Cemetery Dance

'Right.'

'Baka swine!'

Abruptly, a noise like a rattlesnake came from the circle of acolytes. It sounded first from one place, then another, and then it was multiplying everywhere. D'Agosta swept his light toward the circle and saw the people — closer still now — each thrusting forward a carven bone handle with what could only be rattlesnake rattles tied to the end.

'That should wrap it up,' said D'Agosta, feigning nonchalance.

'Perhaps,' Pendergast murmured, 'the search below can wait.'

D'Agosta nodded. Jesus, they really had to get out of there.

'Dog — eating baka!' the priest shrilled.

D'Agosta turned to leave. Their exit corridor through the nave was now completely blocked with people.

'Hey, folks, we're done. We're leaving now.' Pulchinski was clearly only too ready to go, as was Perez. Pendergast had returned to collecting his tiny specimens. But where the hell was Bertin?

At that moment a noisy scuffle erupted in a dark corner. D'Agosta turned to see Bertin rushing at the high priest with a scream, throwing himself on the man like a wild animal. Charriere staggered back, the two locked in struggle over the charm the high priest clutched in his hand.

'Hey!' D'Agosta shouted. 'What the hell?'

The crowd pressed forward, the rattling becoming a low hissing roar.

The two assailants fell to the floor, becoming entangled in Charriere's robes. In a flash Pendergast had joined the scuffle. A moment later he emerged, holding Bertin by the arms.

'Let me get him!' cried Bertin. 'I will kill him! You, you will die, masisi!'

Charriere merely rearranged his robes, dusted himself off, and smiled another hideous, disfiguring smile. 'It is you who will die,' he said quietly. 'You and your friends.'

Bossong, the community leader, looked quickly at the priest. 'Enough of this!'

Bertin struggled, but Pendergast held him fast, whispering something urgently into his ear.

'No!' Bertin cried. 'No!'

The crowd moved in, rattles shaking maniacally. D'Agosta caught more glimpses of honed steel in the dark folds of their clothing. Bertin abruptly fell silent, his face pale and trembling.

The crowd pressed in.

D'Agosta swallowed. Confrontation was out of the question. They just might, with luck, be able to shoot their way out, assuming none of the mob had guns; but then they'd spend the rest of their lives in court. 'We're leaving,' he managed to say. He turned to the others. 'Let's go.'

Charriere stepped in front of him, blocking his way. The crowd tightened around them like a vise.

'We're not looking for a fight,' said D'Agosta. He let his hand rest lightly on his service piece.

'It is too late for that now,' said the high priest, his voice suddenly increasing in volume. 'You are defilers, filth. Only a complete cleansing will remove the stain.'

'Cleanse the church!' cried a voice, echoed by others. 'Cleanse the church!'

D'Agosta's finger undid the keeper on his holster, and he did a quick mental calculation. The Glock 19 had a fifteen — round magazine; that would be enough to clear a path to the door through any normal crowd. But this crowd was far from normal. He tightened his grip on the pistol butt, took a deep breath.

Suddenly, Pendergast stepped toward Charriere. 'What's this?' Like lightning, his hand darted forward, ripping something from the high priest's sleeve. He held it up, shining his flashlight beam on it. 'Look at this! Anarret, with a false twine twist, done in a reverse spiral. The false — friend amulet! Mr. Charriere, why are you wearing this if you're the minister of these people? What do you fear from them?'

He turned to the crowd, shaking the little tufted fetish. 'He's suspicious of you! Do you see?'

He swung back toward Charriere. 'Why don't you trust these folk?' he asked.

With a roar, Charriere leapt forward to strike with his staff, cloak billowing; but the FBI agent twisted so adroitly that the man swung through air, whirling, and a short kick sent him sprawling to the dirt. An angry roar rippled through the crowd. Bossong stepped in quickly, putting a restraining hand on the high priest as he rose, a look of anger and hatred contorting his face.

'You! Bastard!' he said to Pendergast.

'Without a doubt, time to leave,' murmured Pendergast.

D'Agosta grasped the forward handle of the coffin — size evidence box, Perez took the rear, and they dashed forward, wielding it like a battering ram, the surprised crowd scattering. With his free hand, D'Agosta plucked the Glock from his holster and fired into the air, the sound echoing and re — echoing in the vaulted space. 'Let's go! Go! ' Holstering his gun, he literally grabbed Bertin by the collar and hauled him along as they rushed the entrance, knocking people down as they went. A knife flashed but with a sudden movement Pendergast sent the would — be attacker sprawling.

They burst through the doors, the crowd boiling out after them. D'Agosta fired into the air a second time. 'Get back!'

Dozens of knives were now out, flashing dully in the fading light. 'Into the vehicles!' D'Agosta shouted. 'Now!'

They piled in, throwing the evidence into the back of the van and hoisting the lamb in after it, the van screeching off almost before they'd had a chance to shut the doors, followed by the cruiser, peppering gravel over the screaming mob just behind them. As they sped off, D'Agosta heard a groan from the backseat. He turned to find the Frenchman, Bertin, white and shaking, clutching Pendergast's lapel. Pendergast took something out of his own suit pocket: one of the strange, hooked implements that had lain on the altar. He must have purloined it during the melee.

'You hurt?' D'Agosta gasped to Bertin. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

'That hungan, Charriere…'

'What?'

'He collected samples…'

'He what?'

'Samples from me, from all of us… hair, clothing — you didn't see? You heard him, heard his threats. Maleficia, death conjuring. We're going to know it, feel it. Soon.' The man looked like he was dying. D'Agosta turned around brusquely. The shit he had to put up with, working with Pendergast.

Chapter 41

What'll it be, hon?' the harassed — looking waitress asked, elbow balanced on hip, pad open, pen at the ready.

D'Agosta pushed his menu aside. 'Coffee, black, and oatmeal.'

The waitress glanced across the table. 'And you?'

'Blueberry pancakes,' said Hayward. 'Warm the syrup, please.'

'Will do,' the waitress replied, flipping her pad closed and turning away.

'Just a second,' said D'Agosta.

This bore consideration. In his experience during the time they lived together, Laura Hayward ordered — or cooked — blueberry pancakes for one of two reasons. She felt guilty about overworking and ignoring him. Or she was feeling amorous. Either option sounded good. Was she sending a signal? Breakfast had, after all, been her idea.

'Make that two orders of pancakes,' he said.

'You got it.' And the waitress moved off. 'Did you see the West Sider this morning?' Hayward asked.

'I did. Unfortunately.' The scandal sheet seemed hell — bent on whipping the entire city into a state of hysteria. And it wasn't just theWest Sider — all the tabloids had now picked up the hue