southern Manhattan and became a gentleman farmer.'
'Go on,' Pendergast said.
'Fast — forward a hundred years. Around 1858 or 1859, a ragtag group reached New York from points south. By period accounts it was a motley assemblage. At its core was a charismatic Baton Rouge preacher, the Reverend Misham Walker, who had gathered around him a small number of French Creole craftsmen shunned by their community for some reason I haven't discovered, along with several West Indian slaves. Along the way they were joined by others: Cajun, some Portuguese heretics, and a number of bayou dwellers who had fled Brittany for allegedly practicing paganism, druidism, and witchcraft. Theirs wasn't voodoo or Obeah in any traditional sense. Instead, it seems to be an entirely new belief system, built from various pieces of what came before. Their journey from the Deep South to New York was fraught with difficulty. Wherever they tried to settle, the locals objected to the group's religious rituals; they were repeatedly forced to move on. Nasty rumors were spread: that the group stole babies, sacrificed animals, brought people back from the dead. The band was secretive by nature; the treatment they received seems to have made them positively reclusive. Walker and his band ultimately discovered the remote structure the religious pilgrims had abandoned at the northern tip of Manhattan a century earlier and took it for their own, bricking up the windows and fortifying the walls. There was talk of mob action against them, but nothing came of it beyond several peculiar confrontations confusedly described in the local press. As years passed, the Ville grew more and more insular.'
Pendergast nodded slowly. 'And in more recent times?'
'Complaints of animal sacrifice have persisted over the years.' Wren paused, then a dry smile hovered about his lips. 'It seems they were — are — a celibate community. Like the Shakers.'
Pendergast's eyebrows shot up in surprise. 'Celibate? And yet they continue to persist.'
'Not only persist, but — apparently — always maintain the same number: one hundred forty — four. All male, all adult. It is believed they recruit. Rather vigorously, when necessary, and always at night. They are said to prey on the disaffected, the mentally unstable, the fringe dwellers: ideal candidates for press — ganging. When one member dies, another must be found. And then there were the
'Of what?'
'A murderous creature wandering at night. A
'And the history of the land and buildings?'
'The surrounding land was acquired by the New York City Department of Parks in 1916. Some other decaying structures in the park were demolished, but the Ville was passed over. It appears the parks department was reluctant to force the issue.'
'I see.' Pendergast glanced at Wren, a strange look on his face. 'Thank you; you've made an excellent start. Keep at it, if you please.'
Wren returned the look, dark eyes alight with curiosity. 'What is it exactly,
Pendergast did not answer immediately. For a moment, his expression seemed to go far away. Then he roused himself. 'It's premature to discuss it.'
'At least tell me this: is your interest… in matters iniquitous?' Wren repeated.
Pendergast made another small bow. 'Please let me know when you've discovered more.' And then he turned and began the long ascent back to the surface world.
Chapter 27
Nora added a final entry to her database of samples, then terminated the program, sealed the bag of potsherds, and put it aside. She stretched, glanced at her watch. It was almost ten pm, and the museum offices were silent and watchful.
She looked around her lab: at the shelves of artifacts, the files and papers, the locked door. This was the first day she'd really been able to concentrate a little, get some work done. Partly, this was because the stream of sympathizers knocking at her door had finally subsided. But there was more to it than that. It was because she knew she was doing something — something concrete — about Bill's death. The DNA sequencing for Pendergast had been a start. But now, this very evening, she'd be taking the fight to the enemy.
She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Strange how she felt no fear. There was only a grim determination: to get to the bottom of Bill's death, restore a modicum of order and peace to her fractured world.
Picking up the bag of potsherds, she returned it to its storage rack. Earlier that afternoon she had paid a visit to her new boss, Andrew Getz, head of the anthropology department. She'd requested — and received — a written guarantee of funding for her expedition to Utah the coming summer. She wanted to have a long — term plan already in place, something to keep her going through what promised to be a long, dark winter.
Very faintly, she heard what sounded like a childish shout echo through the corridors. The museum had taken to allowing groups of schoolchildren to attend weekend sleepovers in certain heavily chaperoned halls. She shook her head: anything to generate a little hard cash, it seemed.
As the echo died away, another sound took its place: a single rap on her door.
She froze, turning toward the noise. Amazing, how fast her heart could start beating wildly. But almost as quickly, she reminded herself: Fearing would not have knocked.
The knock came again. She cleared her throat. 'Who is it?'
'Agent Pendergast.'
It was his voice, all right. She moved quickly to the door, unlocked it. The agent stood in the hallway, leaning against the door — jamb, wearing a black cashmere coat over the usual black suit. 'May I enter?'
She nodded, stepped away. The agent glided in, pale eyes quickly scanning the lab before returning to her. 'I wanted to thank you again for your assistance.'
'Don't thank me. Anything I can do to help bring the killer to justice.'
'Indeed. That's what I wanted to speak with you about.' He closed the door, turned back to her. 'I suppose there's nothing I can say that will stop you from pursuing your own investigation.'
'That's right.'
'Entreaties to leave things to the professionals — reminders that you are putting your own life in grave danger — will fall on deaf ears.'
She nodded.
He regarded her closely for a moment. 'In that case, there's something you must do for me.'
'What's that?'
Pendergast reached into his pocket, retrieved something, and pressed it into her hand. 'Wear this around your neck at all times.'
She looked down. It was a charm of some kind, made of feathers and a small piece of chamois, sewn into a ball and attached to a fine gold chain. She pressed the chamois gently: it seemed to contain something powdery.
'What is this?' she asked.
'It is an
'A what?'
'In common parlance, an enemy — be — gone charm.'
She glanced at him. 'You can't be serious.'
'Highly useful against all save immediate family. There is something else.' He reached into another pocket and plucked out a bag of red flannel, cinched tight by a drawstring of multicolored thread. 'Keep this on your person, in a pocket or purse.'
She frowned. 'Agent Pendergast…' She shook her head. She didn't know what to say. Of all the people she knew, Pendergast had always seemed an immovable rock of logic and pragmatism. Yet here he was, giving her
