Cemetery Dance

'With that said, I—' Caitlyn stopped in midsentence as she noticed it, too. She glanced toward the entrance. 'Um, just a moment…'

The strange ripple in the crowd grew, parting in the direction of the stage. There was something at its center, a figure that people seemed to be recoiling from. Screams, more incoherent cries. Then — most bizarre of all — the hall fell quiet.

Caitlyn Kidd spoke into the silence. 'Bill? Smithback?'

The figure had lurched forward and was approaching the foot of the stage. Nora stared — then felt herself physically staggered by disbelief.

It was Bill. He was dressed in a loose green hospital smock, open at the back. His skin was hideously sallow, and his face and hands were covered with caked blood. He was dreadfully, horribly changed, an apparition from someplacebeyond — an apparition horribly similar to the one that had chased her from the Ville. And yet there was no mistaking the cowlick that reared from the mass of matted hair; no mistaking the rangy limbs.

'God,' Nora heard herself groan. 'Oh, God— '

'Smithback!' Caitlyn cried, voice shrill.

Nora couldn't move. Caitlyn screamed — a wail that cut through the air of the hall like a straight razor. 'It's you!' she cried.

The figure was mounting the stage. His movements were shuffling, erratic. His hands hung loosely at his sides. One of them held a heavy knife, the blade barely visible beneath a heavy accumulation of gore.

Caitlyn backed up, screaming in sheer terror now.

As Nora stared, unable to move, the figure of her husband lurched up the last step, shambled across the stage.

'Bill!' Caitlyn said, shrinking back against the podium, her voice half lost in the rising cry of the crowd. 'Wait! My God, no! Not me! NO! — '

The knife hand hesitated, shaking, in the air. Then it plunged down — into Caitlyn's chest, rose again, plunged, a sudden fountain of blood spraying across the scabby arm that slashed down, up, down. And then the figure turned and fled behind the stage, and Nora felt her knees give way and a blackness engulf her, blotting out everything, overwhelming her utterly.

Chapter 33

The hallway smelled of cats. D'Agosta walked along it until he found apartment 5D. He rang the buzzer, listened as it echoed loudly inside. There was a shuffling of slippers, then the peephole darkened as an eye pressed against it.

'Who is it?' came the quavering voice.

'Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta.' He held up his shield. 'Hold it closer, I can't read it.'

He held it up to the peephole.

'Step into view, I want to look at you.'

D'Agosta centered himself before the peephole.

'What do you want?'

'Mrs. Pizzetti, we spoke earlier. I'm investigating the Smithback homicide.'

'I don't have anything to do with no murders.'

'I know, Mrs. Pizzetti. But you agreed to talk to me about Mr. Smithback, who interviewed you for the Times. Remember?'

A long wait. Then came the unbolting of one, two, three bolts, a chain being pulled back, and a brace being removed. The door opened a crack, held in place by a second chain.

D'Agosta held up his badge again, and a pair of beady eyes gave it a twice — over.

With a rattle, the final chain was pulled back and the door opened. The little old lady that D'Agosta had imagined materialized before him, frail as a bone — china teacup, bathrobe clutched tightly in one blue — veined hand, lips compressed. Her eyes, black and bright as a mouse's, looked him up and down.

He quickly stepped inside to avoid having the door shut in his face. It was an old — fashioned apartment, heated to equatorial standards, large and cluttered, with overstuffed wing chairs and lace antimacassars, fringed lamps, knickknacks and bric — a — brac. And cats. Naturally.

'May I?' D'Agosta indicated a chair.

'Who's stopping you?'

D'Agosta chose the least stuffed looking of the chairs, and yet his posterior still sank down alarmingly, as if in quicksand. A cat immediately jumped up on the arm and began purring loudly, arching its back.

'Get down, Scamp, and leave the man alone.' Mrs. Pizzetti had a heavy Queens accent.

Naturally, the cat did not listen. D'Agosta did not like cats. He gave it a gentle push with his elbow. The cat only purred louder, thinking it was about to get petted.

'Mrs. Pizzetti,' said D'Agosta, removing his notebook and trying to ignore the cat, which was shedding hairs all over his brand — new Rothman's suit, 'I understand you spoke to William Smithback on…' He consulted his notes. 'October third.'

'I don't remember when it was.' She shook her head. 'It just gets worse and worse.'

'Can you tell me what it was you talked about?' 'I had nothing to do with no murder.'

'I know that. You certainly aren't a suspect. Now, your meeting with Mr. Smithback…'

'He brought me a little present. Let's see…' She began poking around in the apartment, her palsied hand finally settling on a small china cat. She brought it over to D'Agosta, tossed it in his lap. 'He brought me this. Chinese. You can get them down on Canal Street.'

D'Agosta turned the knickknack over in his hand. This was a side of Smithback he hadn't known, bringing presents to little old ladies, even sour ones like Pizzetti. Of course, it was probably to secure an interview.

'Very nice.' He set it down on a side table. 'What did you talk about, Mrs. Pizzetti?'

'Those horrible animal killers over there.' She gestured toward the nearest window. 'There at the Ville.'

'Tell me what you said to him.'

'Well! You can hear the screams at night, when the wind is from the river. Horrible sounds, animals getting cut up, getting their throats cut!' Her voice rose and she said the last with a certain relish. 'Someone should cuttheir throats!'

'Was there anything specific, any incidents in particular?'

'I told him about the van.'

At this D'Agosta felt his heart quicken. 'The van?'

'Every Thursday, like clockwork. Out the van goes at five. In it comes at nine at night.'

'Today is Thursday. Did you see it today?'

'I certainly did, just like every Thursday evening.'

D'Agosta stood and went to the window. It looked west, out over the back of the building. He'd walked there himself, doing a quick recon of the area prior to the interview. An old road — apparently leading to the Ville — could be seen below, running along the fields and disappearing into the trees.

'From this window?' he asked.

'What other window is there? Of course from that window.'

'Any markings on the van?'

'None that I could see. Just a white van.'

'Model, make?'

'I don't know about those things. It's white, dirty. Old. Piece of junk.'

'You ever see the driver?' 'From up here, how could I see anyone inside? But when my window's open at night, I can sometimes hear sounds from the van. That's what made me notice it in the first place.'

'Sounds? What kind?'

'Bleating. Whimpering.'