Cemetery Dance

can it?

But she was all too sure that it could be.

They reached the top of the gully. The gate and fence lay just ahead.

'Haul ass!' Nora cried as Caitlyn slipped and came dangerously close to falling. She was sobbing and gasping for air. Behind, the sound of something treading the ground came up swiftly through the dark. Nora pulled Caitlyn back up.

'Oh, Jesus…'

Nora hit the fence, pulling Caitlyn after her, throwing her against the fence and heaving her upward with as much strength as she could manage. The reporter scrabbled against the chain link, finding a purchase and pulling herself up. Nora followed. They slipped over the top, dropped to the leaves, began running again.

Something crashed into the fence behind them. Nora stopped, turned. Despite the hammering of her heart, she had to know. She had to know.

'What are you doing?' Caitlyn cried, still running like hell.

Nora jammed her hand into her shoulder bag, yanked out the flashlight, turned it on, aimed it at the fence…

… Nothing — except a convex bulge in the rusted steel where the thing had hit, and the faint residual motion of the fence from the blow, creaking back and forth, until silence reigned.

The thing was gone. She could hear Caitlyn running, her footfalls receding up the old lane.

Nora followed at a jog, and soon caught up with the heaving, exhausted reporter. Caitlyn was doubled over, heaving and gasping, and then she vomited. Nora held her shoulders while she was sick.

'Who… what was that?' she finally managed to choke out.

Nora said nothing, and helped Caitlyn to her feet. Ten minutes later, they were walking down Indian Road, back in familiar Manhattan, but Nora — unconsciously fingering the charm around her neck — could not shake the feeling of horror, of the thing that had chased them, and of the death — cough of the doomed goat. One terrible thought kept recurring, a single irrational, useless, sickening thought:

Did Bill sound like that when he died?

Chapter 29

Lieutenant D'Agosta sat in his cubbyhole office at One Police Plaza, staring at the glow of the computer screen. He was an author, he'd published two novels. The books had gotten great reviews. So why was it that writing an interim report was so damn difficult? He was still burning from the reaming — out that the commissioner had given him the prior afternoon. Kline had gotten to him, no doubt about that.

He turned from the screen, rubbing his eyes. Feeble morning light came in the room's single window, from which he could glimpse a sliver of sky. He took a slug from his third cup of coffee, tried to clear his mind. After a certain point, coffee seemed to make him more tired.

Was it really only a week since Smithback was murdered? He shook his head. Right now, he was supposed to be in Canada, visiting his son and signing paperwork for his impending divorce. Instead, he was chained to New York and a case that only grew more bizarre with every passing day.

The phone on his desk rang. That's all he needed: another distraction. He plucked it from the cradle, sighing inwardly. 'Homicide, D'Agosta speaking.'

'Vincent? Fred Stolfutz.'

Stolfutz was the assistant US attorney helping D'Agosta draft the search warrant affidavit for the Ville. 'Hi, Fred. So what do you think?'

'If you're trying to get in there looking for homicide evidence, you're going to be out of luck. The evidence is too thin, no judge will approve a warrant. Especially after what you pulled on Kline the other day.'

'Christ, how'd you hear about that?'

'Vinnie, it's all over the place. Not to mention how the commissioner—'

D'Agosta interrupted impatiently. 'So what are the options?'

'Well, you said this place is deep in the woods, right?' 'Right.'

'That rules out plain — use doctrine: you can't get close enough to, say, see evidence of a crime in plain view or smell marijuana smoke. And there won't be any exigent circumstances, somebody screaming for help or something.'

'There's been plenty of screaming — by animals.'

'See, that's what I was thinking. You'll never get in there on a homicide rap, but I could probably draft something about cruelty to animals. That's a statute we could make stick. If you go in there with an animal control officer, you can keep your eyes out for the other evidence you're looking for.'

'Interesting. Think it'll fly?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Fred, you're a genius. Call me back when you know more.' D'Agosta hung up the phone and returned to the problem at hand.

On the surface, it wasn't complicated. Good witnesses, excellent witnesses, had seen Fearing enter and leave the building. And even though the results weren't official, and couldn't be used in court, the man's DNA had been found at the scene, something the official results would eventually confirm. Fearing was stalking Nora and, again, there was the proof of his DNA. His crypt was empty — no body. That was the proof on one side.

On the other side? An overworked, sloppy asshole of a medical examiner who couldn't admit he'd made a mistake. A tattoo and a birthmark, either of which could be faked or mistaken, given the time the body was in the water. A sister's ID, but false IDs had happened before when a family member was too distraught, or the body too changed. Maybe it was insurance fraud, with the sister in on it. The fact that she had disappeared afterward just added to the suspicion.

No: Colin Fearing was alive, of that D'Agosta was sure. And he was no frigging zombii, either. Was Kline behind it, or the Ville? He'd keep up the pressure on both.

D'Agosta picked up his coffee, stared at it, then poured it into the wastebasket, following it with the cup. Enough of that shit. He thought about the crime itself. It just didn't look to him like a rape gone bad. And the guy hadstared at the camera going in. The man knew he was being recorded — yet hedidn't care.

Pendergast was right. This was no disorganized killing: there was a plan here. But what plan? He swore under his breath.

The phone rang again.

'D'Agosta.'

'Vinnie? It's Laura. Have you seen the West Sider this morning?'

'No.'

'You'd better get yourself a copy.' 'What does it say?'

'Just get yourself a copy. And…'

'And what?'

'Expect a call from the commissioner. Don't tell them I told you, just be ready.'

'Shit, not again.' D'Agosta re — cradled the phone. Then he stood up and headed for the nearest bank of elevators. He could probably scrounge a copy up on the floor, but if Laura was right, he needed to carve out some time to digest whatever it was before the commissioner called.

The elevator bell rang, and a set of doors opened. A few minutes later, D'Agosta approached the newsstand in the lobby. He could see theWest Sider hung prominently on the upper left rack, as usual. He dropped his two bits on the counter, slid one off the top of the pile, and tucked it under his arm. Stepping into the Star — bucks across the lobby, he ordered a single shot of espresso, took it to the table, and opened the newspaper. The lead article practically yelled out at him:

Animal Sacrifice!