'No,' she whispered. 'No. Stay back.'
The hand reached out, trembling, touched her hair, caressed it. The smell of death enveloped her.
'No,' she croaked. 'Please.'
The mouth opened wider, foul air streaming out.
'Get away!' she said with a rising shriek.
The twitching hand traced a dirty finger down her cheek to her lips, caressed them. She pressed her back against the wall.
The figure began to pant as the convulsive, twitching finger rubbed her lips. Then the finger tried to push inside her mouth.
She gagged, turning her head away. 'No…'
A pounding came at the door — her screams must have brought someone.
'Nora!' came a muffled voice. 'Hey, are you all right? Nora!'
As if in reaction, the upraised hand clutching the truncheon began to shake.
The panting turned into an urgent, lascivious grunting.
Nora was paralyzed, speechless with horror.
The right hand swept down in one spastic motion, the truncheon crashing onto her skull — and the world ended.
Chapter 40
D'Agosta sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, the black mood that had settled over him refusing to dissipate. If anything, it seemed to grow darker the closer they got to the Ville. At least he didn't have to sit in the back with the annoying little French Creole, or whatever the hell he was. He glanced at the man covertly in the rearview mirror, lips tightening in disapproval. There he was, perched on the seat, looking like an Upper East Side doorman in his swallowtail coat.
The driver halted the cruiser where Indian Road turned into 214th, the crime — scene van following them coming to a rattling stop behind. D'Agosta glanced at his watch: three thirty. The driver popped the trunk and D'Agosta got out, hefted out the bolt cutters, and snapped the padlock, letting the chain drop to the ground. He chucked the bolt cutters back into the trunk, slammed it, and slid back into the car.
'Motherfuckers,' he said to no one in particular.
The driver gunned the Crown Vic, the tires giving a little screech as the car lurched forward.
'Driver,' said Bertin, leaning forward, 'watch those starts, if you please.'
The driver — a homicide detective named Perez — rolled his eyes.
They halted again at the iron gate in the chain — link fence, and D'Agosta took another small joy in cutting off the lock and tossing it into the woods. Then, to make sure the job was done well, he cut through both sets of hinges, kicked the iron gate down, and dragged the two pieces off the road. He got back in the car, puffing slightly. 'Public way,' he said in explanation.
Another screech of tires and the Crown Vic jerked forward, jostling the passengers. It climbed, then descended, through a dark, twilight wood, ultimately nosing out into a dead field. The Ville rose up ahead, bathed in the crystalline light of a fall afternoon. Despite the sun, it looked dark and crooked, wreathed in shadow: a haphazard jumble of steeples and roofs like some nightmare village of Dr. Seuss. The entire construction had accreted around a monstrous, half — timbered church, impossibly old. The front part was surrounded by a tall wooden stockade fence, into which was set a single wooden door of oak, banded, plated, and riveted in iron.
The vehicles pulled up to a dirt parking area beside the oak door. A few shabby cars were parked to one side, along with the panel truck that D'Agosta had seen earlier. Just the sight of it sent a fresh stab of anger through him.
The place appeared to be deserted. D'Agosta looked around, then turned to Perez. 'Bring the kayo and pro — bar. I'll carry the evidence locker.'
'Sure thing, Lieutenant.'
D'Agosta threw open the door again and stepped out. The van had pulled up behind and the animal control officer got out. He was a timid fellow with an unfortunate blond mustache, red — faced, thin arms, potbelly. Nervous as hell, never executed a warrant before. D'Agosta tried to dredge up his name. Pulchinski.
'Did we call ahead?' Pulchinski asked in a quavering voice.
'You don't 'call ahead' with a no — knock search warrant. The last thing you want to do is give someone time to destroy evidence.' D'Agosta opened the trunk, pulled out the locker. 'You got the papers in order?'
Pulchinski patted a capacious pocket. The man was already sweating.
D'Agosta turned to Perez. 'Detective?'
Perez hefted the kayo battering ram. 'I'm on it.'
Meanwhile, Pendergast and his weird little sidekick Bertin had gotten out of the squad car. Pendergast was inscrutable as usual, his silvery eyes hooded and expressionless. Bertin — incredibly enough — was sniffing flowers. Literally.
'By heaven,' he exclaimed, 'this is a splendid example of sand — plain gerardia,
Perez, who was massive and compact, placed himself before the door; took tight hold of the battering ram's front and rear grips; balanced it a moment at hip level; swung it back; then heaved it forward with a grunt. The forty — pound ram slammed into the oaken door with a booming sound, the door shuddering in its frame.
Bertin jumped like he had been shot. 'What's this?' he shrilled.
'We're executing a warrant,' said D'Agosta.
Bertin retreated hastily behind Pendergast, peering out like a Munchkin. 'No one said there would be
A second hit, then a third. The rivets on the old door began to work their way out.
'Hold it.' D'Agosta picked up the pro — bar and jammed the forked end under a rivet, leveraging it up. With a crack, the rivet popped out. He pulled out four more rivets and stepped back, nodding to the detective.
Perez swung the ram again and again, the heavy door splitting with each blow. An iron band sprang loose and fell to the ground with a clank. A long vertical crack opened in the oak, splinters flying.
'A few more should do it,' D'Agosta said.
Suddenly D'Agosta became aware of a presence behind them. He turned. A man stood watching them, ten paces back. He was a striking individual, dressed in a long gray cloak with a velvet collar, and a strange, soft medieval — style cap on his head with two flaps over his ears, his face in shadow. His long, bushy white hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was very tall — at least six foot seven inches — about fifty years old, lean and muscular, with a disquieting stare. His skin was pale, almost as pale as Pendergast's, but the eyes were as black as coals, his face chiseled, nose thin and aquiline. D'Agosta recognized him immediately as the driver of the van.
The man stared at D'Agosta with his marble — like eyes. Where he had come from, how he had approached without alerting them, was a mystery. Without saying a word, he dipped into his pocket and removed a large iron key.
D'Agosta turned to Perez. 'Looks like we got a key.' The key disappeared back into the robe. 'Show me your warrant first,' the man said, approaching, his face impassive. But the voice was like honey, and it was the first time D'Agosta had heard anyone speak with an accent remotely like Pendergast's.
'Of course,' said Pulchinski hastily, dipping into his pocket and pulling out a mass of papers, which he began to sort through. 'There you are.'
