Cemetery Dance

The man took it with a large hand. ' Warrant of Search and Seizure,' he read out loud, in his sonorous voice. The accentwas like Pendergast's, and yet it was also very different — with a trace of French and something else D'Agosta couldn't identify.

The man looked at Pulchinski. 'And you are?'

'Morris Pulchinski, animal control.' He nervously stuck out his hand, and then, when he was stared down, let it drop. 'We've had reliable reports of animal cruelty, animal torture, perhaps even animal sacrifice up here, and that warrant allows us to search the premises and collect evidence.'

'Not the premises. The warrant specifies only the church proper. And these other people?'

D'Agosta flashed his shield. 'NYPD homicide. You got some ID?'

'We do not carry identification cards,' the man said, his voice like dry ice.

'You'll have to identify yourself, mister, one way or another.'

'I am Etienne Bossong.'

'Spell it.' D'Agosta took out his notebook, flipping the pages. The man spelled it slowly, dryly, enunciating each letter, as if to a child.

D'Agosta wrote it down. 'And your position here?'

'I am the leader.'

'Of what?'

'Of this community.'

'And what exactly is 'this community'?'

A long silence followed, as Bossong stared at D'Agosta. 'NYPD Homicide? For an animal control issue?'

'We're tagging along for fun,' said D'Agosta.

'These other storm troopers haven't yet identified themselves.'

'Detective Perez, NYPD homicide,' D'Agosta said. 'Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. And Mr. Bertin, FBI consultant.'

Everyone in turn flashed their shields, except for Bertin, who merely stared at Bossong, his eyes narrowing to slits. Bossong flinched, as if in recognition, then stared back equally hard. Something seemed to pass between the two: something electric. It made the hair on D'Agosta's neck stand on end.

'Open the door,' D'Agosta said.

After a long, tense moment, Bossong broke off eye contact with Bertin. He took the massive iron key out of his pocket and fitted it into the iron lock. He turned it with a violent twist, the tumblers clacking loudly, and hauled open the mangled door.

'We do not seek confrontation,' he said.

'Good.'

Beyond lay a narrow alleyway, curving around to the right. Small wooden structures lined both sides, the upper floors overhanging the lower. The buildings were so old they listed toward one another, the steeply pitched gables of their penthouse projections almost meeting above the alley. Dying autumn light filtered down, but the empty doorways and blown — glass windows remained shrouded in gloom.

Bossong silently led the group along the alleyway. As they rounded the curve, D'Agosta saw the church itself rear up ahead of them: rambling, countless dependent structures fixed to its sides like limpets. Huge, ancient timbers spiked out from its flanks, attached to even heavier, fantastically carven vertical beams that were driven into the ground like primitive flying buttresses. Bossong led the way between two of the beams, opened a door in the outer wall of the church, and entered. As he did so, he called out something into the darkness in a language D'Agosta didn't recognize.

D'Agosta hesitated on the threshold. The interior was in utter blackness. It exhaled a sour smell of dung, burned wood, candlewax, frankincense, fear, and unwashed people. An ominous creaking sound came from the timbers above, as if the place was about to come down.

'Turn on the lights,' said D'Agosta.

'There is no electricity,' said Bossong from the darkness within. 'We do not allow modern conveniences to defile the inner sanctuary.'

D'Agosta pulled out his Maglite, switched it on, aimed it inside. The place was cavernous. 'Perez, bring up the portable halogen lamp from the van.'

'Sure thing, Lieutenant.'

He turned to the animal control officer. 'Pulchinski, you know what you're looking for, right?'

'To tell you the truth, Lieutenant—'

'Just do your job, please.'

D'Agosta glanced over his shoulder. Pendergast was looking around with his own flashlight, Bertin at his side.

Perez returned with a halogen light, connected by a coiled wire to a large battery in a canvas pouch on a sling.

'Let me carry it.' D'Agosta slung the battery over his shoulder. 'I'll go first. The rest of you, follow me. Perez, bring the evidence locker. You understand the rules, right? We're here on ananimal control issue.' His voice carried a heavy weight of irony.

He stepped into the darkness, switched on the light.

He almost jumped back. The walls were completely lined with people, silent, staring, all dressed in rough brown cloth.

'What the fuck?'

One of the men came forward. He was shorter than Bossong and just as thin, but unlike the others his brown robes were decorated with spirals and complex curlicues of white. His face was coarse and rough, as if shaped by a hatchet. He carried a heavy staff. 'This is sacred ground,' he said in a quavering preacher's voice. 'Words of vulgar language will not be tolerated.'

'Who are you?' D'Agosta asked.

'My name is Charriere.' The man almost spit the words.

'And who are these people?'

'This is a sanctuary. This is our flock.'

'Oh, your flock? Remind me to skip the Kool — Aid after the service.'

Pendergast came gliding up behind D'Agosta and leaned over. 'Vincent?' he murmured. 'Mr. Charriere would seem to be ahungenikon priest. I would avoid antagonizing him — or these people — more than necessary.'

D'Agosta took a deep breath. It irritated him, Pendergast giving him advice. But he recognized that he was angry, and a good cop should never be angry. What was the matter with him? It seemed he'd been angry since the beginning of the case. He'd better get over it. He took a deep breath, nodded, and Pendergast backed away.

Even with the halogen light, the space was so large that he felt swallowed by the darkness. It was made worse by a kind of miasma hanging in the air. The silent congregation, standing against the walls, all staring silently at him, gave him the creeps. There must be a hundred in there, maybe more. All adults, all men, white, black, Asian, Indian, Hispanic, and about everything else. All with dull, staring faces. He felt a twinge of apprehension. They should have come in with more backup. A whole lot more.

'All right, listen up, folks.' He spoke loudly, so all could hear, trying to pitch confidence into his voice. 'We've got a search warrant for the interior of this church, and it states we can search the area and the physical person of any individual present on the scene. We have the right to take anything deemed of interest under the terms of the warrant. You'll get a full accounting and everything will be duly returned to you. You all understand?'

He paused, his voice echoing and dying away. Nobody moved. Their eyes glowed red in the flashlight beams, like animals at night.

'So, please: nobody move, nobody interfere. Follow the directions of the officers. Okay? That's the way to get this over with as quickly as possible.'

He looked around again. Was it his imagination, or had they moved in slightly, narrowed the circle? It must be his imagination. He hadn't heard or seen any of them move. In the silence, he could feel the presence of the brooding, ancient timbers lowering above, their creaking and shifting.

The people themselves made no noise at all. None. And then a small sound came from the far end of the church: the pathetic bleating of a lamb.